The only defence the valley boasted was a great stone cross carved with intricate patterns and an image of the Christian God enthroned in glory. The cross, which was a marvellous piece of stonework, marked the saddle where Cadoc’s land began and it was beside the cross, in plain sight of the tiny settlement that lay only a dozen spear throws away, that Arthur halted our war-band. ‘We shan’t trespass,’ he told us mildly, ‘till we’ve had a chance to talk with them.’ He rested his spear-butt on the ground beside his horse’s front hoofs and waited.
A dozen folk were visible in the compound and on seeing us they fled to the church, from which, a moment later, a huge man appeared and strode up the road towards us. He was a giant of a man, as tall as Merlin and with a massive chest and big, capable hands. He was also filthy, with an unwashed face and a brown robe caked with mud and dirt, while his grey hair, as dirty as his robe, seemed never to have been cut. His beard grew wild to below his waist, while behind his tonsure his hair sprang in dirty tangles like a great grey freshly sheared fleece. His face was tanned dark and he had a wide mouth, a jutting forehead and angry eyes. It was an impressive face. He carried a staff in his right hand, while at his left hip, unscabbarded, there hung a huge rusty sword. He looked as if he had once been a useful spearman, and I did not doubt that he could still deal a hard blow or two. ‘You are not welcome here,’ he shouted as he drew nearer to us, ‘unless you come to lay your miserable souls before God.’
‘Our souls are already laid before our Gods,’ Arthur answered pleasantly.
‘Heathen!’ the big man, whom I assumed had to be the famous Cadoc, spat at us. ‘You come in iron and steel to a place where Christ’s children play with the Lamb of God?’
‘We come in peace,’ Arthur insisted.
The bishop spat a great yellow gob of sputum towards Arthur’s horse. ‘You are Arthur ap Uther ap Satan,’ he said, ‘and your soul is a rag of filth.’
‘And you, I assume, are Bishop Cadoc,’ Arthur answered courteously.
The Bishop stood beside the cross and scratched a line in the road with the butt of his staff. ‘Only the faithful and the penitent can cross this line,’ he declared, ‘for this is God’s holy ground.’
Arthur gazed for a few heartbeats at the muddy squalor ahead, then smiled gravely at the defiant Cadoc. ‘I have no wish to enter your God’s ground, Bishop,’ he said, ‘but I do ask you, in peace, to bring us the man called Ligessac.’
‘Ligessac,’ Cadoc boomed at us as though he was addressing a congregation of thousands, ‘is God’s blessed and holy child. He has been given sanctuary here and neither you nor any other so-called lord can invade that sanctuary.’
Arthur smiled. ‘A King rules here, Bishop, not your God. Only Cuneglas can offer sanctuary, and he has not.’
‘My King, Arthur,’ Cadoc said proudly, ‘is the King of Kings, and He has commanded me to refuse you entrance.’
‘You will resist me?’ Arthur asked with polite surprise in his voice.
‘To death!’ Cadoc shouted.
Arthur shook his head sadly. ‘I am no Christian, Bishop,’ he said mildly, ‘but do you not preach that your Otherworld is a place of utter delights?’ Cadoc made no answer and Arthur shrugged. ‘So I do you a favour, do I not, by hurrying you to that destination?’ He asked the question, then drew Excalibur.
The Bishop used his staff to deepen the line he had scratched across the muddy track. ‘I forbid you to cross this line,’ he shouted. ‘I forbid it in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost!’ Then he raised the staff and pointed it at Arthur. He held the staff still for a heartbeat, then swept its tip to encompass the rest of us, and I confess that I felt a chill at that moment. Cadoc was no Merlin, and his God, I thought, had no power like Merlin’s Gods, but I still shuddered as that staff pointed my way and my fear made me touch my iron mail and spit onto the road. ‘I am going to my prayers now, Arthur,’ Cadoc said, ‘and you, if you wish to live, will turn and go from this place, for if you pass by this holy cross then I swear to you, by the sweet blood of the Lord Jesus Christ, that your souls will burn in torment. You will know the fire everlasting. You will be cursed from the beginning of time till its ending and from the vaults of heaven to the bottom-most pits of hell.’ And with that heavy curse delivered he spat one more time, then turned and walked away.
Arthur used the tail of his cloak to wipe the rain off Excalibur, then scabbarded the sword. ‘It seems we’re not welcome,’ he said with some amusement, then he turned and beckoned to Balin who was the oldest cavalryman present. ‘Take the horsemen,’ Arthur ordered him, ‘and get behind the village. Make sure no one can escape. Once you’re in place I’ll bring Derfel and his men to search the houses. And listen!’ - he raised his voice so that all sixty men could hear him - ‘these folk will resist. They’ll taunt and fight us, but we have no quarrel with any of them. Only with Ligessac. You will not steal from them and you will not hurt any of them unnecessarily. You will remember that you are soldiers and they are not. You will treat them with respect and return their curses with silence.’ He spoke sternly, and then, when he was sure that all our men had understood him, he smiled at Balin and gestured him forward.
The thirty armoured horsemen rode ahead, streaming off the road to gallop around the valley’s edge to reach the far slope beyond the village. Cadoc, who was still walking towards his church, glanced at them, but showed no alarm.
‘I wonder,’ Arthur said, ‘how he knew who I was?’
‘You’re famous, Lord,’ I said. I still called him Lord and always would.
‘My name is known, perhaps, but not my face. Not here.’ He shrugged the mystery off. ‘Was Ligessac always a Christian?’
‘Since first I knew him. But never a good one.’
He smiled. ‘The virtuous life becomes easier when you’re older. At least I think it does.’ He watched his horsemen gallop past the village, their horses’ hoofs kicking up great spouts of water from the soaking grass, then he hefted his spear and looked back at my men. ‘Remember now! No theft!’ I wondered what there could possibly be to steal in such a drab place, but Arthur knew that all spearmen will usually find something as a keepsake. ‘I don’t want trouble,’ Arthur told them. ‘We just look for our man, then leave.’ He touched Llamrei’s flanks and the black mare started obediently forward. We foot-soldiers followed, our boots obliterating Cadoc’s scratched line in the muddy road beside the intricately carved cross. No fire came from heaven.
The Bishop had reached his church now and he stopped at its entrance, turned, saw us coming and ducked inside. ‘They knew we were coming,’ Arthur said to me, ‘so we’ll not find Ligessac here. I fear it’s a waste of our time, Derfel.’ A lame sheep hobbled over the road and Arthur checked his horse to give it passage. I saw him shudder and I knew he was offended by the settlement’s dirt that almost rivalled the squalor of Nimue’s Tor.
Cadoc reappeared at the church door when we were just a hundred paces away. By now our horsemen were waiting behind the village, but Cadoc did not bother to look to see where they were. He just raised a big ram’s horn to his lips and blew a call that echoed hollowly in the bare bowl of hills. He sounded the horn once, paused to take a deep breath, then sounded it again.
And suddenly we had a battle on our hands.
They had known we were coming right enough, and they had been ready for us. Every Christian in Powys and Siluria must have been summoned to Cadoc’s defence and those men now appeared on the crests all around the valley while others ran to block the road behind us. Some carried spears, some had shields and some hefted nothing but reaping hooks or hay forks, but they looked confident enough. Many, I knew, would once have been spearmen who served in the war levy, but what gave these Christians real confidence, apart from their faith in their God, was that they numbered at least two hundred men. ‘The fools!’ Arthur said angrily. He hated unnecessary violence and he knew that some killing was now unavoidable. He knew, too, that we would win, for
only fanatics who believed their God would fight for them would take on sixty of Dumnonia’s finest warriors. ‘Fools!’ He spat again, then glanced at the village to see more armed men coming from the huts. ‘You stay here, Derfel,’ he said. ‘Just hold them, and we’ll see them off.’ He kicked back his spurs and galloped alone about the village’s edge towards his horsemen.
‘Shield-ring,’ I said quietly. We were only thirty men and our double-ranked ring made a circle so small that it must have looked like an easy target to those howling Christians who now ran down the hills or out of the village to annihilate us. The shield-ring is never a popular formation with soldiers because the splay of the spears out of the circle means that their points are spread far apart and the smaller the ring the wider those gaps between the spearheads, but my men were well trained. The front rank knelt, their shields touching and the butts of their long spears jammed into the ground behind them. We in the second rank laid our shields over the first rank’s shields, propping them on the ground so that our attackers faced a double thick wall of leather-covered timber. Then each of us stood behind a kneeling man and levelled our spears over their heads. Our job was to protect the front rank and their job was to stay staunch. It would be hard, bloody work, but so long as the kneeling men held their shields high and kept their spears firm, and so long as we protected them, the shield-ring should be safe enough. I reminded the kneeling men of their training, told them they were there just as an obstacle and to leave the killing to the rest of us. ‘Bel is with us,’ I said.
‘So is Arthur,’ Issa added enthusiastically.
For it was Arthur who would do the day’s real killing. We were the lure and he was the executioner, and Cadoc’s men took that lure like a hungry salmon rising to a mayfly. Cadoc himself led the charge from the village, carrying his rusty sword and a big round shield that was painted with a black cross behind which I could just see the ghostly outline of Siluria’s fox that betrayed his previous allegiance as a spearman in Gundleus’s ranks.
That Christian horde did not come as a shield-wall. That might have brought them victory, but instead they attacked in the old manner that the Romans had beaten out of us. In the old days, when the Romans were new in Britain, the tribes would charge them in one glorious, howling, mead-fuelled rush. Such a charge was fearsome to see, but easy for disciplined men to defeat, and my spearmen were wonderfully disciplined.
They doubtless felt fear. I felt fear, for the howling charge is a terrible thing to see. Against ill-disciplined men it works because of the terror it provokes, and this was the first time I had ever seen that old way of Britain’s battles. Cadoc’s Christians rushed fanatically at us, competing to see who could be first onto our spears. They shrieked and hurled curses, and it seemed as though each one of them wanted to be a martyr or else a hero. Their wild rush even included women who screamed as they swung wooden clubs or reaping knives. There were even children among that howling rabble.
‘Bel!’ I shouted as the first man tried to leap the kneeling men of the front rank and so died on my spear. I spitted him clean as a hare ready to be roasted, then threw him, spear and all, out of the circle so that his dying body would form an obstacle to his comrades. Hywelbane killed the next man and I could hear my spearmen keening their dreadful battle chant as they ripped and lunged and cut and stabbed. We were all so good, so fast, and so thoroughly trained. Hours of dull training had gone into that shield-ring and though it had been years since most of us had fought in a battle, we discovered that our old instincts were as quick as ever, and it was instinct and experience that kept us alive that day. The enemy was a shrieking, milling press of fanatics who crammed themselves about our ring and thrust their spears towards us, but our outer shield-ring stayed firm as a rock and the mound of dead and dying attackers that grew so swiftly in front of our shields hindered the other attackers. For the first minute or two, when the ground about our shield-ring was still free of obstacles and the bravest of the enemy could still get close, it was a frantic fight, but once the ring of dead and dying protected us then only the bravest attackers tried to reach us and we fifteen of the inner rank could then pick our targets and use them for spear or sword practice. We fought fast, we cheered each other and we killed without mercy.
Cadoc himself came early to the fight. He came swinging the huge rusty sword so vigorously that it whistled in the air. He knew his business well enough and he tried to batter down one of the kneeling men, for he knew that once that outer ring was broken then the rest of us would die quickly enough. I parried the great blow on Hywelbane, back-cut him with a quick swing that wasted itself in his filthy thatch of hair, then Eachern, the tough little Irish spearman who still served me despite Mordred’s threats, rammed his spear-shaft at the Bishop’s face. Eachern’s spearhead had vanished, torn off by a sword blow, but he cracked the iron tip of the staff’s butt onto Cadoc’s forehead. The Bishop looked cross-eyed for a heartbeat, his mouth gaped rotten teeth, then he just sank to the mud.
The last attacker to try and breach the shield-ring was a straggle-haired woman who climbed over the ring of dead and shrieked a curse at me as she tried to jump over the kneeling men of the front rank. I seized her hair, let her reaping knife blunt itself on my mail coat, then dragged her inside the ring where Issa stamped hard on her head. It was just then that Arthur struck.
Thirty horsemen with long spears slashed into the Christian rabble. We, I suppose, had been defending ourselves for all of three minutes, but once Arthur arrived the fight was over in an eyeblink. His horsemen came with couched spears, galloping hard, and I saw a terrible misting spray of blood as one of the spears slammed home, and then our attackers were fleeing in panic and Arthur, his spear discarded and with Excalibur shining in his hand, was shouting at his men to stop the killing. ‘Just drive them away!’ he shouted. ‘Drive them away!’ His horsemen split into small groups that scattered the terrified survivors and chased them back up the road towards the guardian cross.
My men relaxed. Issa was still sitting on the straggle-haired woman and Eachern was searching for his lost spearhead. Two men in the shield-ring had taken nasty wounds, and one man of the second rank had a broken and bloodied jaw, but otherwise we were unhurt, while around us were twenty-three corpses and at least as many badly wounded men. Cadoc, groggy from Eachern’s blow, still lived and we tied his hands and feet, and then, despite Arthur’s instructions to show our enemy respect, we cut off his hair and beard to shame him. He spat and cursed at us, but we stuffed his mouth with cut hanks of his greasy beard, then walked him back to the village.
And it was there I discovered Ligessac. He had not fled after all, but had simply waited beside the little altar in the church. He was an old man now, thin and grey-haired, and he yielded himself meekly, even when we cut off his beard and wove a crude rope from its hair that we leashed around his neck to show that he was a condemned traitor. He even seemed quite pleased to meet me again after all the years. ‘I told them they wouldn’t beat you,’ he said, ‘not Derfel Cadarn.’
‘They knew we were coming?’ I asked him.
‘We’ve known for a week now,’ he said, quietly holding out his hands so that Issa could lash his wrists with rope. ‘We even wanted you to come. We thought this was our chance to rid Britain of Arthur.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’ I asked him.
‘Because Arthur’s an enemy of the Christians, that’s why,’ Ligessac said.
‘He is not,’ I said scornfully.
‘And what do you know, Derfel?’ Ligessac asked me. ‘We’re readying Britain for Christ’s return and we have to scour the heathen from the land!’ He made that proclamation in a loud, defiant voice, then he shrugged and grinned. ‘But I told them this was no way to kill Arthur and Derfel. I told Cadoc you were too good.’ He stood and followed Issa out of the church, but then turned back to me in the doorway. ‘I suppose I’m to die now?’ he asked.
‘In Dumnonia,’ I said.
He shrugged. �
��I shall see God face to face,’ he said, ‘so what is there to fear?’
I followed him out of the church. Arthur had unplugged the Bishop’s mouth and Cadoc was now cursing us with a stream of filthy language. I tickled the Bishop’s newly shaved chin with Hywelbane. ‘He knew we were coming,’ I told Arthur, ‘and they planned to kill us here.’
‘He failed,’ Arthur said, jerking his head aside to avoid a gob of the Bishop’s spittle. ‘Put the sword away,’ he ordered me.
‘You don’t want him dead?’ I asked.
‘His punishment is to live here,’ Arthur decreed, ‘instead of in heaven.’
We took Ligessac and walked away, and none of us really reflected on what Ligessac had revealed in the church. He had said they had known we were coming for a whole week, but a week before we had been in Dumnonia, not in Powys, and that meant someone in Dumnonia had sent the warning of our approach. But we never thought to connect anyone in Dumnonia with that muddy massacre in the squalid hills; we ascribed the slaughter to Christian fanaticism, not to treachery, but that ambush was plotted.
To this day, of course, there are Christians who tell a different story. They say that Arthur surprised Cadoc’s refuge, raped the women, killed the men and stole all Cadoc’s treasures, but I saw no rape, we killed only those who tried to kill us, and I found no treasure to steal – but even if there had been, Arthur would not have touched it. A time would come, and not far off either, when I did see Arthur kill wantonly, but those dead were all to be pagans; yet the Christians still insisted he was their enemy and the story of Cadoc’s defeat only increased their hatred for him. Cadoc was elevated into a living saint and it was about that time that the Christians began to taunt Arthur as the Enemy of God. That angry title stuck to him for the rest of his days.
Enemy of God Page 38