Stirring myself, I rose and made my way to the hall among the scurrying Uladh folk. I saw Cai, with his distinctive hobbling gait, hurrying across the yard, and called to him. He joined me and we walked together to the assembly place.
Conaire stood with the hammer in his hands and a fierce look on his face. “The enemy approaches!” he shouted, and began ordering the defense of Rath Mor.
“Where is Arthur?” Cai wondered, looking around the crowd.
“Asleep, I suppose. You’d best go wake him.” Cai hastened away. Warriors were already rushing to arm themselves and take up defensive positions on the wall.
Bedwyr and Llenlleawg appeared. “What is happening?” Bedwyr yawned. “Trouble?”
“We are being attacked,” I answered. “Reprisal for last night’s raid, no doubt.”
“Where is Arthur?”
“Cai has gone to rouse him.”
“Did he need rousing?” wondered Bedwyr.
My eyes flicked to his face, and then to where he was looking. I saw Arthur emerging from the round house, doing up his belt. And then I saw what Bedwyr had seen: Gwenhwyvar, face flushed, emerging behind him, her hair awry and her laces undone.
“Perhaps not,” I replied. “It appears he was already well roused.”
Llenlleawg smiled, and Bedwyr observed, “The barbarians will rue the day they called the Bear of Britain from his den.”
Arthur joined us and received word of the enemy advance calmly. “How many?” he asked.
“Conaire did not say,” Bedwyr informed him.
Arthur gave a nod to Llenlleawg, who dashed away at once, and it came to me that Arthur had begun trusting more and more to the Irish champion. Not that he neglected Cai and Bedwyr, mind, but he now included Llenlleawg in his confidence. Where there had been but two, there were now three. I wondered where Gwenhwyvar would fit in this triumvirate.
Still, judging from what I had seen in the hut, Gwenhwyvar could speak for herself. I had no doubt she would make a place for herself precisely where she wanted it. She joined us now and took her place beside Arthur. “How many?” she asked.
“I have sent Llenlleawg to determine,” Arthur replied. There was no trace of vexation or ire in either of them. Like a summer storm over Loch Erne, it had all blown over without a trace, leaving the sky brighter and the sun warmer than before the wind and rain.
Conaire summoned his bards and chieftains to attend him, and pushed his way into the hall. The Irish king was outraged that the Vandal horde should appear at his gates. “They tracked us from the beach,” he shouted as we entered the hall. He threw an angry fist in Arthur’s face, the previous night’s euphoria forgotten in the new day’s crisis. “This would never have happened if you had not attacked them. Now they have come here for their revenge.”
Arthur bristled at the king’s accusation. “It was to be expected,” he replied coolly. “Or did you think they would not march against you if you let them take your land?”
This reply made Conaire even angrier. “This is your doing! I should have known better than to listen to a British tyrant. On my father’s head, I will not allow myself to be beguiled again.”
“Conaire Red Hand!” It was Gwenhwyvar in full cry. “It is a wicked thing you are doing. Stop it! You disgrace yourself and I will not hear it.”
Fergus joined his daughter. “If not for Arthur, the enemy would have overwhelmed us before now. The Britons have faced barbarians before. I say we listen to them.” He turned to Arthur. “Tell us what you would have us do.”
I believe Conaire felt some relief at having the decision taken from him. In his heart, he was secretly grateful to Arthur for his superior battle cunning. But, lest his bards and lords account this a weakness, he felt he must rant against Arthur. Thus, it was all bluff and bluster, and there was no real wrath in it.
Arthur did not wait to be asked again. “I say we move against them at once. We must not allow them to establish themselves outside our walls, or we will be trapped inside.”
Conaire drew himself up. “That is just what I was going to suggest myself. It is good to see that the British battlechief agrees with me.” He turned to his lords. “We will assemble as before. Those of you who followed Arthur last night will do so again. The rest will follow me.”
He turned back, and regarded us with an imperious gaze. “When you are ready, Britons,” he said, as if we were recalcitrant children. “The enemy awaits.”
Gwenhwyvar regarded him with an angry stare. “That swaggering butt of a man,” she said. “Does he think he is Emperor of Rome to treat us this way?” She turned to her husband. “We should leave him to the Vandali.”
“Truly,” replied Arthur, watching as the Irish lords noisily left the hall. When they had gone, we followed.
Out in the yard, the stablers and boys were saddling the horses, and warriors strapped on armor and swords while their kinsmen scurried about on desperate errands. Gwenhwyvar went to fetch her arms and ready herself for battle. Arthur stood at the door of the hall and looked on the tumult for a moment, then said, “If we live to see the end of this day, Myrddin, I swear upon my sword that I will yet teach these Irish some order.”
The turmoil quickly abated, however, and we were soon ready. All that remained was for Llenlleawg to return with word of the strength and position of the enemy forces. We waited, growing anxious and apprehensive. “Something has happened to him,” Cai grumbled, jabbing the end of his spear into the dirt.
“Not Llenlleawg,” Bedwyr replied. “He is too slippery an eel to fall foul of any barbarian net.”
Still we waited. Cai was for going after Llenlleawg to discover for himself what had happened. Arthur advised against it. “He knows the hiding places in the land. He will return when he can.”
“Oh, aye,” Cai agreed. “Aye. I know. But I would feel better for knowing the enemy’s strength and position.”
“So would I, Cai,” Bedwyr said, “and trust Llencelyn to bring us word in time.”
Cai laughed aloud at Bedwyr’s epithet, and Arthur chuckled.
“Llencelyn?” I asked. “Why do you call him that?” It was a play on the Irish champion’s name with the word for storm. I saw the humor, but was curious to hear Bedwyr’s reason, for it meant they had begun to admit the Irishman into the intimate fellowship enjoyed by Arthur’s Cymbrogi.
“You have seen him, Emrys. We all know he fights like a whirlwind.”
“Indeed,” Cai concurred, “he is a very tempest.”
Gwenhwyvar joined us then, all gleaming points and keen edges. Her mail shirt shimmered like a wet skin, and the spike of her spear blade shone. She wore a kilt of leather and high leather boots. Her hair was gathered and bound tight at her neck; and, like the warrior queens of her people, she had daubed her face and arms with bright blue woad: spirals, stripes, sunbursts and serpents. She appeared fierce and beautiful, almost lethally dangerous to behold.
I had never seen her so, and remarked at my surprise in her transformation. She took my astonishment for flattery. “You have never seen me lead a warband against an invader,” she replied. “But you are fortunate indeed, Myrddin Emrys, for this woeful lack is soon redressed.”
“Lady,” Bedwyr said, “I reckon myself fortunate that I do not have to lift blade against you, and I can but pity the luckless wretches who do.”
Arthur, deriving great pleasure from his wife’s appearance, grinned and put his hand to her chin. He took a dab of woad onto his finger and applied it to his own face: two slashes high on his cheeks beneath each eye.
“Allow me,” said Gwenhwyvar, taking some of the paint from her arm. She put her fingertips to his forehead and drew two vertical lines down the center of his brow. In a stroke, the Bear of Britain became a Celt like the warrior kings of old who first faced the Roman Eagles across the ditch.
“How do I look?” he asked.
Cai and Bedwyr were as taken with the transformation as I was, and acclaimed it by demanding marks of their own. �
�I will have woad-paint made for all of us,” Gwenhwyvar told them as she dabbed their faces. “From now on we will greet the enemy with the blue.”
A shout came from the platform above the gate. “A rider approaches!”
“Llenlleawg returns,” Arthur said, starting towards the gate as the gatemen hastened to admit the rider. The sound of hooves reached us, and a moment later, Llenlleawg pounded through the gap and into the yard. He slid from the back of his mount and, ignoring Conaire and the Irish chieftains who called out to him, strode instead directly to Arthur.
“They want to talk to you,” Llenlleawg told him.
“Do they indeed?” wondered Arthur. “When and where?”
“On the plain,” Llenlleawg answered. “Now.”
“How many have come?” asked Bedwyr.
“A thousand and two hundreds at least, maybe more.” While the others strove to take this in, he added, “I think they have all come ashore now.”
“God save us,” Bedwyr muttered under his breath. “Twelve hundred to our three.”
“Treachery for certain,” Cai declared.
Conaire arrived, angry at being made to run to Arthur for word of what Llenlleawg had discovered. “Am I to beg for every scrap from your table?” he demanded. “Will someone yet tell me what is happening here?”
“They want to talk to us,” replied Arthur simply.
“By all means,” spat Conaire, “let us talk to them. Our spears will be tongues, and our swords teeth. We will give them such a splendid conversation.”
“They say that if we do not talk to them,” Llenlleawg continued, “they will rub us out and burn everything. Then they will strew the ashes in the sea, so that nothing will remain.”
“If this is how they parlay, then we are speaking to the wind,” Cai replied.
“Who told you this?” I asked Llenlleawg. “How did you come by this message?”
The lean Irishman’s face fell and he blushed with shame. He drew a deep breath and confessed: “I was taken prisoner, Emrys.”
“How could this happen?” wondered Fergus.
“I alone am to blame. I saw the foemen assembled on the plain, and thought to ride close.” He paused. “I rode into a band of enemy chieftains scouting ahead of the host. They were in the wood and I did not see them until it was too late.”
“Why did you not fight them, man?” demanded Fergus.
“I would have welcomed such a fight!” declared Conaire.
“Let him speak!” shouted Arthur, growing annoyed.
“They surrounded me,” Llenlleawg said, “and before I could draw sword one of them began shouting to me in our own tongue. He begged me to save my own life and that of my kinsmen by taking word back to our lords.”
“You did well,” Arthur told him. “Let us hope it is the saving of many lives.”
“It is a coward’s ruse,” Conaire announced. “They can have nothing to say that we care to hear.”
“No doubt,” allowed Arthur judiciously. “Still, we will listen all the same.”
“Listen? Let them listen! I mean to give them words of my own to chew on,” boasted Conaire. He was becoming exasperated at finding himself pushed aside by this turn of events.
“They want to speak to Arthur alone,” Llenlleawg told him. “They said they would only speak to the king who ordered the night raid.”
Fergus shook his head. “It is surely a trick,” he warned. “Revenge for last night’s attack.”
Cai agreed. “Hear him, Artos. Fergus may be right. We cannot allow you to meet them alone.”
Arthur made up his mind at once. “Very well. We will go out to them together,” he said, “then Myrddin and I will advance to speak to them.”
We mounted the war host and rode to the wide grassy plain south of the stronghold where, as Llenlleawg had said, the Vandal horde waited. The ground sloped slightly away towards the west, rough and uneven with hillocks of turf and rocks. A ragged little stream meandered through the center of the plain, dividing it from north to south. We rode to the head of the plain and halted to overlook the battleground.
“Earth and sky bear witness!” Bedwyr gasped when he saw the battle throng. “Twelve hundred only? It seems twice that many at least, or I never drew sword.”
The barbarian swarmed thick across the western half of the plain in untidy clusters around standards of various kinds: some of skin, others of cloth, or metal, but all of them bearing the image of a black boar in their design. These were, I decided, their clan groupings. Like the Saecsen, the Vandali entered battle surrounded by their kinsmen, under leadership of their tribal chieftain.
Continuing on, we advanced slowly onto the plain. At our approach, a knot of barbarians drew apart from the center mass, crossed the stream, and marched towards us. One of the chieftains carried a standard—the head and pelt of a great black boar fixed upon a pole. The boar’s mouth was open, his curving yellow tusks exposed.
We proceeded to within a hundred paces of one another, whereupon the barbarian delegation stopped. “This is far enough,” Arthur said. “Stay here.” The war host halted, and Arthur and I rode on to meet the Vandal chiefs.
Like the others we had seen, they were big, well-muscled men; they carried the heavy wooden shield and stout black spear. Naked to the waist, they wore either leather leggings or coarse-woven cloth breeches. Their flesh was the color of pale honey or aged parchment; and, to a man, their hair was black—they wore it long and braided thick. Several had thin mustaches over their wide mouths, but most did not; none wore a beard. Their eyes were strange—sly and narrow, slanting upwards in their broad, brutal faces—keen and wary, and set deep under heavy brows; made more mysterious by a thick band of black paint slashed across their wide cheeks.
A tall, lanky man stood with them; his skin was milk-white and his hair the color of flax. On his neck he wore a thick iron ring, with slightly smaller bands on each wrist. Ragged scars of vicious slash marks, livid still, marked the flesh of his chest and stomach.
It was this man who addressed us, speaking in our own tongue. “In the name of Amilcar, War King of the Vandal nations, we greet you,” he said. “It is Amilcar’s war host you see before you; it is by his hand that you are alive this day.”
By way of reply, Arthur said, “It is not my custom to exchange greetings with any who threaten war against me or those I have sworn to protect.”
The tall man replied with benign indifference. “I understand, lord.” Touching his neck ring he said, “I am often made to bear tidings others find offensive.”
“Since you are a slave, I will assume that the words you speak are not your own. Therefore, I hold no enmity toward you.” The slave said nothing, but inclined his head slightly, giving us to know that Arthur understood his predicament aright. “What is your name, friend?”
“I am Hergest,” he said. “And though I am a slave, I am a learned man.”
“As you are a Latin speaker,” Arthur said, “are you also a holy man?”
“I own no king but the Lord Christ, High King of Heaven,” Hergest answered proudly. “Formerly, I was a priest. The barbarian burned our church and killed our bishop along with many of our brothers. The rest were made slaves. I alone survive.”
At this, the slave lifted his hand as if presenting the barbarian company to us. Instead, he said, “You may speak freely. They understand no tongue but their own.”
“Have you been long with them?” I asked.
“It is three years since I was taken,” Hergest replied.
“You must have proven your value to them many times over,” I observed.
“Indeed,” replied the slave, “I must prove it anew with every day that passes, for I know I will not outlive my usefulness by so much as a single breath.”
One of the big-shouldered barbarians grew impatient with the talk and grunted something to Hergest, who answered him in his own tongue. “Ida says you must come down from your mount if you are to speak to him.” Hergest paused,
allowing himself the shadow of a smile. “They fear horses greatly.”
“Tell him,” Arthur replied calmly, patting the horse’s neck, “that I will come down from my mount, but only to speak to one of my own rank and authority.”
“Arthur!” I whispered. “Have a care!”
The slave started. “Arthur?” he asked in surprise. “You are Artorius—also called the Bear of Britain?”
“I am known by that name,” Arthur answered; indicating the staring barbarian, he replied, “Now tell them what I said.”
Hergest repeated Arthur’s refusal to dismount and, to my surprise, the barbarian simply nodded, conceding the situation with placid acceptance. He and several others began discussing the matter between them. One of them—who seemed to be the youngest of the chieftains—spoke earnestly to Hergest, who pointed at Arthur and gravely intoned the words “Artorius Rex! Imperator!” The chieftain called Ida cast a dubious sidelong glance at Arthur, then turned abruptly and began striding across the plain to where the horde waited.
“That was well done, lord,” Hergest told us. “They wished only to make certain that you were a king worthy of treating with their own leader. Mercia here”—he nodded to the young chieftain—“thinks that because you are young like him you must be a warrior of little worth or consequence. I assured them that you were greater even than the Emperor of Rome.”
Arthur smiled, “You might have restrained your enthusiasm for my sake. Still, I will try not to make you out a liar.”
The barbarian chieftain had reached the battle host. He addressed someone there, and then turned and pointed at us. A moment later, a figure emerged from the mass and walked toward us. The first chieftain fell into step behind this person, with two standard-bearers on either side.
The man was even taller than those around him—a champion of imposing stature, with wide, heavy shoulders, a powerful back, and thick-muscled limbs. Like those around him, he watched us with quick, intelligent dark eyes, above high cheekbones—all but obscured beneath a wide band of black paint. A thick mustache flowed over fleshy lips, and a long, black, double braid hung over one shoulder. In his right hand he carried a slender iron rod with the image of a boar in hammered gold at its top.
Pendragon Page 16
