Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

  “To what purpose?”

  “He would speak with you.”

  Arthur glanced at Cai and Bedwyr before answering. Neither made any objection, so he said, “Go and tell Cerdic that I grant him leave to approach. He may bring three advisors with him—but no more than three.”

  The messenger inclined his head and, wheeling his horse, rode back the way he had come.

  We waited for Cerdic on the ramparts, the mist beading up on our cloaks and hair. And, but a short while later, we saw the warhost of Cerdic and the rebel kings crest the far-off hill and begin their traverse of the long valley that stood before Caer Melyn.

  “He has brought them all,” breathed Cai. “Every motherless one of them.”

  “Good,” said Arthur. “Let there be an end.”

  Merlin, too, stood on the rampart watching. But he said nothing.

  When the warhost reached the foot of the hill they stopped. We watched then as four riders came apart from the rest and continued on up the hill. Closer, we could see Cerdic flanked by two of his allies—Idris and Maglos, who rode a little behind him. Between Idris and Maglos rode a third man.

  It took a few moments to discern the identity of the third, but when we did all became clear.

  “Bors!” cried Cai. “In Heaven’s name, they have Bors with them.”

  Alas, it was true. Bors rode between Idris and Maglos, his hands and arms bound behind him. The warriors murmured darkly at this, but Arthur silenced them with a quick cut of his hand.

  The four rode to the gates and stopped. “Hail, Arthur! I give you good greeting,” called Cerdic insolently. “What? Is this how you receive your masters—quaking behind closed gates with your sword in your hand?”

  “I agreed to listen to you,” Arthur replied coolly. “Content yourself with that. You will receive no welcome cup from my hand.”

  Cerdic barked a mocking laugh. “Do you think me in the habit of accepting the hospitality of a thieving whorespawn of a Duke?”

  “I will kill him for that,” muttered Cai under his breath.

  Arthur ignored the taunt. “If you have something to say, Cerdic, speak it out. I am waiting.”

  “I have come to make a bargain with you—” began Cerdic.

  “Arthur, no! Do not do it!” shouted Bors, for which he was rudely silenced with the back of Maglos’ hand across his mouth. Blood spurted from his split lip.

  “Lay hand to him again,” warned Arthur ominously, “and you will lose that hand, Maglos.”

  “Save your threats, Duke Arthur,” Cerdic sneered, “you are not in authority here. The bargain is this: the grain you have stolen from each of us for the life of your minion, Bors. I make this offer once, and once only. What do you say? I will wait while you confer with your advisors. But I warn you, do not keep me waiting long.”

  “Since you are so impatient, I give you my answer at once. Hear me now: kill Bors and his warband if that is what you intend. For I have vowed that none of you will ever so much as see a kernel of that grain, except under one condition.”

  The smile left Cerdic’s face. He turned and spoke a few hasty words to his allies. “What is this condition of yours?” asked Cerdic.

  “Swear fealty to me, and renew your pledge of support. Then, when you have paid the tribute that you owe into the war chest of Britain, I will give you back your grain.”

  “Never!” spat Cerdic. “I will never swear fealty to you!”

  “Then you will not have the grain.”

  “I will kill him!” screamed Cerdic, thrusting a finger at Bors.

  “Do what you will with him. I will not trade the grain for anything except the fealty and tribute promised me.”

  “You value the grain more than his life?” demanded Idris incredulously.

  “I value the life of my friend no less than I value my own. But I value Britain above all. This war between us will be ended.” Arthur spoke boldly and with supreme assurance. “The grain stays here until you swear the oath of fealty to me.”

  “May it rot in your mouth!” cried Cerdic. “I will burn this fortress to the ground.”

  “And then what will you tell your people when the winter hunger gnaws at their bellies? What will you tell them when their children starve?” replied Arthur in a voice as cold as the tomb.

  Idris and Maglos winced; it was not in them to support Cerdic to the hurt of their people. Indeed, I believe they had grown weary of supporting him and wanted to make an end.

  “Well, Cerdic? I am waiting. What is it to be?”

  Cerdic writhed with indecision.

  “You have lost, Cerdic,” said Bors through bloodied lips. “Give in with honor.”

  “No! I can still fight. We will fight you and take back what is ours.”

  “We have fought all summer, Cerdic, as we have each summer for four years. I tell you there will be an end to this war between us.”

  “Not while I have breath to curse you!”

  The day had grown cold, and the mist had turned to a light rain. Idris and Maglos glanced at one another uneasily. They were cold and dispirited. They had reached the end of their patience and endurance, and wanted nothing more than to be done with it.

  “Lord,” began Idris, “we have no choice but to do as he says.”

  “He is right,” Maglos added; “let us end it here and now.”

  “Do you desert me, too? Be gone then. Take your men. I will fight him alone.” Cerdic’s eyes flashed with hatred and the sudden light of desperate inspiration. “What say you, Disgrace of Britain? Will you fight me for it? Or are you the coward men say you are?”

  “I am not afraid to fight you, Cerdic.”

  “Then come out from behind your walls and we will fight.”

  “No, Artos,” said Cai. “Allow me to fight in your place.”

  “Peace, brother,” replied Arthur. “It will be well.”

  “You are not going to fight him,” Bedwyr said. “He is already beaten. Idris and Maglos are deserting him. He has lost.”

  Arthur shook his head sharply. “He does not know it. And I will not suffer him to leave this place to continue his treason against me. Those who support Cerdic must know that they have failed at last. I tell you the truth, I will have the fealty of all or the fealty of none.”

  So saying, the Duke turned back to Cerdic. “I will fight you, Cerdic. If you win, you can take back the grain. But if I win, you will make an oath of fealty to me. Do you agree?”

  “I agree,” answered Cerdic hastily. “Let us begin.”

  * * *

  At Arthur’s command the gates of Caer Melyn were opened and Cerdic, Idris, Maglos, and Bors entered. “Unbind him,” Arthur told them. Idris drew his knife and cut the thongs at Bors’ wrists.

  Then Arthur mounted his horse and, taking up his sword and shield, called out to all of us gathered around him, “Hear me now, Cymbrogi! If I am killed let no one lift a hand against Cerdic. I am not to be avenged. Let all men among you avow it.”

  The warriors answered in a single voice, “Let it be as you say!”

  With this, Arthur gathered up the reins and turned to meet Cerdic, who had taken his place across the yard.

  Bedwyr turned to my master. “Myrddin, stop this. Nothing good can come of it.”

  “Oh, a very great good can come of it. For if Arthur wins he will have won Britain. That is worth the risk, I think.”

  Bedwyr appealed to me, but I knew better than to try persuading Merlin once he had spoken his mind—as soon persuade a mountain to uproot, or a stream to reverse its course. “Let be, Bedwyr,” I told him. “Have faith.”

  “I have faith in Arthur,” he replied. “But I trust Cerdic not at all.”

  The two combatants turned to face one another. We formed a hollow ring around them. The rain came down and we stood there silently, waiting for the deadly contest to begin.

  Here is the way of it:

  Cerdic urges his horse forward and begins trotting around the perimeter of the ring, slow
ly at first, but gathering pace as he goes. Arthur does likewise, and they circle one another, around and around, circling, circling, taking the measure of one another.

  Suddenly Cerdic turns his mount and drives to the center of the ring. Arthur is not caught, for in the same instant he throws his reins to the side and flies to meet Cerdic head on.

  The clash of their meeting rings sharp in our ears; the shock of the blow shakes the ground beneath our feet. Cerdic is thrown back in his saddle. The horses leap away at once. Cerdic circles again. His face is set, intense.

  As before, they chase one another around the ring and then turn and fly toward one another at full gallop.

  The air is rent with the force of their collision. Swords flash. Arthur sways in the saddle. Cerdic’s horse stumbles to its knees, and the king topples to the ground.

  The Cymbrogi shout with loud acclaim. They think that Arthur has won. But Cerdic is on his feet, his sword before him, his shield ready. His face is grim. Arthur is stronger than he knew.

  There is hatred in his eyes still, but now there is also fear.

  Arthur quits the saddle and slides lightly to the ground. He advances on Cerdic.

  As they close, Cerdic looses a wild cry and throws himself forward, hewing with his sword. Striking, striking, again and again with the fury of madness. Arthur thrusts his shield before him and is beaten back.

  Each blow of Cerdic’s sword bites deep into Arthur’s shield. The wood splinters, the metal is rent. Now the boss is cleft, and now the rim. Pieces of it fall away.

  Arthur!

  With a mighty effort Cerdic heaves his sword over his head and slashes down. Arthur’s broken shield is split asunder. Cerdic raises his sword once more. It hovers in the air before falling.

  Arthur flings the remains of his shield away. His arm is bloody where Cerdic’s sword has bitten through. Cerdic’s sword slices the air as it slashes toward Arthur’s unprotected chest.

  Watch out!

  But Arthur is quicker than Cerdic kens. The Sword of Britain flicks out and up, meeting Cerdic’s stroke in the air. The sound is that of the hammer striking the anvil.

  Cerdic’s arm shudders with the force of the blow, and the point of his sword wavers. Arthur leaps upon his foe, beating him down. Cerdic falls back, throwing his sword above his head to ward off the withering blows raining upon him.

  “Yield, Cerdic!” cries Arthur, raising the Sword of Macsen above his head.

  “Never!” shouts Cerdic defiantly. And slashing carelessly with his blade, he catches Arthur on the hip.

  With a tremendous groan Arthur brings his weapon down. It falls like lightning from the grey sky. And like lightning it divides the air. Cerdic throws the shield over his head to save his skull. Arthur’s blade catches the shield boss squarely in the center, and Cerdic’s arm collapses. The shield’s iron rim strikes Cerdic on the forehead, and he drops like a dead man.

  The fight is over.

  But there is no cheering. No great cry of acclaim celebrates Arthur’s victory. Silence steals over the throng. For we have all seen what Arthur himself does not yet see.

  Arthur turns and raises his sword in triumph. And then he sees: the Sword of Britain is shattered.

  13

  Arthur brooded over the loss of Macsen’s sword. True, he had won Britain—at Cerdic’s defeat the rebel lords quickly abandoned the rebellion and made their peace—but that offered less consolation than it might have. The reason for his distress was simple enough: by losing the Sword of Britain, he felt that he had also lost his rightful claim to the throne. This was nonsense, and Merlin told him so. But Arthur heeded him not.

  So it was a long winter for him. And for us all.

  “This cannot be allowed to continue,” Merlin said in exasperation one day. “Look at him! He sits there moping like a hound banished from the hearth. If this keeps up, his sour mood will poison the whole realm.”

  It was nearing midwinter and the time of the Christ Mass was close at hand. I pointed this out and said, “Perhaps a feast to celebrate the holy day would cheer him.”

  “He needs another sword, not a feast.”

  “Well, let us get him one then.”

  Merlin made to reply, but thought better of it. He paused, holding his head to one side, then all at once burst out, “Yes! That is exactly what we will do. Bless you, Pelleas. In years to come all Britain will sing your praises!”

  All well and good. But two days later I wished I had never opened my mouth.

  * * *

  Freezing mist clung to the hillsides and hung above us as we made our way through the long, meandering glens. The wind remained light out of the north, thankfully, but that little went straight to the bone and stayed there. The horses plodded through the snow in the valleys, blowing clouds of vapor from their nostrils. I tucked my hands beneath the saddle pad to keep them warm against the steaming horseflesh. Arthur and Merlin rode ahead, wrapped chin to knee in long, heavy winter cloaks, stiff with cold.

  Our only glimpse of daylight the whole miserable day came just before dusk when, as we crested a steep, heathered hill, the clouds parted in the west and we saw the deep red blush of the dying sun.

  It was the fourth day, and we had traveled little more than half the expected distance. Our spirits were low. But with the light came hope. For in the last rays of the sun we glimpsed a settlement in the valley below. At least we would not be forced to sleep on the ground.

  “We will seek shelter there for the night,” said Merlin. “It is long since I was forced to sing for my supper. This night, of all nights, I hope we do not go hungry.”

  I was not worried. I had never known a song of Merlin’s to disappoint. “We will not starve,” I assured him grimly. “If all else fails, I will sing!”

  Arthur laughed, and it was the first lifting of our hearts all day.

  The clouds closed in again, darkening the glen. The wind stirred, biting cold. We urged our horses to a trot and made for the settlement.

  Upon reaching the cluster of stone houses beside the clear-running stream, we were met by a large, black, barking dog. We reined up and waited for the animal’s yelps to summon someone, and presently a brown-braided young girl appeared.

  No more than six or seven summers, she threw her arms around the dog’s neck and chided it. “Tyrannos! Be quiet!”

  The beast subsided under the child’s insistence, and Merlin, leaning low in the saddle, addressed the girl, saying, “I give you good day, my child.”

  “Who are you?” she asked frankly, eyeing the harp-shaped hump under the leather wrap behind Merlin’s saddle. Curious how children always saw that first.

  “We are travellers. And we are cold and hungry. Is there room at your hearth this night?”

  She did not answer, but spun on her heel and dashed back to the house. I caught her shout as she disappeared behind the ox-hide hanging in the doorway. “The Emrys! The Emrys is here!”

  Merlin shook his head in astonishment. “Has it come to this?” he wondered. “Even small children know me by sight.”

  “There are not so many harpers hereabouts,” Arthur suggested, indicating the telltale bulge behind Merlin’s saddle. “And there is only one Emrys, after all.”

  “Be that as it may, I would rather the whole of the island did not know our every move.”

  “Be at peace, Worrier,” replied Arthur good-naturedly. “It is a harmless thing.” He stretched in the saddle, and eyed the rapidly darkening sky. The rising wind whined on the hilltops—a cold, forlorn sound. “I wish someone would take an interest in us.”

  He had his wish. A moment later, the flint-chip yard was full of people. We were greeted by a man named Bervach, who welcomed us warmly. “It is not a day for travelling, my lords. Come in by the fire and we will chase the cold from your bones. There is meat on the spit and drink in the skin.”

  “We accept your hospitality,” replied Merlin, climbing down from the saddle. “Your kindness will be repaid.”

&
nbsp; The man grinned happily, showing a wide gap between his front teeth. “Never say it! The Emrys does not pay to sleep beneath the roof of Bervach ap Gevayr.” Despite his words, the man could not help himself; his eyes stole to the bundle behind the saddle, and his grin widened.

  “Nevertheless, you shall have a reward,” promised Merlin. He winked at me, and I loosened the harp from the saddle and cradled it under my arm as the horses were led away to fodder.

  “It is not a day for travelling,” repeated Bervach as we stooped to enter the low-beamed house. “The wind on the hills can chill the marrow. Come in, friends, and be welcome.”

  Arthur strode to a wide, deep hearth that occupied the whole of one wall. He stood before the hearth and held out his hands, sighing with pleasure as the warmth seeped in.

  Bervach watched Arthur for a moment, curiosity glinting in his eyes. “I feel I should know this one with you,” he said to Merlin by way of coaxing a name from him. When Merlin did not rise to the bait, he added, “Yet, I have never set eyes to him before now.”

  I saw the quick clash between pride and prudence mirrored in Merlin’s glance. He desired to keep Arthur’s identity hidden—we were not in our own lands, and Arthur still had enemies. And yet Merlin wanted men to know and esteem Arthur, for their respect and devotion would one day be required.

  The contest was brief. Pride won.

  “Since you ask,” replied Merlin, “I will tell you who it is that stands before your fire: Arthur ap Aurelius, Duke of Britain.”

  Bervach’s eyebrows lifted at this knowledge. “I owned him a lord the moment I saw him.” He nodded slowly, then with a shrug dismissed Arthur, saying, “I have heard of this Duke Arthur, though I did not think to see one so young. But come, I stand here between you and the fire. Go now. I will fetch a warming draught.” It was clear who counted with Bervach.

  We joined Arthur at the hearth. A rosy fire crackled smartly beneath a long spit, bending beneath the weight of the great haunch roasting there. The aroma of venison filled the single large room. Smoke hung thick, sifting its way out slowly through the heavy reed thatch of the roof. Barley loaves baked in neat rows in a corner of the hearth.