Pendragon

TEN

Cai and Bedwyr, steely and determined, took their places at my side. 'Keep your hands on your sword, brother, and watch his every move,' Bedwyr hissed to Cai. 'Amilcar is a liar and cannot be trusted.'

Twrch Trwyth, grinning savagely, raised his sturdy lance and placed the short blade against his naked chest, drawing the finely honed weapon across his flesh. A thin trickle of blood dripped from the shallow wound down his black-greased torso.

This I had seen before. The barbarians believe that drawing first blood ensures victory through the spirit of the weapon thus awakened. While the Vandal thus occupied himself, Arthur drew Caledvwlch and dropped to one knee. Gripping the blade in both hands, he raised the hilt before him to form the sign of the cross, whereupon he offered up a prayer to the Saviour Lord.

Amilcar watched him narrowly. As Arthur knelt to pray, the barbarian king moved to stand over him, gazing down with an expression of deepest loathing. He drew a deep breath and spat in Arthur's upturned face.

'The animal!' growled Cai. 'I will -'

'Steady,' warned Bedwyr, putting his hand on Cai's sword arm.

Arthur opened his eyes and regarded Amilcar with icy indifference. Not so much as a muscle twitched. Closing his eyes once more, he finished his prayer, then stood slowly. Nose to nose, not a hand's breadth between them, they confronted one another. I could almost feel the heat of their anger.

'Tell Twrch Trwyth I forgive the insult to me,' Arthur told the priest softly. 'And when he is dead, I will pray that Jesu will forgive the insult to God, and have mercy on his soul,'

Hergest repeated Arthur's words, whereupon the barbarian turned and swung out, catching the slave priest with the back of his hand. The monk's head snapped back and a livid handmark appeared on the side of his face.

'The barbarian will regret that most bitterly,' Cai muttered beside me.

As Amilcar strode to his position a few paces away, Arthur gestured behind him. Rhys, alert to the signal, blew a long, shimmering blast on the horn. The sound startled the waiting Vandali host. Twrch glanced towards the British line.

Seizing the moment, Arthur darted forth: 'Die, Twrch Trwyth!'

Bedwyr, Cai, and I retreated a few paces; Mercia, Hergest and the barbarian lords removed themselves to a position opposite, which placed the combatants between us. Arthur and Amilcar began circling one another warily. It is the way of men who would learn the measure of one another. Both used the spear, grasping the weapon easily mid-shaft. Amilcar probed with his spear, swinging the blade restlessly back and forth, searching for an opening, a momentary lapse to exploit. Arthur, however, held the weapon still, poised for either thrust or throw.

I watched them edging around one another and weighed them both in my mind: neither man gave away anything in height. Arthur was more broad in the shoulder, but Amilcar was thicker through the torso. Where Arthur was surefooted and steady, the Black Boar was agile. Arthur, big-boned, strong and sturdy, possessed a strength born of the wild northern hills; the Vandal chieftain possessed the considerable stature and hardiness of his race. Both men, I concluded, were roughly equal in strength and stamina, though Amilcar, used to fighting on foot, might have held a slight edge over Arthur, who waged combat from the back of a horse.

But a warrior is not proved on the strength of his sword arm alone. If raw power were all that mattered, a warrior queen like Boudicca or Gwenhwyvar would never have stood a chance. Women are not gifted with heft of shoulder and arm of the average man; but they are clever, and craftier by far. As warriors their brains are quicker, more nimble and more shrewd. In battle, cunning easily outreaches the strongest arm. Truly, a warrior's brain is first among all attributes; the heart is second.

And here, Arthur had no equal. Although he may not have enjoyed Llenlleawg's rare gift of the battle awen, he owned a distinct advantage: he was fearless. Nothing daunted Arthur. Whether he faced a single spear or a thousand, it made no difference to him. Whether Arnilcar fought alone or with the entire Vandal war host at his side, I do not believe it would have dismayed the Bear of Britain in the least. He might not have survived the encounter, but fear would have had no part in his death.

When men think of Arthur, they imagine him all thick-sinewed brawn, carrying all before him by sheer dint of physical prowess. In truth, no more courageous or canny warrior ever lofted spear or strapped steel to hip. He was strong, of course, but he was also wise – a very druid of battle.

So the Black Boar of the Vandali and the Bear of Britain circled one another, eyes keen, hands ready to seize upon the slightest lapse. It came almost at once. As the two moved, sidestep by careful side-step, Amilcar stumbled – a small slip on uneven ground, but Arthur was on it in an instant. He lunged forward, spear stabbing up under the inside edge of Amilcar's shield.

Everyone saw the misstep and gasped at Arthur's speed in pursuing it. But Amilcar twisted away from the quick spear thrust, sweeping his lance before him. The cheers of the British died before they could be given voice, for had Arthur stepped in behind his stroke to force it home – as a warrior often does – his throat would have been sliced open.

Amilcar recovered with such aplomb, I wondered whether the misstep had not been a ruse – a subtle feint designed to catch a greedy opponent unaware. However effective in the past, Arthur was not overeager for an instant victory; he was content to allow his spear to probe a little without committing himself to the first opportunity that came his way.

The white sun blazed along the keen-edged blades, and in the narrowed eyes of the combatants. Slowly, slowly, edging sideways, the two warriors circled, searching for an opportunity to strike. Arthur seemed prepared to allow this exercise to continue as long as it may; he would not be rushed into error. Nor did the Black Boar seem anxious to grant Arthur another opening, false or otherwise.

So we stood in the hot sun – the barbarian war host, silent, rank on rank, facing the mounted might of Britain with little more than a spear-cast's distance between us – every eye watching the dread dance unfold, step by wary step. Around and around they went, never putting a foot wrong. Circling, circling, ever watchful, scarcely blinking, they moved, their feet making a large ring in the dust. The first to lose patience would make a strike, and the other would be waiting. But nerve held for both men; neither man lost his concentration.

But someone lost patience, for across the battleground a shout went up from the Vandal ranks – whether of coarse encouragement for Amilcar or derision for Arthur, I could not tell. The cry cracked sharp in the silence, and Amilcar's head turned towards the sound. Arthur saw his opponent look away and leaped forward in the same instant, his spear level, the blade slashing.

The sunlight flared on the blade; I blinked. When I looked again, Amilcar's shield had knocked Arthur's spear wide as his own lance jutted forth. It happened so fast that I thought Arthur had surely caught the spearpoint in the ribs. He threw his shield into Amilcar's face, forcing him back a step. I looked for blood, but saw none; Arthur's mail shirt had saved him a brutal cut.

The Black Boar permitted himself a sly, wicked smile, giving me to know that the shout and his apparent lapse had been another ruse. Clearly, the man was shrewdly deceptive and had taken care to arm himself with many such deceits. Arthur had avoided the first of them, and narrowly escaped the second; I wondered what Amilcar would try next – and whether Arthur would see it in time to save himself.

The cautious circling resumed, and appeared likely to continue for some time; indeed, it had settled into a dull, even rhythm, when Arthur suddenly stumbled. He went down on one knee, his spear slapping flat to the ground.

Amilcar leaped on him in the same instant. The stout black lance darted forth. Arthur stretched forward, grabbed the oncoming spear with his free hand, and pulled it towards him. Amilcar, unbalanced by the unexpected tug on the end of his lance, fell forward with a surprised grunt.

Arthur leaped to his feet, snatching up his spear once more in the same swift motion. Amilcar, regaining his balance, spun away, swinging his heavy shield before him. But Arthur's spearpoint had grazed his side and blood now trickled down the Black Boar's gleaming flank. The Cymbrogi raised a tremendous cry, signalling their approval of the daring manoeuvre.

Britain's king had drawn first blood, and – perhaps more importantly – served the barbarian warlord fair warning that the Bear of Britain was not without a few tricks of his own. I had never seen this stumbling feint of Arthur's and surmised that he had made it up by way of retaliation to temper Amilcar's deceptions. The enemy war host did not care for the feat and they howled their disapproval from across the plain.

The merciless sun mounted higher. The combat settled into a wary contest of stamina and will. Now and then one of the warriors would venture a stroke, which was answered in kind; but neither man was so hasty or inexperienced as to allow himself to be drawn into an impulsive exchange of blows.

Around and around they went, neither warrior presenting a weakness, nor finding any in his opponent. They circled, and the burning sun peaked, hovered, and began to lower in its long slow plunge to the western horizon. The Britons shielded their eyes with their hands and watched the contest, senses numbed by the heat and light. On and on, the ceaseless circling went, and the day crept away.

Eventually, the light failed before either man gave in to fatigue or error. I took it upon myself to halt the combat as the sun set and shadows began to claim the battleground. Signalling to Hergest, I indicated my wish to confer, and he brought Mercia to me.

'It is soon dark,' I said. 'We can let this go on through the night, or we can agree to stop it and meet again tomorrow.'

The captive priest delivered my words to Mercia, who hesitated, regarding the fight thoughtfully. I sensed in him a reluctance to interfere, so I added, 'It will be no hurt to either man to rest the night and begin again at midday tomorrow.'

'It shall be done,' the barbarian replied through the priest, and the two approached the combatants, calling for them to put up their weapons and withdraw for the night. This they did, though not without some reluctance.

Thus the day ended without victory.