I listened for them, but heard only the faint murmur of voices rising from the camp below. I turned to see the campfires shining bright as earthbound stars, and sweet relief gave way to sudden apprehension.
Great Light, what have I done?
7
I MAINTAINED MY VIGIL THROUGH the night, heart and mind clutching tight to the slender hope that had been granted me: the saving of Britain and the Kingdom of Summer. Since even the most compelling dreams can dissipate into the empty air when touched by the sun’s hard light, I waited for what the day would bring—hope refreshed, or despair confirmed.
Certainty of purpose came with the dawn. Up I rose, thanking the High King of Heaven and all his saints and angels for the weapon delivered into my hand. As the sun rose blood-red over the eastern ridge, I returned to camp to find the war host already stirring, readying themselves for the day’s battle.
I went directly to Arthur’s tent and he admitted me, yawning and scratching himself. Following him into the tent, I could not help noticing that Gwenhwyvar was nowhere in sight. “She prefers to bathe early,” Arthur said.
“I would speak to you alone first,” I replied, and told him about my chance encounter with Mercia, and what the young battlechief had told me of dissention among the Vandali. The king sat in his chair before me, shaking his head. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Arthur frowned. No, he did not understand at all. “Why must we stay in camp?”
“Because,” I explained, “I promised it to Mercia. I gave this in pledge for my life.”
Before Arthur could make further objection, Bedwyr came to the tent and called for the king. “I am here, brother,” Arthur answered. “I will join you in a moment.”
“Well?” I demanded. “What is it to be?”
Arthur hesitated; he frowned at me and rubbed his hands over his face. “Oh, very well,” he said at last. “I will not make a liar of you. There are many among us who would welcome a day’s rest in any event.”
We stepped from the tent to greet Bedwyr. “The war host is ready,” he said. “The chieftains await your command.”
“There will be no battle today,” Arthur told him bluntly.
Bedwyr glanced at me in surprise. “Why, Bear? What has happened?”
“I have changed my mind. I have decided to give the men a day’s rest.”
“But everyone is ready! We have full assembly of the greatest warband since—”
“Tell them, Bedwyr. Tell them all we will not fight today.”
“I will tell them,” he growled. Turning on his heel, he hastened away.
No sooner had Bedwyr departed than we heard shouts from the far perimeter of the camp where a commotion had broken out. “Now what?” Arthur muttered, glaring at me as if it were my doing. Bedwyr, hearing the uproar, came running back to the king.
Rhys appeared on the run. “Vandali!” he shouted.
“So much for your day of rest, Bear,” Bedwyr grumbled. “Will you give the order?”
“Wait!” I said. “Not yet.”
Rhys ran to where we stood. “Vandali,” he said breathlessly. “Five of them. They advance with willow branches. The slave is with them. I think they want to parlay.”
Bedwyr and Rhys looked to Arthur, waiting what he would say. Arthur looked to me. “I know nothing of this,” I told him.
“Very well,” said Arthur, “let them come to me and we will hear what they have to say.”
We waited before the tent while Rhys conducted the enemy envoy to us. As he said, there were five: the four warlords we had met before, including Mercia, and the captured priest, Hergest. All the British lords came running to see what was to take place, so the emissaries arrived amidst a great crowd of onlookers. Gwenhwyvar, Cai, and Cador pushed through to stand beside Arthur and me.
“Greetings, Lord Arthur,” Hergest began. “We beg pardon to speak with you and to return to our camp unharmed.”
“Speak freely, priest,” Arthur said. “I give you my word that no hurt shall come to you while you are under my protection. Why have you come?”
Before the priest could reply, one of the barbarian chieftains—the one called Ida, I think—pointed to all the men pressing close, and uttered a long complaint in their rough tongue. “He says that your word is worthless,” Hergest informed us. “Merlin vowed you would not ride today and yet we see that you ready yourselves for battle.”
Bedwyr threw me a questioning glance, which I ignored. Arthur replied, “I was not informed of Myrddin’s pledge until a moment ago, and have only just given the order to stand down. Even so, we are ready to fight if pressed to it.”
While the slave repeated Arthur’s words, I sought Mercia’s eye. He saw me watching him and, with a slight but deliberate downward jerk of his chin, gave me to know that he accepted this explanation.
“We, too, are ready to fight,” Hergest said, resuming his communication. “However, it is in Amilcar’s mind that the War Leader Arthur has remained shielded behind his warriors long enough. The Black Boar’s is minded that the two kings meet and prove before both nations which of them is the greater battlechief.”
“Indeed,” remarked Arthur. “And does Amilcar say how he proposes to make this proof?”
The slave relayed Arthur’s reply to Ida, who responded with a sneer and another long utterance. “Ida says that Amilcar will meet Arthur alone on the plain beside the river which lies between our two camps, bringing whatever weapons the British warrior favors. When the sun passes midday, the two will fight. The combat will continue until one or the other is killed.” Hergest paused, and Ida spoke again. “Amilcar makes this challenge, though he does not expect Arthur to accept it,” the slave added.
“Tell Amilcar that I will consider his challenge,” Arthur replied evenly. “I will bring my answer to the plain at midday.”
Hergest repeated Arthur’s words, whereupon the enemy battlechiefs, satisfied that they had delivered their message, turned to go. “Owain! Vrandub!” Arthur called, choosing two from among the assembled noblemen. “See that they leave the camp the way they came, unmolested.” To the others he said, “Go back to your men and explain the challenge. We will assemble at midday and ride to the plain.”
As the lords hurried away, Arthur bade his advisors attend him in the council tent. Gwenhwyvar, Cai, Bedwyr, Cador, Llenlleawg and I joined the High King to decide what to do.
“It is a very good sign,” Bedwyr said as we seated ourselves at the board. “It means the Black Boar knows we have increased the strength of the war host, and he is afraid.”
“What of this pledge not to fight today?” asked Gwenhwyvar sharply; the question was for me.
I quickly explained how I had been surprised and taken by Mercia. Cador professed himself amazed by this and said, “He let you go if you promised not to fight today?”
“No,” I said, “it was not like that. We talked first. He gave me to know that there is dissension in the Vandali camp. Amilcar has lost the confidence of some of his lords, and—”
“See!” cried Bedwyr. “I am right! The Black Boar is running scared. The Vandali cannot withstand the might of Britain any longer.”
“Single combat is the only fight he can win,” Cai put in. “Attack with all our might, I say. This is the chance we have been waiting for.”
“Perhaps,” replied Arthur, “it is a chance to end the war without further bloodshed.”
“Perhaps it is a trap!” pointed out Gwenhwyvar sharply.
“The barbarians cannot be trusted,” said Cador quickly. “Even if Amilcar was defeated, what makes you think they would honor any vow of peace they made?”
It was a good question—one that would be uppermost in every British warrior’s mind. I was ready with the answer. “It makes no difference,” I answered.
Their silence contradicted me. “Truly, it makes no difference,” I persisted, “for without Amilcar, the war will simply collapse. Can you not see that now?” The disbelieving s
tares of Cador and the others told me that they could not.
“See here!” I said. “Whether it is a trap”—I inclined my head towards Gwenhwyvar as I said this—“or whether Amilcar proves false, or anything else—makes not the slightest difference to us. For the selfsame moment he dies on the battlefield before his watching host, the invasion ceases and the war ends.”
“How do you know this?” demanded Cador.
“Mercia told me,” I answered.
“And you believed him?”
“I did indeed,” I replied. “He held my life in his hands. Let there be no doubt: a word from him and my death was assured. But he let me live that I might know he spoke the truth.”
“He is a barbarian!” Cador charged. “He would tell you anything to make you believe this lie. But I am not so easily persuaded.”
“It may be a lie,” I answered, “or it may not. I say we put it to the test and find out. If I am right, the war will end.”
“But what if you are wrong?” Cai asked. “What then, eh?”
“Then the war will continue,” I replied solemnly, “and Britain will become the grave of champions.”
They grew silent, thinking this over. Before they could renew their objections, Rhys ducked into the tent just then to say that the priest Paulinus had returned to camp. “Let him come in,” Arthur said.
The monk, gaunt and frayed about the edges like a bone gnawed to gristle, entered and all but collapsed at Arthur’s feet. Without a thought, the king raised him and sat him in his chair. “A drink, Rhys,” called Arthur. “Hurry!”
“Forgive me, lord,” Paulinus said. He saw the others looking on and struggled to his feet.
Arthur pressed him back into the chair with his hand. “Sit, man. Rest yourself. You have ridden hard, as we can see. Gather your strength and tell us what word you have brought.”
Rhys appeared with a cup and pressed it into the monk’s hands. Paulinus drank thirstily and dried his mouth with his sleeve. “I wish I had a better word, lord,” the monk said.
“How bad is it?” asked Gwenhwyvar, stepping close.
“It is not good,” Paulinus replied. “The fever spreads despite our best efforts. The roads from Londinium are secured, but people still persist in traveling on the river; it seems we can do nothing to stop them. Thus, the plague follows the waterways.” He paused, gulped from the cup, and concluded, “We have succeeded in rescuing a few settlements where the disease has not yet gained a foothold, but much of the land south of Londinium has succumbed.”
Paulinus drank again, and returned the cup to Rhys. “Three of our own have taken ill, and one has died. Nor do I expect the others to live.”
Arthur stood over the priest, hands at his sides, fists balled, but there was nothing to strike. Paulinus, seeing his king’s frustration, rose slowly. “I am sorry, lord. I wish I had better tidings. I had hoped—we had all hoped…”
“You are doing all you can, we know,” Gwenhwyvar said. “Go now, we will speak again when you are rested.”
Beckoning his steward, Arthur said, “Rhys, see that our friend has something to eat and a place to lay his head.” Paulinus took his leave and, when he had gone, Arthur turned to the others. “I cannot stop the plague,” he said softly. “But if I can end the war with the Black Boar, I deem it a risk worth taking. I will fight Amilcar.”
A little while before midday, the Lords of Britain and their battlechiefs were assembled once more and brought to stand before the High King’s tent. Arthur acknowledged them one by one and lauded their loyalty. Then he said, “Sword brothers all, you have heard the Black Boar’s challenge. I have given the matter careful thought, and I have decided that if there is a chance to end the war by defeating Amilcar in single combat, then I must take that chance. Therefore, I will accept the barbarian’s challenge and meet him on the plain.”
The decision provoked a general uproar.
“Is this wise, Arthur?” wondered Ector aloud. “Certainly, we all stand ready to ride beside you.” A score of voices added their agreement.
“Of that I have no doubt,” Arthur replied, holding up his hands for silence. “Indeed, many good men have stood beside me already, and, alas! too many have died. Truly, if not for the loyalty of all noble Britons, we could not have driven the enemy to this desperate cast. I am persuaded that the will to continue this war rests with Amilcar. Thus, when he is dead, the war will end.”
“But what if you are killed instead?” shouted Cunomor, his voice rising above the din. “What then?”
“If I am killed,” Arthur replied, “it will be left to those who remain to carry on however they choose. The death of one man matters little, weighed against the death and destruction which has gone before and all that will certainly follow.”
“We came to fight for you!” shouted Meurig, “not to stand by and watch you fight alone.”
Ogryvan added, “We fight for Arthur! He does not fight for us!”
This produced a clamor which continued for some time. When it began to die away another cried out. “Lord Arthur!” The voice was strange to many ears. The British lords turned as Aedd stepped forward. “The man who wins this fight will gain everlasting glory and his name will be sung in the halls of kings for ever. Therefore, though I am least among your lords, I beg the boon of serving you. Let me face this barbarian Amilcar in your place. Great King, let me be your champion in this fight.”
Aedd, God bless him, was in earnest; he would readily trade life for life with Arthur, but the High King could not allow it. “I thank you, Lord Aedd,” he said, “and I will not forget your offer. But it seems that Amilcar believes me a tyrant like himself—in that if I am defeated, Britain’s defense will crumble away. We must encourage him in this belief. My life must be the prize.”
The petty kings were not at all happy with this decision. But though many argued against it, none could suggest a better plan. Thus Arthur won his way at length.
“So! It is settled,” the High King concluded. “Gather your warbands. We will meet Amilcar now.”
8
I HAVE THOUGHT MANY TIMES what I could have done—perhaps should have done?—differently in those fearful days. Yet events swiftly outstripped my small ability to guide them. As is ever the way of things, those circumstances we would most gladly shape ever remain beyond our grasp, while we are made to bear unexpected burdens to unsuspected destinations. All stand helpless before a power too potent to contain, too immense to comprehend. So be it!
Thus I, who would have formed the days to my design, was made to stand with all the rest of the British war host ranged in ranks upon the plain, looking on in apprehension.
I see it now as then, always before me, the same stark image: Arthur standing alone under a blistering sun with neither shield nor helm, only Caledvwlch at his side. The sky is leached white with the searing heat; the grass is brittle underfoot and brown.
Arthur stands waiting, his shadow shriveled small beneath him, as if it dare not stretch its full length in such heat. Across the plain the Vandal host appears—warriors, women, children. All advance slowly to the place of meeting: the broad plain of Lyit Coed, where the rivers Tamu and Ancer come together. A fortress once stood nearby, but the Vandali have burned it and the settlements round about have been destroyed, the people killed or forced to run.
I watch the enemy host advance, a crabbed and clotted line of black, the dust from their feet rising up in thick white columns behind them. They move slowly and we wait. We might still attack them, or they might attack us. There is nothing to prevent it, save Britain’s High King standing alone on the cracked and burning plain, waiting in all good faith for the Black Boar of the Vandali to honor his word and meet him face-to-face.
There is but one question in the mind of every man looking on: Will the hosts fight, or will Amilcar treat with Arthur as he has promised?
The advance halts abruptly and dull silence descends over the heat-oppressed plain. Then the thunder begins. The plain
echoes to the rumbling roar of the Vandali war drums, and for one terrible moment I think they will attack.
“Steady!” Bedwyr calls out, and his words are repeated down the line. “Stand your ground, men.”
The drums are meant to frighten, to unnerve us. But Arthur stands, and so we stand—grim-faced, sweating, our stomachs knotted in anticipation and dread as the drums boom in our ears. The sound, once heard, is not easily forgotten. I hear it now.
When the invader had drawn up in striking distance of us, the beat of the drums abruptly ceased and the long triple line halted. The Vandali stood staring at us in a silence as terrible as the bone-rattling thunder of their drums. They remained motionless, not a muscle twitching, weapons gleaming dully, rank on rank, their grotesque boar’s head standards rising above them, confronting us with the dread spectacle of their military might.
Arthur stood easy, patient, regarding the fearsome battle host with an unflinching gaze. After a time, one of the standard-bearers moved from his place in the forerank, advanced a few places and stopped. He was joined by a group of Vandali chieftains, Mercia and the slave Hergest foremost among them. Then, all together, they moved out to meet Britain’s High King in the center of the plain. After a few brief words—spoken in voices too low to hear—the standard-bearer returned to his place in the line.
“I cannot endure this,” muttered Gwenhwyvar crossly. “I will stand with him.”
Bedwyr made bold to stay her, but she shook off his hand, slipped from the saddle, and stepped quickly out from the rank to reach Arthur’s side before anyone could prevent her. The king welcomed her with a curt nod and the two stood side-by-side as the black boar’s head on its skull-and-scalp-bedecked pole proceeded once more. This time it heralded the arrival of Amilcar himself.
The two lords eyed one another across a gap of but three paces. I saw Arthur’s hand rise in the sign of peace. Amilcar made no gesture. Arthur said something, to which the Black Boar replied through Hergest. When the priest stopped speaking, Arthur turned to Gwenhwyvar, who made a reply while staring straight ahead at Amilcar.
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