Chapter 22      First Camp

 

 

 

Stewart looked at the men seated around the fire.  It was the first night out from Norbury and everyone preferred sleeping in the open, away from inns or barns, which could become tinderboxes if set to flame.  So there they were, in the middle of a pasture, fifty paces from the way, a square of canvas sheltering them and their fire from a likely change in the weather.

Snow lay against the shady side of stumps and stones.  It glowed unnaturally bright in the starlight.  The air felt sharp and quiet.  Even the smallest breath steamed.

No watch had been posted yet, as everyone maintained a separate vigil.  James Beaumont reclined across the fire from Thomas and Cadmon, his bedding stretched alongside the burnt smelling blankets of Edward.  Aubrey set his blankets, pointedly, on the other side of Edward, away from the knight he reluctantly served.  They had arrayed their bedding around the fire, like the petals of a flower.  Aubrey's bed paralleled James's.  Burke had his bed near Thomas, as befitting a squire, just as Alexander had his near Cadmon.  His own blankets had been kicked sometime during settling-in and would have to be refolded to keep out the cold.

And then, there were the animals.  Lovel, the wolfhound, slept beside Alexander, curled up on some sacking, ignoring the ceaseless talk of the people.  Beyond the fire, the horses stood tethered to a line tied between two birches.  Their breath hung about them.

Everyone looked more satisfied than not, Stewart thought.  Of course, his supper benefited from the cold, for he could carry cuts of beef, venison and ham without worry of spoilage.  With winter's lack of vegetables and fruit, good meat could turn a meal of roots and herbs into something good.  To that end, his first full camp meal had been a success, though the cooking had taken longer over an open fire than he at first imagined.  Next village, he would have to procure a larger covered pot.

Despite the nature of their journey, the details of which seemed known only to Cadmon and Edward, everyone looked content.  Though his face never completely relaxed, even Cadmon held a tankard of hot cider in his hand as he listened to Edward expound.

No one could help hearing the smith's epithets.  They boiled out of his bearded mouth as naturally as water from a spring, covering all subjects without favor or remorse.  Barons, civil wars, and king suffered equally.  Cadmon shifted his position to one more attentive.  Perhaps he would speak upon the subject of their journey.  All desired more on that topic.

"John," Edward snorted, his tone speaking his opinion of the king more eloquently than a stream of jibes and curses.  "Shit is up on two legs, walking about. Thinks it is somebody."

No one offered a counter argument, but Cadmon listened.

"He is a greedy little bastard, born to mischief.  Why, the man has split the kingdom, opened it wide for the French.  He rubs people wrong.  Whatever his zeal, he cannot lead men.  He cannot drive them.  He is no good."

"But you have a sneaking respect," said Cadmon.  "It is in your tone."

"Maybe.  Maybe not.  I may admire his pluck, but he is no good for the country.  Blast it all, Cadmon, he has uprooted me!"

"It was not the king who asked you here."

"No, but if the king weren't who he was, none of us would be here."

Edward sensed that his words may have darkened the knight.  He squinted at Cadmon's face in the firelight.

Cadmon leveled a sober gaze at the smith.  "Simplicity is an illusion," he said.  "I have yet to see a simple thing which did not reveal itself a Gordian knot when looked at closely."  The knight's voice bore conviction.  "Complexity, Edward.  There is always complexity."

The smith shrugged, but continued his fixed attention upon the knight, as if seeing him half by memory's distant glow.  Everyone knew the two had known each other in the distant past, and though Alexander seemed to know more, he refused all entreaties to speak of it.  For his loyalty, Stewart admired the new squire.  Alexander had a sense of honor which came from within, not something shouldered on.  But it frustrated curiosity.

Cadmon said, "John moves like a great salmon, but for all his strength and temper, he must follow the river."

Stewart struggled to understand the knight's words and only barely picked up the fullness of thought in them.  The words expressed an opinion which he agreed with.  The other men, to varying degrees, appeared baffled by the utterance.

Stewart noticed that when Cadmon chose not to consider his audience, he did so extravagantly.  Whether his style betrayed a quirk of character, a derisive comment upon them, or simply a soliloquy which he happened to speak with others around, Stewart could not decide.  Cadmon reflected the knot in all of its complexity.  Perhaps his choice of words constituted a test for his listeners, a challenge to extend themselves, ask questions, discuss.  Only one thing was for certain, and that was that Cadmon would remain an enigma.  It was his nature.

In his time at Norbury, Cadmon's most animated discussions had been held in late afternoons with the chaplain, in a remote corner of the curtain wall.  Stewart had watched them from a distance and though he had not heard the words, on numerous occasions he had noticed the chaplain frown, place a finger contemplatively alongside his nose, and tilt his head back in thought.  Cadmon's education outranked everyone's, so Thomas had said.  And his worldliness brought with it a leavening of spirit.  Where the squires and knights wished for Cadmon's instruction in the arts of war, he, himself, wished the knight would teach him the art of thought and the knowledge which fed the flame.

Cadmon began speaking again after a lengthy silence had passed.  His demeanor seemed increasingly abstracted, as if his voice merely echoed deeper thoughts.  Forming words appeared to help his decision making, the effort to express himself aloud better defining his inner view.  Clearly, he remained the most complex and troubled of men.  Only a fool could miss the turmoil going on within.  Inside, his intellect must rage as brightly as a shuttered lamp, but to the outside, only the pinpricks of light peeking out here and there lent a clue to the activity inside.

"Judgment bothers me greatly," Cadmon said.  "To judge, to render a verdict, entangles and obscures.  It opposes the clear definition of men in battle.  I prefer the latter, but the problem raises itself unbidden.  When do men cease being men and become nations?  When do their actions cease the cause of peevishness and conceit and become the flow of a nation's will?  And once gaining such a seat, which judgment should make him fall?"

Again, varying expressions of understanding ringed the fire.  Many frowns and squints.  Cadmon continued without regard.  "King John, Philip, these are men, yet they are more."

"Symbols," whispered Stewart, almost to himself.  In the quiet, Cadmon caught the utterance.

"Very so, Stewart.  Symbols.  They represent England, France.  They are many people.  But is all they say and do exonerated by this?  Can a symbol commit a crime, if the people it represents agree with the deed?"

Cadmon seemed to be struggling with some weightier problem along these lines.  The emphasis of his words could only stem from greater currents moving at greater depths.

Unexpectedly, Stewart heard himself saying, "Some say kings are the measure of men and God is the measure of kings."   At once, he felt embarrassed.  He had overstepped himself.  But no.  Cadmon seemed to welcome the remark.

"You say what many would say," the knight agreed.  "However, if God punishes and rewards in ways which make no such distinctions, against what can we measure the deeds of kings?  Can men take the measure of kings?"

Edward grunted.  "A foul smell stinks just as bad no matter where you find it."

Cadmon laughed once.  "Down to earth."

"God's teeth, Cadmon, both of us have seen more honor in our enemies than in the kings we served."

Thomas looked concerned at this remark.  James renewed his interest.

Edward swept his arm expansively around the camp.  "Anyone who gets involved with kings finds himself in the mud sooner or later.  John is a carbuncle on my backside, and the sooner the surgeon comes, the better."

Cadmon looked at the smith intently, a slight ire marking his brow.  "Then why are you here?" asked the knight.

"Because you asked me."

Cadmon continued staring at Edward, into him.  The smith returned the look, unblanched.

What was this revealed?  Is this a mission for the king?

Thomas and James watched the exchange, each as puzzled and concerned as the other.

"In these times, what would you have done, then, had I not come?" asked Cadmon.

"I would have tended my forge."

"Let winds blow, floods come, and crops burn?"

"Hellfire and brimstone!  Let them war upon one another!  I give them each a sword, best I make, and my blessings besides.  Let them hack each other apart!  I doubt if millet grows better from king's blood than manure, but we could see.  Indeed, we could see!"

"But that is just what they are doing, Edward.  They are symbols, and we have made that of them.  The strokes they make come by our muscle."

"You lose me, Cadmon, as you always did."  Edward softened.  "You look at a king and see the weft and warp of his robe.  I see the mud on the hem.  My view may be less complex, but it serves me.  We are all men and I judge them so."

Cadmon nodded.  He frowned inwardly.

Edward took a drink from his tankard.  "I sold my spurs a long time ago.  You took yours off, but you have them still, wrapped up neatly and tucked away.  Do not quote me `Loyalty, Generosity, Prowess.'  I am here because you asked me, and that is all.  Is that not enough?"

"Is it enough to die for?"

"In this sorry world, friendship is the only bond I value.  Besides, I do not die."

Cadmon smiled.  "That is a solution I never considered."

Edward raised his tankard in toast.  Cadmon responded and they drank, at odds, but content to leave it so.

Stewart marveled at the smith's words.  Rough of meaning, but well spoken.  Who would have thought an exterior so crude could hide thoughts so subtly wrought?

Cadmon put his tankard down and stood.  "We will post watches.  Each man picks a star to setting, then wakes his relief.  Tonight, Edward first, then Thomas, then myself.  Each of you will have turn in coming nights, so take your rest closely.  Put the fire out.  It stands you out for bolts."

Crossbow bolts.  Stewart looked into the darkness and shuddered.  Their meadow nestled in a copse of woods and hedges, all fraught with shadow, excellent positions from which a crossbowman could release.  He shivered, not from cold, for his linen shirt and wool coat kept him close to sweating in the still air.  These next nights would be a strain.

Stewart took a look around the camp as Edward banked his coals -- he naturally took charge of the fire -- and wondered how frayed their tempers would grow in coming days.  He had never seen a king.  Was all this worth the sight?  He pulled his cap close around his ears and put away the last of his cooking paraphernalia by the light of a tallow lamp.  He came to no conclusions.

By the time he was done, Edward had covered the fire with ash and only a thin tracery of smoke marked where it had been.  The smith then took a seat on a pile of saddles, looking unconcernedly into the night sky, and watched his star slowly inch its way toward the western horizon.  Stewart could smell the ginger root he chewed.