Arthur laughed. “Tell Twrch I may not be parted from my head so easily as he thinks. Many have tried but all have failed.”
Hergest enjoyed repeating Arthur’s words to Amilcar, who made a quick reply, lifting his necklace as he spoke, and rattling the bones. “Twrch Trwyth says it is the same with him. Nevertheless, he will be most happy to add the teeth and toe bones of a Briton king to his battledress.”
Amilcar spoke again. “Twrch is ready,” Hergest repeated. “There has been talk enough. It is time to fight.”
“Not yet,” I said, holding up my hand. “Before the combat begins, I would hear the warrior’s vows.”
“What vows are these?” asked Amilcar through his learned slave.
“That you will observe the threefold law.”
Hergest relayed the reply, and the Vandali warlord asked, “What is this law?”
“The law is this: that no man from either camp shall intervene, or impede the contest; that the appeal for mercy shall be granted; that combat shall continue only so long as a man has breath to lift his weapon.”
Amilcar glared at me as Hergest interpreted my words for him, and delivered himself of a mocking reply. “Twrch says your laws are the bleating of sheep in his ears. He will have nothing to do with them.”
“Then neither will this combat take place,” I replied firmly; Cai and Bedwyr squared themselves, hands on sword hilts, unafraid. “For unless you agree to honor this law,” I continued, “the war will continue and the British lords will hound you from one end of this island to the other. You will be hunted down and ground into the dust.”
Amilcar heard this with a scowl on his face. He spat a word of reply. “It is agreed,” Hergest told me. “Amilcar makes this vow.”
I turned to Arthur. “Agreed,” he said, giving a sharp downward jerk of his chin. “I will be bound.”
“So be it!” I stepped away from the two combatants. “Let the battle begin!”
10
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 Savior 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 hand-mark appeared on the side of 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 Amilcar 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, side-step 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, signaling their approval of the daring maneuver.
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. Signaling 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.
11
THE CYMBROGI WERE RELIEVED to welcome their king’s safe return, but disappointed that the day’s fight should leave the issue unsettled. For his part, Arthur was tired, of course, hungry and desperately thirsty. He desired nothing so much as a moment’s peace to recover himself. The Cymbrogi, however, having suffered the day’s endless and relentless uncertainty, now required solid reassurance that their king remained strong and keen for the fight.
Arthur understood their need. “Tell them I will speak to them after I have eaten,” he instructed me as we entered his tent. He removed his helm with a sigh, and lowered himself wearily into his camp chair. “Rhys! Where is that cup?”
“Tell them to leave him in peace,” Gwenhwyvar commanded sharply. She knelt beside her husband and began pulling at the leather laces of his mail shirt. “He has endured enough for one day.”
“Leave it with me,” I replied. “Rest while you may.”
Stepping from the tent, I addressed the gathered throng. “Your lord is well, but he is tired and hungry. Allow him a space to recover his strength, and he will hold council when he has eaten and rested.” I raised my hands to them. “Go now; return to your duties and allow your king a space of peace.”
“Is there anything we can do?” asked Bedwyr, stepping near. “Say the word and it is done.”
“See that no one disturbs him,” I answered. “That will be no less a boon to him than food and rest.”
“Done,” Bedwyr replied, contemplating the crowd. A moment later, after enlisting Cador, Fergus, and Llenlleawg, he began moving the warriors along to their camps, reminding them that vigilance was still necessary for the Vandali were yet near.
I called Rhys to me and set him the task of bringing food and drink. “I have already seen to it,” he said, slightly annoyed that I should have thought to command him in such an obvious duty. “The food is soon ready and I will bring it, Lord Emrys, never fear.”
Arthur passed a restful night. He ate well and slept soundly, rising with strength and spirit renewed—no less eager to continue the fight than on the previous day. He greeted his lords and warriors with good humor, and spent the morning tending to his weapons, choosing a new spear from among the many presented to him by eager Cymbrogi. Just before midday, he broke fast on hard bread and water. Then, donning his mail shirt and helm, he took up his weapons and went out to do battle once more.
As before, they met on the plain, the war hosts arrayed in long ranks behind them. The Black Boar took his place, his battlechiefs by his side, looking smugly impassive. Indeed, it seemed to me as I gazed at his cold-eyed expression that Amilcar appeared even more confident than before. Perhaps their previous encounter had answered any anxiety he may have had in confronting Arthur. Or, more likely, he had armed himself with additional tricks and feints which he hoped would turn the fight his way.
Arthur did not care to allow Amilcar the first word. “Hail, Twrch Trwyth!” he called across the distance between them. “You appear most eager to die. Come then, I will give you your heart’s desire!”
Through Hergest the priest, the Vandal chieftain received Arthur’s taunt. By way of reply, he spat.
Arthur replied acidly, “As always, your wit is charming.”
The fight began as before—both warriors circling and circling, searching for an opportunity to strike the first, perhaps decisive, blow. I took my place with Cai and Bedwyr beside me, and the Vandali chieftains took theirs; we stood opposite one another, watching the efforts of our champions.
As expected, the Black Boar had armed himself with further deceptions. These might have beguiled a less wary and experienced warrior, but Arthur handled them easily. So the day passed to the sound of spear on shield. The two warriors strained to their work, hewing at one another, each trying to beat down the resistance of the other, but neithe
r forcing a decisive advantage. I watched the day stretch long, a feeling of frustration and helplessness growing in me.
Once, during the heat of the day, Hergest approached to offer the warriors a drink of water. I saw him standing between the two combatants and came to myself with a start; I had been drifting in reverie, oblivious to the battle before me. But I saw the priest holding out the water jar—offering a healing drink to the two combatants—and the words came again into my mind: You must go back the way you came!
I have done that, I thought. What more can I do?
But the words became a voice—my own, yet not my own—and the voice grew insistent; stern, accusing, it persisted, drowning out all other thought until I heard nothing else. Go back! Go back the way you came! If you would conquer, you must go back the way you came!
I stood squinting in the sun, staring at Arthur as he leaned against his spear and drank. When he finished, he raised the bowl and poured water over his head. I saw the High King of Britain, head back, the harsh light full on his sweating face, holding the bowl above him as the water splashed down.
It was a vision old as Britain: a weary warrior refreshing himself before returning to the fight.
The voice in my head stopped its insistent refrain, as if silenced by the sight. But it was not silent long. For, as I beheld the vision of Arthur dousing himself with water, another voice stirred to life: This day I am Britain.
They were Arthur’s words, the words of the king to his queen, spoken to remind her of his rank and responsibility. True words, certainly, but as the cooling water bathed his face, I heard in them the echo of a truth long forgotten—too long forgotten, or overlooked in our headlong drive for victory.
Great Light, forgive me! I am a slow-witted and ignorant man. Kill me, lord; it would be a mercy.
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