I remembered the dream I had had in Camlann, and again saw Arthur in the Queen’s shadow. Everywhere I turned, she always appeared, as though all shadows were her shadow. She still held a part of me, locked in bonds forged with blood, past commitment, and present desire. I would not be free until I met her again, face to face, and either severed the bond or became snared in it for ever. How could I say to Arthur, “I am free of the Darkness”? Darkness had formed me. I had defeated it in the past, but by no strength of my own. Arthur had reason to feel as he did, and I had no way to change his mind.
I ached with the knowledge that I had lost again, now, perhaps for ever. Perhaps I should leave. As Arthur had said, I could easily find a place with any king in Britain. If I went to Urien of Rheged…
No. Here I had been led, here I had set my hopes. To leave would be to accept defeat and surrender. I struggled with the pain for a moment, then ignored it.
“What will you do?” asked Bedwyr, gently.
“I will go on,” I told the two, looking back to them.
I might have hung about and brooded futilely for the rest of that day, but I had to visit the sick-tents. I still wanted to have my cut treated.
As I approached the tents, I heard a strange sound, a kind of low drone like a hive of bees. I stopped and looked questioningly at Agravain, who was still with me. Bedwyr had left with Cei.
“The wounded,” my brother answered casually. “They have settled down somewhat now. God, but the physicians must be tired!”
“What? Do you mean that they are still working, from last night?”
“Oh, they’ve done the worst. They work in shifts. Now, I think, they are checking the walking wounded and getting down to work on some of the men they were unsure of last night. You know, men who come in with a bad arm and they can’t decide whether or not to amputate, so they leave them a while; or men who were uncertain to live, even if they were treated, who the doctors left in favor of someone their skill wouldn’t be wasted on.” Agravain hesitated. “To tell the truth, I’ve no love for such places, especially at this stage of the work. Do you mind if…?”
“No. I will join you later.”
I didn’t, though.
There was not enough room for all the wounded inside the tents, and those who had already been treated had been brought outside. These lay on the grass, like fish on a beach after a storm. Their faces were chalk-grey, eyes glazed in resignation or abnormally bright. Some wore bandages, some did not. No one who has hunted, let alone fought, is shocked at blood, but it is different when it is a man who lies before you with his stomach open and entrails tied in, rather than a deer, and when you see him in the cool light of rationality. The badly injured lay still, moaning or mumbling every now and then—an awful sound. It was this moaning and mumbling joined together that caused the droning I had heard. Some men lay still, asleep or dead; others, less badly injured, sat apart from the others, talking in undertones. The place smelled, too, of dirt, sweat, vomit, excrement, and the beginnings of rot, a smell of pain. I picked my way through the lines of men slowly, now uncertain why I had come. One of the men saw me as I passed, and waved his hand heavily. I recognized him as one of Cei’s band of thirty, and went over to him.
“Water,” he muttered. “Do you have water?”
“I…I will try and get you some.” Several of the men around him also began to ask for water. I nodded. I wanted to run from that place. When I remembered how lightly I had claimed some of their water that morning, I felt sick.
I went into the tent and stood for a while, staring. One of the doctors, finishing off an amputation, noticed me. “Well, what do you want?” he demanded harshly.
“I…have just a scratch. I will see to it myself.”
“Thank you. Well, now that you have decided that, what are you waiting for?”
“There are some men outside who need water.”
“There are lots of men outside who need water, but there are more in here who need surgery, and not enough to help with it; and the servants need sleep.”
“Would you like me to help?”
He stared at me, taking in the rich clothes and the gold-hilted sword. Then he smiled slowly. “As a matter of fact, warrior, I would—if you’ve any notion of how to use a knife to heal instead of to harm.”
“I do not know, but tell me what to do, and what I can do, I will learn.”
Learn I did, until about midnight that night. Few warriors know of the battle which takes place in the sick-tents when their fighting is done, except when their lives become a part of it. It is a hard struggle, as fierce and ruthless as anything one encounters in the field, and requires as much, or more, training than do the arts of war. It is not, as some warriors think, a simple matter any cattle butcher could perform. The surgeon who holds the knife needs knowledge, and even his helpers, who merely hold down the patient, must know, or be able to understand, how to hold and how to stop the bleeding and where to tie the cords. Morgawse had taught me of various herbs, and one of her books had dealt with the properties of plants, but I had not paid much attention to advice for medicine. I had learned to use sword and knife, but was almost unaware that they could be used to save the life of the man they are used on. Even learning it while holding down a screaming patient for his doctor, it made good knowledge.
Just before midnight I pushed my hair out of my eyes and looked around to find that there was no more to do. Servants and relations of the wounded had been busy taking away whomever they could and making the rest comfortable, and that work too was nearly finished.
“You had better go and rest now,” said Gruffydd, the surgeon I had first spoken with. “Unless—you did have some-thing you originally came here for?”
“Nothing—well, a scratch. I only wished to guard it against the rot.”
“A wise thought. Let me see it.”
He looked at the cut and shook his head. “Indeed. What made you think that this was just a scratch? It goes down past the bone, here and here.”
“Does it?” I was surprised. “It didn’t look that deep, and scarcely hurt at all.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem to have bled much…Cadwallon, some salve and a bandage.” He paused, glanced up at me. “You are not a berserker, are you?”
“A what?”
“A berserker. It is a Saxon word; it means one who goes mad in battle. Their strength is double to triple what it is normally, so they are dangerous men.”
“I did go mad in the battle. How could you tell?”
He grinned. “Well, we’d heard, even in here, that you charged a Saxon shield-wall”—we had exchanged names at a snatched meal—“and that is mad enough. But besides that, the wound hasn’t bled as much as it should have. I’ve seen it before, but only with men who go mad in battle.” He began to clean the wound. It stung. “We’ve heard all sorts of rumors about you—otherworlds and magic, wild as you please. But such nonsense is frequently attached to men who are berserkers, so that explains that.” He rubbed some salve on the cut. “Though it is a damned and uncanny thing, the berserker gang. Those who have it normally foam at the mouth, and can’t tell friend from foe, though they may be the mildest of men at other times.” He looked up at me shrewdly.
“No one has told me that I foam at the mouth. I do not think that it is quite the same thing.”
“It is a dangerous thing, I should think. I saw a man once, who went mad in battle, and staggered in here afterwards with wounds you could put your fist into. Said he hadn’t even noticed when he got them. It was a wonder he could even stand; he died about an hour later. No, not a pleasant thing, this madness.”
“I am glad of it. It is a gift.”
Gruffydd gave me a quizzical look, but I did not wish to speak of “otherworlds and magic,” so I said nothing. He finished bandaging the wound. “Well, that is that,” he said, and straightened, stretched, then p
aused and looked at me again. “Unless you want to come back and help another time, after a battle. No, not immediately after a battle; if you have the madness, you probably collapse afterwards—but later. We would be glad of you. You have the instinct of a surgeon, and that is needed in these times.”
“Thank you,” I answered. “I will come.”
I left feeling very happy, and more warmed by those words than by all the praises given to me by warriors. Even if Arthur had refused me, I had fought in two battles, and fought well.
Arthur fought another, private battle at mid-morning the next day, on the east side of the bridge across the Bassas. It was a strange fight, against an uncertain enemy.
The High King met Cerdic and the two other Saxon kings, taking his own subject kings Constantius of Dumnonia and Eoghan of Brycheiniog and forty warriors besides. Each of the Saxon kings had brought a dozen men, which Arthur had permitted, so the group was a large one. Yet one would think there were only two men there: Arthur and Cerdic.
I came with Arthur’s party, on Bedwyr’s invitation, but I tried to stay out of sight near the back. Cerdic’s eyes, though, swept Arthur’s men until he saw me, and remained fixed on me for almost a minute before he looked at Arthur. The High King had been studying Cerdic all the while.
Cerdic bowed in the saddle of his roan steed, smiling a little. “Ave, Artorie Auguste, Insularis Draco, Imperator Britanniarum,” he said, using Latin and all of Arthur’s highest titles in a mocking tone.
“Greetings, Cerdic cyning thara West Seaxa,” replied Arthur. “I am pleased to see that you recognize my status.”
“I recognize your strength, imperator,” said Cerdic, still in Latin. “You have a victory.”
“Which you think you can reverse, a few years from now?”
Cerdic smiled and changed the subject. “I do not like these terms you offer.”
Arthur smiled back, a certain lightness touching his eyes. “Then offer other terms, king of the West Saxons. I will do my utmost to be just to all my subjects, even if they have been disobedient.”
“That is precisely the part of the terms I dislike most,” snapped Cerdic. “The West Saxons are not a nation subject to the emperor of the Britains.”
“All the provinces of Britain are subject to one emperor,” answered Arthur. “If you do not wish to be subject to me, you can always leave.”
Cerdic spat, the red look reappearing behind his eyes. “I made a nation here, Dragon…”
“Which I am willing to recognize.”
“…and it is my own nation, not yours or any other Briton’s or Roman’s.”
“I have no more desire to be king of the West Saxons than to be Protector of Dyfed. But I am the emperor.”
“I have heard otherwise, and from Britons.”
“I have other disobedient subjects beside yourself, Cerdic.” Arthur smiled again, even more lightly. “Come. You know that you will swear to my terms in the end, just as the other Saxon kings have sworn once already. Why must we stand here in the heat any longer than is necessary?”
Cerdic frowned angrily, but a faint look of puzzlement was beginning in his face. “And I must swear to recognize your claim to the imperium, to support no usurpers nor make war against you, to withdraw my royal forces from Searisby—rig to Winceastra and leave no more than twenty men as a guard on the border, which is to be at Wilton? And I must yield all claim to any lands west of that border, and obediently render you tribute at every year?”
“Why not? Most of the land east of Sorviodunum is thinly settled as it is. And as for obeying me and rendering tribute, you will not keep that oath any more than your fellows did, but it will give me more excuse to war on you when you break it.”
Cerdic almost smiled in response to Arthur’s quiet amusement, but stopped himself. “And what of my fellow kings?”
“As agreed, they will renew their oath, in a new form, and pay additional tribute for the next few years in return for their sedition.”
The two Saxon kings snorted. They had paid no tribute since Uther had died, and obviously had no intention of beginning—though, should Arthur’s northern campaign take less time than was expected, they might send something.
“If the Saxon nations are subject to the emperor just as the British provinces are,” Cerdic began again, “they should swear the same oath.”
“I have recognized that Saxons are pagans, and that to swear by the earth, sea, and sky in the name of the Father, Son, and Spirit is meaningless to them. Now if you break your oath you will be able to explain it to your own gods and not the gods of strangers. It will be easier for you.”
Cerdic frowned again, and this time touched his sword. For a long moment he met and held Arthur’s gaze. Then he smiled, not as he had smiled at first, nor as I had seen him smile in the two weeks I had been his thrall.
“You are everything I had heard you might be, Arthur ab Uther,” he said, speaking British now. “I do not see why you bother to employ sorcerers.”
“I employ none.”
“Then…?” Cerdic looked to me again.
Arthur shook his head. “Gwalchmai ap Lot is not my warrior.”
Cerdic raised his eyebrows. “Indeed. I wish I had been able to be as firm. Sorcery may be powerful, but sorcerers are unreliable—and dangerous.”
I wondered how Cerdic and Aldwulf had parted. Not amicably, it seemed, for Cerdic spoke with some vehemence.
“I am glad we think alike on this,” said Arthur. “Have you, then, further objections to my terms?”
Cerdic sighed and began to haggle over the wording of the oath, then stopped abruptly. “No. Why continue with this? We both know that I will swear your oath and break it when it pleases me. When next I fight you, Pendragon, you can call it sedition instead of invasion. I think you will find small difference between the two.” Cerdic swung down from his horse and signalled to one of his men. The warrior rode up and dismounted, and Cerdic took from him a large wooden box carved with runes. Arthur dismounted and stood by his horse, waiting.
“This is Thunor’s arm-ring,” said Cerdic. “We brought it from Thunor’s temple, north and east of Gaul. It is very old, and sacred.” He opened the box and carefully lifted out an immense ring of gold, also carved with runes, heavy, and about two hands’ lengths in diameter. He stood looking at it for a moment, then looked up and smiled gaily. “Thunor is a warrior, if a god. He understands these matters of oaths.”
“Swear the oath, then, if you are sure of his forgiveness.”
Cerdic hesitated, turning the ring in his hands. Then he turned to the other kings and politely gestured them to go first.
They, too, dismounted and came forward, Aeduin of Cantware and Eosa of the South Saxons. Each in turn knelt, drew his sword, and swore on sword and arm-ring, by Thunor and Tiw and Woden, an oath that was essentially the same as the oath sworn by all kings to the High King. They were both older than Cerdic, well used to swearing oaths and breaking them, and oaths sworn to the British were particularly easily broken. It was more difficult with the new oath, but their Thunor had broken his word at least once, and they would buy new swords, in case the weapon they had sworn on betrayed them in battle. When they had finished, Cerdic drew his own sword, and stepped forward to face Arthur, who was now holding the arm-ring.
The day was cloudy, but at the moment the sun broke free of the clouds, and the bare steel of Cerdic’s sword gleamed brightly in its light, while the arm-ring glowed with warmth. Cerdic smiled more widely, but his eyes held the dark brightness I had seen before. I became suddenly afraid, and ceased to worry over what the kings had said of me. I set my hand on Caledvwlch.
But before anyone could think, Cerdic stepped abruptly forward, lifting his sword to place its cold, gleaming tip at Arthur’s throat. Constantius of Dumnonia gave a cry of horror, and Bedwyr dropped his spear into line and drove his horse a s
tep nearer before realizing that he could do nothing and reining in, white-faced. Cerdic’s party pressed forward, their swords drawn. Cerdic smiled, the darkness filling him, mingled with a strange brilliance.
“I came here this morning to kill you, Pendragon,” he whispered.
Arthur had flinched at first, but now he looked at Cerdic over the bright metal calmly, and the light in his grey eyes was astounding. “It would solve most of your difficulties, if I were dead,” he said in a conversational tone.
“Indeed,” said Cerdic. “And war is a great thing for the lowering of morals. Even Woden, king of the gods, believes this. You understand it, imperator?”
I heard Bedwyr’s breath hiss in the stillness, saw him alter his grip on his spear, preparing to throw it if Cerdic stirred. Cerdic did not even glance away from Arthur.
“If you still meant to kill me,” Arthur said, “you would have done it by now, quickly.” He stepped aside and caught Cerdic’s sword-hand.
“True,” said Cerdic. He lowered the sword till its point touched the earth, Arthur’s hand crossing his upon the hilt. “Unfortunately, Pendragon, bastard or not you are too much of a king and too much of a man. Arthur of Britain, let us be enemies, but not fight like wolves.” He dropped to one knee, reached out his left hand to take the other side of the sacred arm-ring, and swore, by Thunor, Tiw, and Woden, and by the earth, sea, and sky, to fulfill all his oath to Arthur, High King of Britain, as a subject king to his lord.
Arthur smiled at the use of the Threefold Oath, and when Cerdic had finished swore the returned oath, not to infringe the rights of his subject king, and to preserve the kingdom of his tributary “secure against all foreign enemies and invaders.” He ended in an oath of his own, “And I swear to make your nation part of one empire, Britain, and to hold it so, in justice and in light, so help me God.” He released the arm-ring.
Cerdic took it, resheathing his sword. Cerdic’s men seemed confused; Arthur’s, limp with relief, and not a little confused as well.
“When next we meet, Arthur Pendragon,” Cerdic said when he had mounted his horse, “I hope our positions will be reversed, and, by Thunor’s hammer, I think they will be. Until then, farewell. I am glad to have met you.”
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