The Hallowed Isle Book Four

by Diana L. Paxson

  A.D. 515

  ARTOR SPLASHED THROUGH THE ICY WAVES, STRUGGLING TO keep his feet against the surge, until the tide retreated behind him. A few more steps and the stony shore was solid beneath his feet. He sank to his knees, plunging his fingers deep into the swirled ridges of pebble and sand.

  Britannia! For so long, as winter storms lashed the narrow sea, he had thought he would never get here. But this holy earth was truly his homeland—it spoke to him as the soil of Gallia could never do. He bent and kissed the stones.

  The ground trembled to the tread of the men and horses that were struggling ashore all around him. As he straightened again, the mists thinned and he saw the pale glimmer of the chalk cliffs that flanked the harbor. For two months they had haunted him, seen first in the dream that had brought him home. Even now the images made him writhe: Medraut in the king’s high seat, Medraut with his arms around Guendivar. At first, he had thought the vision some bastard offspring of his own fears. But the dream had the flavor of Merlin’s power, and as Artor got his men into winter quarters after that last, triumphant battle, he had begun to believe it, even before Theodoric’s storm-battered galley brought the news.

  Medraut had proclaimed himself high king. He held Camalot and Londinium, and Dumnonia stood his ally. He had made his own treaties with the Saxons, and the rest of the Island was on the verge of civil war. And Guendivar had pledged herself to be his queen.

  That was the blade that pierced Artor’s heart. Until she betrayed him, he had not realized how much of his soul he had given to his queen. He lifted his head, trying to see through the mists. He had half expected to find Merlin waiting for him to come ashore. If the Druid knew enough to warn him, why had he not put a stop to Medraut’s treachery?

  “My lord! Did you fall?” Goriat’s tall form bent beside him.

  Artor shook his head, but the damp of the voyage had stiffened his joints, and he accepted a hand to help himself get up again. There was not much left in Goriat of the youth who had once served in the kitchens of Camalot, he thought grimly, except for the innocence in his eyes. He looked much like Gualchmai, both of them hard muscled and fair and taller than the other men, though Gualchmai’s sandy hair was laced with silver now. Aggarban and Gwyhir lay in the earth of Gallia. Since hearing the news from Britannia, the two brothers who survived no longer counted Medraut as kin.

  “Well, at least there’s no enemy here to meet us—” Goriat squinted past the remains of the old fortress of Dubris towards the downs.

  Artor nodded. No doubt that was why Merlin had shown him these cliffs in his dream. In the season of storms he dared no longer crossing, and Dumnonia and the lands the south Saxons ruled would be held against him. Only in Cantium could he hope to land unopposed, if Rigana and Eormenric stayed true.

  He looked around him, shading his eyes as the pale February sunlight broke through the fog. Shadow shapes of boats darkened the shoreline. The strand was a confusion of horses and men. It was the warriors of Britannia he had with him— the others had been left with Betiver in Gallia. Men fought best for their own land. The sorrow here was that the same might be said of both sides.

  “Get the gear unloaded and form up the baggage train. I’ll want to meet with troop commanders as soon as possible. We’ll march on Cantuwareburh in the morning.”

  A day later, Artor was sitting in Hengest’s hall. The beams were darker, the walls covered by embroidered cloths, but otherwise it was much as he remembered from Oesc’s wedding to Rigana, some twenty-one years before. The year before Mons Badonicus, that had been, when Oesc was killed. Rigana’s slenderness had become a whipcord strength, her features sharpened by maturity; in appearance, she seemed little changed. He did not think that she had mellowed, though she seemed to have her temper under better control. But Eormenric was grown to manhood, and Artor winced to see his father look out of his eyes.

  Oesc, wherever he is now, has more reason to be proud of his son than I do of mine, he thought bitterly.

  “Oh yes, Medraut has sent messengers,” observed Rigana, as if she had read his thought. “Gifts as well. We smiled, and took them. Why not?” she went on. “There was no point in defiance until we knew your plans—” She untied a soft leather bag from her belt and plopped it in front of Artor with a musical clink of gold.

  “What, did you think I still held Oesc’s death against you?” Rigana added wryly. “It was Cataur and Ceretic who destroyed him. And the West Seax and the Dumnonians are Medraut’s allies.” She turned to her son, whose face had changed at the mention of Ceretic’s name. “I know you fear to face your friend Ceawlin in battle, but this is the way of the world. When he thought it needful to avenge me, your father went even against Artor, whom he loved. . . .”

  The king watched his own fingers clench on his drinking horn until the knuckles whitened, and forced them to release again. “If you will raise the men of your fyrd to follow me, under a good commander, I will be grateful,” he said harshly. “But you, boy, stay home to guard Cantuware. This conflict has set brother against brother and father against son already. I will not ask you to fight against your friend.”

  Rigana’s gaze softened. “I see you are still capable of mercy. Remember it, when you have the victory.”

  “Do you think I will win?”

  “When the people see that you have come back to them, they will turn to you,” she answered him, “save for those who have been driven so far they think no forgiveness is possible.”

  “You are talking about Medraut, and . . . the queen?” Odd, how he could not say her name.

  “Consider this—Guendivar supports his cause, but she has not married him. Leave a way open for her to come to you. . . .”

  Artor stared at her, thinking on the things she did not say. Rigana was the Lady of Cantium; she knew the queen could bestow the sovereignty of the land on the man who served her well. Perhaps Guendivar had not yet given herself to Medraut, but he himself had been no use to her either. He recognized now that it was one reason he had stayed away.

  “She must hate me—” he whispered, knowing that until he was able to forgive himself, he could not forgive his queen. And until then, he had no choice but to press on with the bloody business of war.

  The king’s forces marched swiftly through the chill spring rains, taking the old Roman road westward towards Londinium. At Durobrivae their camp was attacked in the hour before dawn by tall, fair men whose sleek ships had crossed the estuary of the Tamesis. By the time they were beaten off, several wagonloads of supplies had been burned and a number of men killed. The one prisoner they took told them he was a Northman from the settlement Gipp had made on the coast of the Anglian lands, and then, laughing, tore off the bandage with which they had stopped his bleeding and died.

  The art of making friends with barbarians, thought Artor grimly, was a gift his son seemed to have inherited. But he said nothing, and ordered his army to continue on.

  There were several skirmishes before they reached Londinium, but the city was not held against them. There was no need. Medraut had already stripped it of all supplies. Even in Artor’s youth the city had been decaying. There was little left of it now. Still, it was good to take shelter beneath such roofs as remained intact while the king’s scouts tried to find out which way the enemy had gone. There he found Betiver’s son by the Votadini girl who for nearly twenty years had been his concubine. To have the young man at his side was some small consolation for having had to leave Betiver with the rest of his troops in Gallia.

  Thus, it was the middle of the month of Mars before word came that the rebel forces were gathering near Ambrosiacum on the great western plain.

  Medraut stood before the Mound of the Princes, watching his father’s army form up across the plain. They were armed, as were his own forces, but had not put on their helmets. Artor had called for a parley. Medraut wondered if it could possibly succeed. A chill wind rustled the husks of last year’s grass and ruffled the new blades of green, its force scarc
ely checked by the ancient stones of the Giant’s Dance, and he refastened his wolfskin cloak above his mail.

  He had not done so badly, he thought, looking over his men. The South and much of the West had declared for him, and those few who resisted, like Eldaul of Glevum, had been overcome. But except for a few skirmishes, the rebels had not yet faced Artor’s army, and the old king’s reputation was worth a legion. It was Constantine who had insisted that they try negotiation now.

  Medraut wondered whether he was confused by old loyalties or simply afraid. Artor’s men might be veterans, thought Medraut as he watched uneasily, but they were old; experienced they might be, but their strength had been worn away in the Gallian campaigns. He told himself there was no need to fear.

  The wind died, and Medraut looked over his shoulder, seized by the odd sense that the spirits in the mound were watching him. He smiled sardonically. They must be very confused. A war of Briton against Briton would be familiar enough, but behind Artor marched Jutes from Cantuware, while Saxons led by Cynric and Cymen and Anglians under Creoda rode in his own train.

  The movement before him shivered to stillness. From Ar-tor’s army a horn blew shrill, to be answered after a moment from his own side. Constantine of Dumnonia stepped forward, his thinning hair blowing in the breeze. From Artor’s side, the spokesman was Gualchmai, grim-faced and frowning, limping a little from some wound got in the Gallian wars. There was a murmur of disbelief from the Dumnonians when they saw him come forward. If the king had sent Gualchmai, it was not to negotiate, but to deliver terms.

  Gualchmai halted, his thumbs hooked through his belt, surveying the enemy. Medraut flinched at the chill in his brother’s blue gaze.

  “So, we are standing together. If I had my will, I’d answer the boasts of your little prince with a good hiding, but I am bound to hear ye out, so say on—”

  “My lord Medraut . . .” Constantine coughed to stop his voice from wavering, “requires that the high king give him the North to govern and recognize him as heir to Britannia.”

  “Fine words for a rebel!” growled Gualchmai. “My lord king requires first that Medraut return his lady and queen. After that, he may find the patience to receive your surrender!”

  “Surrender?” Constantine tried to laugh. “When our army outnumbers yours?”

  “We’ve beaten the Franks, who smashed every other army that faced them. D’ye think we’d have any trouble with yours?”

  “It is a hard thing, when brother fights brother . . .” Constantine said piously. “And in any case, it is not for us to dispose of the Lady Guendivar—the choice of where she should go is hers.”

  The queen had been left in the care of a household of holy women who had settled at Ambrosiacum, and even Medraut did not know what she would do. Sometimes the aching tenderness with which he courted her gave way to visions in which he held that smooth white body splayed beneath him, victim of his desire. But he was too much his mother’s son to dare to force her. He had felt her need for him—surely he was the one she would choose!

  “Promise the prince a territory to govern and his place as heir, and we will disband,” Constantine went on.

  Let me have the North, thought Medraut, and Artor will have to face Cynric and Cymen here.. . . It would be good to get back to his own country. Once across the Wall he would be dealing with folk who had never really accepted the rule of Britannia. And beyond them waited the Picts, allies even more powerful than the Saxon tribes.

  Artor nodded, and Gualchmai turned to Constantine with a sigh. “Let it be so.”

  But not for long, thought Medraut. Artor had not met his gaze, but in the grey light he could see the lines in the older man’s face and the silver in his hair. He remembered how the stag had gasped out its life beneath his blade. You are old, my father—and soon my time will come.

  “We’ll drink together to seal the bargain,” the Dumnonian replied, “and our lords shall swear to keep faith on the holy cross.” Young Maglocun brought out a silver-banded horn filled with ale, and Father Kebi was pushed forward across the grass with crucifix in hand, eyeing the warriors around him like a wether among wolves.

  On both sides, the men moved forward, the better to see. And at that moment, someone yelled and steel flashed in the sun. Every head turned. Medraut saw Martinus’ face contort in disgust, and a flicker of black-and-white in the grass. The bare blade in his hand lifted, stained with red.

  But a greater light was already flaring from the wheeling arc of Gualchmai’s sword. “Treachery!” he cried, and then he clove Martinus through the shoulder and struck him down.

  For an instant longer Medraut stared. The scene had shattered like a broken mosaic, horns blaring, men running everywhere. Then Cunoglassus pulled him back, shoving helm and shield into his hands. He fumbled to fix the straps, saw Cymen with his houseguard forming a shieldwall, and ran towards its protection.

  * * *

  In the years that came after, few could tell the true story of that deadly, confused conflict before the ancient circle of stones; a battle begun without plan and ending in darkness, with no clear victor. Folk knew only that more blood dyed the plain that day than had ever moistened the pagan altar stone. When it was over, the remnants of Medraut’s army marched northward. From that time, news of the war came to the Britons of the South only as rumors that blended to create an imagined reality.

  But to Artor, searching the battlefield with flickering torch in hand, it was all too real. Though most of the fallen came from the ranks of his foes, the toll among the men he had brought back from Gallia was heavy as well. He moved among the heaped bodies, recognizing here a man who had saved his life in Armorica, and there a fellow who had always been able to make his comrades laugh.

  And near the hour of midnight, when the flesh grows cold on the bones, he found Gualchmai.

  The king saw first the corpses, heaped in a distorted circle as if some dark elf had tried to construct a hillfort from the bodies of the slain. He had seen such ramparts before, where some brave soldier had stood at bay, but never so high. He was still staring at it when Goriat came up to him.

  “Have you found your brother?” Artor asked, and Goriat shook his head. “Well, perhaps we should look there—” the king said then, indicating the heap of slain.

  Wordless, Goriat handed Artor his torch and began to drag the bodies aside. They had fallen in layers—Icel’s Anglians atop men from Dumnonia, and beneath them warriors from Cynric’s band, all slain by the strokes of a sword. When Goriat had cleared a narrow pathway, Artor followed him to the center. Gualchmai lay there in a pool of red, the great sword still clenched in his hand. No single warrior could have killed him—it was loss of blood from too many wounds that had felled him at last.

  “I used to dream of surpassing him,” whispered Goriat. “But no warrior will ever enter Annuen with such a noble escort as these.”

  Artor nodded agreement, then stiffened as Gualchmai stirred. In the next moment he was kneeling beside him, feeling for a pulse beneath the blood-stiffened beard.

  “Gualchmai, lad, can you hear me?” He cradled his nephew’s head on his lap, stroking his brow. “Goriat, go for a wagon, bring blankets and water, run!” Gualchmai’s flesh was cold, but his chest still rose and fell.

  “Artor. . . .”

  He could barely hear the whisper of sound. “Hush, lad, I am here.”

  “My fault . . . it was an adder . . . I saw . . . as my sword fell. . . . I have paid.”

  “Gualchmai, you must live,” Artor said desperately. “I loved you and Betiver best of all in the world. Without you, how can I survive?”

  Perhaps it was a trick of the torchlight, but he thought Gualchmai’s lips curved in a smile. “The king . . . will never die. . . .”

  When Goriat and the others arrived, Artor was still sitting with Gualchmai’s head pillowed on his thigh, but on the king’s cheek they could see the glistening track of tears, and they knew that the champion of Britannia was gone.
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  “My lord, what shall we do now?”

  “Bury Gualchmai in the Mound of the Princes, and dig a grave for the rest of our folk who have fallen here,” said Artor. From his eyes the tears still flowed, but his voice was like stone. “Where is the enemy?”

  “The Dumnonians are scuttling westward like rats to their holes, but Medraut has gone north,” answered Goriat. “They say he has taken the queen and the lady Ninive.”

  “Then north we shall go as well. Whether he flees to Alba or to Ultima Thule, there is no place on this earth so distant that I will not follow him.”

  By the day, the air rang with the sound of adze and hammer as Medraut’s soldiers rebuilt the palisade of Dun Bara, the fort on the hill. Escorted, Guendivar paced the old earthworks, Ninive beside her. Battered and bruised by the pace of their journey northward, she had prayed only for its ending, but as her body recovered, she began to realize how small was the difference between prize and prisoner.

  Beyond the half-built walls she could see a long sweep of hill and moorland and a bright glitter of water beyond them. It was the estuary of the Tava, they had told her. On the other side lay the dark masses of Fodreu. Even the Votadini lands, thought Guendivar as she refastened her cloak, would have seemed strange to her, but Medraut had carried her deep into the country of the Pretani, the Painted People, who had always been the enemies of Britannia. Wind and water tasted different here, and the soil was strange. Here, she was no longer a queen.

  Ninive, on the other hand, had grown stronger with every step northward. “My mother was a Royal Woman of the Hidden People, the first folk to inhabit this land,” she said, laughing, her fair hair flying in the wind. “I ran wild as a moorland pony until I was eleven years old. Then Gualchmai rode that way out hunting, as he had done when he met my mother and begot me. She was dead by then, and he took me to the Isle of Maidens, to Igierne. Only in this land have I ever been truly free!”

  Guendivar shook her head, understanding only that when Medraut ordered her to choose one woman to come with her she had been wise to take Ninive. Had Merlin come north as well? Some of Medraut’s men claimed to have seen a Wild Man beyond the flicker of their fires, but if it was the Druid, he had made no attempt to speak with her.