Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

  Great Heaven! Gwenhwyvar fell! Four big barbarians drove her down with spears…I could not look.

  But the queen’s fall did not go unnoticed. From out of nowhere faithful Llenlleawg appeared. He heaved his spear through the stomach of the largest Pict. The others fell back momentarily, and the fearless Irishman threw himself from the saddle, snatched up Gwenhwyvar, and lifted her to his horse.

  The queen, holding the bloody shaft of a broken spear, threw the useless weapon aside, and her champion pressed his sword into her hand. The enemy rushed in again. Llenlleawg turned to face them. He leaped onto the back of the foremost Pict, hacking with his knife, and was carried down as the body fell. That was the last I saw of him.

  Gwenhwyvar, saved from one death, now faced another. Three more Picti flew at her even as she wheeled to Llenlleawg’s aid. Two thrust at her with spears while the other jabbed at the legs of her mount. With one chop of her sword she neatly lopped the spearhead from the shaft, at the same time lifting the reins and bringing the horse’s forelegs off the ground. One swift hoof caught the attacker just behind the ear. His skull cracked like an egg, and he fell dead to the ground.

  The two remaining Picti lunged desperately. The queen knocked their spears aside with the rim of Arthur’s shield, and drew her sword across their throats in a single sweeping stroke. They dropped their spears and clutched at their bubbling wounds.

  Gwenhwyvar rode over them as she flew to Arthur’s side once more. Bors and Rhys had joined them, and together the four pushed deeper into the tumult, where Gwalcmai and Gwalchavad had become surrounded. Those two fought like giants! But spears thrust and hands reached up, and I saw Gwalcmai hauled from the saddle and overwhelmed.

  Gwalchavad fought on alone. Could no one save him?

  I scanned the battlefield and suddenly saw the Emrys leading the remaining hostages into position behind Keldrych. The Picti, so eager to attack Arthur, had left them on the hillside. They had swiftly succeeded in freeing themselves from their bonds and were now entering the fight at the enemy’s back, using weapons retrieved from the dead on the ground.

  Surely now, I thought, the Picti warhost will attack. But they stayed on the hilltop, never moving forward so much as a step.

  The hostages joined the battle with a shout. Keldrych turned to meet them, and this was his undoing. There were fewer than ten hostages, and they were on foot. More dangerous by far were the Flight of Dragons still driving into the Picti ranks. But the barbarian warband was in disarray, lurching about in confusion, flailing uselessly with their weapons.

  Perhaps he thought that subduing the Britons on foot would hearten his remaining warband—numbering less than twenty now. Or perhaps he hoped to take the Emrys hostage once more and force Arthur to grant him quarter. I cannot say, but turning away from the Pendragon was a deadly mistake. Keldrych did not live to make another.

  For the Pendragon saw the Pict chieftain turn, and in the same instant struck. Caliburnus cut a terrible swath. No one could stand against the invincible blade in Arthur’s hands. Too late Keldrych learned of Arthur’s progress. He swung around, his sword sweeping in a deadly arc. Arthur deflected the blow with his shield and drove in with the point of his sword as Keldrych’s arm swung wide.

  The Picti chieftain gaped in astonishment as Caliburnus pierced him through the heart. Keldrych toppled backward to the ground; both heels drummed on the earth.

  “The battle is won!” I cried. “Did you see it? Arthur has won!”

  The cheer died on my lips as Cador drew his sword and pointed to the hilltops across the glen: the great Picti warhost was forming the battleline on the hilltop, and the foremost ranks were already moving slowly down into Camlan to attack.

  “Cymbrogi!” called Cador, raising his sword. His call was relayed, and I heard the ring of steel all down the line as the Britons readied themselves to meet the foe. On the hilltop to our left, Ban’s forces rose up in battle array, sunlight gleaming on their bright-burnished helms, spears clustered thick like a forest of young trees.

  Fifteen thousand British stood to meet the foemen. Someone in one of the ranks somewhere began beating on his shield with the haft of his spear—the age-old challenge to combat. Another joined his sword brother, and another, and more and more, until the entire British warhost was beating on their shields. The sound rolled across the narrow valley like thunder and echoed in the hills round about.

  I felt the drumming pulse in my stomach and brain and rise up through the soles of my feet. My heart beat wildly in my chest. I opened my mouth and combined my howl of jubilation with the din. It seemed to me that the sound poured up from my throat and spread out across the hills like the great and terrible voice of doom.

  Though the Picti host greatly outnumbered the Pendragon’s forces, we had six thousand horses with us. This, I think, and not our war cry—terrifying though it was—is what decided the Picti in the end. Nor do I fault them. Indeed, it would have been the height of folly to lightly disregard the horse-mounted warriors of the Pendragon’s ala. It has been said that a warrior on horseback is worth ten men on foot, and there is wisdom in the saying.

  Besides, it had been Medraut’s and Keldrych’s rebellion, and both those traitors were dead. Any allegiance owed died with them. Even for the Picti, it took more than the lure of plunder to make death appealing.

  So, as the battle of Camlan ground to its bloody end, the entire army of the rebel Picti simply turned and melted away, fading once more into the northern hills. When Arthur was at last able to raise his eyes from the slaughter before him, the enemy had vanished. The rebellion was over.

  9

  Rhys raised the victory call, and we answered it with the cry of triumph which shook the very hills. Clattering spear and sword on shield rims, and thrusting weapons in the air, we shouted for joy. Then all at once we were flying down the steep slope to join the Pendragon in the valley below. Men racing, horses galloping, the warhost sweeping down to embrace the victors.

  I shouted myself hoarse, running and running, relief and joy lifting me up. I cried my joy to the dazzling sky above, to the Great Giver, the All-Wise Redeemer who had not abandoned us to our enemies. I raced down the rocky slope, the tears flowing from my eyes.

  All around me were glad Britons raising the victory cry. The rebellion had been crushed, Medraut was dead. The Picti had fled and would trouble us no more.

  Breathless, I reached the glen and splashed across the stream where I immediately came upon a group of Britons gathered tight around someone lying on the ground. A horse stood by, the saddle empty. I wormed into the crowd, now grown suddenly silent, and heard a familiar voice complaining.

  “It is nothing—a scratch! Let me up, God love you. I can stand…”

  I pressed closer and glimpsed a shock of red hair. Cai.

  The Boar of Battle was lying against a stone, his legs splayed out before him. He seemed to be struggling to rise, but no one would help him. I wondered at this and then saw the wicked gash in the battlechief’s thigh.

  “Rest you a moment,” one of the men said. “The Emrys should tend you.”

  “Then let me up!” Cai said. “I will not have him find me flat on my back. I can stand.”

  “Your leg…”

  “Tie it up with something. Quickly! I must go to Arthur.”

  One of the men was already working to bind the wound with a bit of cloth. I backed from the throng and ran stumbling over the corpse-strewn battleground to the Emrys, whom I found at last, binding a warrior’s broken arm. “Wise Emrys!” I called. “Hurry! Cai is wounded! Please!”

  He turned aside at once. “Take me to him!”

  I led him to the stream where the group waited with Cai. The Emrys hastened to the place; upon reaching it, the crowd parted to admit him and closed again. I pushed in after him and thrust myself to the front in time to see Myrddin stooping over Cai, whose face was now pale as a winter moon.

  “I can stand, God love you!”

  “Cai,?
?? the Emrys soothed, “it is bad.”

  “It is but a scratch,” he protested, but his protest was weaker now. “The heathen slashed wild. He barely touched me.” The great warrior made to push himself up; he grabbed at the Emrys, who held him. Blood pooled on the ground.

  “Easy, my friend,” said the Emrys in a low, commanding tone. He tightened the strip of cloth around Cai’s leg just above the knee.

  “Are you telling me I am hurt?”

  “The wound is deeper than you know, Cai.”

  “Well, bind it then. I must go to Arthur.”

  The Emrys glanced up quickly, saw me, and said, “Bring Arthur at once.” Distracted by the change in Cai’s appearance, I hesitated, but only for an instant. “Go!” Myrddin urged. “Hurry!”

  I turned and ran without thinking, saw the gleam of the red-gold dragon standard, and made for it, dodging among the crowds of jubilant warriors thronging the glen. “Please, my lord,” I gasped, pushing my way through the press around Arthur. “Cai is wounded,” I blurted. “The Emrys said to come at once.”

  Arthur turned. “Where is he?”

  I pointed across the glen. “Over there by the stream. The Emrys is with him.”

  The king mounted the nearest horse, slapped the reins, and raced over the field. By the time I returned to the place, Cai was unable to lift his head. He lay cradled in the crook of Arthur’s arm, and the Pendragon of Britain smoothed his brow. “I am too old for this, Bear.”

  “Never say it, brother,” said Arthur in a choked voice.

  “Na, do not take on so. We walked the land as kings, did we not?”

  “That we did, Cai.”

  “What man needs more?”

  Tears glinted in the High King’s eyes. “Farewell, Caius ap Ectorius,” he said softly.

  “Farewell,” whispered Cai. He raised a trembling hand, and Arthur clasped it to him. “God be good to you, Bear.” His voice was little more than a breath on the wind, and then that, too, was gone.

  Arthur Pendragon knelt long beside the body of his friend, their hands clasped in a last pledge of loyalty. Cai stared upward into the face of his king, the color already fading from his deep green eyes. A small, satisfied smile still lingered on his lips.

  “Farewell, my brother,” Arthur murmured. “May it go well with you on your journey hence.”

  Then the High King laid the body gently down and stood. “Bring a wagon. We will take him to the shrine. I will not see him buried in this place.”

  The Pendragon ordered Cai’s body to be sewn in deer-skins and placed on the wagon. As this was being done, Bedwyr appeared, ashen-faced, leading his horse. A body was slumped across the saddle. I took one look and sank to my knees on the ground.

  Arthur met him and without a word gathered Gwalcmai’s broken body from the saddle and lifted it down. The bloody stub of a broken arrow protruded from his chest just above the protecting mail shirt. His face was smeared with blood, as were his hands where he had tugged in vain at the arrow, succeeding only in snapping it off.

  “Where is Gwalchavad?” asked Bedwyr gently. “I will tell him.” Then he saw the wagon and the men arranging the body there. “Cai!”

  Bedwyr walked stiffly to the wagon and stood with eyes closed before it. Then he took Cai’s cold hand in his and held it to his heart. After a long moment he turned and walked away.

  I stayed to help with the wagon, and a little while later Bedwyr returned with Gwalchavad’s body across his saddle. Gently, Bedwyr lifted the body of his sword brother and placed it beside that of Gwalcmai. Bitter were the deaths of these champions, whose lives the hateful Medraut had claimed as his blood debt.

  Arthur stood looking on in sorrow as we wrapped the corpses in deerskin. Myrddin returned, noticed the blood on the Pendragon’s war shirt, and told him, “Sit down, Arthur. You have been wounded. Let me see to it.”

  “Peace,” replied Arthur, “it is nothing. Care for the others.” He turned his gaze to the battleground once more. “Where is Gwenhwyvar?”

  Arthur found the queen clinging to the body of her kinsman, Llenlleawg. She raised tearful eyes at her husband’s approach. “He is dead,” she said softly. “Protecting me.”

  Arthur knelt down beside her on the ground and put his arm around her shoulders. “Cai is dead,” he told her. “And Gwalcmai and Gwalchavad.” He regarded the queen’s champion with sorrow. “And Llenlleawg.”

  At these doleful tidings Gwenhwyvar lowered her face into her hands and wept. After a time, she drew breath and composed herself, saying, “As dark as this day is to me, it would be a thousand times darker still if you had been killed.” She paused, put a hand to Arthur’s face and kissed him. “I knew you would come for me, my soul.”

  “I should not have gone away,” the High King said in a voice full of regret. “My pride and vanity have caused the death of my most noble friends. I will bear their deaths as a weight upon my heart forever.”

  “You must not speak so,” Gwenhwyvar scolded lightly. “Medraut is to blame, and he will answer to God for his crimes.”

  Arthur nodded. “As I will answer for mine.”

  “Where is Cai? And the others—where are they?”

  “I have ordered a wagon to be made ready. They will be taken to the rotunda and buried there as is fitting,” he answered. “I cannot bear to leave them here.”

  “It is right,” agreed Gwenhwyvar, and then noticed Arthur’s wound for the first time. “Artos—my love, you are bleeding!”

  “But a scratch,” he said. “Come, we must look after our dead.”

  Of Medraut’s hostages, only myself, the Emrys, and Gwenhwyvar remained; the others died in the fight when they attacked Keldrych. These were brought to a place on the hillside below the fortress. A single massive grave was dug, and the bodies of our sword brothers carefully placed in it. The Emrys prayed and sang holy Psalms as we raised the gorsedd, the burial cairn, over them.

  The corpses of the enemy we left to the wolves and ravens. Their bones would be scattered by the beasts, with never so much as a single rock to mark the place where they fell.

  A little past midday, the Pendragon assembled the warhost. Rhys sounded the march, and we began making our slow way back to Caer Lial, moving westward along the Wall, each step heavy with grief and slow.

  * * *

  The bodies of the renowned battlechiefs were carried to Caer Lial where they were placed on torchlit biers in what remained of the hall of the Pendragon’s palace. Much of Arthur’s beloved city lay in ruins: the Picti did not restrain themselves in any way, but freely destroyed all they touched.

  The next morning we departed for the Round Table. Out of respect for the holiness of the shrine, and the secret of its location, only the lords of Britain and Arthur’s subject kings—the Nine Worthies—were allowed to attend the funeral at the shrine. The Emrys bade me accompany him, through no merit of my own. He required someone to serve him, and since I knew well the location of the rotunda it would save entrusting another with the secret.

  The day dawned fair, the sun a dazzling white disk as we passed through the gates and out upon the road. The lords rode two by two; the four wagons followed, each one covered with a crimson cloak for a pall, and drawn by a black horse with a single raven’s feather set in a golden war cap.

  I did not continue with the funeral procession, but once through the gates traveled on ahead, driving one of the big supply wains. Upon reaching the shrine, I unloaded the tents and set about raising them so that when the others arrived, the camp would be ready. I went about my work quickly and with the sense that I was giving a good gift to my friends, that my labor was a devotion.

  When I finished, the tents encircled the shrine and the camp was established. As I began unloading the provisions, the procession arrived. At once I fell to preparing food for them. Some of the lords helped me with this task, while the others saw to arranging the rotunda where the bodies of our beloved sword brothers would lie in state until their burial the next m
orning.

  When the meal was ready, I carried a portion to the Pendragon’s tent where the High King and Queen had withdrawn to rest. Then I sat down myself to eat. But as I glanced around I noticed that Myrddin was not among us, and remembered that I had not seen him emerge from the shrine. I put down my bowl and quickly walked up to the rotunda.

  I entered the cool, dim interior. A small fire burned in the center of the rotunda and a torch at the head of each bier. I saw that the bodies had been placed, each on its bier beneath the ledge bearing their names, and their weapons—sword, spear, and shield—arranged on the ledge. The Emrys knelt beside Cai’s cloak-covered body, unwrapping the leather bundle which contained the stone-carving tools.

  “I have prepared food, Emrys,” I said.

  “I am not hungry, Aneirin.” He picked up the scribe, turned to the ledge at hand, and began with practiced strokes to incise the death date below Cai’s name. It broke my heart to see the iron bite into the stone, for once in stone it could never be otherwise.

  “Shall I bring something to you here?”

  “I will eat nothing until I have finished this work,” he answered. “Leave me now.”

  Throughout the rest of the day we held vigil in prayer. As the first twilight stars appeared in the sky, the Emrys emerged from the rotunda. Arthur and Gwenhwyvar joined us, and I saw that the death of his friends had visibly weakened the Pendragon. He appeared haggard and ill-rested, despite keeping to his tent.

  Nor was I the only one to observe this, for I saw Bedwyr lead the Emrys aside to exchange a private word. And Bedwyr’s eyes did not leave Arthur the whole time.

  We ate a simple meal before the fire, and listened to the larksong in the darkling sky above us. Night stole over the camp, and Arthur ordered the fire to be built up and called for a song. “A song, Myrddin,” he said. “Let us hear something of the valor of brave men—in memory of the friends we bury tomorrow.”

  The Emrys consented and took up his harp to play an elegy for the departed. He sang The Valiant of Britain, which he had first sung following the victory at Mount Baedun, and to which he added the lifesongs of Cai, Gwalcmai, Gwalchavad, and Llenlleawg. If there was ever a more beautiful or heartfelt lament, I never heard it.