Nearer now, and they looked up towards the roof as they realized that the hoofs were beating on the empty air above their heads, on a level with the canopy of the trees. For a moment it seemed as though they were directly overhead, a soft thunder, and Michael thought the roof trembled. Then they were receding again, dying into the wood.
Nennian chuckled .. 'Most nights he passes by, on the way to his castle. I am a thorn in his flesh, I believe. An itch he cannot yet scratch.'
'His castle?' Michael repeated. He could feel Cat's stare on him, the green eyes luminous and inhuman.
'Yes. It is not so very far from here. I saw it, once, through the mists that enshroud it. A black place, high as a small mountain, with the trees thick and tangled round its foot. I tried to approach it, but grew afraid and my faith faltered. I had to retreat. There is a dread sorrow in that place, and power. It is as though the earth were split open there, and all the blackest of its magic were oozing slowly out—and the castle the scab on the wound. And yet... and yet—'
He stopped.
'That is where you go, is it not? To the Castle of the Horseman?'
Cat laid a hand on Michael's arm as if to silence him, but he spoke up.
'Yes. That is where we go. We have an errand there.'
'An errand.' The humour came back into the Brother's eyes. 'A very high one I'm thinking, to bring you this far to the edge of life.'
'Indeed.'
The fire cracked and spat, faggots falling into its molten heart.
Brother Nennian opened his mouth around his pipe.
'You are welcome to be my guests for as long as you please, to build up your strength for what lies ahead.' But he kept his gaze in the fire, and Michael had the impression that for a moment he had been about to say something else.
MORNING ARRIVED GREY and dripping, the clearing a bare patch of mud with only the print of Brother Nennian's sandals marking it. Michael felt fuzzyheaded and dull, the results of sleeping under a roof for the first time in weeks. Through the window he could see Nennian feeding his animals, a skin bag slung round his shoulders and a cloud of chickens following him hopefully, the cock crowing the morning in again and again. The horses were nosing at a log trough with gusto, their breath a plume of steam in the cold air. Winter was in full retreat, but here it seemed to be leaving a rearguard behind, fighting for every day.
Cat nuzzled the back of Michael's neck, tiptoeing to reach.
Her hand, warm from the furs, slipped down the front of his breeches to cup him there. He swelled at the touch of her fingers, but pulled away.
'Don't, Cat. Not here.'
'What's wrong? Is this place too holy for you?'
'It's not right, with him here. This is his home, and he's a priest.'
She laughed without humour, patted his bulging crotch and went to pack their things.
'Are we leaving today?' she asked.
He stared out at the clearing. A mist hung in the tops of the trees, drifting in swathes as thick as muslin. He could smell more rain in the air, and his body ached with sickness and wounds. He felt old, indecently old, worn as a cast-off shoe. He wanted to slip back into the furs and sleep the grey morning away.
'No. We'll stay for today. The horses could do with the rest.'
'The horses,' she repeated sardonically. 'Of course.'
'Oh, shut up,' he whispered wearily.
They had honey on their bannock for breakfast, a treat which even Cat savoured. Nennian turned aside for a moment to say grace over his own food whilst Cat wolfed down hers. Michael tried to eat his in a more leisurely fashion, but even so he was long finished when the Brother was still munching. Nennian doled them out fresh bannock without a word, refilling their mugs with foaming buttermilk. The taste brought memories of crowded breakfasts by the warm range in Antrim, the farm hands clumping in and out. But they were distant, like pictures seen through a grimy window.
'I took the liberty of examining your sword while you slept,' Nennian said through mouthfuls of bannock.
'What for?'
'The edges are blue and discoloured. That is because it needs quenching. The iron in it is going soft.'
'So?'
'So I will quench it for you. I have a forge here of sorts, and I can get a good flame going.'
Michael examined the Ulfberht. The lovely lithe lines of the pattern welding were like a swirl of water on its surface. He had read of it a long time ago. Bars of iron were twisted together and heated repeatedly to drive as much carbon as possible out of the metal and to make it similar to steel. But the metal needed occasional 'quenchings' to keep its hardness.
'All right,' he said.
Cat would have nothing to do with the forge, and instead wandered about the clearing talking to the animals whilst Michael helped the holy man stoke up a fire out of charcoal. Then Nennian spent half an hour piling up a mound of wet clay—there was plenty after the night's rain—and measuring it against the sword blade.