Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  I crept away, confused and dismayed. All I had suffered till now was nothing compared to the despair I felt in the Emrys’ few words. For the first time I began to sense something of the magnitude of Medraut’s treason. My heart broke, and my soul cried for leaving. I was that unhappy.

  After a time, we were marched through the city to the harbor where some ships were arriving from Orcady. I little guessed that Lot was in league with Medraut, but to his everlasting shame, Lot did nothing to aid the queen. Instead, in the full view of all, he waded to shore with his chieftains and embraced the tyrant like a kinsman.

  “How can he do this?” I wondered aloud to the Emrys as we squatted on the shingle. “I thought Lot was Arthur’s ally.”

  “Do you not see it yet?”

  Once again I was forced to admit that I did not. I had no idea what Myrddin was hinting at. “You mean Lot has joined the treason?”

  “Do you not know Medraut even now?”

  “He said he was the son of a Picti lord—Urien of Monoth. That is what he said when he came before Arthur,” I answered.

  “He is no Pict,” snapped the Emrys. “Think! Did you not see how they treated him, and how he wheedled and schemed with them?”

  “I was in the hostage pit!” I reminded him. “I saw nothing.”

  “Medraut is Morgian’s son!” The Emrys answered my disbelief with a further revelation. “And the man greeting him on the shore is not Lot—it is his half-brother, Urien.”

  “But Medraut said Urien was his father,” I remarked. “Why should he lie about that?”

  The Emrys shook his head slowly. “That,” he said, “is the one truth Medraut told—the same that killed Lot in the end.”

  Slowly the grim meaning of the Emrys’ strange words came to me. My stomach tightened with revulsion. “Morgian married Urien, her own son,” I said, taking it in at last. The incest produced a child, and that child was Medraut.

  “My years of blindness were nothing to this,” the Emrys muttered bitterly. “Alone among men, I should have known what we were fighting against. More than my sight was shattered, I think. But it comes to this: Morgian placed her devil-spawn in Arthur’s court, knowing that one way or another she would have her revenge.”

  Revenge. The word stank of death. I heard in it the cry of ravens flocking to blood-spattered battlefields. Oh, the Enemy is tireless in hate and endlessly resourceful. I suddenly felt very small and ignorant. I knew nothing of the world’s true nature. I knew nothing of the forces arrayed against us. I knew nothing…

  “What is to be done?” I asked, hoping for some word of hope from the Ever-Wise Emrys.

  “That which is given to us to do we will do,” he said and turned his face away. “We are men and not angels after all.”

  I drew neither hope nor comfort from these words, and once again was thrown back into the misery of despair as into the loathsome hostage pit. I beat my fists impotently against my leg. If I could have killed the traitor there and then I would have done it, even at the cost of my own soul! But I could do nothing—only stand aside and look on.

  Urien’s ships were drawn up and arranged to form a blockade of the harbor. When Arthur entered he would not be able to land directly, but would have to fight his way ashore. Shrewd Medraut gave himself every advantage.

  But here I was mistaken, for after effecting the blockade, Medraut ordered the Picti host to withdraw into the hills. Gwenhwyvar, the Emrys and the other hostages were put onto horses and led away with Keldrych’s warband.

  Then did Medraut turn to me. “Your wonderful Pendragon is coming. When he arrives, tell him this: I am waiting for him in the hills. The Emrys and Gwenhwyvar are with me. He will come to me alone, and I will receive him.”

  “That he will never do!” I declared.

  Medraut slapped me hard across the mouth. “Tell him! If he brings his warhost, I will kill the queen before he has set foot in the crooked glen. This is between us two alone. When we have settled the blood debt for my mother, I will give up my hostages—not before.”

  I glared at the tyrant with narrowed eyes. “Say whatever you like, and know that I will tell him. But you are insane if you believe the Pendragon of Britain will meet you alone in a place of your choosing.”

  Medraut stiffened. His hands began to shake, as if he were warring within himself to control his movements. His face twisted in a savage leer. “Then let him bring his closest advisors. Yes, bring his best! But if I see so much as a single blade among them, the queen will die and the Emrys with her.”

  My chain was then fastened to an iron ring used to tie up ships, and I was left there alone on the shore. I watched and waited through the day, and endured a cold night on the strand without food or water.

  As dawn faded the night to the color of grey steel in the east, I awakened to the sight of thirty ships sailing into the harbor. The foremost ships bore the red dragon on their sails. Close behind followed fifteen sister ships, with twenty more just clearing the harbor mouth.

  The Pendragon made his landing after threading his way through the blocked harbor. I stood in seawater up to my shins, waiting for the landing party to make its way to me. Arthur himself was among the first to come ashore, and greeted me anxiously. “Where are they? What is happening here?” Bedwyr, Cai, Cador, and Gwalcmai quickly gathered around.

  “We are hostages, lord,” I replied, indicating my chain—whereupon the High King drew Cut Steel and with one mighty chop freed me from the iron ring in the stone. “Thank you, Pendragon. I knew you would come. I knew you would not leave us to suffer Medraut’s treachery.”

  “Where is that rat?” demanded Cai. “I will see him hung upon the gates of Caer Lial.”

  Bedwyr lifted my chain. “What of the queen and the Emrys? Do they live?”

  “They are alive,” I answered. “But aside from the hostages, all the rest are murdered.”

  “He will pay with his life for this!” declared Cador. He smashed his fist against his chest.

  Arthur turned his eyes to his ruined city, then back to me. “Where have they gone?” he asked softly.

  “Lord, I am instructed to deliver this message,” I said. “But please remember, these are Medraut’s words, not mine.”

  “For the love of Jesu,” cried Cai, “get on with it!”

  I swallowed hard and began. “I am to tell you that he is waiting for you in the hills. The Emrys and Gwenhwyvar are with him. You are to go to him alone, but for your chosen advisors, and Medraut will receive you.”

  Cai snorted, and Bedwyr muttered under his breath. Cador opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur held up his hand for silence and bade me continue.

  “Medraut says that if you bring your warhost, he will kill the queen and the Emrys before ever you set foot in the crooked glen. He says that when the blood debt has been settled, he will give up his captives—not before.”

  “Blood debt?” wondered Bedwyr. “What blood debt could there be between you?” he asked Arthur.

  “For his mother’s death,” I answered.

  All looked at one another uneasily. “Who is his mother?” asked Cai.

  “Morgian,” I answered. “So the Emrys says.” And I told them what I had learned from Myrddin regarding Medraut’s unnatural parentage. Gwalcmai listened in stunned silence.

  “This answers much,” observed Arthur. He turned to Gwalcmai. “You bear no fault.”

  “I never did trust that schemer,” muttered Cai.

  “What else can you tell us?” Bedwyr asked.

  “Only this: that you must come to him unarmed. If he sees so much as a single blade among you, the queen will die and the Emrys with her. So Medraut says.”

  “How many are with him?”

  “Thousands—fifty thousand, at least. I cannot be certain, but there are more than I have ever seen before. All the Picti tribes are here.”

  I thought for a moment that I saw defeat in the bold blue eyes. But I was mistaken. “The crooked glen…” he mused, searc
hing the wave-washed pebbles at his feet. “Camboglanna—Camlan?” He raised his head with a grim smile.

  “Medraut is canny,” observed Bedwyr. “If that is where he has taken them—a narrow valley with a fortress above…The place is a killing-ground.”

  Indeed, I thought Bedwyr’s appraisal only too accurate when later that day Arthur, Bedwyr, and Cai surveyed the place from a nearby hilltop. I accompanied them and despaired to behold our ruinous position.

  For Medraut had moved his army east to a sheltered valley below the Wall. To the north rose a steep rocky ridge, and to the south an enormous hill, topped by one of the old Roman garrisons, the fortress Camboglanna, now called Camlan. The old word means “crooked glen,” and the place proved true to its name. Long and narrow, with a sharp-angled bend formed by the intrusion of the ridge, the desolate, rock-filled little valley appeared well-suited to treachery.

  The fortress, even in its ruined state, still commanded the region with its superior advantage. Medraut’s forces could hold their positions with far less effort, while the Pendragon would be made to fight on two fronts from the beginning.

  Cai observed the terrain and said, “You cannot think of going down there to meet him unarmed.”

  “I do not see that I have a choice,” replied Arthur.

  “There is always a choice.” Bedwyr scanned the hillside and the fortress. “They are waiting up there to ambush us—I can smell the treachery.”

  “That I do not doubt, brother,” replied the Pendragon evenly.

  Cai burst into laughter—a loud whoop of mirth. Bedwyr turned in his saddle to regard him. “Fifty thousand Picti waiting for us—each with a thirst for our blood. You find this funny?”

  “Na, na,” Cai replied, “I was only thinking. Remember when Cerdic took Bors prisoner?”

  Arthur smiled. “Of course.”

  “You crushed his hopes quick enough when you said: ‘Kill him if that is what you intend.’ Cerdic never expected that.” Cai indicated the valley before them. “Medraut would swallow his tongue if you told him that!”

  He laughed again, and Arthur laughed with him. I realized I had never heard the Pendragon laugh aloud before. “That I would like to see!”

  Bedwyr regarded them both with contempt. “You cannot take this red-haired bull-roarer seriously, Artos. It is Gwenhwyvar’s life we are talking about.”

  “Never fear, brother,” Arthur replied lightly. “I know my wife—she will appreciate the jest.” He cast his eyes to the surrounding hills. “We will take the high ground—here and here—” he said, indicating the twin hilltops above the valley. He had become the War Duke once more.

  “Cador will lead the right flank, and Ban the left…” The Pendragon turned and began walking back down the hill to where the warhost waited hidden in the valley. Cai and Bedwyr joined him, and I hurried after as the three began making their battle plan.

  Upon reaching the waiting army, the Pendragon’s orders were conveyed to his battlechiefs, and the warriors began moving into position at once. Arthur donned his war shirt and high-crested helm; he strapped Caliburnus to his hip, and slung Prydwen, the white battle shield with the Cross of Jesu, over his shoulder. He took up Rhon, his spear, stout veteran of many fierce and fiery combats.

  Each of his great captains dressed themselves for battle as well: Bedwyr, Cai, Gwalcmai, Gwalchavad, Bors, Llenlleawg, and Rhys. Champions all, helmed and armed for the fight. It made my heart soar to see them flaunt Medraut’s challenge.

  When the High King was ready he mounted to the saddle, and the others joined him. They rode together into the crooked glen—Camlan, valley of death.

  I stood on the hilltop beside Cador and watched, my heart beating in my throat. I knew not what would happen. I feared the worst, but prayed for the best.

  At first, it appeared my prayers would be answered.

  As the Pendragon and his men moved down into the glen, Medraut appeared from his hiding-place in the ruined fortress. With him came Keldrych and the hostages, together with at least thirty Picti warriors—naked and blue-stained with woad, their long hair stiffened with lime and pushed into white, spiked crests. They had also limed their shields and the heads of their spears.

  Halfway to the stream coursing through the crooked valley, Medraut halted. He had seen that the Pendragon rode forth armed in contempt of his command. Medraut whirled around, his arm went up, and he pointed to the hostages.

  But Keldrych stepped close, and after a quick consultation they advanced as before. No doubt, Keldrych had explained to the hot-headed Medraut that killing the captives removed any advantage they held over Arthur. However it was, the Pendragon’s iron-hearted defiance had proven true again.

  The two parties met a little apart, the stream between them. Arthur dismounted, but the others remained in the saddle. Arthur and Medraut advanced to meet one another alone. I would have given my right hand to hear what passed between them, but from my lofty vantage I saw its outcome right enough.

  They talked for a time, whereupon Medraut returned to where the hostages waited, surrounded by the Picti warriors. Gwenhwyvar stepped out from among the others; the tyrant took her arm and pulled her with him back to where Arthur stood. Cai’s hand went to his sword. Bedwyr put out a hand to steady him.

  Upon reaching the stream where Arthur waited, Medraut seized the queen. He shouted something—I heard its echo, but could not make it out. He struck the queen cruelly on the face, and she fell to her knees.

  Arthur stood as one carved of stone. Not a muscle twitched.

  Medraut stood over the queen and grabbed a handful of her dark hair. He jerked her head up, exposing her throat. Steel glinted in his hand. A knife!

  Medraut shouted again. Arthur made an answer.

  The knife flashed as it rose high in the air and struck swiftly down.

  My heart stopped.

  I opened my mouth to scream. Arthur’s spear was in the air before the sound left my tongue.

  Straight and true, like God’s swift judgment, the spear streaked across the distance between them. I have never seen a spear thrown so swiftly or with such force. It struck Medraut in the chest and pierced him through.

  Arthur was on him in the same instant, driving the spear deeper. But Medraut, heedless of his wound, grasped the spear in his hands, and pulled himself up the shaft toward Arthur. He slashed wildly with the knife and caught Arthur a glancing blow.

  Arthur dropped the spear, and the traitor fell back writhing on the ground. The Pendragon drew Caliburnus and struck off Medraut’s head.

  I saw this clearly—and just as clearly saw Keldrych raise his spear and signal the attack. Instantly, the glen was alive with Picti! They came squirming out of the very ground it seemed—leaping up from behind rocks and bushes, and up out of shallow holes where they had hidden themselves.

  “Ambush!” shouted Cador, and cursed, striking the ground with his sword.

  Keldrych had hidden half of his warband in the glen, and now they sprang to the attack—sixty in all, at least. The Pendragon was surrounded.

  Gwenhwyvar ran to Medraut, plucked the spear from his chest, and turned to stand beside her husband. They stood together to face the onslaught.

  In the same instant, across the glen a tremendous cry burst forth from fifty thousand throats as the hidden Picti rose up. Spears in hand, they stood on the hilltops, poised for attack, venting their hideous battle shriek. My skin pricked to hear it.

  “Hurry!” I shouted at Cador. “Sound the attack!”

  Cador, his face grim and his jaw set, shook his head. “I cannot. I am ordered to stand firm unless the Picti attack.”

  “Look!” I flung my hand to the battleground below. “They attack!”

  “I cannot!” Cador cried. “I have my orders!”

  “They will be killed!”

  “God knows!” Cador screamed. “But unless the warhost commits to battle, I can do nothing!”

  I understood then. However things went between Medrau
t and the High King, Arthur had made Ban and Cador vow not to interfere. So long as the main force of Picti held back, the British would not provoke them. If there was to be war, the Pendragon’s host would not begin it. As the main force of the enemy had not yet joined battle, Cador could do nothing.

  In a fever of horror and rage, I turned back to the crooked glen. Arthur had unslung Prydwen and Gwenhwyvar held it. The Picti were now upon them, and the warriors of the Round Table, the renowned Flight of Dragons, charged into the fray.

  The formidable Dragons met the Picti just as they reached Arthur. I stood amazed at how masterfully the Britons engaged the enemy, divided them, and began turning the attack aside.

  Cai and Bedwyr, riding side by side, drove in toward the center of Keldrych’s warband, their spears carrying the enemy before them. Gwalcmai and Gwalchavad struck in from the right, scattering the enemy as they thundered past. Bors, Llenlleawg, and Rhys moved in from the left, hewing into the Picti, reapers at a bloody harvest.

  In the churning mass of bodies, limbs, and weapons, I saw the Pendragon’s mighty sword Caliburnus rising and falling with relentless strokes, each blow a killing blow. The stream ran red, the water scarlet.

  Any moment I expected to see the great Picti warhost join Keldrych in the glen. But each time I stole a glance to the hills I saw them standing as before. What were they waiting for?

  Sharp the battle clash that filled the air, a deafening din: shouting, screaming, shrieking, all dreadful to hear. The first frenzy passed, and the combatants settled into the inexorable rhythm of the fight. Everywhere I looked, the enemy surged, struggling to join their ranks. Keldrych stood in the center of the field, attempting to calm his frantic troops.

  The Picti, however, dashed here and there to little purpose, striking out wildly and then running away. The Britons exploited this weakness and I marveled at their dire efficiency. Fully half of Keldrych’s warband lay dead on the ground before he succeeded in uniting his troops.

  But once united, the rout slowed. The slaughter began to go the other way. The Picti advanced, stumbling over the bodies of their companions, forcing the Flight of Dragons back across the red-foaming stream.