We rode through Rheged and were feasted by King Meirchion Gul, he who had given us horses and allowed us to pass through his shieldwall to escape from Tintagel.
‘When I heard you’d ridden north of the wall, I thought you must want to die,’ the fat king admitted, examining a fleshy bone to decide how best to attack it. ‘Everyone said the painted folk would gut you for the cloak on your back. That your headless corpse would be left to feed the crows and that your pretty head would be stuck on some palisade somewhere.’ He grinned, partly at that thought, partly because he was happy to see Arthur alive and well, then set about tearing at the meat with his teeth. He had helped Arthur when Arthur needed it, and Meirchion knew that dead men are poor at returning favours.
‘I daresay my cousin was hoping for it,’ Arthur said, sipping his wine.
Bedwyr and just over half of Arthur’s warriors had survived that bloody day on Tintagel’s heights. And to our joy Bors and I heard that Benesek lived, too.
‘He fought like a champion,’ Bedwyr told us and we grinned at each other like halfwits.
‘He’ll be wanting his helmet back,’ I said, nodding at the silver-chased helmet which sat on the floor by my shield and a great hunting dog, which had sniffed at the white horsehair plume before deciding to lie down beside it.
‘He won’t begrudge you the use of it,’ Bors said through a mouthful of cheese. ‘And I doubt he’ll need it back on Karrek. That wound he took on the hip will see his fighting days behind him.’
‘Benesek will fight his way from this world into the hereafter,’ I said and we grinned again because we knew it was true.
Having checked the advance of Lord Constantine’s shieldwall, Arthur’s men had spilled enough blood to blunt the enemy’s enthusiasm for the fight, and both sides had given ground, drawing back from one another ‘like stags exhausted from the rut’, Bedwyr said. At this point, King Einion of Ebrauc, the man who had challenged Arthur as Uther lay dying, marched his lightning shields onto the blood-slick ground, roaring at both sides to stop this madness for the sake of Britain. ‘The Saxons grow stronger for every dead Briton,’ he called, and even Lord Constantine had known that the king of northern Britain was right about that, and this respite gave Bedwyr the chance to lead Arthur’s men through King Meirchion’s lines and off Tintagel.
Since his men’s horses had been slaughtered, Bedwyr followed Arthur’s last command and marched to northern Dumnonia. There he found another of Arthur’s commanders, Cai ap Cynyr, along with Arthur’s thirty remaining horse warriors and a number of spare mounts awaiting word of their lord’s accession to the high seat of Dumnonia. These men on their big, armoured horses would have ridden to Tintagel after Arthur’s acclamation; a show of power to reassure the lords of Britain that they had done the right thing by acclaiming Arthur, and a warning to any who did not want him on the throne.
It had not exactly gone to plan. And yet, thanks to Bedwyr, Arthur still commanded a formidable war band, mostly comprising his heavy armoured horsemen, or cataphracts as we called them, and these men were overjoyed to be reunited with their lord. Seventy-five battle-hardened men glittering in the autumn sun, their round shields freshly painted with Arthur’s bear, spear blades polished to a shine and the red ribbons tied below those spear blades streaming in the breeze like tendrils of blood in water.
‘Your lord knows how to make a spectacle,’ King Meirchion told me, wiping greasy fingers on his beard, then draining his cup. ‘When you rode through our gates today some of my people said that the legions had returned. That Magnus Maximus himself breathed again and had come to lead us against the Saxons.’ He grinned. ‘But I am glad that you all returned safely from the wild lands,’ he added, glancing at Gawain and Bors. He went still then, leaving a morsel of food dangling from his fat bottom lip, his face florid and glistening. ‘They say that some spirit … or goddess, appeared in a lake and handed you the sword.’ His eyes darted from Arthur to Merlin and back to Arthur.
Arthur had reluctantly allowed the king to hold Excalibur, never taking his eyes off Meirchion, but it had been worth it to see the King of Rheged so in awe, of both the sword and its new owner. For like most men, Meirchion had believed Excalibur’s existence to be little more than the stuff of fireside tales. Seeing it for himself, holding it in his own hands, even the fat king had witnessed in the reflection of the polished blade an image of himself as a warlord of Britain, a champion who might safeguard her shores and reclaim land lost to the Saxons. If he saw himself cast thus in Excalibur’s ancient blade, in Arthur he now saw the next Uther, a man to whom the other kings of the land might bend the knee.
‘It was the gods that gave the sword to Lord Arthur,’ Merlin told Meirchion, more or less confirming the rumours which had reached the king’s ear. They were probably started by Merlin himself, I thought, as I savoured the bounty of the fat king’s hospitality. Arthur, I noted, did not gainsay the druid, but let Excalibur and wind-borne rumour work its spell on Meirchion, knowing that such an ally would be invaluable in the days to come.
‘And will you seek an acclamation, Lord Arthur?’ King Meirchion had asked, peering from beneath fleshy eyelids as he savaged another meaty bone. ‘They say you have an army in Gaul. Surely you can make Uther’s high seat your own … if you desire it.’
Arthur, sitting on a thick pelt on the reed-strewn floor, shook his head. ‘Not until there is peace,’ he said. ‘I will not risk war between the kingdoms of Britain.’ He’d placed Excalibur on one of the low tables scattered about, then had laid both hands upon her blade.
‘Let all here bear witness,’ he called, stilling every tongue in the King of Rheged’s hall, ‘that I, Arthur ap Uther, will not sit upon Dumnonia’s throne until there is peace in Britain. Let me prove myself against Britain’s enemies. Let me drive the Saxons back, and then, with the bards singing of our great victories, I will take up my birthright and rule as my father before me.’
But, of course, the kings of Britain would have to let Arthur lead them in war if he was to be the bringer of victory, and that was Arthur’s compromise. That was his scheme. He would not be king, not yet, but he would be Britain’s lord of war. And when he had the victories and the power, when the warriors of Britain were shouting his name amidst the echo of clashing steel and the cries of the defeated foe, then Arthur could have more than Dumnonia. He could become the next Pendragon. Arthur ap Uther, High King of Britain.
Hearing Arthur’s vow and seeing flame-glow reflected from Excalibur onto his earnest and sober face, the warriors of Rheged and Arthur’s own men, including Gawain, Bors and myself, clapped hands and hammered fists upon the tables, while in his nest of cushions the fat king, a man who had a sailor’s knack for knowing which way the wind blew, lifted his cup towards Arthur and smiled.
And we had ridden on, east into Elmet, because Arthur wanted to pay his respects to King Masgwid the Lame, who had not come to Uther’s deathbed because he was, in his own words, busy preventing the death of Britain herself. For Elmet was a bulwark of the defence of lower northern Britain, and King Masgwid’s lameness, the result of a Saxon spear-thrust many years previously, had not prevented him from campaigning against the invaders every summer that he had the men and provisions to do so. Now, Arthur promised to bring spearmen to Elmet’s aid, to share the burden and the cost of war, and the lame king said he would believe it when he saw it. Yet they parted on good terms and with Masgwid no less impressed by Arthur’s possession of Excalibur than King Meirchion had been.
We continued south-east into Powys, which was ruled by King Cyngen Glodrydd, the man whom Merlin had threatened to drown in his own dung if Cyngen interrupted him again as he observed King Uther’s ritual naming of his successor. Big-bearded, broad as a bull and just as foul-tempered, Cyngen had not seemed impressed with Excalibur, had even been sceptical of its provenance, booming that no hundred-year-old sword could be so well preserved, let alone a sword far older than that. And no sword, even a treasure of Britain maintained
by some god or lake spirit, could emerge looking so fine after spending any time in water.
Still, he had been impressed by Arthur. The first time was that day on Tintagel, when Arthur had fought and killed Odgar, champion of Ebrauc. The second time was when he had watched Arthur ride headlong into the dawn fray and fight for his men with no care for his own safety, even as his horse was killed under him. The third time Arthur impressed Cyngen, so the king told us as the servants passed through the smoky roundhouse with bowls of steaming, herb-scented pottage, was by riding north of the Wall of Antoninus and living to tell of it.
‘I leave talk of gods and legendary swords to druids, boys and fools,’ Cyngen told Arthur. ‘But you’re a warrior, Arthur ap Uther, and a brave man. I’ll fight beside you, whether or not your arse polishes Uther’s high seat.’
‘And I would be honoured to fight with you at my shoulder, lord king,’ Arthur said, his wording careful but the sentiment sincere. ‘And what can you tell me about my cousin?’
Cyngen nodded. ‘I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much,’ he said.
Hearing of Lord Arthur’s return and procession through the kingdoms, of how crowds of fervent men and women were pledging loyalty to Arthur and Excalibur, and fearing being trapped on Tintagel and besieged, Lord Constantine had fled east with one hundred spearmen. It turned out that most of King Uther’s own spearmen, who had neither supported Arthur, whom they did not know, nor fought against him that summer morning with the smoke from Uther’s balefire still tainting the air, had not in the end supported Constantine enough to pledge their spears to his cause.
‘They guard Tintagel and your father’s silver and tin,’ Cyngen said. ‘Gwydre has vowed to protect Uther’s wealth until the new king is acclaimed.’ I cast my mind back to recall the grey-bearded commander of King Uther’s bodyguard standing on the dais in the High King’s hall, demanding respect for his dying lord. Later, I had watched Gwydre haul the Pendragon’s litter up the side of the pyre, followed by Uther’s shining war gear. From what I had seen of him, he seemed a steadfast man and honourable, too, for he had refused to support Lord Constantine’s usurpation of Dumnonia’s throne, and so Constantine had fled.
Merlin cocked an eyebrow at Arthur. ‘The birds tell me that your cousin has scuttled off to seek help from King Deroch of Caer Gwinntguic,’ he said.
King Cyngen scowled, not enjoying the druid’s company under his roof. ‘Constantine offered King Deroch help reclaiming Caer Gwinntguic’s lost borderlands,’ he said.
‘And what does the treacherous swine want in return?’ Gawain asked, holding out his cup for a pretty Saxon slave to fill. With the cup brimming, the girl made to walk away but King Cyngen reached up and grabbed her arm, pulling her down onto his lap.
‘He wants Deroch to support his claim to Dumnonia’s throne,’ the king said, then pressed his thick beard and face into the nape of the girl’s neck and inhaled deeply. ‘They smell different to our women, have you noticed?’ he asked me.
I shook my head.
‘And will King Deroch raise his banner alongside my cousin’s?’ Arthur asked, deliberately keeping his gaze above King Cyngen’s hands, which were busy exploring. The Saxon girl was looking at me but I looked away.
‘Doubt it,’ Cyngen said, his voice muffled by the girl’s flaxen hair. ‘Start a war with you for the sake of Lord Constantine’s hundred spears?’ There was a grimace of teeth in the black bush of his beard. ‘He’s been fighting the Saxons a long time, but he’s still got the wits he was born with.’
If this was true, with Lord Constantine out of the way, Arthur could continue his progression through the kingdoms, from fort to fort, just as his father the Pendragon had done for many years, before age and, towards the end, sickness had confined him to his hall at Tintagel.
You would have thought we rode behind a conquering hero, such was Excalibur’s power and Arthur’s allure. Thus did the most powerful lords in Britain witness with their own eyes the sword of Maximus, which the gods had returned to the use of man. Thus did they hear with their own ears Arthur’s vow to lead campaigns against the Saxons. And thus did the shadow of King Uther’s passing begin to shorten. The people of Britain began to dream of a golden future which echoed the island’s long distant past, before the legions came. A Britain in which lost lands were reclaimed. In which men lived without fear of boats brimming with warriors coming to her shores by the score each spring and summer. A Britain which was once again beloved of the gods.
And some of us dared to dream that this would be Arthur’s Britain.
Before we could remake Britain, we had to remake the old hill-fort at Camelot. Dominating great swathes of rich farmland, the almost circular hill rose steeply towards the plateau, around which the ancient folk had built an inner defensive wall. Into the slopes of the limestone hill they had carved and raised a complex of four banks and four ditches, and yet even these formidable defences had failed to throw back the Romans, who had stormed the fort and put its people to the sword, drenching the hill with blood in their conquest of Britain. For two hundred years the hill-fort had lain in ruin, while Saxons raided across the border from Gwinntguic whenever King Deroch was unable or unwilling to stop them roaming across his own kingdom. But now it was autumn and the Saxons were unlikely to make raids into Dumnonia, and so Arthur had chosen the ancient fort as his base.
‘I’ll not sleep in Uther’s hall until I am king of Dumnonia, Lancelot,’ he had told me when he and I had ridden to the hill-fort one autumn afternoon, our long shadows ranging ahead of us towards the outermost gorse-covered ramparts. You could hardly see the contours of the banks and ditches for the long grass and brambles which had conquered the place since it was abandoned. ‘Besides, Tintagel is too far away,’ he said, studying the great hill. He could see all that it would be, even overgrown as it was. Before the first pick had been struck into the earth to dig out the briar’s roots, or the first stake had been shaped and driven into the uppermost bank enclosing the summit. He could see the stone rubble, interlaced with timber supports, upon which the palisade was raised, and the dry-stone walling of the bank’s face. He could see the fortified wooden gatehouse in the south-western corner, which was as yet just a tangle of bramble and nettles. He could even see the granary and livestock pens, the smithy, the woodshop, the smokehouse and the great hall right up there upon the summit, and perhaps he could hear the forge hammer and the clump of blades on shields as men trained for war, and the sing-song voice of children playing in summers to come.
‘So, what do you think, Lancelot?’ he asked me. ‘Will this do?’
He had already chosen this hill, this Camelot, to be his base in Britain, and I couldn’t think he really needed my approval. Yet, we were all but inseparable by then. We would drink long into the night, he telling me how together we would sweep the Saxons from the land and restore the gods of Britain, I believing him and, though I did not hold such grand ambitions in my own heart, knowing even so that I would follow Arthur into any fight against any foe, no matter who, where or when.
‘It’s perfect,’ I said, gazing up at the heights.
Arthur nodded. ‘I can’t do this without you, my friend,’ he said. He kept his eyes fastened on me, as though waiting for me to acknowledge that I understood this. Understood that our friendship went beyond the bonds of companionship and shared purpose. That he could be Arthur the warlord, perhaps even Arthur the king to others, but that I would know Arthur the man, his hopes and the fears which pulled and plucked at him come the night. And that our fates were ensnarled now, tangled like briar. For good or bad.
‘We’ll do it together,’ I said, feeling the weight of those words as soon as I’d spoken them. Heavier even than the oath I had muttered to his dying father.
He nodded, seeming relieved, then turned back to the hill.
‘Merlin told me that the Britons who lived here long ago fought a desperate battle against the legions,’ I said. ‘They fought and died on this very h
ill.’
‘They did,’ he said. He knew that I meant that it was perfect not just for its defensive capabilities, but because it had been the site of a heroic last stand. And so what better place than this for Arthur to make his stand against the invaders of our own time?
‘I’d like to see the view from up there,’ I said, rubbing my dun stallion’s neck. He was a gift from Arthur for saving his life on Tintagel and I had named him Tormaigh, which meant Thunder Spirit. He had earned that name on two accounts, firstly because he was given to bouts of kicking, biting rage and had thrown me the first three times I tried to mount him. And second because of the iron hooves which all of Arthur’s horses wore. When they galloped together they made a sound like thunder rolling across the sky. ‘Show me, lord,’ I said. We had ridden a long way and I wanted to stretch my legs. And I did want to see what the view would be like from our new fort.
‘I’ll race you,’ Arthur said, his eyes blazing. ‘Don’t give me that look, Lancelot,’ he said, throwing a leg over Llamrei and landing with lithe grace. ‘You might have youth on your side but I have experience.’ He grinned up at me. ‘And I don’t like losing.’
‘I know you don’t,’ I said, dismounting Tormaigh who tossed his head with a snort, as though pleased to be rid of me, and began cropping the long grass. I saw something in that grass and picked it up.
‘An elf bolt,’ I said, spitting on the thing and thumbing the soil off it. ‘Just lying there.’ I showed the flint arrowhead to Arthur, who examined it with keen interest.
‘A good one too,’ Arthur said.
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