Arthur

TWELVE

With Cai and Bors before and Arthur behind him, Baldulf s choices were few. Cut off from reaching their ships on the eastern shore, the escaping barbarians turned northward. They hoped to pass unnoticed through one of the many hidden dales and glens that seamed the lowland hills.

They did this and reckoned themselves moire than fortunate, for they happened upon a ruined Roman fortress. There are no less than half a dozen of the old marching-camps in the hills, camps that served Trimontium, the largest stronghold in the region. Nothing remains of Trimontium save a hump in the grass near the Twide, but the smaller forts were made of stone and withstood the wind and weather. It was one of these that Baldulf found – Caer Gwynnion, the White Fort. Though the wooden gates were long gone, those solid stone walls still commanded the dale below.

The second day after the battle, Cai's forces joined us. We broke camp the next morning and marched north up the dale of the Aloent towards Caer Gwynnion. In all we were lighthearted: our forces were replenished, the foe was in retreat, and our prospects for a decisive victory and an early return to the south good. So we passed along the green-sided hills and the rushing water, and sparkling lark song filled our ears. What could be better?

We had never attacked a Roman fort before. And although we knew well how to defend one, assault is a different matter. Small wonder the Celts of old never won a war. Even in ruins, those strongholds are devilishly difficult to defeat.

Indeed, the barbarians learned a new tactic. Nevermore did we face them in the field – they knew they could not win there! After Celyddon the fighting would be from behind the sheltering walls of a fortress.

The Angli had been deserted by their allies. The Picti had long since fled the battle and had vanished into their high moorland wilderness. The Irish, all that remained, had gone home. Only Baldulf and his kinsmen, Ebissa and Oesc, were left with their host – now pared to fewer than thirty thousand.

The British host had diminished, too. We numbered little more than ten thousand: two thousand horse, and the rest on foot. But a good few of those were fresh troops, who had been with Cai and Bors. These had seen no fighting yet, and were eager to win their mead portion and a share of the plunder.

The siege of Caer Gwynnion commenced on a cold, windswept day of the kind that come so frequently and suddenly in the north. Light rain whipped at our faces. The trails became slippery with mud. The horses and wagons were left behind in the valley below, where Arthur directed the camp to be established. An ala in full flying gallop is not much use against the stone walls of a fortress.

We were not foolish enough to storm the walls unaided. That is madness and defeat, as anyone knows. So Arthur turned his memory back to the same Romans who had built the fortress, adopting a tactic the legionaries used with unrivalled success against the timber hill forts of the Celts. We laid siege to the stronghold, and then set about constructing battle machines.

Myrddin's knowledge served us here, for he knew how such machines should be made, and he directed their construction. We made a wheeled tower with a doorway slightly higher than the walls of the fortress. We also built an onager with which to hurl stones into the walls and yard.

The machines were made of timber that had to be dragged up from the dale below by horse. It was slow and tedious work, but in five days they were finished and the battle could begin in earnest.

When the barbarians saw the tower erected they set up a hideous howl. But when the first stones began streaking from the sky like comets, they screamed in rage and frustration. They stripped naked and ran along the tops of the walls, presenting themselves openly, hoping to draw us into range of their axes and hammers and stones.

But Arthur remained unmoved. He commanded that no man should approach the walls and we all stayed well back and let the war machines do their work. We kept the stones flying day and night, moving the onager continually, so that the enemy could find no safe refuge within the walls.

Within three days they were well battered and hungry. When the seventh day had passed, they were weak and stupid with hunger. Then did Arthur order the tower to be wheeled to the wall. The best warriors were inside the tower, led by Cai, who demanded the privilege of directing the battle.

God love him, he argued so ardently and so well that Arthur gave him Caledvwlch to wear, to show that Cai had the Duke's full authority in command.

The warriors formed the tortoise – a simple manoeuvre by which a barrier of interlocked shields is raised over the heads of those who must approach the wall – and advanced slowly, pushing the great tower before them. Arthur and I watched the battle from the fair vantage of a rock outcrop nearby.

Brave I am, foremost in battle, yet I cannot say I would gladly have been the first to leap through the tower door onto the wall. Cai did that, showing magnificent courage, battling with a dozen or more alone until one by one his men joined him. I do not know how he was not killed the moment his foot touched the wall.

Gwalchavad, Cador and Owain led their warbands into the tower next, followed by Maelgwn, Bors and Ceredig. Once these first gained the fortress wall, we could not keep the rest away. The other kings crowded one another for places beneath the tower, so that a long line of warriors stretched back from the fortress wall.

The first fighting took place on the wall itself, as I have said. But the battle quickly carried to the yard below, and that was dreadful. There was no room to swing a sword without hitting foe or friend alike, so the Cymbrogi worked with their spears. Had they been threshers they could not have taken a greater harvest! The barbarians thought to crush the attack by sheer weight of numbers and so threw their naked bodies against the British spears. The bodies fell one upon the other – a wall of twitching limbs – before Cai and the Cymbrogi, and the enemy were forced to crawl over the corpses of their kin to fight.

The British were swarming over the wall now, hurling spears down into the churning chaos. There were so many Angli pent up within the caer that our warriors killed with every throw.

'There is no honour in this,' I observed. 'It is a slaughter of unknowing beasts.'

'Baldulf is as stubborn as he is proud,' Arthur said. 'But it will be ended soon.'

As if to make a prophet of Arthur, the gate – which had been stopped up with rocks and rubble, suddenly collapsed outward in a white cloud of dust and the enemy stormed out. The British kings were ready. Custennin, Ennion, Ogryvan and Ceredig ran forth to engage the foe. The sound of the clash reached the rock where we sat.

'Are we going down there?' I indicated the battle spreading before us.

Arthur gave his head a sharp shake. 'There is no need. We will let Cai and the kings have this victory.' He turned his horse away. 'Come, we will await them in the valley.'

Baldulf s stubbornness cost him the battle. His pride cost him his life.

The barbarian would not surrender and, even when the battle was well lost, he refused quarter. Cador killed him -and set the Bretwalda's head on the end of his own skull-and-bone battle standard. He then set the standard over the corpses heaped before Caer Gwynnion.

Arthur received the victorious host in the dale. Cai, Cador, Bors and Gwalchavad led the long march down to the camp. Arthur set up his camp chair before the ford and, when the warriors crossed, he welcomed them as heroes and champions and gave them all gifts.

Cai and the others were well pleased, for the pickings were meagre on the hill. Not so much as a gold ear-ring or even a brass pin did they get there. Arthur made up the lack from the share of plunder he had saved for them. He then proposed a victory feast.

Ah, but our hearts were not in it. Weary of battle, our thoughts were on the homeward road. Harvest time was drawing near; the kings were anxious to return to their realms. They had been gone from their affairs long enough. The war, for this year at least, was won. It was time to go home.

So we formed ranks and traversed the long, wide dale of Twide eastward to where the ships lay at anchor on the coast. Then we set sail for the south.

Highest Heavenlies, be praised! Our return to Caer Melyn was all golden gladness and sweet joy. The people gathered at Arthur's hill fort and thronged the track from the ford to the very gates of the stronghold. They cheered and sang as we passed among them. Most of them were Meurig's folk, with a good few from surrounding cantrefs as well. But their welcome was every whit as genuine and heartfelt.

Arthur, first in generosity, feasted them and stood the celebration of our summer's victories out of his own treasury. The other kings enjoyed his largesse, but none offered to help provide so much as a pig or a goat for the feast.

If that is all their renown is worth, so be it. For myself, I would not care to risk a bard's mocking tongue for the price of a few pigs or bullocks.

After the feast the kings departed to their own realms, and we set about ordering the stores – for the tribute had already begun to flow into Caer Melyn from all who had pledged to uphold the War Leader. The news of Arthur's victories had stirred the lords of Britain to something resembling extravagance.

Though the winter proved dark and cold, and the snow deep – as deep as ever I have seen it, I think: clothing the hilltops and mountains in cloaks of purest white, and enfolding the valleys in mantles of thick fleece – we did not mind. The fire burned bright in Arthur's hall, and Myrddin sang the songs of valour and great deeds. Our hearts soared.

At mid-winter we observed a fine and holy Christ Mass. The new-made Bishop Teilo performed the mass, joined by Illtyd and other churchmen of renown in the region. Indeed, the church seemed especially eager to lavish its blessing on Arthur's golden head, for they saw in him the preservation of their sacred work from the ravages of the barbarians and their loathly idols. Indeed, the good brothers were the first to suffer the slaughter and torture of the heathen; always it was a priest's blood spilled on the ruined altar, the monk's body put to the flame.

So, the churchmen were right to bless Arthur, and eager to offer up every prayer for his continued good health and long life. In all, the Christ Mass at Caer Melyn that year gave us all a foretaste of Arthur's reign. And a more blessed and joyous realm I could not imagine, nor hope to find anywhere.

The winter proved far too short for my pleasure. Warmth crept back into the land; the sun lingered longer in the lifting sky. Rivers swelled with rain, the wind gentled, and the green land blossomed.

As soon as the trackways cleared, I rode to the hill-hidden breeding runs to oversee the year's colting. The breeders and trainers had done their work well: two hundred horses stood ready to join the ala. Arthur's warband would not have to walk to battle this year – nor, from the look of it, for many years to come.

I did not deceive myself that the war was over. Even with their Bretwalda dead, the Angli would not give up. They would simply choose a new leader and the war would begin again.

Had I possessed Myrddin's exalted Sight, I could not have foreseen who that leader would be, nor how powerful.

The ships began guarding the coastline as soon as the winter gales ceased for good. From Muir Guidan to the Wash, all along the Bernich coast the ships kept a restless watch. Alas, that was not how the enemy would strike this time. There would be no more sea raids, no more massed attacks on the open field, no more pitched battles at fords. The barbarians respected Arthur's genius that much at least. From now on we would fight a different war.

One morning just after Beltane a small retinue arrived at Caer Melyn. Dressed in their best finery, I did not at first know them: a dozen men in red-and-black checked cloaks, and bright tunics and trousers of blue and orange. Their hair was greased and braided, and their beards trimmed short. Gold and silver glinted from their arms, necks and ears. They held themselves erect, proud and haughty, men and women both astride stocky, winter-shagged ponies – a company of thirty in all, including a grey-mantled druid going before to lead them.

'They are a colourful brood,' I remarked, observing the strangers from my place beside Arthur. 'Who are they?'

Arthur's blue eyes narrowed as he scanned the group gathered in the yard. All at once, recognition broke like sunrise across his face. 'Fergus!'

The Duke strode forth to receive his visitor, while I stood gaping in disbelief. Fergus? Here? I thought that we had seen the last of him.

'Hail, Duke of Britain! I give you good greeting,' called Fergus mac Guillomar in his thickly accented tongue. He spoke with due formality, but then swung down from his horse and embraced Arthur like a kinsman.

'What do you here, Irishman?' asked Arthur mildly. Yet the question was direct.

'I have come with my retinue to pay the tribute of gold and hostages that I owe.'

Arthur grinned, obviously pleased. 'I own the right of tribute, it is true. But I have made no demands on you.'

'Am I a barbarian that I repay honour with dishonour?' Fergus demanded. He turned quickly to his retinue, now dismounting, and called one of them forth.

A dark lanky youth with a long, serious face and deep-set black eyes under brooding brows stepped forward. He carried a long spear with a gleaming silver head. Across his shoulders he wore a cloak made from wildcat skins. The tore of braided silver at his throat spoke of nobility.

'This is Llwch Llenlleawg,' said Fergus proudly. 'He is the champion of our people. He is also my sister's son, my fosterling and kinsman. I deliver him as hostage to you. May his service bring you great reward.'

Arthur appraised the young man thoughtfully – not wishing to offend Fergus by rejecting his offer outright. But, before he could speak, the Irish king beckoned another to him: a slender young woman.

I have known and admired many young women, but this one was like no other I had ever seen. Her hair, so black it shimmered with a blue sheen in the sun, was pulled back to fall around her graceful neck and shoulders in a mass of braids: deepest jet against the pure alabaster of her flawless skin. She wore a disdainful expression, her lips pressed firmly together and her chin outthrust, as she regarded Arthur with keen grey eyes the colour of a dove's wing, or the mist that conies down from the mountain in the morning. The high, noble sweep of her brows and straight nose gave her the aspect of a queen.

Her long slender fingers held tightly to the haft of a spear. She carried a golden dagger on one smooth hip, a short sword on the other, and a small bronze-bossed shield on a braided cord over one slim shoulder. Her cloak was soft wool, dyed deepest red, gathered in an enormous golden brooch upon her breast. Most surprising of all, she wore a shirt of Angli mail, but the ringlets were small and exquisite, made of silver. It gleamed as she moved, like shining water rippling over her fair form.

She was dazzling, and despite her battle dress, easily the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She advanced slowly and came to stand beside Fergus, though her gaze never left Arthur. The look she gave him could have cut steel, I think, but the Duke seemed not to notice.

'This is Gwenhwyvar,' Fergus said, 'my daughter.'

He signalled the druid who came forth with a bundle of cloth in his outstretched hands. The druid gave the bundle to Arthur, and then unwrapped the cloth to reveal four golden tores of the most remarkable quality and design – each more beautiful than the last.

It was clear that Fergus was giving Arthur his most highly prized possessions: his champion, his daughter, the ancient treasures of his people.

Arthur was rightly speechless. He stared at the gold, and then at the girl and the warrior, and back to Fergus. 'I am honoured,' he said at length. 'Your tribute shames my small kindness.'

'I have pledged my life, Duke Arthur, and I know well what my life is worth,' replied Fergus proudly.

'I accept your tribute and your fealty, O King.'

What have you done, Arthur? I wondered. We will never see the end of this now!

Arthur gripped Fergus' arms like a kinsman. 'Come, my friend,' he announced boldly, 'we will share the guest cup.'

Fergus beamed his pleasure, gratified to be treated this way by Arthur. I stood in the yard, gazing after them as they all moved into the hall. I was not the only one disturbed by this development. For, as I turned to follow the others, I saw Myrddin standing a little away.

'Did you hear?' I asked.

'I heard.'

'Well?'

There is much in this that I do not like.'

'Oh, it is trouble,' I agreed. 'All saints bear witness, nothing good comes of accepting gifts from the Irish.'

Myrddin frowned, dismissing my observation with a distracted wave of his hand. 'It is more than that, Jealous One.'

He turned away, and I charged after him. 'Jealous! Me? Why do you call me jealous?'

But Myrddin would not answer. He made his way into the hall and to his place beside Arthur at the hearth table. The cups had been filled and were passing from hand to hand. I reluctantly joined the odd celebration and drank when the cup came to me. I noticed that Myrddin did not drink, however, but hovered at Arthur's shoulder like a guarding angel.

It was not until late afternoon that Myrddin gained opportunity of speaking to Arthur in private. 'A word, Arthur,' he said, and moved off towards the Duke's chamber at the end of the hall. Arthur rose, and since he did not bid me stay, I went with him.

'It is a mistake,' the Emrys said at once, his tone low and serious. 'You cannot accept the tribute.'

Arthur spread his hands helplessly. 'But I have already done so.'

'Undo it.'

'I cannot, even if I wanted to – which I do not.'

'You can and must.'

'What is it, Myrddin? What is troubling you?'

Myrddin was silent for a long moment. 'It is the woman,' he said at last.

'What about her?' asked Arthur innocently. 'I saw nothing in her to cause such dread.'

'She is a queen… ' 'She is Fergus' daughter – '

'It is the same thing with them. Do you not know this? By accepting her, you are agreeing to marry her. Fergus would not have given her to you otherwise.' Arthur gaped stupidly at his Wise Counsellor. 'Well? Nothing to say, Mighty Duke? Did such a thing never occur to you?'

'On my life, I confess that it did not,' replied Arthur indignantly.

'It is true. This champion, Llenlleawg – he is Fergus' champion, yes; but he is the queen's protector first. And the gift of gold – her people's wealth,' said Myrddin in a softer tone. 'Arthur, it is her bride gift, and a greater gift could not be made. Fergus honours you highly – perhaps too highly.'

'What do you mean?' asked Arthur suspiciously. 'Among the Irish the kingship is passed through the woman to her husband.'

'Ha!' I crowed. 'You would be king of Ierne, Bear! Think of that!'

'It is no small thing!' snapped Myrddin. To Arthur he said, Think! The High King of Britain must have a British wife.'

Arthur glared at me and stiffened. 'That is my decision, surely. No man will tell me who I shall take to wife.'

'Your arrogance will cost you the High Kingship. The lords of Britain will never own you king with an Irish.queen for your wife. By accepting Fergus' daughter, you are declaring her above all the noble women of Britain, and so exalting Fergus above all the kings of Britain.'

The Duke folded his arms across his chest. Then so be it! What British king has ever treated me with half as much respect as this enemy has done?'

"Think what you are doing, Arthur. Give her back to Fergus,' Myrddin urged. 'My honour will not allow it!'

'It is pride you are talking about, not honour,' Myrddin Emrys told him flatly. 'If you take this woman, your precious honour will be ruined beyond all hope of repair. It will mean your kingdom and much else besides.'

The Duke glared at us, but said nothing.

'Please, do as your Wise Counsellor suggests and think about it, at least,' I told him, 'before you do something we will all regret.'

Myrddin and I left him there alone. 'Will he heed us, do you think?' I asked.

The truth? No, I do not expect that he will,' the Emrys said. Something in his voice made me wonder: sadness? despair? What did he foresee from this? Why would he not speak it out?

Well, he is like that. I do not presume to reckon his ways.

Arthur did not back down, and he did not decline Fergus mac Guillomar's tribute, though it would have saved him much pain, and not a little peace of mind to do so. But then, in so doing he would not be Arthur.

Fergus also brought another gift – no less valuable in its own way: news, which he shared with us over meat that night.

The Picti, he said, were massing in the northern wastes and appeared likely to strike southward before the summer was out. Ships had been seen slinking along the western coast and darting among the western islands. 'They seek blood vengeance for the defeat you gave them in Celyddon,' Fergus suggested. 'I would not be surprised if the Angli joined them in this. They will have nursed their defeat into hatred through the winter.'

'Have you word that the Angli will attack?' asked Arthur.

Fergus wagged his head from side to side. 'I do not. Neither do I have word that day will dawn in the east, yet I think it unwise to assume differently.'

Arthur thanked Fergus for these tidings, and nothing more was said at the time. But three days later, as the Irish made ready to leave, Arthur called Gwalchavad to him. 'Ready the remaining ships, we are sailing north with the tide.'

This he did as Cai and Bors assembled the warband. Myrddin and I held council with the Duke in his chambers. 'Wait at least until the kings can attend you,' I said. 'We should not be seen rushing into an ambush.'

'You doubt Fergus?'

'I do not doubt Fergus, but neither do I trust the Picti. We must strike quickly, I agree – but we must strike with force.'

'Every day we delay the enemy grows more daring. We will guard the coasts and harry them until the other kings join us.'

Myrddin leaned forward on his staff. 'It is not too late, Arthur. Send the woman and her protector back with Fergus. I will do it, if you like. Fergus will have no cause for offence.'

The Duke replied softly. 'I have given my word. I will not take it back.' That was the end of it certainly. But Myrddin was not finished.

'If you are determined, Arthur, let the lady and her treasure be escorted to Ynys Avallach. She will be safe there, and out of the way. My mother will welcome the company – perhaps she may even educate this fiery maid to some British manners.'

Arthur happily accepted this suggestion. 'So be it, Myrddin. I bow to your counsel.'

I was less than pleased, for in the same breath Arthur turned to me and said, 'You will take Gwenhwyvar to the Glass Isle, Bedwyr.'

'Me? Arthur, be reasonable! It is no fit task for a battlechief. You will need me with you. Let someone else go. Send Cai or, better yet, send Bors – he deems himself a hero with women. Any of your warriors will serve as well.'

Arthur clapped a big paw onto my shoulder. 'It must be you, my brother. I will not insult Fergus or his daughter by sending less of a man than my own champion.'

'It seems to me you put too much faith in that Irish rogue,' I grumbled. 'You worry more about imagined offence to your enemies than genuine insults to your friends.'

Sooner pour out your heart to a stone; I grumbled to no avail. Arthur's mind was made up and he would not be moved. I had no choice but to strike off at once for Ynys Avallach.

If I was unhappy with the arrangement, Gwenhwyvar was furious. She saw the preparations for battle and fully expected to fight. To be indifferently hauled away like a sack of grain kindled her wrath full well. I have never seen a woman so angry.

Her eyes blazed and her cheeks and throat blushed crimson. One look at the horse standing saddled before her and she dug in her heels. Her fingers became claws and her tongue a sharp and skilful lash with which she flayed the ears of those around her – Arthur especially, I think, as his name bubbled to the surface regularly. Unfortunately, much of her complaint was in the Irish tongue so I did not understand the finer shadings, but the general flow was manifestly clear.

I lightly touched her arm to move her towards the horse, and almost lost my hand. Her knife was out and in her hand quicker than a flick. She turned on me, livid and spitting. The dagger would have found its home in my heart if Llenlleawg had not put himself between Gwenhwyvar and me at that moment.

He spoke a sharp word or two and she subsided. The dagger slipped back to its sheath. Without another glance the queen swung herself into the saddle and jerked the reins smartly.

The Irishman turned to me. 'It was not seemly… I am sorry.'

His apology took me aback. 'It does not matter. But I want no further trouble.'

'I am your servant, Lord Bedwyr.'

'You know me?'

'Who has not heard of Bedwyr, Bright Avenger, Swift Sword of Arthur?' Llenlleawg moved away at once and mounted his horse. I stood looking after the tall young Irishman and wondering how far I could trust him. They are known to be a deceitful and wicked race, and the truth is not in them. Still, I wondered.

We left Caer Melyn at once. I wanted to deliver the hostages to Ynys Avallach and return as quickly as possible, so that I could join Arthur in the north. Therefore I took only three others with me and we hurried down to the shipyard at Abertaff, where we boarded one of the smaller ships to cross Mor Hafren.

Once aboard ship, Gwenhwyvar went to the prow and stood there, rigid, arms folded across her breast, face set, eyes staring straight ahead. If she had been carved of solid stone she could not have been more adamant and unyielding.

I took Barinthus, Arthur's foremost pilot, because after leaving Ynys Avallach I wanted a swift journey north. Barinthus steered a close course and landed us well up the Briw river, not far from the Glass Isle. We camped on the riverbank that night, and rode on to the Tor the next day. Gwenhwyvar maintained an active and hostile silence all the while.

'You are welcome here,' said Charis graciously. 'May the peace of Christ be with you.' Swathed in deepest green, with a flowing mantle of shimmering gold, she seemed a queen of the Otherworld to my eyes. She greeted each one of us with a kiss, drawing us into the glimmering hall. At once I felt the gentling spirit of the place grace my soul.

Gwenhwyvar, too, was cowed by Charis' kindness and elegance. I prayed the Irish maid would remain so, and trusted that she would, for the Tor had already begun to work its mysterious enchantment upon us all.

Much as I would have enjoyed sojourning in Avallach's palace, Barinthus was waiting with the ship to take me back. So I left the hostages in the care of King Avallach and the Lady of the Lake and returned with the escort to the ship at dawn the next morning.

Upon reaching the ship, I hailed the pilot, and the men settled the horses aboard. But, as Barinthus made to cast off, he stood suddenly and pointed at the track behind me. I swung round and saw Llenlleawg riding to join us.

'You are to remain at Ynys Avallach!' I shouted as he came near, running forward as if to bar his way further.

He gazed placidly down at me from the saddle. 'I am the queen's champion. She has commanded me to attend the Duke.'

'And I have commanded you to stay!'

He shrugged and climbed down from his horse. 'It is my life to obey the queen,' he replied easily and, stepping round me, proceeded to take his horse onto the ship.

I should have sent him back, but I was anxious to be away and in no humour to argue with him in front of the men.

'Arthur will deal with you,' I told him darkly, and let the matter rest there for the moment.

I gave Barinthus the order, and we pushed off from the bank. We hastened away, reaching Mor Hafren with the tideflow. Whereupon we turned west into the setting sun, hoisted sail, and made for the open sea.