“That, I very much fear, we will soon discover,” I replied gloomily.
We returned with haste to Muirbolc, where the people had begun leaving the caer; the first groups were already melting into the forest. Fergus stood at the gate as his people passed before him, urging them to courage and speed. Arthur, Gwenhwyvar, and Llenlleawg stood together in deliberation. Cai was nowhere to be seen.
Arthur raised his head and waved us to join him. At our arrival, he said, “Bedwyr, you and Cai will stay to aid Fergus and his battlechiefs. Gwenhwyvar, Llenlleawg and I will raise the Uladh lords.”
“Someone should warn Ciaran and his brother monks,” I pointed out. “I will go to them.”
“If we have difficulty with the lords, I want you with me,” Arthur insisted.
“The good brothers are not far,” Gwenhwyvar said. “We can take word to them on the way.”
“So be it.” To Bedwyr, Arthur said, “When Cai returns from the bay, tell him what we have done.”
“If all goes well,” Gwenhwyvar added, “we should return here before sunrise with help.”
We remounted and, bidding Fergus farewell, rode out at once. Llenlleawg led the way. We passed through a wood and crossed a stream, then reached a broad, gently sloping lea where we turned south and came after a short ride to a rough holding—little more than a field camp, where the monks had settled.
Ciaran greeted us and offered food and drink. “God be good to you,” he said. “We would be honored if you will stay to sup with us.”
“Nothing would please us more,” Gwenhwyvar told him. “But we cannot stay. We have come to warn you. There is trouble coming. Invaders have been seen. Even now they are making landfall along the northern shore not far from here.”
“Invaders.” The priest mouthed the word, but showed no fear. “Who are they? Do you know?”
“They are a tribe I have never seen before,” Arthur told him. “But I can tell you this: they have a fleet as large as the Emperor’s, and their ships and sails are black.”
“Vandali,” said Ciaran.
“Do you know them?” I asked.
“I know of no other barbarian host to own a fleet,” the priest replied. “They are known in Constantinople. That is where I heard about them and their black-sailed ships.”
“And did you also hear how they may be defeated?” inquired Arthur.
Ciaran shook his head slowly. “Sadly, no. In truth, I heard that they cannot be defeated. Of all barbarians, the Vandali are the most fierce and cruel. They kill for pleasure, and possess no respect for life—neither their own nor anyone else’s. They hold no thing as sacred, save their own valor, and they live only for the sport of killing and the plunder to be won with the points of their spears.” The priest paused, measuring the effect of his words. “I would be lying if I told you that anyone could stand against them. The Vandali are feared by all who know them. Even the Goths flee them on sight.” Ciaran paused, then added, “That is all I know. I wish I could tell you more.”
“And I would hear more, but I am grateful for this little,” Arthur replied. “Fergus and his people are leaving the caer. If you go at once, you can join them in hiding.”
“We are going to rally the kings,” Gwenhwyvar said. “We ride first to Conaire at Rath Mor.”
“May God go with you, my friends,” Ciaran said. Raising his hands, he blessed us with a prayer as we continued quickly on our way.
The stronghold of Conaire Crobh Rua, or Red Hand, was much the same as that of Fergus, only larger, and a great ogam-carved pillar stone stood at the entrance to the caer. His warband was accordingly larger, too, boasting five warriors to every one of Fergus’ men, and no fewer than four tributary kings supported him as well. Each of these small kings maintained warriors at his own expense which Conaire could command at need.
He would be a powerful ally. Consequently, winning him was crucial to Ierne’s survival.
Gwenhwyvar understood this necessity and the terrible urgency of raising a host swiftly. Upon reaching Rath Mor and finding the gate open, she rode into the caer, ignoring the shouts of the lax gatemen to stop and be recognized.
She rode straight to the hall and shouted, “Conaire! Come out, Conaire! We must talk, you and I.”
The people heard and began hastening to us. The door to the hall was a simple white ox hide with a hand painted on it in red. The head of a man appeared from behind the skin and declared, “The king is deaf to all demands but his own.”
“Just you tell your deaf king that he is a fool to sleep within his hall while his realm suffers invasion,” she snapped, her dark brows lowered. The head promptly disappeared. “Did you hear that, Conaire?” she shouted.
A moment later the ox hide was thrown aside and a tall man with fair hair and a red-brown beard stalked out. A fine, handsome man, he folded his bare arms across his chest. “Ah, Gwenhwyvar,” he said upon seeing her, “I should have known it was you making all this tumult.” He glanced quickly at those of us accompanying the queen. “I thought you were in Ynys Prydein. Is it to marry me that you have come here?”
Gwenhwyvar favored him with a disdainful smile. “Conaire Crobh Rua, I will never marry you. The man you see beside me is my husband—”
“Then you can say nothing I care to hear.” The Uladh king started back to his hall.
“My husband,” Gwenhwyvar continued, “Arthur, High King of the Britons.”
Conaire stopped and turned. “Indeed?” He looked Arthur up and down, and then, as if deciding he had seen nothing worth troubling himself over, dismissed Arthur with a sneer. “I did not know the Britons had got themselves another new king,” he said. “Now that I see him, I wonder why they bothered.”
Arthur regarded the Irish lord coolly, but without rancor. He said nothing. Gwenhwyvar, however, stiffened in the saddle; her face flushed red with anger. Yet it was the silent Llenlleawg who answered Conaire’s insult.
“Your ignorance is exceeded only by your arrogance, Conaire,” he said. “This night you must decide whether you will live or die.”
The Irish lord glared lethally at Llenlleawg. “It seems,” he said, his voice tight with loathing, “that I will not be alone in making that decision.”
“It will not be Llenlleawg’s spear that steals the breath from your body,” Gwenhwyvar said. “While we stand here bartering insults, the enemy invader claims our land. We have one night to make good our defense, or our realm is surely lost.”
Conaire’s eyes swung slowly from Llenlleawg to Gwenhwyvar. “What invader?” he demanded dully.
“They are of a tribe called Vandali,” Gwenhwyvar told him. “And they have come in force to plunder Ierne.”
The Irish king drew himself full height. “This danger can be but small, or I would have heard of it. Still, I am not surprised that Fergus has sent you to plead for him—the least sign of trouble and he comes begging my protection. Tell him I will consider the matter, and reply when it suits me.”
He made to dismiss us and turn away.
“Stay!” I roared. Holding him with the bardic voice of command, I said: “Hear me, Lord Conaire. I have known many kings: some have been fools, and others haughty. But few have been both and outlived their imprudence.”
The proud king bristled at this. His eyes flashed quick anger. But I did not give him opportunity to speak.
“Know this: We have come here to warn you and seek your aid. You know nothing of the force arrayed against us. I tell you the truth, unless we stand together when the battle begins, not one of us will survive the onslaught.”
Conaire frowned. He fairly squirmed under my authority, but I held him with my voice. “This is the way of it. If you doubt me, why not ride with us to the coast and see for yourself that what you have heard is no mere fancy of the fainthearted?”
The Irish lord glared murderously at me, but kept his mouth firmly shut.
“Well?” asked Gwenhwyvar. “What say you, Conaire?”
He turned to one o
f those who stood looking on. “Bring my horse,” he barked angrily. To Gwenhwyvar he said, “I will ride with you, and see for myself. If it is as you say, I will protect you.” He allowed himself a sly, sneering smile. “But if it is otherwise, you must deliver to me the thing that I shall demand of you.”
Conaire stared at Gwenhwyvar as he said this, and it was not difficult to guess what was in his mind as he spoke. Arthur’s face darkened at the mindless provocation. Nor did I fault him. Had I been Arthur, I would have split him crown to crotch at a single stroke. But Gwenhwyvar intervened. “Make no demands you would not wish yourself to fulfill, Conaire.”
Without a word, Conaire turned on his heel and disappeared into the hall. Gwenhwyvar allowed herself a self-satisfied smile. “Well,” she said, “that was better than I hoped.”
“Is this Red Hand always so agreeable?” Arthur asked.
Gwenhwyvar answered, “It was ever in his mind to have me for his wife. He has a wife, of course, and two cumal-wives also. But he contrives to make himself a king after the manner of Rory and Conor mac Nessa. That is why he has ever sought me to agree to marry him.”
“If his courage is half as great as his vanity,” Arthur remarked, “then the black-sailed Vandal will soon be fleeing back over the waves as fast as the wind can carry them.”
“When the time comes for spear-play, you will not be disappointed,” Llenlleawg suggested. “A bard with a harp does not make sweeter music.”
“This I want to see,” replied Arthur.
Conaire reappeared and, his horse having been brought, he mounted at once and led us out from the caer and along a well-worn trail through a wood. We came eventually to a low, treeless rise giving way to a series of downward-sloping ridges which ended in sharp cliffs overlooking the northwestern coast. Even before reaching the cliffside we could see the thick-sown black sails close-clustered on the sea. Many ships had already made landfall, and more were coming in with every wave; but we saw no one on shore, and no sign of horses aboard any of the boats.
“Forty ships,” observed Bedwyr. “No more have joined them. That means they have all arrived.”
“Unless this is merely the advance force sent to spy out the land,” Cai pointed out. Both men lapsed into silence at that unsettling thought.
The Irish king stared at the spectacle before him for a long time. “Never have I seen such an audacious invader,” he said at last. “Such insolence incurs a heavy debt, and I mean to collect my share.”
“Well said, Conaire,” Arthur told him. “Together, we will drive these barbarians into the sea.”
Conaire, the westering light in his eyes, turned to Arthur and looked him full in the face. “Lord, I am a man of impulse and quick temper, as you have seen,” he said. “I spoke without due consideration and my words were not worthy. And now I am sorry. For I think you are a very king among your kind, and it is not meet for two such noble allies to enter battle with malice between them.”
“I agree,” replied Arthur nicely. “I think it will be toil enough to fight the Vandal horde without also bearing a heavy dislike for one another.”
So saying, the High King of Britain held out his arm to the Irish king. Conaire clasped his arm and the two embraced like kinsmen, animosity forgotten.
But Conaire was not finished. He turned next to Gwenhwyvar and said, “Lady, you know I have always held you in highest esteem. That is why I deeply regretted your leaving Eirinn to take a husband of British blood. And though I bear the loss, I understand your choice and even find it in my heart to approve. You have made a laudable match and found a man above all worthy of you. Lady, I commend you. And I offer you my hand, as I would gladly have offered you my life.”
“I will take your hand, Conaire,” Gwenhwyvar answered, leaning close, “but I will have your cheek as well.” Taking his hand, she pulled him to her, put her lips to his cheek and kissed him.
The Irish king grinned broadly and, lifting the reins, urged his horse forward. We raced to Rath Mor, and had almost reached the shelter of the wood when, with a sudden cry, an enemy warband burst out from among the trees.
Within two heartbeats we were confronted by fifty warriors—large men, fierce, pitiless eyes glittering like chips of jet in their sallow faces. They advanced on foot, warily, and carried no swords, only the thick black spear and heavy wooden shield we had seen on the ships. They hesitated only a moment, then the enemy battlechief gave a shout and they rushed upon us, black spears leveled, screaming as they ran.
6
ARTHUR LASHED HIS MOUNT TO speed and raced to meet the charge head-on. “Follow me!” he called, setting his shield as he flew towards the enemy.
Llenlleawg was first to react to Arthur’s lead. He blew past me and took up position to the left and just behind Arthur so that the barbarians could not come at the king from his blind side.
Conaire was suddenly beside me, holding out his spear. “You have no spear,” he said. “Take mine.”
“Keep it,” I told him. “I prefer the sword.”
Gwenhwyvar lashed her mount to speed, unslinging her shield and drawing her sword at full gallop. “Oh, heart of my heart,” said Conaire, watching her go, “is that not a sweet sight?”
“Come, Irishman,” I called. “They are leaving us behind!”
Arthur reached the enemy line and hurtled through, scattering foemen in all directions. Llenlleawg, right behind, did not give them a chance to regroup. He ran down three or four as they fled and slashed two more. The line gaped wide, allowing Gwenhwyvar to ride through unopposed. She gained the edge of the wood and then turned back, charging again into the re-forming rank.
I saw where she intended to strike and swerved to join her attack. Conaire, on my right, loosed a wild, joyous whoop and rode straight to the center of the line—spear high, shield outflung, and reins flying loose. One glimpse of the three of us sweeping down upon them and—mouths gaping in unintelligible shouts, shields thrown high—the strangers scrambled for the cover of the wood.
Arthur and Llenlleawg met them, however, swinging up from behind. The Vandal warband was neatly sliced in two—those closest to the trees made good their escape, but the rest found themselves the center of an attack by five swiftly converging horsemen. The disordered rank folded inward upon itself to become a confused knot. Gwenhwyvar and I reached this knot first and stabbed into it. Conaire slashed in from the side, and Arthur and Llenlleawg charged in from the rear.
They fell before us. Confused, crying out in panic and rage, lunging desperately with their short, clumsy spears, they threw themselves at us, and we trampled them down. The soft green turf blushed bright crimson in the lowering sun and the shadows stretched long.
The enemy warriors fled the fight, leaving their dead and wounded on the ground as they disappeared into the shelter of the wood. Llenlleawg would have pursued them, but Arthur called him back.
“Warriors!” Conaire hooted in derision. “I have never seen such hopeless warriors. If that is the best they can do, give me a gang of boys with sharp sticks and I will conquer the world!”
“They were a scouting party only,” replied Arthur. “Our horses scared them.”
“But they attacked us!” argued Conaire. “They wanted to fight. Fifty against five! And we routed them without breaking a sweat.”
“Arthur is right,” I remarked. “They were only searching out the land and we surprised them. And now that we have shown them what manner of men inhabit this place, we should not expect them to make the same mistake again.”
“Bah!” Conaire growled. “What do I care what you call it? We beat the thieving barbarians. Let them try again and we will give them the same.”
Arthur shook his head gravely. “Speed and courage saved us today, Conaire. We should account ourselves fortunate to have escaped with our lives.” He swung himself from the saddle and walked to where the enemy warriors lay on the ground. He stooped briefly over two or three of them, and then called, “This one is still alive.�
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“I will soon put that right,” Conaire answered, quickly jumping down from his horse.
“No,” Arthur said, halting the Irish lord. “Let us take him back to the caer and see what we can learn from him.”
Conaire frowned. “We will get nothing from him. Let us kill him now and save ourselves the trouble of carrying him back.”
However much I agreed with Arthur, I strongly suspected Conaire was right. One look at the strange features—high cheekbones and narrow, almost slanted eyes above a long thin nose, and skin the color of old ivory, he seemed to have come from another world—and I concluded that we would learn nothing of value from the injured man. Nevertheless, we picked him up and slung his unconscious body across Llenlleawg’s saddle. The Irish champion shared Gwenhwyvar’s horse and we made our way quickly back to Rath Mor, where Conaire summoned his druids, informed them of the danger, and then dispatched messengers to rally his lords and chieftains. The barbarian was taken to one of the nearby round houses to be guarded until he awakened.
“I have sent word to Fergus to join us here,” Conaire explained. “He and his folk will be safer in this stronghold than wandering around in the forest where the barbarians can get at them.”
“I do thank you, Conaire,” Gwenhwyvar said. “Your consideration will not be forgotten.”
“I do it for you, lady,” he answered. “And for this husband of yours. I tell you I like him well, and mean to account myself worthy in his eyes.”
“That you have done already,” Arthur told him, which pleased Conaire immensely.
“Then come into my hall,” the Irishman said. “We will lift cups together and drink our fill. My alemakers are champions of their craft, and tonight may be the last chance we have to savor their subtle art. Come, Arthur! Come, Gwenhwyvar! Come, Myrddin Emrys and Llenlleawg! Let us drink to the health of our enemy’s enemies!”
Arthur took two steps towards the hall and stopped. “I would enjoy nothing more than to drink with you, Conaire,” he said. “But I think the enemy will not be celebrating tonight. Therefore, I suggest we look rather to the defense of the people.”
Pendragon Page 14
