Corbenic Page 11

  Hawk closed his eyes.

  Kai’s smile did not change or flicker, but for an instant there was a look to him that came and went like a cold flame. And Arthur put the untasted tea down on the draining board and said hastily, “The challenge is given, and accepted. So be it. When do you want to begin?”

  Kai turned and looked at him. “Now, brother,” he said mildly.

  “I didn’t realize it would be today!” Cal let Hawk take his coat off him, blankly.

  The big man looked grim. “God knows, Cal, what you think you’re doing.”

  “I mean, I thought . . . a few days. A bit more practice . . .”

  “Get that sweater off.” Hawk turned to Shadow who came running up with the sword, hastily unzipping its case. “Gloves.”

  She pushed them into his hands and he shoved them onto Cal’s cold fingers; long, heavy gauntlets, tied tight. “Keep your guard up,” he said hurriedly. “Don’t relax. He’ll attack when you do. Keep a good distance; he’s tall. He’s fast too, so if you parry the thrust there’ll be another behind it, and from an angle you won’t expect. He’s heavier than you, so try and use his own impetus against him. Remember . . .”

  “I can’t remember. Not all of it.”

  Shadow put the sword in his hands and stood back. Cal glanced, wide-eyed, at Hawk. “Where’s all the protective stuff?”

  Hawk shook his head, the bristle of red hair catching the low sun.

  It took a second to sink in. Then Cal was appalled. “What! Nothing? That’s crazy . . .” He looked down in disbelief at his neatly pressed jeans and white T-shirt. He’d be cut to pieces!

  Shadow said, “You’re the crazy one. Why did you have to pick Kai?”

  “Because he’s so bloody full of himself.”

  “He has every reason to be.” Hawk turned him around quickly. On the far side of the muddy field Arthur’s men used for jousting, an arena had been hastily cordoned off with tape. Around it the Company were gathering, running from the outbuildings.

  In the middle of the space, Kai was already waiting, leaning on his sword, talking to Arthur.

  Cal stumbled forward. Then he stopped dead. “What do I do? I mean, how do I win?” For a second a thought of pure terror swept over him like sweat. “Do I have to kill him?”

  “You really are a fool.” Hawk was stalking grimly forward. “If you stay on your feet for five minutes I’ll be amazed. Get him down or disarm him. Shed blood if you must.” He turned then quickly and Cal’s heart sank like a stone as he caught his arm. “But listen. If it . . . if he gets ferocious, really dangerous, then throw your sword down and spread your hands wide. Back right off. Yell to Arthur that you want out.”

  “You mean surrender.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. Believe me, you’ll want to.”

  “I can’t do that . . .”

  Hawk looked at him hard. Then he turned and walked on.

  Cal whirled on Shadow. “I can’t! I won’t.”

  She was uneasy, fingering the blue lines of the cobweb. Finally she said quietly, “Hawk knows them better than I do. Just . . . be careful. Don’t get hurt.”

  Fat chance, he thought, pushing past the backslapping, cheering, whistling crowd. They hustled him into the arena and closed up the line behind him and he walked out, across the muddy grass to where Arthur and Kai were waiting.

  It seemed an endless walk. The wind was icy; it cut through his thin T-shirt and brought instant goose pimples prickling out on his arms, and he shivered with it, and with a sort of light-headed fear and disbelief that this was even happening. Most kids went to the pictures on Saturday afternoons, or hung around the shops. He thought of Trevor swinging a five-iron on the golf course and almost giggled, a hysterical laugh that died in his throat as Arthur said, “Are you both ready?”

  He nodded. He couldn’t speak. His heart was hammering and he gripped the sword tight, the corded hilt rough through the thickness of the glove.

  Kai was all in black. He was smiling too, a wry, confident grin that really got Cal’s back up. But then it was probably supposed to. Make him come rushing in. He wouldn’t. He’d be wary.

  They circled each other. The crowd yelled and whistled; a few flakes of snow fell between them, the wind hissing over the frozen grass.

  Clutching the sword, Cal watched the tall man, every nerve intent. Kai flashed out a feint attack; instantly Cal’s blade went up to meet it, but there was nothing there, and he jumped back, cursing.

  “Careful,” Kai muttered, mocking.

  Cal snapped. He knew he shouldn’t but he did, dived in, struck wildly, the sword whistling through the cold air. It met a rock-hard parry; Cal pushed away but already Kai had whipped his sword around and sliced it so close to Cal’s body that he had to stagger back with a gasp and yell of fear.

  The crowd roared. Somewhere Shadow was shouting.

  Keep his guard up. He had to! But already the sword was heavier than in practice; for a moment he knew he barely had the strength to wield it. It was growing, treacherously, in weight, and then he’d twisted and with a sudden, abrupt fury, raised it and was hacking at Kai, once, twice, thwacking into the contemptuous defense, stumbling and sweating but keeping on, forcing his opponent back, and back, the roar of the watching Company a pain in his numbed ears.

  Until Kai stopped.

  He chose his moment, and stopped dead, and Cal clashed into him and was held, briefly, face-to-face, sweating, gasping for breath, and he saw that Kai was still smiling, but grimly now, mirthlessly, and in that instant he knew with sickening despair that the tall man had never even been worried at all.

  Then Kai shoved.

  Cal stumbled back, winded, all confidence shattered.

  The yells of the Company went faint: he seemed to be in a sudden realm of silence, of breathlessness and chest pain, of the harsh screeching of a bird. The osprey.

  Panic grabbed him; he flashed a wild glance around. It was perched on the ridgepole of the farm, the great yellow beak wide, screaming at him.

  Then noise surged back, roared over him, Hawk yelling, “Cal!” and Kai was on him, cutting hard, twisting, a furious energy, a devastating anger that crashed down, stroke after stroke. He parried, but his arms were numb now, each stroke weakening him, but he wouldn’t give up, he wouldn’t, though the mud made him slide and his breath was ragged and the gray sky was a rage of snow.

  He slipped, toppled, was on his knees. Kai struck hard; the blades met with a clang that made Cal sick with the shock; it rang in his teeth and nerves. Then a blow he never even saw took his sword at a crazy angle right out of his hand and with a yell that was barely human Kai whipped his sword up high and brought it whistling down.

  Cal fell. Knocked flat, he made one desperate scrabble to get up, closed his eyes, gave a gasp of terror.

  And nothing happened. No crunch of metal on flesh. No agonizing blow.

  Just Kai saying quietly, “I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

  Cal opened his eyes.

  Kai was leaning on his sword, grinning, not even breathless, his fair hair dark with sweat. For a moment he looked down at Cal, then held out a hand. Bewildered, Cal let himself be pulled up. Every muscle he had was aching. Blood was on his fingers.

  Arthur was there, and Hawk, and he turned to them. “Is that it? It’s finished?”

  Arthur smiled at him. “You gave the challenge. You fought. That’s all we ask.”

  “But . . . I lost. I didn’t win.” He was trembling.

  Hawk groaned and threw him his sweater. “Nobody said you had to win. Nobody expected you to win.”

  Shivering, Cal looked at Kai, who grinned back. “It was a good fight,” the tall man said. “You’ve got guts, though you’re reckless.” Then he went and picked up Cal’s sword and brought it and handed it to him. “I don’t know who or what you were fighting,” he said, oddly quiet. “But it was more than me.”

  As he handed it over the sharp blade slipped in his fingers, willfully, v
iciously slicing his hand.

  And it didn’t cut him.

  Before he could even think about it, Cal found himself some sort of hero. The Company swamped him with congratulations; Shadow kissed him and so did a few of the other girls, and when he had managed to struggle out of their good-natured jokes and punches he glanced up at the ridgepole of the farm, but the osprey had gone.

  “Did you see the osprey?” he asked Shadow anxiously.

  She stared. “I was watching you, idiot.”

  “Hear it then? Screaming.”

  “No.” Her eyes narrowed. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”

  He scraped mud off his face with his palm, still unsteady. “You all did this deliberately. Winding me up. Making me think he was going to kill me!”

  She laughed, walking backward. “You looked so scared! But you still did it.”

  He managed to laugh with her. Then he said, “Does this mean I get to fight at Christmas?”

  “Of course.” Hawk had come up; now the big man caught hold of him and marched him firmly toward the house. “You’re in. On Christmas Eve you get to the Round Table at last. But I think we’d better find you a few clean clothes. You should see yourself.”

  Feeling the mud-plastered shirt clinging to his back, Cal grinned. Just for a moment, to his own astonishment, he didn’t care.

  He had a shower in the farmhouse bathroom, and then Kai came in, to his surprise, and dumped a pile of clothes on a chair. “Take your pick. They’ll be a bit big.”

  “Thanks!” Cal fingered the fine linen of one of the shirts. Then he turned quickly. “Can I ask you something?”

  Kai paused, then propped himself elegantly on the side of the bath. “What?”

  “The sword. It didn’t cut you.”

  “You should keep it sharper.”

  “It’s razor-sharp.”

  Kai picked up a cake of lavender soap and smelled it. “What do you expect from immortal warriors?”

  “Oh, come on. You’re not . . .”

  “Aren’t we?” The tall man smiled.

  Cal scowled. “Reenactment is one thing. You lot are obsessed. Addicted. I know about people like that.” He struggled angrily into a pair of trousers. “Besides, if you really were Arthur’s men you’d be asleep in some cave till people needed you.”

  Kai flipped the soap. “Ah, the dear old cave. Trouble with that was, people always need us. They need someone to fight their nightmares for them, the dragons, the black knights. They need dreams to dream, quests to follow. Or they get trapped in the world. Like you.” He stood up. “You’ll have to choose a name, now. A character from the old stories.” He tossed Cal the soap and went out of the door. Then he looked back in, amused. “Though Merlin says you’ve already got one.”

  Alone in the steamy room Cal stared at his own reflection in the mirror. They were all crazy, not him. He looked smart. He felt good.

  He’d sort it out with his mother. New Year’s—he’d go home at New Year’s. He’d tell her, tonight. It would be all right.

  Picking up the rest of the clothes he felt the stiffness of satin, and looked at them curiously. Doublets, medieval robes. For a moment, the glimmer of them was the glimmer and rustle of the fabrics at Corbenic. He dumped them and went out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  She has wronged me too grieviously.

  Parzival

  The numbers wouldn’t add up. Tossing down the pen he leaned his head on his hands and yawned. He was confused and tired and bored, and to cap it all, just then Phyllis came in and said acidly, “There’s a phone call for you. On your uncle’s private line.” It was like an accusation.

  He got up wearily, and went into the other office, closing the door. He took a deep breath, picked up the receiver firmly and said, “Yes?” He still hadn’t told her. He’d do it now. But it wasn’t his mother.

  “Is this . . . Cal?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh hello, Cal. I’m sorry to ring but this was the only number I could find; I’m so glad I could get hold of you.” A woman. Sounding nervous.

  He sat down slowly on Trevor’s chair. “Who is this?”

  Some nurse. Some policewoman. But she said, “You don’t know me—well, your mother may have mentioned me. My name’s Rhian. I’m her case worker.”

  Dull relief warmed him. “Yes. She’s told me about you.”

  “Look. I hope you don’t mind me ringing. I mean, I know how it must have been for you. She’s told me a few things. I know how the children . . . suffer in these cases.”

  “What do you want?” he said, his voice tight.

  She seemed to hesitate; there was a tiny breath. “It’s about Christmas.”

  He was chewing his nails; he made himself stop. “What?”

  Then it all came out in a rush. “Cal, you will be home, won’t you? I’m sure you think I’m incredibly rude for interfering like this—Annie doesn’t know, of course—but it’s just that she’s made so much effort. She’s desperate to see you. She feels . . . well she feels she’s driven you away and that you can’t forgive her. That you’ve gone like your father went.”

  Cal stood up, shaking with rage. “My father! What do you mean, my father!”

  “Cal, I . . .”

  “Who the hell are you to talk to me like this! You have no idea who I am!” His voice was raw, stammering. He didn’t care.

  “I’m sorry. Please . . .”

  He was holding the phone so tight it hurt. “Whether or not I come home at Christmas is up to me, do you understand? Me. No one else! No bloody social worker!”

  “It’s for your mother, Cal. That’s the only reason I’m asking you. I know I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. It was clumsy. All I want to know is that you’re coming. I really think that if you don’t come she’ll relapse.”

  That sweet, sincere tone. He’d heard it so often it turned him sick.

  “That’ll be my fault, will it!”

  “Of course not. It’s just . . .”

  “Well you needn’t bother worrying. I’m coming home on Christmas Eve. Now get off my bloody back!” He crashed the phone down hard. For a moment he stood there breathing deep. Behind him the door creaked. Phyllis had made sure she had heard every word.

  He swung around, grabbed his coat, and slammed out of the office.

  Chepstow was cold, frosty. It was four days to Christmas and the schools had broken up; kids were in the shops, and outside Boots a tiny merry-go-round purred round and round, empty except for one little boy sitting on his mother’s lap and laughing. All the windows were lit with fairy lights and tinselly decorations that reflected hundreds of tiny colored glimmers into Cal’s eyes. Hot with rage he walked through them all, then found himself staring in at Oxfam’s old clothes, clutching his arms tight around his body, his mind saying, “Money. I’ll send money,” over and over.

  Slowly, he made himself cool down. Getting worked up didn’t help. He had to control it. His training with Hawk had helped him see that.

  There was another of the MISSING posters on the Oxfam window. He reached out for it but it was inside, so he touched only glass.

  Sophie Lewis. It was her. He should warn her about them. How could she hate what he had always wanted? How could a big house and private school and skiing holidays be hell? What did she know about hell?

  When he got home he was surprised to hear Thérèse humming in the kitchen. The immaculate living room was rich with the smells of cooking; Cal knew Trevor would be annoyed about that.

  He had meant to march straight upstairs and put the opera on, to slam his door and lie buried in the music of the Grail but Thérèse put her head out and said, “Coffee?”

  Cal sank onto the cream sofa. “Thanks.” But if she mentioned Christmas, he thought . . .

  She brought it out on a tray, with two delicate cups and some almond biscuits. It smelled as he thought France must smell. One day, when he’d made his money . . .

  Thérèse poured from
the cafetière and added a splash of hot milk. She sat back and curled her feet up luxuriously. Perhaps she saw he was upset; she sipped the coffee and was quiet for a while, and then said, “Trevor phoned. His client was late. We’re dining in tonight. For a change.”

  He nodded, scratching absently at a tiny mark in the blond wood.

  “Join us, Cal. We’ve barely eaten with you since you came.”

  He smiled, wan. “I thought I’d go to Hawk’s.”

  “Your New Age friends?”

  He nodded.

  “You like them?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  She smiled. “I did too. That girl, I liked her.” She leaned over. “Don’t take any notice of what Trevor says, Cal. Friends are important.”

  He rubbed the warm cup between his hands. “Are you going to marry him?” he asked quietly.

  Thérèse didn’t seem surprised. Her dark, curly hair had come loose and a trail of it curled on the fluffy sweater she wore. After a moment she said, “Trevor is . . . different from me. I love him, he’s a dear. But . . .”

  “He’s too tidy.”

  It was a joke, but she didn’t laugh. Instead she said sadly, “He doesn’t want children.”

  Cal was silent. No, he thought. Not Trevor. Not a crying baby, not all the mess, the sickness, the toys, the greasy fingermarks on the furniture. Not all the upheaval in this perfect life he’d made for himself.

  “But you do?”

  She smiled. “I do, Cal. And I want a warm, messy kitchen and flowers and a grubby dog and dirty wellingtons and a real log fire.”

  He nodded, and drank the coffee. She said, “You’re like him.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are, chéri. But don’t be too like him, Cal. Something died in him, long ago. Don’t let it die in you too.”

  Embarrassed, he put the cup down and took one of the biscuits. To change the subject, abruptly he said, “She’s run away from home, did you know? Shadow. There are posters round the town. She should be in Bath doing A levels.”