I felt the hairs standing on my arms. Behind us, the fire in the central hearth crackled. Other than that, the only sounds were of men breathing and the scuttle and flap of some bird up in the roof rafters.
‘I was there, lord,’ I admitted.
The king’s eyes widened, and those around us mumbled and hissed and someone growled that they should cut our throats and hang us from the old yew tree by the well outside. Melehan and Ambrosius were each in their grandmother’s ears, whilst Prince Cynric’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword.
‘I was there that day.’ I lifted my voice to be heard. ‘But I was just a boy.’ I felt Gawain watching me. The others too. ‘I watched from the hill,’ I said, and pressed a hand against my chest, feeling the thump of my heart even through the bronze, leather and wool. ‘I helped my father put on this armour which I now wear. Then, I watched him ride to Lord Arthur’s side. I watched him cut your men down, as a scythe cuts wheat. I saw him kill Saxons and I saw him kill the traitors who fought for Lord Mordred.’
Lady Morgana did not like that, for Mordred had been her son, but I was glad to see my words warp her mouth. If not for her, Father Yvain would be alive still.
‘And I saw him fall,’ I said. ‘Cut down from behind by men who lacked the courage to face him.’ I lifted my chin and swallowed through the tightness in my throat. ‘I am Galahad ap Lancelot.’
Lady Morgana fingered the silver brooch pinning her cloak. King Cerdic raised a hand to quiet the hum which rose amongst the assembled warriors and Saxon women.
‘Ah, but that is a shame,’ the king announced for all to hear. ‘I was hoping the whispers were true. That Merlin had found a way to defy death itself.’
‘Lord king, have you not invited us here to discuss terms for a truce?’ Lord Constantine asked.
The Saxon king’s eyes lingered on me a few heartbeats more, then he looked at Constantine. ‘There will be time for that tomorrow, after you have eaten and rested. You are our guests,’ he swept his arms wide, those arms adorned with warrior rings, ‘and tonight we will drink together and talk of past battles.’
‘We will not drink with you,’ Gawain said. ‘Nor talk of the past like old friends.’ He glanced at Lady Morgana, which was as good as telling everyone gathered in the hall that he considered her a traitor to her people for welcoming Cerdic’s spearmen into Camelot, and for sitting beside the Saxon now as though they were king and queen. ‘We will discuss terms and then we will leave,’ Gawain said.
Cerdic looked at Lord Constantine, who nodded in agreement with Gawain.
‘Again, you disappoint me,’ King Cerdic said, his accent shaping our words the way a sea wind will belly a sail. He flicked a hand towards me. ‘This man is not Lancelot back from the dead,’ he said, then looked at Lady Morgana, ‘and now the great warlords of Britain will not stay to raise a cup to our marriage.’
Gawain and Lord Constantine shared a look of disbelief. Parcefal growled a curse and Gediens gripped the helmet under his arm a little tighter, bringing his right hand across to touch the iron against ill luck.
‘Lady?’ Lord Constantine said.
Morgana brought her hands together, kneading the swollen knuckles with a thumb.
‘King Cerdic and I are to marry at Beltane,’ she said, which got a chorus of cheers from the Saxons in the hall, though not, I noticed, from her own spearmen. ‘We make this alliance for the sake of Britain.’
‘There can be no Britain while his people burn and kill and take our people’s land for themselves,’ Lord Constantine said, his voice containing the anger of hot iron plunged into the quenching trough. Gawain looked too furious to speak.
‘The killing will stop,’ Lady Morgana said. ‘King Cerdic’s people may keep the land that they have won. We will rule Britain together as High King and Queen.’
‘I can see what he gets out of it,’ Parcefal said, ‘but what about you, lady? What do you get for betraying us all?’
King Cerdic growled something in his native tongue, but Morgana gestured at the king to let her speak.
‘In return for peace, King Cerdic has sworn that the Lords Ambrosius and Melehan will succeed whichever of us leaves the high seat of Camelot empty.’ The lady’s grandsons grinned. Prince Cynric, I saw, did not. ‘This way, we are assured that our own people will rule. That Uther’s own great-grandchildren will hold the power in Dumnonia. Two Pendragons to watch over the land.’
‘The Saxons will hold the power,’ Gediens said, his expression one of incredulity. ‘You would give them Britain.’
‘I would give us peace,’ Morgana said.
Lord Constantine was shaking his head. ‘Lady, you cannot trust them.’
King Cerdic pointed a ringed finger at Lord Constantine. ‘And you cannot fight us,’ he said.
‘Now I understand,’ Gawain said. ‘This is why he asked you here,’ he told Constantine. ‘To show you … this,’ he said, gesturing at the king and his would-be queen.
Lord Constantine’s face looked as cold as the Roman statues it resembled. ‘Is this true, lord king? You did not ask me here to discuss a truce?’
Cerdic flapped a hand through the smoky air. ‘Call it a truce if you want.’ His voice sounded like the keel of a ship grinding up shingle. He nodded at Prince Cynric, who stepped forward.
‘Come the next full moon, you will ride to Camelot,’ the prince told Constantine. ‘All of you,’ he added, turning his blue eyes on us each in turn. ‘You will swear fealty to the new king and queen. You will disband your army—’
‘And you will bring me my brother’s banner, Lord Constantine,’ Lady Morgana interrupted him, ‘that I may burn it.’ She turned to Gawain. ‘I would put an end to these rumours that Arthur lives. As should you, Lord Gawain. For such delusions do not help our people.’
‘Arthur does live,’ I heard myself say before Gawain could answer, and the eyes of everyone on the dais, everyone in that smoke-wreathed hall, fixed on me. I glanced at Gawain and he nodded, his scarred face saying that I had lit the fire and so we might as well watch it burn. I turned back to Lady Morgana and her new allies. ‘Arthur lives and Merlin serves him once again,’ I said.
‘Lies!’ Lady Morgana shrieked.
‘No, lady, it is true,’ I said.
Gawain held his plumed helmet out wide. ‘Did Merlin not tell you that is why he has returned to Britain?’ he asked her. ‘Maybe if you hadn’t beaten him like a dog …’
‘You took him from us?’ Melehan challenged, even as his brother Ambrosius pulled his sword from its scabbard and stepped forward.
‘Not in my hall!’ King Cerdic bawled. ‘These men are my guests. You will sheathe your blade, Lord Ambrosius.’
‘Do it, brother,’ Melehan said.
But Ambrosius hungered to fight Gawain and for several heartbeats he was paralysed with indecision. Ambrosius was a lord of Britain and I could see how he despised taking orders from a Saxon king. And yet, as we had heard, his grandmother’s marriage to King Cerdic assured him and his twin brother the high seat of Dumnonia. They would be the High Kings of Britain, if only by Saxon consent.
‘Your transgression will not go unanswered, lord,’ Ambrosius warned Gawain, pushing his sword back into its scabbard.
‘You took the druid from me first, boy,’ Parcefal said, ‘so be careful before you deal out threats you can’t make good on. I’m sure your sister, the Lady Triamour, will remind you what I did to her man.’ He glanced at Gediens. ‘What was that ox’s name?’
‘Balluc,’ Gediens said with a derisive sneer.
‘Aye, Balluc,’ Parcefal said. ‘Died on his knees as I recall.’
‘Balluc was slow,’ Ambrosius said. ‘I am not.’
King Cerdic raised a hand and Lady Morgana hissed at her grandson to hold his tongue or lose it.
‘The next full moon, lords,’ the king confirmed. ‘You will come to Camelot and bend the knee.’ He growled at a slave to bring him more ale. ‘If you do not, I will come for you. My warriors
will sweep across Caer Celemion and Caer Gwinntguic,’ he pointed to the hall’s roof, ‘like Thunor’s chariot rolling across the sky. I will drown your crops in blood, turn the night red with flame and feed the crow and the wolf until one cannot run and the other cannot fly, so glutted will they be with the flesh of your people.’ The slave put an ale horn in the king’s outstretched hand and Cerdic drank to grease his tongue for the last of his promises. ‘Anyone who owns a sword or shield will die. Anyone who breathes the name of Arthur will die, be they man, woman or child.’ He lifted the drinking horn. ‘In the name of Woden, I swear this, if you do not yield to me.’ With that he sat back in his chair.
Prince Cynric raised a hand, stilling the hum which had risen with the king’s talk of blood, the way hounds will lift their heads from their baskets when the scent of flesh is on the air. ‘No one doubts your courage, lords,’ Prince Cynric said. ‘You have fought us since I was a boy. You have won many battles. But your time is over.’ He frowned. ‘You must know this, Lord Constantine. You can no more throw us back than can a man halt the flood tide with a sword and shield.’ There was an honesty in the prince’s face. A respect for his adversary which compelled him to at least try to see Constantine leave with some of his pride still his own. ‘The battle is lost,’ he shook his head, ‘you can do no more.’
Lord Constantine’s jaw clenched. I saw that the knuckles on the hand holding his helmet were bloodless, white as marble. ‘My grandfather was Emperor of Rome,’ he declared in a voice which had carried above the thunder of shields and the ringing of blades, and which now cut the smoke-thickened air. ‘My father and my uncle were High Kings of Britain. Do not presume to tell me what is lost.’
The force of his words landed like a blow. I felt pride bloom hot in my chest and in that moment would have drawn my father’s sword had Lord Constantine commanded me. But the effect was short-lived and the Saxons, emboldened by each other and prompted by their king, who hurled his ale horn at Lord Constantine’s feet, yelled their insults and threats, baiting us as men will bait captives after a battle.
Yet, we had come to Venta Belgarum in peace and at their king’s invitation, and Gawain knew that we must leave the same way, now and in haste, lest Cerdic’s bloodlust sluice away his propriety or Lady Morgana convince him that our deaths now would smooth their road to power.
‘Come, lord.’ Gawain touched Constantine’s arm, for the old warrior was eyeballing the king, longing to repay the insult of the ale horn in the rushes at his feet. ‘We must go. There’s no more to say here.’
Lord Constantine lingered still, as though fixing the faces of his enemies in his mind, then he turned on his hobnailed boots, his purple cloak billowing in the smoke, and we followed him, pushing through the stinking press, my sight crammed with hate-filled faces, my head besieged by the clamour of men vowing to slaughter us.
‘Bring me my brother’s banner,’ Lady Morgana shrieked after us. ‘Bring the bear to Camelot and watch it burn.’
We shoved through the crowd and out into the day, relieved to find our horses waiting for us where we had left them in the care of King Cerdic’s slaves.
‘Don’t stop, Galahad,’ Gawain warned, as we mounted, my head pounding with noise, the Saxons camped within the fort having noticed us now. ‘Not for anything, understand?’ I nodded, my hands clutching the reins, my blood thrumming in my legs. For, by our retreat so soon after coming, the spearmen without the hall inferred our humiliation at the hands of their king and bellowed their hatred of us. Some crowded around us with shields and helmets, jeering and barking curses and no doubt foretelling our deaths, but we walked our mounts on towards the gate, staying close to each other: Lord Constantine, then me, then Gediens, Parcefal and Gawain riding at the rear.
Something struck my helmet. A stone from the sound of it. Then a toothless Saxon bent, scooped up a handful of mud and threw it at Lord Constantine. The mud struck his cuirass just above the bronze stomach muscles, at which the Saxons cheered, while Constantine gave the impression that he had not even noticed, his back straight, his face a carving of disdain. Something else must have struck Gediens behind me, for he yelled in anger, but Gawain told us to keep moving.
‘Don’t even look at them,’ he growled, and I tried not to, though my heart was thumping against my breastbone and I could feel sweat running in rivulets down my back.
Then more shouting in our wake and with it the drumming of hooves, and I heard Parcefal invoke Taranis, master of war, thinking that King Cerdic or Lady Morgana must have ordered their men to ride after us and kill us. But when I twisted in my saddle, for I could not help myself, it was Prince Cynric whom I saw cantering through the crowds on a stocky pony, his golden hair flying, a spear-armed warrior at each shoulder.
‘What does he want?’ Parcefal asked, but Prince Cynric did not stop to speak with us, instead riding past and taking up position ahead, clearing the way and commanding the Saxons to let us pass unmolested. He did this even beyond the gate, all the way to the boundary of the camp, as the noise fell away, the baying insults replaced by the thumping of hooves, the jangle of our gear and the breathy snorts of our horses. Then Prince Cynric eased his pony to a halt and turned to watch us as we passed him.
Lord Constantine dipped his head in thanks, his helmet’s stiff red plume bristling in the breeze, and the Saxon prince dipped his head in reply. Then he and his men pulled their ponies around and rode back the way they had come, and we slowed, bringing our mounts closer to each other, riding five abreast.
‘That is a man we will have to kill,’ Gawain said. As much of an admission of respect as we would hear from him.
‘So, there will be no truce,’ Lord Constantine said. A woodpecker was drumming in the distant woods to the west. Nearer, by a fallen tree adorned with scarlet elf cups which looked like splashes of blood, two hares were leaping and dancing, as if mad with joy for the end of winter.
‘No truce,’ Gawain agreed. ‘What will you do?’
Lord Constantine considered this, though surely he had known the answer the moment Lady Morgana had revealed her plan to marry the Saxon king in order that Melehan and Ambrosius would rule Dumnonia when she and Cerdic were gone; a treachery which cut as deeply as her son Mordred’s had ten years ago.
‘I will prepare for war,’ Lord Constantine said. ‘Raise what spears I can. Send messengers to the other kings. To King Catigern of Powys and King Bivitas, the new ruler of Cynwidion. Perhaps they will be persuaded to join us when they learn what Morgana plans.’ He had not shaved that morning and by a shaft of sunlight I saw the beginnings of white bristles above his upper lip and on his chin. He looked old. Tired. As though he had expended his strength and will in portraying a certain vision of himself to his enemies and could keep up the act no longer. ‘Let us hope that Merlin has found a way to bring the lady back to Arthur,’ he said.
And let us hope that the druid has told Iselle that she is Lord Arthur and Lady Guinevere’s daughter, I thought. Or else I would tell her myself. I would have to.
‘We don’t have long,’ Gawain said.
Gediens looked up at the sky. There was no moon to be seen yet, but we knew it would be on the wane when the night revealed it.
For a long moment each of them was lost in his own thoughts. Grim thoughts. For war was coming and we did not have enough time.
‘The gods be with you,’ Lord Constantine said.
‘And with you,’ we replied in ragged chorus.
Then the old warrior turned his horse into the north and rode away, and to me he looked like a Roman general riding back into the past from whence he came.
Then we turned our own mounts westward towards the setting sun.
War. Blood to water the summer wheat. Flesh to satiate the carrion feeders of earth and sky.
We rode west. Back to Arthur.
15
The Druid
‘THEY HAVE EXCHANGED BARELY a dozen words since you left.’ Iselle was sitting on a stool beneath the app
le tree, plucking the carcass of a swan which she told me had somehow caught itself in one of her snares. She had already set aside the primary feathers from the bird’s wing, which she would split and cut for arrow fletchings. ‘I’ve tried to get them together by the hearth. To make them talk. And listen.’ She shook her head, quick, frustrated hands ripping from the flesh feathers which drifted away on the breeze like apple blossom falling in a fruitless year. ‘They are both stubborn. Both impossible.’
‘But now that Arthur knows what Lady Morgana and King Cerdic intend, he will yield.’ I paused. ‘He must.’
The previous dusk, when we had arrived back at Lord Arthur’s steading and I had seen the flint in Iselle’s eyes, I had thought that Merlin must have told her the truth of her birth. But it was soon apparent that she knew nothing of it still, and her anger towards Arthur and Merlin was, rather, due to their bullheadedness.
‘Arthur resents Merlin,’ Iselle said. ‘He says that Merlin abandoned him when he needed him most. Worse than that betrayal, Arthur says, is that Merlin left Britain. Or at least, he vanished from men’s sight.’
I looked towards the house. ‘But he is here now. Surely Arthur can put aside the past.’
‘Arthur believes that Merlin knew about Guinevere,’ Iselle said. ‘That she was lost. Caught between worlds.’ Iselle looked up at me and there was pain, not anger, in her clear eyes. ‘And if he knew, why did he not come back?’ She was asking on behalf of herself then, not Arthur. She shook her head. ‘Arthur cannot forgive him.’ She sighed and I knew that we who had ridden into Venta Belgarum to be insulted and threatened by the king of the Saxons had had the easier time of it.
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