Pendragon

  The fight resumed and continued until pale twilight descended over the battleground. The day was spent and neither warrior had succeeded in gaining any advantage over the other. As before, I signaled Mercia and we approached the combatants with the offer of breaking off the battle and resuming the next day. Both men, weary beyond endurance, readily agreed; lowering their weapons, they stepped away from one another.

  I turned to summon Cai and Bedwyr to help Arthur, and Amilcar’s chieftains advanced to aid their king. The instant my head was turned, the Black Boar’s lance flashed out. I saw the swift movement of his arm and shouted: “Arthur!”

  The spearpoint caught Arthur in the upper shoulder. He fell forward with the force of the throw, his shield slamming to the ground. The spear glanced and dropped into the dust. Cai leaped forward, snatched up the shield, and placed himself between Arthur and Amilcar.

  Mercia, shouting wildly, rushed forward and took hold of Amilcar, pulling him away before he could strike again. Bedwyr and I, having reached Arthur, stooped to examine his wound. “It is nothing,” Arthur said, his teeth clenched. “Help me stand. It is nothing. Here, do not let the Cymbrogi see me so.”

  “Yes, yes, in a moment. I want to see the injury.” I reached a hand to the wound, but he shrugged away.

  “Myrddin! Help me stand! I will not be seen to lie here!”

  Bedwyr, white-faced with shock and rage, took Arthur by the uninjured arm and helped him to his feet. “The brute,” he growled. “Give me your sword, Artos; I will gut him like a hog.”

  “Stay, brother,” Arthur said, his voice calm and even. “It is nothing. I would not like him to think he has gained any advantage in this. Let him think I but stumbled at the spear-cast.”

  I looked across to the waiting Cymbrogi. Every eye was on their king; more than a few had drawn weapons and were prepared to attack. Gwenhwyvar was running to meet us, her expression caught between concern and fury. Arthur raised a hand to halt her, and waved her back.

  “Cai, Bedwyr—do not look back,” Arthur commanded. “Walk away.”

  “May his barbarian soul for ever burn in Hell,” muttered Cai. “Take my arm, Bear; let us go from here.”

  We made our way from the field with exaggerated dignity. Gwenhwyvar, Llenlleawg, and Cador brought the horses and helped Arthur to mount. “Cymbrogi!” he called aloud. “Have no fear for me. I am tired from the fight and Twrch’s spear-cast caught me unawares. My good mail shirt has done me a service, however, and I am unharmed.”

  With that, he raised his hand to them—showing that his arm was not injured—jerked the reins and rode back to camp with Gwenhwyvar beside him. Cai, Bedwyr and I followed, while the British battlehost watched the barbarians and waited for them to depart.

  It was as Arthur had said, his mail shirt had done him admirable service and the wound was not serious. “Well?” he asked, after I had examined it properly.

  “It is not, as you say, nothing,” I answered. “The lance was well thrown, if not well aimed. The blade cut through your shirt and you have an ugly gash.”

  “But it could have been worse,” Gwenhwyvar added. “Much worse.”

  “Even so, I do not like the look of it,” I told them both bluntly. “I think it best to let the cut bleed as much as it will, and then to bathe it with warm water. Put a little salt in the water to help cleanse the wound, and then bind it. Keep your shoulder warm through the night and I will examine it again in the morning.”

  Both of them caught the implication of my instructions. “Why, Myrddin? Will you not be here?”

  “No. There is something I must do. Gwenhwyvar, tend to this,” I replied. “I will return before morning.”

  Gwenhwyvar rolled her eyes in exasperation, but asked no further questions. “Go then,” she said, and bent her attention to her husband.

  I left Arthur to Gwenhwyvar’s able care and stepped from the tent. Already my mind was running ahead to all I must do before the sun rose again on the next day. Cai and Bedwyr, looking anxious, were waiting just outside.

  “The wound is not serious,” I told them. “I want you to aid Gwenhwyvar and guard the king’s rest. I am going away, but I will return before morning—Gwalchavad will accompany me, Llenlleawg also.”

  I could see the questions already forming on their lips, and waved them aside, saying, “Fret not. Trust me.”

  “And what shall we tell the lords when they ask after the king?” Bedwyr called after me.

  “Tell them to honor the king’s peace and all shall yet be well!” I turned and hurried away. “Cador! Fergus!” I called, summoning them out from among the warriors gathered helplessly before the tent. They came to me at once and I instructed them to gather the tools I needed for my night’s work. The two hurried away, commanding other warriors to help. “Gwalchavad!” I called. “Llenlleawg, come here!”

  The two were beside me in an instant. “Ready your horses, and get something to eat if you are hungry. We are leaving camp and we will not return before morning.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Gwalchavad.

  “Back the way we came; back to the beginning,” I told him.

  He thought it a jest. “As far as that?” he inquired lightly. “And in only one night?”

  “God willing,” I replied, “it may not be as far away as we think.”

  12

  THE SKY WAS NEARLY DARK WHEN we rode from the camp. We did not go far—a few hills away—but well out of sight of any curious onlookers. I halted my small company beside a dry streambed and, while Gwalchavad tethered the horses, Llenlleawg helped me unload the wagon Cador had found.

  “Why have you brought all this?” wondered Llenlleawg, hefting a hammer. “Shovels, picks, augers, saws—why do you need all these tools?”

  “You will see,” I told him. “Gwalchavad, hurry. Listen,” I said, as he rejoined us, “there is not much time. Before sunrise tomorrow we must accomplish two tasks: we must make a quantity of lime—”

  “Not difficult, that,” Gwalchavad said. “There is limestone enough along the riverbank, and dry wood for burning.”

  “Yes,” I told him, “I hoped one of you would notice. That shall be your task.”

  “And the other?” inquired Llenlleawg.

  “We are going to make a chariot.”

  “A chariot!” exclaimed the Irishman mildly. “In one night?”

  “In one night, yes.”

  Gwalchavad laughed, but Llenlleawg merely nodded thoughtfully—as if it were the most ordinary of chores, making a chariot by dark of night. “When you said we were going back to the beginning, I did not realize it would be so far,” he replied. “Still, you can depend on me, Myrddin Emrys. I will aid you every way I can.”

  “That is why I chose you,” I explained. “And for another reason: you two are unique among the Cymbrogi, and tonight I need your singular attributes.”

  They regarded one another curiously, trying to decide what I saw in them that set them apart. “You will not see it in your faces,” I said. “The difference is this: you are islanders.”

  “Wise Emrys”—Gwalchavad laughed again—“is it tetched you are? Perhaps standing all day in the hot sun has poached the brain in your head.”

  “Perhaps,” I allowed, “but it seems to me that you have lived more closely to the ancient ways than most men in the south.”

  “True,” remarked the son of Orcady proudly. “The Eagles could not subdue the wild islands. The Lords of the North never suffered the taint of Rome.”

  “Nor did Ireland,” put in Llenlleawg quickly.

  “Precisely. I knew you would understand. Now”—I clapped my hands—“to work!”

  They fell to the task with a will and never asked the reason why. Like Celts of old they simply labored for their bard at his behest; if the Chief Bard wanted a chariot, that is what he would have. My heart swelled with pride to see their simple trust. Does this, from the exalted height of your enlightened age, seem to you an insignificant thing?

/>   I tell you it is not! Belief is everything.

  These trusting men would labor day or night willingly because they believed—in me, in the old ways, in the loyalty which bound them to their king. They lived their belief, and if asked they would gladly die for it. Tell me now, who in your glorious age holds a belief so strong?

  Well, we went about our tasks, as I say. The moonlight was more than adequate for Gwalchavad, who set about digging a shallow bowl in the riverbank—this would become the kiln he would fill with firewood and chunks of limestone dug from the cliffside. I kindled a fire for myself and Llenlleawg, as he began removing the wagon’s front wheels and axle.

  While the others were busy at these chores, I sought the woad. The plants were stunted and withered, owing to the long dry season, but as I had only a solitary torso to daub and not a whole warband, I soon gathered all I needed. I chopped the leaves and upper stalks into a small caldron which I filled with water and set beside the flames to boil. Then I turned my attention to helping Llenlleawg.

  It is not so very difficult to make a chariot from a wagon—something that resembles one, at least. Once the smaller front wheels, axle, and sides were removed, we detached the pole and fixed it to the back, mounting the high frontpiece to what had been the rear to give the driver something to hold to. We then concerned ourselves with adding another harness to the pole and chain for a second horse. It is possible to pull a chariot with one horse, but much easier with two.

  We worked amiably, talking quietly, the smoke from Gwalchavad’s kiln fire drifting over and around us. Once or twice I observed the young warrior leaning on the stick he used to poke the fire, his face ruddy in the glow of the fire. And I watched Llenlleawg, stripped to the waist, the firelight glimmering on his back as he worked with the wood and iron fittings.

  A Celt of elder days coming upon us now would have greeted the sight with recognition and hailed us as brothers. If there is any enchantment in good men toiling together in hardy companionship, we made powerful magic that night.

  The moon slid farther towards the horizon before disappearing in a white haze at last. After the moon set, I built up the fire and stoked it more often to keep the light steady. The night passed to the cold ring of the hammer and the hot crack of flame. Daylight was graying the eastern sky before we finished.

  Gwalchavad unblocked his kiln and scooped the soft white powdery lime onto flat rocks to cool, then came to view the result of our night’s labor. “Bring on the Vandal hordes!” he cried, leaping onto the platform. “I will vanquish them all from here. It is a beautiful thing.”

  “Do you think so?” wondered Llenlleawg, regarding the vehicle doubtfully. “It still looks more wagon than war cart to me.”

  A genuine war chariot would have been much lighter, the wheels larger, and the frontpiece made of stout wickerworkd. The pole would have been longer as well—to prevent the horses’ hooves from crashing against the platform as they careened in full flight over the battleground. Nevertheless, our crude imitation would more than satisfy my purpose.

  “If I had such a chariot,” Gwalchavad replied happily, “the enemy would soon learn to fear the thunder of my wheels.”

  “Fortunately,” I replied, “a little thunder is all that is required. I do not think Arthur even knows how to fight from a chariot. I only hope he can manage to steer it.”

  “Never fear, Wise Emrys,” Llenlleawg replied. “I will control this chariot for him. That is how the ancient kings entered battle. I would not see Arthur settle for less.”

  “You have done well,” I commended them, and glanced to the rising sun. “And now we must hurry back. The camp will be stirring soon, and I want to be there when Arthur wakes.”

  While Llenlleawg and Gwalchavad harnessed the horse to the chariot, I packed the lime into a bag and retrieved the woad caldron. “Leave the tools,” I told them, mounting to the saddle. To Llenlleawg, I said, “Remember what I told you.”

  “To hear is to obey, Emrys,” the Irish champion replied.

  “So be it.” Snapping the reins, I wheeled the horse and raced back to camp.

  As I expected, the warriors had begun to rouse themselves. A few cooking fires were already sending slender plumes of smoke into the clear, cloudless sky. The first rays of sunlight broke above the hill-line and I could feel the heat on my back as Gwalchavad and I entered the encampment. Not wishing to see or speak to anyone, I rode directly to Arthur’s tent.

  “Find Bedwyr, Cai, and Cador,” I commanded as we dismounted. “Give them my instructions.”

  Gwalchavad gave me the bag of lime and hurried away. Glancing quickly around, I drew aside the flap and stepped into the king’s tent. The sight I encountered made my heart move within me: Gwenhwyvar, her arms around Arthur, holding him, his head on her shoulder, sound asleep. Save for his mail shirt, he was still wearing his clothes of the day before.

  She looked up as I came to stand before her. “He was too tired to undress,” she whispered, brushing his forehead with her lips.

  “Have you held him like this all night?” I asked, kneeling before her.

  “He fell asleep in my arms,” she replied. “I did not like to disturb him.”

  “But you have had no sleep for yourself.”

  “Arthur is to fight again today,” she replied, lifting a hand to stroke his hair. “I wanted to spend the night with him just like this.” She did not say that she feared it might be their last night, but that is what she meant.

  Although we spoke in whispers, the sound of our voices roused Arthur and he wakened. He sat up, drawing away from his wife. She released him, but kept an arm on his shoulders.

  “Oh, lady, I…” he began. “I fell asleep. I am sorry, I—”

  “Hush,” she said, laying a fingertip to his lips. “I am content. You were exhausted; you needed sleep.” She put her mouth to his and kissed him. He pulled her to him in a tight, almost crushing embrace, then noticed me.

  “Myrddin,” he said, “is the whole camp risen so early?”

  “Not the whole camp, perhaps,” I replied. “But I wanted to see you both before anyone else. Let me look at your shoulder, Arthur.”

  Gwenhwyvar carefully peeled away the dressing and I saw an ugly red gash, swollen, and hot to the touch. The cut was not long—a thumb’s length only—but when I pressed the edges of the puncture, a clear fluid oozed from it.

  “How does it feel?” I asked him.

  “Good,” Arthur lied. “A bee sting is worse by far.”

  “Move your arm for me.”

  Arthur grudgingly moved his arm and rolled his shoulder. “Satisfied?” he asked impatiently. “I told you it is nothing. A night’s sleep has done me a world of good.”

  “Possibly,” I allowed. “But I think it would be better to give your shoulder another day’s rest.”

  “What? And let the barbarian think that he has gained the advantage of me? I will not!”

  “Let Amilcar think what he likes. You must consider your shoulder. What will it avail Britain if you get yourself killed today for the sake of your pride?”

  “Twrch Trwyth and the Vandali will soon assemble on the plain. What will they do if I am not there?”

  “Amilcar violated the law he agreed to honor,” I pointed out. “I do not believe he will press the matter further. Let him wait, I say—until tomorrow if need be.”

  “Do you forbid me, bard?” he demanded, growing cross.

  I hesitated, then shook my head, saying, “I do not say you cannot; I say you should not. I leave it to you. Do what you will.”

  “Then I will fight him today,” Arthur declared. “And, with God’s help, I will defeat him.”

  “Perhaps God has already sent his aid,” I suggested.

  “Why?” Arthur asked, looking from me to Gwenhwyvar and back again. “What have you done?”

  “I have contrived a surprise for Amilcar,” I said.

  “A deception,” Gwenhwyvar chided in mock disapproval. “And from you, Myrddin
Emrys. I am alarmed.”

  “No deception,” I answered, and quickly explained how Llenlleawg, Gwalchavad and I had spent the night.

  “What,” said Arthur when I finished, “has no one slept the night but me?”

  “A chariot?” wondered Gwenhwyvar. “But that is wonderful.”

  “I must see this marvel at once,” said Arthur, rising to his feet.

  “Soon, but not yet,” I said. “I would rather no one see you before the fight.”

  “Am I to be made prisoner in my own tent?”

  “Only until all the others have gone out to the battlefield.” I told them both what I intended. They listened to all, bemused, slightly astonished expressions on their faces.

  “No king has ever had a better bard,” said Gwenhwyvar when I finished; rising, she smiled and kissed me on the cheek. “It is splendid, Wise Emrys. I commend your scheme, and will pray for its success.”

  Arthur stretched and yawned, and sat down again on the bed, rubbing his well-stubbled jaw thoughtfully. “Well, the shave will be agreeable at least.”

  “I will bring a basin and a razor,” Gwenhwyvar said, stepping to the tent flap. It pleased me that she welcomed my plan so eagerly.

  “And something to eat,” added Arthur, yawning. “I am starving.” He lay back on the bed and was soon sleeping soundly once more.

  13

  THE OPPOSING WAR HOSTS WERE arrayed on the field of battle as before—rank on rank behind their chieftains, staring fiercely across the plain at each other. It was nearing midday and they were looking for Arthur to arrive, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  A premature shout went up as I appeared, but died abruptly when they saw I was alone. They looked at one another with puzzled expressions and returned uneasily to their waiting.

  The Britons were not the only ones anxious for Arthur’s arrival. The Vandali also stretched their necks for a sign of him, and with even greater anticipation. For if the British king failed to appear, then Amilcar would be judged the victor; each moment that Arthur delayed, the expectation of triumph grew.