The Savage Knight

fever.”

“I think I preferred the fever.”

“Yes, well, you certainly sound as if you’re on the mend. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Once she had gone, Dodinal sighed and stared up at the roof. For someone who was never fully at ease in the company of others he felt oddly alone. There was something about Rhiannon that intrigued him. Not her healing skills, although he was certainly grateful for them. Something else, something that remained stubbornly elusive.

Eventually he got it. Rhiannon had seemed entirely relaxed in his company. More often than not people found his very appearance intimidating. He was taller and broader than most men and he kept his hair and beard long and unkempt. He looked and fought like a savage, hence the nickname his fellow knights had given him. Dodinal frowned. Fellow knights? They had nothing in common, other than a title bestowed by King Arthur and a duty they had sworn to uphold.

Women and children, many men too, gave him a wide berth when they saw him restlessly prowling the halls and corridors of Camelot, even when he had left his sword in his chambers. Word had reached him that he had a reputation for sudden, unprovoked violence, but that was not true. He fought only in battle or in self-defence, and would never knowingly harm an innocent. But it was a reputation he was not inclined to dispel, as it meant people tended to leave him alone. Dodinal had never been one for small talk.

Rhiannon was different. Granted, he was weak from fever and unable to stand and so hardly presented a threat. That he had saved her son’s life would also have helped. Even so, she had not once recoiled from him or flinched at the sight of his battle-scarred face. She had looked at him as if he were no different from any other man.

That felt strange. But not unpleasant.

They had something in common too. Their skills might be completely different but they were both derived from an understanding of the natural world. She had learned from her mother, he from his father.

Dodinal shifted uncomfortably on the mattress, wincing as the stitches tightened. He had not wanted complications, yet here he was, feeling the first stirrings of interest in a woman he hardly knew. That was not advisable. He resolved to leave the moment he could, weather be damned. The quest could not be abandoned.

And yet…

Sleep was a long time coming that night.

³Small medieval villages often slaughtered most of their animals in November, drying and salting the meat for the cold months, to save on grain. Breeding pairs were kept in barns over the winter.

⁴“Ryannon” in the manuscript. In the Mabinogion, Rhiannon is the widow of Pwyll, and mother of the hero Pryderi; when Pryderi is born, the infant is lost by her ladies-in-waiting, and eventually recovered and restored to his mother by Teyrnon. References like these support the argument that Malory had access to the Mabinogion, or to an earlier source document, when he wrote the Second Book.

⁵Medieval poultices often included animal dung and other foul-smelling substances, in the belief that the odor would “drive away” illnesses.

⁶“Bregirran,” in the manuscript. Brehyrion is Old Welsh for “chieftain.”

FOUR

The fire was burning low by the time dawn approached, but Rhiannon returned early, ushering in the boy Owain, who held a bowl with both hands. She stamped her boots on the floor to shake off the snow and then took the bowl from her son. Their clothes and hair were flecked with white that melted into glistening dewdrops.

“Put some wood on the fire,” she told Owain, before coming to Dodinal’s side, helping to ease him into a sitting position before handing him the bowl. He thanked her. His stomach had felt empty for several hours, and its rumblings had kept him awake.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

He had not, but felt it impolite to say so. “Yes. Thank you.” In the bowl were a few meagre pieces of dried meat, some bread and a handful of nuts and berries. Not much but, at a time when food was hard to come by, it was more than he had any right to expect.

After Rhiannon had left for the night, Dodinal had pushed himself up on one elbow to peer into the dimness around him. He could make out a square table and bench, a smaller pallet than the one he lay on and a dresser, jars and pots stacked on its shelves. There was no other furniture. Clearly these were not prosperous people.

The hut’s austerity was a world away from the opulence of Camelot, but he knew which he preferred. Life may be an endless struggle here, but at least it was real. Sometimes Camelot seemed to be no more than an illusion, a dream from which he was constantly expecting to wake. Returning to nature had revived a strength he had forgotten he had possessed, and powers that civilisation had caused to lie dormant. He felt vibrant, alive, for the first time in years.

Soon the fire was blazing again, and Dodinal heard Rhiannon bustling around the hut. Looking up from the bowl, he watched her remove her cloak and hang it from a peg on the wall to dry. After that she undid Owain’s and hung it alongside hers.

Then she sat at the bench, elbows resting on the table, waiting in silence for Dodinal to finish. Was this how they spent their days when the weather was too bad to be outdoors? Sitting around, saying and doing nothing? Time must stretch on forever.

As he ate, the knight became aware that the boy, sitting cross-legged by the fire, was studying him intently. Dodinal met his eyes.

“Hello.”

He had not expected a response, and did not get one.

“We had a close call.” Dodinal kept his tone light and friendly, though he could do nothing about the rasp of his voice. He felt he should at least make an effort. “Just as well your people came along when they did, eh?”

Again, he might just as well have been talking to himself.

“Does his silence bother you?” Rhiannon asked, as if the child was deaf as well as dumb. Dodinal considered this possibility, then dismissed it when he recalled Owain hearing the wolves in the wood before he had. Or perhaps there had been another sense at work, one that Dodinal was familiar with. Intriguing.

“Not at all. But I should imagine he will get very bored very quickly, sitting there like that.”

“I won’t let him stay here long. I don’t think he believed you had made such a good recovery. Now he’s seen it with his own eyes, he can go back to his grandfather in the Great Hall. There are other children there. He will be better off with them than here, even if…”

She did not finish the sentence; there was no need. Dodinal could guess what the other children thought of the boy. It must be hard on him, he thought, feeling an unexpected flicker of pity as he remembered his own troubled childhood. Twice now, these strangers had invoked emotions he thought he was no longer capable of feeling.

Dodinal ate the meat and bread, but only picked at the rest of it. Berries and nuts were for birds and squirrels. He craved a platter of hot roast beef, bloody in the middle, dripping with fat, with bread to mop up the juices and a flagon of ale to slake his thirst. While he was forever restless in Camelot, constantly yearning for the wilderness, at least he had never gone hungry. He had wanted for nothing. Arthur had seen to that.

But Camelot was a long way from here and he was grateful for what he was given. Owain continued to study him while he ate, his eyes following Dodinal’s hand as it moved from the bowl to his mouth. While amused at first, he soon found it slightly disconcerting. There was plainly somethingoddabout the boy.

Rhiannon must have sensed this, for she suddenly announced she was taking Owain back to his grandfather.