Brief Interludes

Anthology Excerpt

Song Of The Swan

There were times when Galen FitzCharles thought he should just simply direct the blade of his battle-ax to his own left leg, and have done with it. Just there, under the now-frozen knee joint that rendered his leg stiff as a solid oak tree. At the age of thirty, a man whose only life up ’til now had been the waging of battles, was helpless as a mewling babe if that man had only one good leg. It would have been better had the leg been cut off just there, or even if he had died, leaving everything behind to be dealt with by others. At that point, he wouldn’t know, or care.

More than the hindrance caused by the stiff leg, the most bothersome thought was the joy of his enemy, Owain, at having been the victor in this latest episode of their ongoing feud. And now, Galen thought wearily, the battles would increase. Any warrior worthy of the name knew to strike at his opponent’s weakest spot. He smote his knee with one roughened, scarred hand, even as he cursed the luck that had caused Owain’s broadsword to be deflected by Galen’s own scabbard—deflected just enough to have ruined the leg where it struck, rather than separate it cleanly from the rest of him.

’Twas true, he mused, a one-legged warrior might not be of much use to anyone, but a stiff-legged one was of no use to anyone, whatsoever. He stood now, inside the gray stone walls of Castle Wardiff, one of the many such fortresses in the Marches along the English-Welsh border, not far from Shrewsbury, looking moodily down at the bright green of the new spring grass surrounding the moat, its murky waters still and impenetrable. He might as well drink in his fill of the sight, as it wouldn’t be his for much longer. Since he could no longer defend it, he would give it back to the king before he’d embarrass both himself and the king by losing it entirely to Owain, or any other of the carrion who had by now heard the tidings.

Having already lost his fair Elaine, losing the castle wouldn’t be nearly as difficult. They had been promised to each other for nearly as long as he could remember. Daughter of his near neighbor, they had often walked the meadows, hand-in-hand, laughing and making plans for the coming years. Plans which included laughing and happy children—sons tall and strong like him, and daughters blonde and fair like their beautiful mother.

And now, all gone. One swipe of a broadsword and everything was gone. He pounded his fist against the stone wall in frustration. Would he ever be able to forget the look of horror in her eyes when she had first seen the results of that one swipe? And then came her complete withdrawal from him and the very sudden wedding to John, who hailed from another county entirely!

A shrill noise drew his attention, causing him to flinch before he remembered where he was, and just who the noisemaker was. Castle Wardiff had long been known for its swans. For as long as the building had been standing, there had been swans in abundance. Besides adding to the beauty of the castle and its surroundings, the birds filled many functions—meat on the table, down for bedding, feathers for decoration and quills used as writing instruments by the monks. Swans were the FitzCharles emblem, visible on the banners and the arms of the warriors.

Poor cob! Swans mated for life, but this old fellow had lost his pen to a poacher, and had been a general nuisance ever since. Periodically he let others know of his misery at being alone. He hadn’t adjusted any better than Galen had.

With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Galen turned to go outside, to the fresh daylight and his boyhood companion, the swan. The stairs were carved of stone, broad and deep. It was not impossible for him to get down them, as long as he took his time, and paid attention to what he was doing. Holding on to the wall for balance, he let his mind wander back through the years, remembering the swans and Wardiff.

The spring of the year when Galen had his third birthday was also the year the cob had hatched. Boy and swan had formed a friendship that was renewed whenever Galen returned home for a visit. Generations of young swans were descended from Stephen and his mate, Matilda, as they’d irreverently been named. No matter how much time elapsed between visits, Stephen never seemed to forget the boy, nor then the man who had once chased him around the castle courtyard.

Now, the swan was nearing the end of his life, and the man was in his prime, but both were mourning the loss of what might have been.

Galen had no more than entered the inner bailey when he’d become aware of more clamor than was usual, and he paused, looking around him.

His steward, Timothy, came rushing over to chatter excitedly, “It’s the mummers, sir. They’ve come to visit, while on their way to Shrewsbury!”

“I see,” responded Galen, watching the commotion draw nearer. And he could see them, off in the distance. Banners—peaceful banners—flapped in the breeze, and dogs barked as children rushed back and forth.

“They’ll all stay in the outer bailey, and put on their show for a meal and a place to spend the night.” Timothy scuffed his toe in the dust and looked sideways toward his master, before continuing. “I told the leader they could stay the night under roof, should it turn on to rain. The hay is in, and the people need a celebration.”

“Ah.” There seemed nothing more to say. For certain, Galen had not been in a very celebratory frame of mind lately and his mood transferred itself to all in his keep. His people had all worked as hard as ever they had, though, and were entitled to a fairing. He should have thought of it himself. He roused a bit. “Good. I’m glad you brought them in. Declare a feast. Let everyone have an extra ration of bread and meat.” He thought a moment, then asked, “We do have enough stores for this?”

Timothy’s face lit up. “Oh, yes.”

“Good. See to it, then.” Galen turned and hobbled toward the moat where Stephen had last been expressing his displeasure.