“When?” asked Arthur.
“That is the strange thing,” the Irish lord answered. “It seems they were there when the Black Boar was fighting here.”
“That cannot be,” suggested one of the Britons; I think it was Brastias. “They are in error. It must have been before the battle—”
“Or after, more like,” suggested Owain.
“What difference can it make now?” wondered Urien. “They are gone, and that is what matters.”
Arthur glared at the man, but could not bring himself to answer such foolishness. He wrapped himself in his stifling silence and stalked off. Nor could he be persuaded to speak again until two days later when his own ships returned. Barinthus, having directed the undertaking, came before his king with the final report. “We have encircled the island entire, and have seen neither hull nor sail in any hiding north, south, east, or west. The black ships have gone from these waters.”
“Say it loud!” cried Conaire, pushing himself forward. “The enemy is defeated! What further proof is needed? We have won!”
Fergus, eager to offer his thanks, took up the cry. “Hail, Arthur! Ierne is free! The barbarian is defeated!”
At this, the entire camp loosed a wild, heart-stirring cheer. The celebration, long denied, began then and there; the Irish kings called for their bards to compose victory songs, and the ale was poured anew. The campfires were built up and several head of fat cattle quickly butchered and set to roast on spits over the flames. The long, anxious wait was over: Ierne was free, the victory complete.
After days of inactivity, the lords and warriors leapt at the chance to release their anxiety in revelry. It was as if the entire camp had been holding its breath until now, and found, to its great relief, that it could breathe once more. While the meat roasted and ale splashed from skin to jar to cup, the bards began reciting their songs, extolling the virtues of the assembled warbands and their champions. At the conclusion of each recitation, the warriors applauded with noisy acclaim. The best efforts also had their material reward—the patron lords bestowing on their Chiefs of Song lavish ornaments of silver and of gold—inspiring ever more exalted feats of praise and wordplay.
But Arthur stood apart and watched the rejoicing with a cold eye. Gwenhwyvar, having borne her concern with great fortitude for so many days, could not but reproach him for his gloom. “Your scowl could sour honey,” she told him. “Ierne has shaken off the invader. That is the best news we could receive.”
He turned his scowl upon his wife. “That,” he told her curtly, “is the worst news of all. The very thing I feared most has befallen us.” He flung a hand to the roistering warriors. “The saving of Eiru is the ruin of Ynys Prydein!”
With that he stormed into the center of the gathering and, snatching the hunting horn from Rhys, raised it to his lips and gave a loud blast. Expecting a speech of commendation and the bestowal of gifts, the crowd called for silence and pressed close about to hear what the High King would say. When he knew that they could hear him, Arthur spoke. “The victory is won for Ierne, but you must continue your celebration alone. For I must return to Britain at once.” Arthur then commanded the Britons to begin preparing to leave.
“Nay, Arthur. Nay!” Fergus cried. “You have suffered much for our sake; therefore you must stay, take your rest, and let us feast you three days. It is but a small thing in light of your toil on our behalf.”
“I thank you, and my lords thank you,” Arthur replied. “It may be that we will all meet again, if God wills, to renew our feast in better times. I fear we have waited here too long already.”
“One day more, at least,” Fergus insisted. “You must allow us to pay proper homage to the victory you have won for us. For I swear by head and hand, without you there would be no free man drawing breath this day.”
Conaire, lurking nearby, heard this and grimaced with distaste. “Lord Arthur has spoken, Fergus. It is not meet to keep such exalted men from their lofty affairs.”
Some of the nearby British lords heard the remark, and bristled at it. Urien leapt to his feet, fists clenched. “Irish filth!” he growled, his voice low.
Gerontius started forward. Brastias threw out a restraining arm. “Be easy, brother.”
Owain, nearest Arthur, rose to his feet. “Lord Arthur,” he called loudly, “we have waited this long; one day more will make no difference. Whether in feast or fight, I would have these Irish kings know that Britain stands foremost,” he concluded, eyeing Conaire with cool defiance.
The other Britons quickly assented to Owain’s suggestion—repudiating Conaire’s discourtesy. But Arthur would not be moved.
“Not a moment more may be spared,” he insisted. “Gather your men, Owain—you and your brother lords—and make for the ships. We sail for Ynys Prydein at once.”
The High King’s decision was thoroughly resented by all the warriors and most of the lords. Only those who knew Arthur best accepted his command, even if they did not understand it. Only Cai, Bedwyr, Cador, and myself thought he had acted wisely; the rest regarded his behavior as rash, uncouth and inconsiderate.
Nevertheless, the ships were soon full-laden and the arduous process of moving Britain’s war host began once more. As on the previous crossing, the wind refused to aid us in any but the most ineffectual manner; we made up for its lack by plying the oars—which most warriors regarded as tedious punishment. When resting from their labors, the Cymbrogi drowsed or talked, filling the long summer day. As the sun plowed its slow furrow across the empty skyfield, I stood at the prow, listening to the talk around me and the slow, rhythmic splash of the oars, gazing at the heat-haze dancing on the flat level horizon. I felt the sun hot on my head, smiting me with peculiar intensity. And I began to wonder how long it had been since the last rain. How long since I had last seen a sky gray with clouds and felt a cool north breeze on my face?
Deep in thought I heard a voice call out to me: We have no choice. Burn it down. Burn it to the ground.
This strange intrusion startled me. I turned to see who had spoken—but all was as before: men in their various positions of repose, no one paying particular attention to me. It took me a moment to realize I had not heard the voice at all—not with my ear, at least. The voice had come to me as voices sometimes do.
I strained to hear more, but it was gone already. “No choice,” I whispered to myself, repeating what I had heard. “Burn it down.”
What did it mean?
Another long hot day followed, and another; we glimpsed the cragged west coast of Britain in the twilight, but it was dark when we entered Mor Hafren, and the tide was flowing against us. Rather than disembark in the dead of night on the rocky coast, our small fleet anchored, waiting for the tide to turn before making our way up the estuary channel to the landing-place below Caer Legionis.
It was not until daybreak that we were able to proceed. As ours was the lead ship, we were first to taste smoke on the morning air, and first to sight the dark, ugly haze smudged across the eastern sky. Alas! We were first also to behold that sight most dreaded in our race’s long experience: the black bank formed by the massed hulls of enemy ships.
The hateful keels had been driven hard aground, and the ships—scores of them, in all shapes and sizes, enough to serve an emperor!—hundreds of ships, lashed together rail-to-rail and put to the torch. The sails and hulls must have burned for days—even now the smoke rolled heavenward from the smoldering masts and keels.
Oh, but there were so many! Score upon score of enemy ships—many times more than we had encountered in Ierne—and all of them fired to the waterline. We gazed with shock and dismay at the loathsome sight, and rued the meaning in our bones.
For the Black Boar was loose in the Island of the Mighty. And, Blessed Jesu have mercy, he meant to stay.
3
COLDLY FURIOUS, ARTHUR ORDERED Barinthus to make landfall farther up the estuary, and sent Bedwyr, Llenlleawg, and the Cymbrogi to scout the way ahead. He stood in water to his k
nees, commanding his battlechiefs as they disembarked. The last ships had not even touched shore before the first divisions were armed, mounted, and moving away.
The Vandali had left a wide trail along the valley floor—grass trampled into the dry dirt by thousands upon thousands of trampling feet.
The trail led directly to Caer Legionis. The city itself, such as it was, had been abandoned in the days of Macsen Wledig when the legions left; the people had moved back into the surrounding hills and built a hillfort there, returning once more to an older way and more secure.
We skirted the deserted town and continued on to Arthur’s fortress at Caer Melyn. As we drew nearer, we met Bedwyr and two scouts returning. “They sacked our stronghold,” he reported, “and tried to burn it. But the fire did not take hold. The gate is broken.”
“And those inside?” asked Arthur.
“Dead,” answered Bedwyr. “All of them—dead.”
When Arthur made no reply, Bedwyr continued. “They took what they could carry off, and moved on. Shall I send Llenlleawg and the others ahead to discover where they have gone?”
Still Arthur made no reply. He seemed to look through Bedwyr to the hills beyond.
“Artos?” said Gwenhwyvar. She was coming more and more to recognize and understand her husband’s moods. “What are you thinking?”
Without a word, he lifted the reins and continued to the caer. If the Black Boar had wanted to devastate the fortress, not a single timber would have remained upright. As it was, however, aside from the broken gate, the stronghold appeared intact—quiet, but undamaged. It was not until we entered the yard that we saw the fire-blackened walls and smelled the death stink. A party of Cymbrogi were already at the sorrowful chore of dragging out the dead, preparing to bury them on the slope of the hill below the timber palisade.
We joined in this heartbreaking labor, then gathered on the hillside in the twilight to offer up prayers for our fallen brothers as we consigned them to their graves. Only when the green turf covered the last corpse did Arthur enter the hall.
“They were careless,” Cai observed. “They were in haste.”
“How do you know this?” wondered Urien. Since the last days in Ierne, he had dogged Arthur’s steps, insinuating himself into the group closest to the High King. If anyone else noticed his presence, they gave no sign.
“If Twrch Trwyth had desired its destruction,” Cai answered curtly, “the caer would be ashes, and those scattered to the winds.”
Embarrassed by his failure to discern the obvious, Urien withdrew and said no more.
“It is fortunate we have the war host with us still,” Bedwyr said. “That great horde on foot—”
“Our horses can easily overtake them,” Cai put in, finishing the thought. “They cannot have traveled far.”
“But the war host is fewer now than it was in Ierne,” Cador pointed out. “Without the support of the Irish lords, I fear we will fare less well than before.”
“Gwalchavad will have reached the northern lords with our summons,” Bedwyr reminded him. “Idris, Cunomor, and Cadwallo will arrive soon.”
Cador nodded, but the frown did not leave his face. “We need more,” he said, after a moment. “Even with the northern warbands it is still ten or twenty Vandali for every fighting Briton.”
“Bors and Ector should arrive any day,” Cai added. “Together they will bring above six hundred.”
There followed a reckoning of numbers; warbands were estimated and tallied. At best we could count on four thousand, perhaps more—though likely far fewer. However, lack of fighting power was not the uppermost concern. Men must eat if they are to fight. And the talk soon turned to the persistent problem of provisions. Warriors require a constant, uninterrupted supply of food and weapons. We had not enough of arms or food to sustain a lengthy campaign.
“We must send to the settlements for our support,” Cador observed gloomily. “And that will take men away from battle.”
“If we do not send them,” Gwenhwyvar replied, “it will cost the lives of more. There is no other way.”
“There is another way,” Arthur said quietly, finding his voice at last. “We will use the treasure of Britain to buy grain and cattle in Londinium.” Turning to Cador, he said, “I give this task to you. Take everything we have saved from the Saecsen wars and use it in the markets.”
Bedwyr shook his head in amazement. “Bear, God love you, we were plundered! Amilcar has it all!”
“All?” wondered Arthur aloud; this problem had not occurred to him.
“Not all, I suppose,” Bedwyr allowed. “We have that left which was hidden under the hearth, and the little we had with us in Ierne.”
“It is enough? That little is enough?”
“Perhaps,” Bedwyr said doubtfully.
“Artos,” Gwenhwyvar said, “whatever we lack can be made up from the churches. They have gold and silver aplenty. Go to them. Let them help us now as we have helped them.”
“Tread lightly,” I warned. “Separating holy men from their worldly wealth is not without consequence.”
“Listen to your queen,” Bedwyr urged. “What good will their gold and silver do them when the barbarians come and carry it off? They will lose both their treasure and their lives. But if they give their gold to us, they may at least keep their lives.”
“So be it,” said Arthur, having heard enough. To Cador he said, “Stop at the churches on the way and raise whatever you can. Tell them Arthur has need of it. When you reach Londinium, see you bargain well—our lives depend on you.”
Cador accepted reluctantly. “As you will, lord,” he said. “I will leave at first light tomorrow.”
Arthur stood. “I am going to my chamber—what is left of it. When the lords have settled their men, let them attend me in council here.”
Thus, as a woeful sliver of moon rose to shine upon the ruined caer, the lords of Britain sat down to plan the defense of the island. Having had a taste of the Vandal way of fighting, the Britons were all for blunt confrontation. “Give them the edge of the sword, I say,” Ogryvan argued. “They shake with fear whenever they see our horses. We can catch them and ride them down.”
“He is right. A bold attack will send them back to their ships, smart enough,” added Brastias. “They are cowards and we are swiftly done with them.”
Meurig spoke up. “The sooner we engage them, the sooner we are rid of them. We must ride at once.”
“And then we will not need all the supplies you deem necessary to purchase,” Ulfias put in hopefully. “We can finish this business before harvest.”
The High King abruptly banished all such thoughts from their minds. Up he rose, fists clenched. “Did the sight of burning ships mean nothing to you?” he shouted. The noblemen glanced at one another warily. When no one made bold to answer, Arthur said, “Hear me now: it will not be as it was in Ierne. The Boar has changed. He knows well what awaits him here, and yet he comes. I tell you the truth, Amilcar has become a new and more dangerous enemy.”
“How so, lord?” demanded Brastias. “He tramples, he burns, he runs away. It is the same reckless enemy. You may mistake carelessness for cunning, but I reckon it well when I see it.”
Gerontius made to press the argument, but Arthur cut him off with a chop of his hand. “Am I surrounded by fools?” he asked, his voice tight with fury.
“Tribes and families!” he shouted. “Their ships burned behind them. Think!” He glared the length of the board, towering in his anger. When he spoke again, his voice was a tight whisper. “The Black Boar will no longer content himself with plunder only. He means to settle.”
Before the noblemen could frame a reply, Arthur continued. “The entire realm is unprotected—and Twrch Trwyth knows this. He runs before us, laying waste the land as he goes.” The High King’s words were finding their mark at last; the lords kept their mouths firmly shut and listened. “Only now does the enemy begin to show his true likeness, and it is an aspect I greatly fear.
”
Having made his point, Arthur concluded simply, saying, “Return to your men. Tell them we ride in pursuit. We leave at dawn.”
While the battlechiefs made ready to ride, I sat alone in the empty hall and considered the meaning of the change in the Black Boar’s designs. Arthur had discerned the matter aright: enraged, or at least frustrated, by Arthur’s opposition to his intended plundering of Ireland, the Black Boar had moved on to easier pickings. What better place than an undefended Britain? With the war host of Ynys Prydein in Ierne, the Vandal chieftain could plunder here to his heart’s content, amassing great wealth before he was caught.
Arthur had read the signs aright, certainly. Even so, misgiving gnawed at me. Amilcar knew—and knew beyond any doubt whatsoever—that the lords of Britain would soon arrive to put an end to his plunder. Having faced Arthur and suffered defeat at every turn, why risk confronting the Bear of Britain again?
More importantly, if he meant to settle, why choose Britain? Did he not fear Arthur? Did the Black Boar believe he would not be hunted down and killed?
Something drove Amilcar to this extremity. Was it desperation? Revenge? Something of both perhaps, but there seemed to me also a portion of shrewd defiance. How was that to be weighed?
I went to sleep with an uneasy mind and was roused a short while later by Rhys. Declining to break fast, I went out to walk the ramparts of Caer Melyn until it was time to leave. I watched the sky lighten in the east. Away in the south, white clouds crept along the coast, but these faded even as I watched and with them vanished any chance of rain. The day before us would be the same as those just past: scorching hot.
I turned my eyes to the hills. The grass was beginning to wither and dry. Already the trails were turning to dust. If it did not rain soon, the streams would begin to dry. Drought is not unknown in Britain, God knows, but it is rare and always betokens hardship.
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