Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

“It is the same thing with them. Do you not know this? By accepting her, you are agreeing to marry her. Fergus would not have given her to you otherwise.”

  Arthur gaped stupidly at his Wise Counsellor.

  “Well? Nothing to say, Mighty Duke? Did such a thing never occur to you?”

  “On my life, I confess that it did not,” replied Arthur indignantly.

  “It is true. This champion, Llenlleawg—he is Fergus’ champion, yes; but he is the queen’s protector first. And the gift of gold—her people’s wealth,” said Myrddin in a softer tone. “Arthur, it is her bride gift, and a greater gift could not be made. Fergus honors you highly—perhaps too highly.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Arthur suspiciously.

  “Among the Irish the kingship is passed through the woman to her husband.”

  “Ha!” I crowed. “You would be king of Ierne, Bear! Think of that!”

  “It is no small thing!” snapped Myrddin. To Arthur he said, “Think! The High King of Britain must have a British wife.”

  Arthur glared at me and stiffened. “That is my decision, surely. No man will tell me whom I shall take to wife.”

  “Your arrogance will cost you the High Kingship. The lords of Britain will never own you king with an Irish queen for your wife. By accepting Fergus’ daughter, you are declaring her above all the noble women of Britain, and so exalting Fergus above all the kings of Britain.”

  The Duke folded his arms across his chest. “Then so be it! What British king has ever treated me with half so much respect as this enemy has done?”

  “Think what you are doing, Arthur. Give her back to Fergus,” Myrddin urged.

  “My honor will not allow it!”

  “It is pride you are talking about, not honor,” Myrddin Emrys told him flatly. “If you take this woman your precious honor will be ruined beyond all hope of repair. It will mean your kingdom and much else besides.”

  The Duke glared at us, but said nothing.

  “Please, do as your Wise Counsellor suggests and think about it, at least,” I told him, “before you do something we will all regret.”

  Myrddin and I left him there alone. “Will he heed us, do you think?” I asked.

  “The truth? No, I do not expect that he will,” the Emrys said. Something in his voice made me wonder: sadness? despair? What did he foresee from this? Why would he not speak it out?

  Well, he is like that. I do not presume to reckon his ways.

  Arthur did not back down, and he did not decline Fergus mac Guillomar’s tribute, though it would have saved him much pain and not a little peace of mind to do so. But then, in so doing he would not be Arthur.

  Fergus also brought another gift—no less valuable in its own way: news, which he shared with us over meat that night.

  The Picti, he said, were massing in the northern wastes and appeared likely to strike southward before the summer was out. Ships had been seen slinking along the western coast and darting among the western islands. “They seek blood vengeance for the defeat you gave them in Celyddon,” Fergus suggested. “I would not be surprised if the Angli join them in this. They will have nursed their defeat into hatred through the winter.”

  “Have you word that the Angli will attack?” asked Arthur.

  Fergus wagged his head from side to side. “I do not. Neither do I have word that day will dawn in the east, yet I think it unwise to assume differently.”

  Arthur thanked Fergus for these tidings, and nothing more was said at the time. But three days later, as the Irish made ready to leave, Arthur called Gwalchavad to him. “Ready the remaining ships. We are sailing north with the tide.”

  This he did as Cai and Bors assembled the warband. Myrddin and I held council with the Duke in his chambers. “Wait at least until the kings can attend you,” I said. “We should not be seen rushing into an ambush.”

  “You doubt Fergus?”

  “I do not doubt Fergus, but neither do I trust the Picti. We must strike quickly, I agree—but we must strike with force.”

  “Every day we delay, the enemy grows more daring. We will guard the coasts and harry them until the other kings join us.”

  Myrddin leaned forward on his staff. “It is not too late, Arthur. Send the woman and her protector back with Fergus. I will do it, if you like. Fergus will have no cause for offense.”

  The Duke replied softly, “I have given my word. I will not take it back.” That was the end of it certainly. But Myrddin was not finished.

  “If you are determined, Arthur, let the lady and her treasure be escorted to Ynys Avallach. She will be safe there, and out of the way. My mother will welcome the company—perhaps she may even educate this fiery maid to some British manners.”

  Arthur happily accepted this suggestion. “So be it, Myrddin. I bow to your counsel.”

  I was less than pleased, for in the same breath Arthur turned to me and said, “You will take Gwenhwyvar to the Glass Isle, Bedwyr.”

  “Me? Arthur, be reasonable! It is no fit task for a battlechief. You will need me with you. Let someone else go. Send Cai, or better yet, send Bors—he deems himself a hero with women. Any of your warriors will serve as well.”

  Arthur clapped a big paw onto my shoulder. “It must be you, my brother. I will not insult Fergus or his daughter by sending less of a man than my own champion.”

  “It seems to me you put too much faith in that Irish rogue,” I grumbled. “You worry more about imagined offense to your enemies than genuine insults to your friends.”

  Sooner pour out your heart to a stone; I grumbled to no avail. Arthur’s mind was made and he would not be moved. I had no choice but to strike off at once for Ynys Avallach.

  If I was unhappy with the arrangement, Gwenhwyvar was furious. She saw the preparations for battle and fully expected to fight. To be indifferently hauled away like a sack of grain kindled her wrath full well. I have never seen a woman so angry.

  Her eyes blazed and her cheeks and throat blushed crimson. One look at the horse standing saddled before her and she dug in her heels. Her fingers became claws and her tongue a sharp and skillful lash with which she flayed the ears of those around her—Arthur especially, I think, as his name bubbled to the surface regularly. Unfortunately, much of her complaint was in the Irish tongue, so I did not understand the finer shadings, but the general flow was manifestly clear.

  I lightly touched her arm to move her toward the horse and almost lost my hand. Her knife was out and in her hand quicker than a flick. She turned on me, livid and spitting. The dagger would have found its home in my heart if Llenlleawg had not put himself between Gwenhwyvar and me at that moment.

  He spoke a sharp word or two, and she subsided. The dagger slipped back to its sheath. Without another glance the queen swung herself into the saddle and jerked the reins smartly.

  The Irishman turned to me. “It was not seemly…I am sorry.”

  His apology took me aback. “It does not matter. But I want no further trouble.”

  “I am your servant, Lord Bedwyr.”

  “You know me?”

  “Who has not heard of Bedwyr, Bright Avenger, Swift Sword of Arthur?” Llenlleawg moved away at once and mounted his horse. I stood looking after the tall young Irishman and wondering how far I could trust him. They are known to be a deceitful and wicked race, and the truth is not in them. Still, I wondered.

  We left Caer Melyn at once. I wanted to deliver the hostages to Ynys Avallach and return as quickly as possible so that I could join Arthur in the north. Therefore, I took only three others with me, and we hurried down to the shipyard at Abertaff where we boarded one of the smaller ships to cross Mor Hafren.

  Once aboard ship, Gwenhwyvar went to the prow and stood there rigid, arms folded across her breast, face set, eyes staring straight ahead. If she had been carved of solid stone, she could not have been more adamant and unyielding.

  I took Barinthus, Arthur’s foremost pilot, because after leaving Ynys Avallach I wanted a swift journey no
rth. Barinthus steered a close course and landed us well up the Briw River not far from the Glass Isle. We camped on the riverbank that night, and rode on to the Tor the next day. Gwenhwyvar maintained an active and hostile silence all the while.

  “You are welcome here,” said Charis graciously. “May the peace of Christ be with you.” Swathed in deepest green with a flowing mantle of shimmering gold, she seemed a queen of the Otherworld to my eyes. She greeted each one of us with a kiss, drawing us into the glimmering hall. At once I felt the gentling spirit of the place grace my soul.

  Gwenhwyvar, too, was cowed by Charis’ kindness and elegance. I prayed the Irish maid would remain so, and trusted that she would, for the Tor had already begun to work its mysterious enchantment upon us all.

  Much as I would have enjoyed sojourning in Avallach’s palace, Barinthus was waiting with the ship to take me back. So I left the hostages in the care of King Avallach and the Lady of the Lake and returned with the escort to the ship at dawn the next morning.

  Upon reaching the ship I hailed the pilot, and the men settled the horses aboard. But as Barinthus made to cast off, he stood suddenly and pointed at the track behind me. I swung around and saw Llenlleawg riding to join us.

  “You are to remain at Ynys Avallach!” I shouted as he came near, running forward as if to bar his way further.

  He gazed placidly down at me from the saddle. “I am the queen’s champion. She has commanded me to attend the Duke.”

  “And I have commanded you to stay!”

  He shrugged and climbed down from his horse. “It is my life to obey the queen,” he replied easily and, stepping around me, proceeded to take his horse onto the ship.

  I should have sent him back, but I was anxious to be away and was in no humor to argue with him in front of the men. “Arthur will deal with you,” I told him darkly, and let the matter rest there for the moment.

  I gave Barinthus the order, and we pushed off from the bank. We hastened away, reaching Mor Hafren with the tide-flow. Whereupon we turned west into the setting sun, hoisted sail, and made for the open sea.

  13

  The Picti had swarmed Caer Alclyd and seized the old fortress, intending to establish a stronghold against us. Like the Angli, they had abandoned open-field battle. They thought to secure themselves in the rock dun and make us root them out from behind stout walls.

  By the time I reached the plain below the rock, the battlelines were drawn and Arthur had laid siege to the fortress. He had not attacked the caer, but was inclined to let the siege run its course. This plan enjoyed a double benefit—the Duke would not risk warriors unnecessarily, and he could wait until the British kings joined him and his forces reached full strength.

  Ships rode in the Clyd, and warbands ringed the great grey rock as we sailed into the estuary. Arthur had camped to the north of the dun where he could oversee both the water and the rock, and I sought him out the moment my feet touched dry land. It was nearing dusk, and the clear northern light shone all honeyed and golden as I rode up the rise to his tent.

  He sat in his camp chair outside his tent talking to Cador, who had arrived earlier in the day with a warband of five hundred. Arthur rose as I slipped from the saddle. “Hail, Bedwyr, my brother! I give you good greeting!”

  “Hail, Bear of Britain! What do you here, my lord? You take your ease while the vile Picti thumb the nose at you?”

  “Better their noses than their arrows.” He wrapped me in a rough embrace and clapped me on the back. He broke off abruptly and said, “I thought to commend you, Bedwyr, but it appears praise might prove overhasty.”

  I glanced back over my shoulder and followed Arthur’s gaze to see lanky Llenlleawg trotting up the hill. He had followed me from the ship. “Oh, him,” I said. “I can explain.”

  “There is no need,” Arthur said. “I can see what has happened.” He stepped away from me and squared off to meet the headstrong Irishman, his face and manner becoming stern.

  But upon reaching the Duke, Llenlleawg threw himself from his horse and quickly drew his short sword, which he placed at Arthur’s feet, then stretched himself facedown upon the ground. Arthur turned to me, a curious smile on his lips. I spread my hands helplessly.

  Arthur observed the prostrate form before him. “Get you up, Irishman,” he said. “I will not demand your head—this time, at least.”

  Llenlleawg rose slowly, retrieved his sword, and replaced it beneath his cloak, keeping his dark eyes downcast all the while.

  “What have you to say?” demanded Arthur, not altogether severely.

  “On pain of death I am commanded to serve you, Lord Duke.”

  “Who has so commanded you?”

  Llenlleawg cocked his long head to one side, as if this should have been self-evident. “Queen Gwenhwyvar has commanded me.”

  “You are my hostage,” Arthur reminded him.

  “The Duke holds my freedom, but the queen holds my life,” the Irishman replied. “I am here to serve you, lord.”

  “What good is a servant that I cannot command?”

  “If I have displeased you, Lord Duke, I offer my life.” Llenlleawg made to withdraw his sword again.

  Arthur stopped him. “Put up your sword, Irish fool. You dull the edge dragging it out like that all the time.”

  Llenlleawg removed his hand and knelt on both knees before the Duke. “I am your man, Duke Arthur. I will swear fealty to you by whatever oaths your people hold most honorable. I will serve you faithfully in all things save one only: I will not harm, nor see harm done to the queen.”

  “Then arise and serve me with a whole heart, Irishman. For no harm will come to your queen through me as long as she remains in my care.”

  Cador stared at Arthur as if he had lost his sense. “You cannot think to take him at his word!” I charged. “They could be plotting against you, for all you know.”

  “So could you, Bedwyr,” Arthur replied. “So could Cador. Idris and Maglos and others already have!” He stretched forth a hand to Llenlleawg. “If you would pledge to me, swear by this: your faith on the life of your queen.”

  Still kneeling, the Irishman said, “I, Llenlleawg mac Dermaidh, pledge fealty to you on my life and the life of my queen, Gwenhwyvar ui Fergus. May both be forfeit if I prove false.”

  “There,” said Arthur. “Are you satisfied?” To Llenlleawg he said, “Take the horses to the picket, and then find yourself something to eat. You may return to me here when you have finished.”

  Arthur and Cador returned to discussing the siege, and I dragged up a camp stool and listened. Cador had come by nearly the identical route that I had travelled, and gave the same report. “We saw no ships at all, Duke Arthur,” Cador said. “Though the enemy can ply between the western islands with impunity and we would never see them.”

  “What word from the ships on the east coast?” I inquired.

  “No word yet. But I have sent messengers to Ectorius at Caer Edyn, informing him of my plans. They will return in a day or so with any news from that quarter.” Arthur paused, watching the stewards who had set about kindling his fire for the night. “But one thing troubles me in this…”

  “Which is?” I asked. The Duke gazed long at the dusky sky. Larksong spilled down from the blue heights. But for the smoke rising ominously from the great rock, I would have thought the world composed and perfectly at peace.

  “What do the Picti want with this fortress?” Arthur said at last. “It is nothing to them.”

  “Control Caer Alclyd,” Cador suggested, “and they can control the whole valley to the Fiorth.”

  “Not without Caer Edyn,” Arthur pointed out.

  “Perhaps they hope to win here and go on to take Caer Edyn as well.”

  “That is very ambitious of the Picti, is it not?”

  It was true. Though fierce, the Painted People were not known for cunning. A savage growl and a club to the skull—that was their way. Overpowering the guard and seizing a fortress was not like the Picti; the
y preferred slicing throats and slinking away into the forests and heathered moors.

  “What does it mean, Bear?” I asked.

  “It means, I think, that someone is directing them.”

  “Who?”

  Arthur lifted his shoulders. “That we shall have to discover.”

  Over the next few days the British battle lords began assembling on the Clyd: Owain, Idris, Ceredig, Ennion, Maelgwn, and Maglos. British ships filled the estuary and British warbands encircled Dun Rock on every side. The Picti did not seem discouraged or upset by this show of force. They kept themselves well hidden behind the walls and waited. When the first of Arthur’s messengers returned, we began to understand their unusual behavior.

  “Caer Edyn is besieged, Duke Arthur,” the messenger reported. The British chieftains gathered in council in Arthur’s tent fell silent. “I could not reach Lord Ectorius.”

  Cai, sitting next to me, leaped to his feet. “Ector besieged! Damn the heathen! Who has done this?”

  The messenger’s eyes shifted to Cai. “They were Angli, for all I could see. And some Picti.”

  “How did things appear at the caer?” asked Arthur. “Was there fighting?”

  “No fighting that I could see, lord. The stronghold appeared secure. I turned and rode straight back, but was twice delayed by warbands coming up from the south. I followed to see where they would go.”

  “What did you see?”

  “They were making for the old fortress at Trath Gwryd.”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed Arthur. “Then they have learned real warfare at last. Who has taught them this, I wonder?”

  “This is not the calculation of a barbarian mind,” remarked Myrddin. “Someone who has fought with British kings is leading this war.”

  Who could that be? Most of the nobility of Britain was either fighting alongside Arthur or supporting him. Only one was conspicuous by his absence: Lot. Could it be Lot? That made no sense—Lot had given us ships and shipwrights. His own sons had taken service in the Duke’s army. I glanced at Gwalchavad, who appeared just as concerned and angry as the rest of us. There was no guile in him, nor treachery that I could see—I would stake my life on it!