Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

  Shouting, raving, screaming, the vale throbbed with the unearthly and unnerving sound. Morcant’s warhost, confronted by this invisible, seemingly invincible foe, bolted in chaotic retreat back down the valley.

  Seeing this, we ran for our horses tethered behind the crest of the hill. But a few heartbeats later we were hurtling down the face of the hill and into the retreating warhost. Morcant and Cerdic stood at the ford, their warriors fleeing away like a flood parting around them. They raged at the men, screaming for them to turn and fight.

  And then there was Arthur in their midst with his eleven. They had simply appeared, it seemed—sprung to life from the rocks at their very feet, horses and all.

  It was too much. Cerdic wheeled his horse and fled after his men. Morcant was too crazy with rage to heed his own danger. He lifted his sword and rode at Arthur. The two met. There was a quick flash of steel, and Morcant fell. His body rolled into the stream, and the king lay still.

  * * *

  The fight did not end there. We escaped death that day, nothing more.

  Though we were all grateful to walk the land of the living, as the sun faded behind the western hills and we returned to the caer we knew that only a battle had been won. We suffered no losses, and only two men wounded. Cerdic had fled with his warband almost intact; he would nurse the injury to his pride for a season, and then he would return to avenge his father. Others who thought to gain from the strife would rally to him, and the war would go on.

  While we Britons fought among ourselves, the ships would come, the settlements would burn. More and still more land would fall beneath the shadow. And the Saecsen kind would grow strong in Britain once more.

  12

  “This is insane!” Arthur spat. “I hate this, Myrddin. I hate it worse than anything I have known.”

  “So did your father,” Merlin replied calmly. “And despite what they say of Uther, your uncle had no stomach for it, either. But they endured it, and so will you.”

  “As if we did not all have better things to do than carve up one another in this senseless slaughter. I have lost sixteen Cymbrogi this month. Sixteen! Do you hear?”

  “The whole world hears you, Arthur.”

  “This is Urbanus’ doing. If I had that meddling bishop here before me now, I would—I would…” Arthur sputtered, reaching for words to express his frustration.

  “Hand him his head on a platter?” Cai suggested hopefully.

  “Even that is too good for him,” muttered Bedwyr.

  We were at table with Arthur in his tent. The tent flaps were open, but it was hot—the tail end of a sultry, frustrating day. We were all tired, and hungry still, though the meal was long since finished. The humor of the group had soured a good time before talk turned to Urbanus.

  Very likely, Arthur was right. Urbanus’ efforts at peacemaking had only succeeded in making matters far worse than they might otherwise have been. The ambitious cleric had no talent for diplomacy, and less understanding. He knew nothing of the forces involved in the struggle.

  To Urbanus it was utterly simple: choose a High King acceptable to all. If Arthur would not be accepted, then the rule of Britain must fall to someone else.

  He did not see how this undercut Arthur’s claim and authority. He did not see how his constant peacemongering prolonged the fight.

  For if the Church had backed Arthur solidly, the dissenters would have had no support for their position. What is more, they would have found themselves fighting against the Church in order to continue their ruinous rebellion. As it was, the rebellious lords took hope from Urbanus’ equivocation. And the war continued.

  It had started the spring Morcant was killed—four years before. Four years…it might just as well have been a hundred for all the nearer we were to ending it.

  Cerdic, seeking vengeance for the death of his father, and the lean and hungry Idris, hoping to increase the lands left him by his kinsman Dunaut, formed the foundation of the alliance of lords who stood in open revolt against Arthur.

  Rebellion pure and simple, under the guise of protesting what they termed Arthur’s abuse of the war chest: the supplies and money he collected from the lords to maintain the warband of Britain. “He takes too much!” they cried. “He has no right! If we do not pay, his men punish us. He is worse than any Saecsen!”

  Lies, all lies. But it gave them an excuse to unite against Arthur. It justified their treachery. And by it, they even succeeded in luring men like Owen Vinddu, Ogryvan, and Rhain into their wicked scheme. Others, petty lordlings all, seized the chance to join in, hoping to improve their meager holdings with pillaged gold and plundered honor.

  Of Arthur’s friends, only Custennin, Meurig, and Ban committed men and supplies to his support. Shamefully, even his would-be allies—Madoc, Bedegran, Morganwg, and others like them—stood aside until the war decided the issue one way or another. Still, between Arthur’s fearless extortion and the generosity of his allies, we scraped by.

  That first year was hard enough. Bors arrived with his men in time to forestall our outright slaughter. By autumn of the second year we were battle-seasoned warriors, each and every one of us. The third year we succeeded in moving the fight from Arthur’s realm to Cerdic’s.

  Now, late in our fourth summer, we were fighting a battle nearly every other day. Winning most of them, it is true, but fighting nonetheless, on little rest and poor food—and this is hard on warriors.

  If not for Bors, I do not know what we would have done. He and his men sustained us, upheld us, strengthened us while we learned the craft of war. Together Bors and Arthur led Britain’s only hope into the fray and saved it from certain ruin. Not once only, but time and time and time again.

  We did not know how long we could continue. But each day we drew strength from the previous day’s victory, and somehow we fought on.

  “We have been pressing them all summer,” said Arthur; “they must give in.” The anger of the moment had passed; he had returned to his other preoccupation: trying to discern when the kings would capitulate. “It cannot last another year.”

  “It can easily last another year,” Bedwyr observed. “It is harvesttime soon. They will have to go home to gather in the crops. And it is expected that you will do the same. There will be a truce through the winter, as there always is.”

  “Well, let them go back to their lands for the harvest. I will grant them no truce—” He paused thoughtfully. All of us sitting around the table with him saw the light come up like sunrise in his clear blue eyes.

  “What is it?” asked Bedwyr. “What have I said?”

  “We will take the war to them in their own fields,” replied Arthur.

  “I do not see how that will sol—” began Cai, but Bedwyr was already far beyond him.

  Bedwyr was seeing what Arthur had seen. “We could ride on ahead!”

  “Burn the crops where they stand!”

  “Let them go hungry this winter as we will. Why not starve together?”

  Bors slapped the board with his hands. “I like it!”

  Cai shook his head. “I do not see how this is helping at all.”

  Arthur draped an arm over Cai’s wide shoulders. “Losing their precious grain will make them think twice about continuing the war next year,” he explained. “They will either have to give in or buy grain from Gaul.”

  “And that will be expensive,” said Bedwyr. “Only Cerdic can afford that.”

  “And him none too well after this year,” put in Bors. He laughed and pounded on the table until the cups and supper dishes rattled. “Let Cerdic chew on that all through the winter, and he will not be so keen to fight next spring.”

  “Well said!” Arthur slapped his knee approvingly.

  “But I still do not see the use of us starving along with them,” insisted Cai stubbornly. “We would not have to.”

  “Oh? Have you a better plan?” asked Bedwyr carelessly.

  Cai frowned. “Do not be burning it. Let us harvest it instead.??
?

  “We are not farmers!” protested Bedwyr.

  “Beat our swords into sickles?” Bors jeered. “Ha!”

  Cai’s frown deepened. His green eyes darkened as they always did whenever he suspected people of making fun of him, or failing to take him seriously.

  “Cai is right.” Merlin’s soft tone stopped them dead. “We are hungry. Burning it would be a sin. Besides, it would not wound any of you to be seen with a scythe in your hand.”

  “But we cannot—” Bedwyr’s protest died in Arthur’s wild whoop of joy.

  “It is perfect!” Arthur leapt to his feet. “It is beautiful in its simplicity! This is salvation sweet and sure!” He pounded Cai on the back, and the frown altered to a dubious grin.

  “We will harvest their grain for them—” Arthur began.

  “And they will just let us carry it off?” Bedwyr shook his head. “Not as long as a man among them can still hold sword and spear.”

  “We will harvest their grain, because they will be too busy dealing with this annoying Bors here and his disagreeable Armoricans.” Arthur stalked round the table with long, sure steps, his hands waving in the air, his mind already speeding on ahead of us all. “Then, when they are hungrily eyeing their dogs and horses next winter, we offer to sell it back to them.” He paused for emphasis, his voice going hard as iron. “The price will be full allegiance.”

  Merlin smiled grimly. He banged the butt of his staff on the ground three times. “Well done, Arthur! Well done!” He raised his hand to Cai. “And well done, Cai. You kept your head and followed the wiser course.” His words praised, but his tone mocked.

  “You agree, Myrddin? It is the wisest course? It is a good plan, yes?”

  “Oh, a very good plan, Arthur. But even the best plans can fail.”

  “Do you think it will fail?” asked Bedwyr.

  “It matters little what I think,” replied Merlin diffidently. “I am not the one to convince. It is for your warriors to decide.”

  “As to that,” stated Arthur, “I do not know a single man among them who would not welcome the chance to lay down his sword for a day or two.”

  “Even if he knew it was only to take up the sickle and flail?” Bors grimaced with distaste.

  “Never worry, Lord Bors,” Arthur soothed, “you will not have to touch that dread implement. You will lead your men on harassment forays, diversions—anything you like, so long as you keep those hounds occupied while we steal their grain.”

  “That I will do! By the God who made me, that I will do.”

  They fell at once to making plans for keeping the rebel kings occupied, and for transporting the grain once they had it. Merlin left them to their plans, moving silently from the tent and out into the early twilight.

  I followed him and joined him as he stood gazing up at the lingering blush of red in the western sky. I stood with him for a moment, and then said, “What is it?”

  Merlin did not answer, but continued looking at the sky, and at a flock of crows winging to their roosts in a hilltop wood nearby.

  “Is it the grain raid? Will it fail?”

  “In truth, I do not know…”

  “What is it then? What have you seen?”

  He was long in answering, but when he spoke at last his words were “Ships, Pelleas, and smoke. I have seen the sharp prows dividing the foam, and many feet splashing onto the shore. I have seen smoke, heavy and black, flattening on the wind.”

  “Saecsens?”

  Merlin nodded, but did not take his eyes from the sky. “In the north…I think Eboracum has fallen.”

  Eboracum fallen to the Saecsens? We had heard nothing of this. I did not doubt my master, however; his word would prove true.

  “What is to be done?”

  “What is to be done?” He turned to me, golden eyes dark with sudden anger. “End this senseless rebellion. The waste, the waste! We tear at one another and the Saecsens brazenly seize the land. It must end. There must be an end.”

  He turned and started down the hill toward the stream. After a few paces he paused and glanced back over his shoulder. “Will the grain raid succeed?” he called, then answered, “Pray, Pelleas! Pray with everything in you that it does succeed. For the time is here and now gone when we can suffer the barbarian kind to take root among us.”

  * * *

  The men of the settlement stood mute and angry as they watched Arthur’s warriors heave the last sack of grain onto the overloaded wain. When the driver came with the goad to turn the oxen onto the trail, an old man—one of the farmers who had been watching the grain disappear—stepped forward to stand before Cai.

  “It is not right that you take everything,” the farmer accused. “You should leave us something.”

  “If you have a grievance, take it to your lord,” Cai told him flatly. “This is Cerdic’s doing.”

  “We will go hungry this winter. If you leave us nothing we will die.”

  “Then die!” Cai shouted, vaulting to his mount. From the saddle he challenged them. “I tell you the truth: we would not be stealing your grain if Cerdic had not broken his sworn oath to support Arthur. As it is, we take only what has been promised to us.” With that he wheeled his horse and trotted off to take his place behind the wain.

  As at the other settlements, no one lifted a hand to stop us. Not that it would have made a difference if they had. The silent accusation in their eyes was enough. We all felt like barbarians and worse for our part in the scheme.

  “Bear it but a little longer,” Arthur told us all repeatedly. “It is soon over and the war will end.”

  Only Arthur’s assurance, solid and unfailing, kept us at it. At one holding after another, three and four at a time, we hastily gathered the year’s crops of barley and corn, and cattle and sheep in fair numbers also. All the while, Bors occupied the massed warhost of the rebel lords with cunning little raids and forays designed both to annoy and to keep them far away from us.

  It worked, yes. Perhaps too well. We succeeded too easily. This should have been a warning.

  But when Cerdic and the rebel lords finally discovered what we were doing, the grain was safely behind Caer Melyn’s walls. In fact, we could not keep it all—our stores would not hold it. We sent a good portion to Meurig, and what he could not take we piled on the ground in the yard and covered with hides.

  The weather broke early that year. Indeed, the autumn rains started as the last wagons began their ascent of the hill to the caer. As the warriors rode ahead to get in out of the rain, Arthur stood at the gate and welcomed them.

  “Well, that is that,” he said as the last wain trundled into the yard a little while later. He stood looking out across the hills and made no move when Bedwyr joined him. “That is the last of it,” Arthur said.

  “I hope so.” Bedwyr shook his head slowly.

  Arthur cocked an eye at him. “Then why do you frown so?”

  “I tell you the truth, Artos, I am ashamed.”

  “Would you rather be dead?” Arthur snapped. “Cerdic will oblige you.”

  “Na, na,” Bedwyr replied soothingly. “I agree it is necessary. For the love of Heaven, Artos, I know it is. But that does not mean I have to like it. And I will rest easier over this when Bors has returned.”

  “He is late, that is all.” Arthur made a dismissing motion with his hand, and moved away to where the wains were being unloaded. One of the wet grain sacks slipped and fell, landing on the ground before Arthur where it burst and poured forth a golden flood over his feet.

  He glared at the spilled grain for a moment, the color rising to his face. “Clean it up!” Arthur shouted angrily. The men stopped their work to stare at him. “Clean it up at once, do you hear? For I will not allow a single kernel to be wasted.” He shook the grain from his boots and stalked off.

  Yes, Bors was late. It was on everyone’s mind. He should have returned days ago, but there had been no word or sign, and we feared that something had happened to him.

  D
ays passed and Arthur grew more edgy and short-tempered, as did we all. Rhys, Bors’ harper, sang in the hall each night, doing what he could to lift our spirits. Unfortunately, playing to an ill-tempered and unappreciative audience, he could do very little.

  “I am going after him,” Arthur declared one night. “Heaven knows, we cannot sit here like this all winter.”

  The morning came dark and damp with a thick curling mist. Arthur chose twenty warriors to ride with him. As they were saddling their mounts, we heard a cry from the gates. “Open! Let Tegal in!”

  Immediately, the gates swung open and the rider—a watchman at one of the border watchtowers—reined up and slid from the saddle. At once a knot of people gathered around the rider.

  “What is it?” demanded Arthur, pushing his way through the throng.

  “My lord, a warhost approaches.”

  “How many?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Cerdic.” Arthur’s voice was flat and sharp-edged as his sword. “Very well, today we will settle it for once and all.” He turned to his warriors. “Arm yourselves! We ride to meet them.”

  The caer was thrown into instant chaos as men ran to don arms and saddle horses. But we did not ride out that day. In fact, we did not even leave the caer.

  For as we assembled in the yard—in this we followed the Roman generals, readying ourselves in orderly ranks before riding into battle—there came a messenger from Cerdic, riding under the sign of safe conduct—a willow branch raised in his right hand.

  “Let him enter,” Arthur commanded. “We will hear what he has to say.”

  The gate was opened, and the rider entered. Arthur came to stand before him. “Do not bother to dismount,” he told the messenger. “Deliver your charge. What has Cerdic to say to us?”

  The rider’s brows rose slightly in surprise that we should know his mission already. “Lord Cerdic asks that he may draw near your stronghold.”