Arthur pc-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  'Artos,' said Cai calmly, 'how do you propose to meet them? It is seventy against three hundred.'

  'I admit the fight is not even,' Arthur's grin was lopsided and reckless, 'but Morcant will just have to survive as best he can.' He turned to me. 'Pelleas, fetch Bedwyr and Myrddin. We will gather in my chambers.'

  'At once, lord.'

  He and Cai strode off across the yard as the hunting horn sounded the alarm. I found Merlin and Bedwyr together at one of the granaries, examining our dwindling supply of barley.

  'Hail, Pelleas,' called Bedwyr as I dashed towards them. He saw my face and his smile of welcome faded. 'What is it? What is wrong?'

  'Morcant is riding against us. He is on his way here now with three hundred.'

  'We cannot meet them,' observed Bedwyr. 'There are just too many. Even with Meurig's warband, they would still outman us three to one.'

  'Where are they?' Merlin asked. His tone showed no surprise or concern.

  'They have crossed the Ebbw river at the coast to take us from the south.'

  'Yes,' mused Merlin, 'that is what I would do.'

  'There is no time to ride to Caer Myrddin anyway.'

  'We are to meet Arthur in his chambers at once,' I told them.

  Arthur and Cai sat over the long board in Arthur's chambers, at one end of the hall. 'It is not possible,' Cai was saying as we entered, 'and even if it were, the risk is terrible.'

  Arthur smiled and reached across the board to ruffle Cai's red curls. Trust Cai to count the risk.'

  'God's honour! That is the truth. I do heed the risk. Someone must.' Cai folded his arms across his chest, glowering out from beneath his copper-coloured brows.

  'What impossible thing is he proposing this time?" Bedwyr laughed as he sat down on the bench. I settled beside him; Merlin remained standing.

  Cai, a pained expression pinching his ruddy features, put up his hands. 'Do not ask me to repeat it. I will not.'

  Arthur gazed placidly at Cai and then shrugged. 'Perhaps he is right – it cannot be done.' He turned to Bedwyr and Merlin. 'Well, wise advisers? Advise me wisely, or Morcant will.'

  We all looked at one another, silently calculating our chances of surviving this day.

  'Well,' said Merlin after a moment, 'perhaps it is a day for impossible feats. Who knows?'

  'It seems we have no other choice,' muttered Cai.

  'Are we to know this impossible plan of yours?' demanded Bedwyr. 'Speak it out.'

  'I was only thinking,' began Arthur slowly, 'you know how these hills catch the echoes… '

  The sun stood directly overhead and there was'still no sign of Morcant's war host. Scouts had been dispatched and had returned with confirmation that indeed a force of three hundred or more were approaching along the coast. They had crossed the Ebbw and were making for Glyn Rominw – the vale of the Rominw river.

  The deep glen circled Caer Melyn, describing a half-moon arc to the east before curving away to meet Mor Hafren just to the south. Any attacking army would find it a natural roadway straight into the heart of Arthur's realm.

  The young Duke knew the vale for what it was, and knew his enemies would regard it a weakness. But part of Arthur's genius lay in his remarkable ability to read the land.

  He had only to see a place once to know it – each hill and hollow, every freshet and stream, every dingle and dell, rock cliff and standing stone. He knew where it was safe to ford, where the ground cover was thickest, where the hidden trails met and where they led. He knew all the ancient tracks and ridgeways, where men might safely ride without being seen, how the fields of the various realms were laid, which height would afford protection, which lowland a hiding-place, where natural defences could be found, where the land favoured attack, or retreat, or ambush…

  All these things and more Arthur could read in the fold and crease of the earth. The land spoke to him, readily revealing its secrets to his quick eyes.

  This is how I came to be squatting on a hillside overlooking a ford on the Rominw, holding a blackthorn bush before me, surrounded by a company of warriors, each similarly hidden. Across the glen, Cai, with another company, lay hidden behind a low, grassy rise. And to the north another company; to the south another, and so on all along the vale.

  Tune passed. I sat watching cloud shadows on the hillside opposite me or gazing south along the curving length of the river, listening for the sound of the approaching warband and wondering what detained them – thinking that perhaps they had not chosen Glyn Rominw after all.

  The wind had shifted to the north, making the sound of Morcant's approach more difficult to hear – if indeed he had entered the vale. What was taking the old lion so long?

  Perhaps he had continued on along the coast to come at us out of the west. Perhaps he had forded the Rominw and crossed back to the east to come inland along one of the smaller streams. Perhaps he had – the thought never finished itself, for at that moment I heard it: the quick, rolling drum of horses hooves upon the earth.

  I craned my neck to the south and peered through the branches of my blackthorn bush. A moment later I saw them, Morcant's forces moving through the glen. They came on in a loose pack; there were no orderly ranks, no coherent divisions of any sort. They spread across the valley floor in a ragged swarm. More a mob than a force of disciplined men.

  That was the pith of it! So arrogant was Morcant, so smug and self-assured, so confident in his superior numbers, he made no attempt at order in his ranks. He meant to overwhelm Arthur's warband – like a wave on the shore, to simply wash over us and crush us with its all-engulfing weight.

  I watched the unruly throng stream into the valley below, and anger leapt up, a hot red flame within me. Fool! Morcant esteemed Arthur not at all. So lacking in respect he did not even deem it wisdom to order his ranks. Oh, the insolence was blinding, the pride deafening.

  I saw it all and did not care that we were only seventy against three hundred. Blessed Jesu, if we die today, let it be as true warriors with honour.

  The first foemen had reached the ford. Some splashed through the stream, others stopped to drink – the ignorant louts. Careless and stupid in their arrogance. My anger burned more fiercely in me.

  As soon as the main body of the warband reached the opposite bank, a mighty shout went up, an all-encompassing shout, a shout to shake the roots of the world. 'ALLELUIA!'

  I looked and saw Merlin standing alone on the hilltop, arms raised over his head, his cloak loose and blowing. At the very same instant there came an answer from across the glen. 'A-1-l-e-l-u-i-a!'

  The echoes rang. 'Alleluia!… Alleluia!'

  I joined in the gladdening cry, and the warriors with me on die hillside shouted too. 'Alleluia!'

  The shouts were coming from all along the glen now, the echoes pealing like bells, ringing on and on. Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

  The effect was immediate and dramatic. At that first enormous shout, the enemy had halted. The cries of alleluia assailed them from every side. They scanned the hillside for the foe, but saw no one. Now the echoes encircled them, pelting down upon them… Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

  Morcant's host scattered. The main body drove back across the stream into those still straggling behind. Seeing the ford hopelessly blocked, others turned to the hills. A group of twenty broke off, riding straight towards us.

  We let them come. Nearer… nearer…

  With a mighty shout we threw off the blackthorn branches that hid us. 'Alleluia!'

  Up we leapt, sword in hand, striking, pulling the startled riders from their saddles. We struck them to the ground and sent their terrified horses back down the hill into the confused host. I looked across the glen. The same thing was happening on the opposite hillside, as astonished warriors disappeared behind the grassy rise where Cai's men waited.

  Shouting, raving, screaming, the vale throbbed with the unearthly and unnerving sound. Morcant's war host, confronted by this invisible, seemingly invincible foe, bolted in cha
otic retreat back down the valley.

  Seeing this, we ran for our horses, tethered behind the crest of the hUl. But a few heartbeats later we were hurtling down the face of the hill and into the retreating war host. Morcant and Cerdic stood at the ford, their warriors fleeing away like a flood parting around them. They raged at the men, screaming for them to turn and fight.

  And then there was Arthur in their midst with his eleven. They had simply appeared, it seemed – sprung to life from the rocks at their very feet, horses and all.

  It was too much. Cerdic wheeled his horse and fled after his men. Morcant was too crazy with rage to heed his own danger. He lifted his sword and rode at Arthur. The two met. There was a quick flash of steel and Morcant fell. His body rolled into the stream and the king lay still.

  The fight did not end there. We escaped death that day, nothing more.

  Though we were all grateful to walk the land of the living, as the sun faded behind the western hills and we returned to the caer we knew that only a battle had been won. We suffered no losses, and only two men wounded. Cerdic had fled with his warband almost intact; he would nurse the injury to his pride for a season and then he would return to avenge his father. Others who thought to gain from the strife would rally to him, and the war would go on.

  While we Britons fought among ourselves, the ships would come; the settlements would burn. More and still more land would fall beneath the shadow. And the Saecsen kind would grow strong in Britain once more.

  TWELVE

  This is insane!' Arthur spat. 'I hate this, Myrddin. I hate it worse than anything I have known.'

  'So did your father,' Merlin replied calmly. 'And despite what they say of Uther, your uncle had no stomach for it, either. But they endured it, and so will you.'

  'As if we did not all have better things to do than carve up one another in this senseless slaughter. I have lost sixteen Cymbrogi this month. Sixteen! Do you hear?'

  'The whole world hears you, Arthur.'

  'This is Urbanus' doing. If I had that meddling bishop here before me now, I would – I would… ' Arthur sputtered, reaching for words to express his frustration.

  'Hand him his head on a platter?' Cai suggested hopefully.

  'Even that is too good for him,' muttered Bedwyr.

  We were at table with Arthur in his tent. The tent flaps were open, but it was hot – the tail end of a sultry, frustrating day. We were all tired, and hungry still, though the meal was long since finished. The humour of the group had soured a good time before talk turned to Urbanus.

  Very likely, Arthur was right. Urbanus' efforts at peacemaking had only succeeded in making matters far worse than they might otherwise have been. The ambitious cleric had no talent for diplomacy, and less understanding. He knew nothing of the forces involved in the struggle.

  To Urbanus it was utterly simple: choose a High King acceptable to all. If Arthur was not accepted, the rule of Britain must fall to someone else.

  He did not see how this undercut Arthur's claim and authority. He did not see how his constant peacemongering prolonged the fight.

  For, if the church had backed Arthur solidly, the dissenters would have had no support for their position. What is more, they would have found themselves fighting against the church in order to continue their ruinous rebellion. As it was, the rebellious lords took hope from Urbanus' equivocation. And the war continued.

  It had started the spring Morcant was killed – four years before. Four years… it might just as well have been a hundred for all the nearer we were to ending it.

  Cerdic, seeking vengeance for the death of his father, and the lean and hungry Idris, hoping to increase the lands left him by his kinsman Dunaut, formed the foundation of the alliance of lords who stood in open revolt against Arthur.

  Rebellion pure and simple, under the guise of protesting what they termed Arthur's abuse of the war chest: the supplies and money he collected from the lords to maintain the warband of Britain. 'He takes too much!' they cried. 'He has no right! If we do not pay, his men punish us. He is worse than any Saecsen!'

  Lies, all lies. But it gave them an excuse to unite against Arthur. It justified their treachery. And by it they even succeeded in luring men like Owen Vinddu, Ogryvan and Rhain into their wicked scheme. Others, petty lordlings all, seized the chance to join in, hoping to improve their meagre holdings with pillaged gold and plundered honour.

  Of Arthur's friends, only Custennin, Meurig, and Ban committed men and supplies to his support. Shamefully, even his would-be allies – Madoc, Bedegran, Morganwg and others like them – stood aside until the war decided the issue one way or another. Still, between Arthur's fearless extortion and the generosity of his allies, we scraped by.

  That first year was hard enough. Bors arrived with his men in time to forestall our outright slaughter. By autumn of the second year we were battle-seasoned warriors, each and every one of us. The third year we succeeded in moving the fight from Arthur's realm to Cerdic's.

  Now, late in our fourth summer, we were fighting a battle nearly every other day. Winning most of them, it is true; but fighting nonetheless, on little rest and poor food – and this is hard on warriors.

  If not for Bors, I do not know what we would have done.

  He and his men sustained us, upheld us, strengthened us while we learned the craft of war. Together Bors and Arthur led Britain's only hope into the fray and saved it from certain ruin. Not once only, but time and time and time again.

  We did not know how long we could continue. But each day we drew strength from the previous day's victory, and somehow we fought on.

  'We have been pressing them all summer,' said Arthur. 'They must give in.' The anger of the moment had passed. He had returned to his other preoccupation: trying to discern when the kings would capitulate. 'It cannot last another year.'

  'It can easily last another year,' Bedwyr observed. 'It is harvest time soon. They will have to go home to gather in the crops. And it is expected that you will do the same. There will be a truce through the winter, as there always is.'

  'Well, let them go back to their lands for the harvest. I will grant them no truce – ' he paused thoughtfully. All of us sitting round the table with him saw the light come up like sunrise in his clear blue eyes.

  'What is it?' asked Bedwyr. 'What have I said?'

  'We will take the war to them in their own fields,' replied Arthur.

  'I do not see how that will sol – ' began Cai, but Bedwyr was already far beyond him.

  Bedwyr was seeing what Arthur had seen. 'We could ride ahead!'

  'Burn the crops where they stand!'

  'Let them go hungry this winter, as we will. Why not starve together?'

  Bors slapped the board with his hands. 'I like it!'

  Cai shook his head. 'I do not see how this is helping at all.'

  Arthur draped an arm over Cai's wide shoulders. 'Losing their precious grain will make them think twice about continuing the war next year,' he explained. "They will either have to give in or buy grain from Gaul.'

  'And that will be expensive,' said Bedwyr. 'Only Cerdic can afford that.'

  'And him none too well after this year,' put in Bors. He laughed and pounded on the table until the cups and supper dishes rattled. 'Let Cerdic chew on that all through the winter, and he will not be so keen to fight next spring.'

  'Well said!' Arthur slapped his knee approvingly.

  'But I still do not see the use of us starving along with them," insisted Cai stubbornly. 'We would not have to."

  'Oh? Have you a better plan?' asked Bedwyr carelessly.

  Cai frowned. 'Do not be burning it. Let us harvest it instead.'

  'We are not farmers!' protested Bedwyr.

  'Beat our swords into sickles?' Bors jeered. 'Ha!'

  Cai's frown deepened. His green eyes darkened, as they always did whenever he suspected people of making fun of him, or failing to take him seriously.

  'Cai is right.' Merlin's soft tone stopped the
m dead. 'We are hungry. Burning it would be a sin. Besides, it would not wound any of you to be seen with a scythe in your hand.'

  'But we cannot -' Bedwyr's protest died in Arthur's wild whoop of joy.

  'It is perfect!' Arthur leapt to his feet. 'It is beautiful in its simplicity! This is salvation sweet and sure!' He pounded Cai on the back and the frown altered to a dubious grin.

  'We will harvest their grain for them – ' Arthur began.

  'And they just let us carry it off?' Bedwyr shook his head. 'Not as long as a man among them can still hold sword and spear.'

  'We will harvest their grain, because they will be too busy dealing with this annoying Bors here and his disagreeable Armoricans.' Arthur stalked round the table with long, sure steps, his hands waving in the air, his mind already speeding on, ahead of us all. 'Then, when they are hungrily eyeing their dogs and horses next winter, we offer to sell it back to them.' He paused for emphasis, his voice going hard as iron. 'The price will be full allegiance.'

  Merlin smiled grimly. He banged the butt of his staff on the ground three times. 'Well done, Arthur! Well done!' He raised bis hand to Cai. 'And well done, Cai. You kept your head and followed the wiser course.' His words praised, but his tone mocked.

  'You agree, Myrddin? It is the wisest course? It is a good plan, yes?'

  'Oh, a very good plan, Arthur. But even the best plans can fail.'

  'Do you think it will fail?' asked Bedwyr.

  'It matters little what I think,' replied Merlin diffidently. 'I am not the one to convince. It is for your warriors to decide.'

  'As to that,' stated Arthur, 'I do not know a single man among them who would not welcome the chance to lay down his sword for a day or two.'

  'Even if he knew it was only to take up the sickle and flail?' Bors grimaced with distaste.

  'Never worry, Lord Bors,' Arthur soothed, 'you will not have to touch that dread implement. You will lead your men on harassment forays, diversions – anything you like, so long as you keep those hounds occupied while we steal their grain.'