Arthur pc-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  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 lightly to disregard the horse-mounted warriors of the Pendragon's a/a. 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 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.

  NINE

  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 war host 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 attend 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 battle ground 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. 'For God's sake, 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 lung 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 colour 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 deerskins 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. 'Blessed Jesu! 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 battle ground 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 for ever.'

  '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 war host. 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 travelled 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 labour 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 morning.

  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 centre 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 practised 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 lark song 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 valour 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 life-songs of Cai, Gwalcmai, Gwalchavad and Llenlleawg. If there was ever a more beautiful or heartfelt lament, I never heard it.

  That night I slept outside the Pendragon's tent on a red calfskin – I wanted to begin my duties before anyone else awakened. Accordingly, I rose before dawn and hurried down to the stream to drink and wash myself. Passing along the sea-face of the hill, I happened to glimpse a ship gliding out of the mist on the water, sailing towards the shore.

  I stopped. Who could it be? Few among those left behind in Caer Lial knew the location of the Round Table.

  I watched as the ship drew closer – yes, it was definitely making for the shrine – and then turned and ran back to camp. Not wishing to disturb the Pendragon, I ran to the Emrys' tent. 'Emrys,' I whispered at the tent flap. He awakened at once and came out to me.

  'What is it, Aneirin?'

  'A ship is approaching. Come, I will show you.'

  Together we hurried back to the place where I had seen the ship – just in time to see six more emerge from the mist. The first ship was already drawing towards shore. 'It is the Pendragon's fleet,' I said, observing the red dragon painted on the sails.

  'I was afraid of this,' remarked the Emrys.

  'What are they doing?'

  'They have come for the burial ceremony.'

  It was true. Thinking only to honour their dead companions, the Cymbrogi, and the assembled war hosts of Britain, had embarked in the Pendragon's ships to discover the shrine. And discover it they did. The Emrys and I watched as ship after ship came into the bay and the warriors waded to shore.

  They came dressed as for battle, each with helm burnished and shield freshly painted. Their swords were newly honed, and their spearheads gleamed. They gathered on the beach and then moved silently up the hill towards us.

  'What shall we do, Wise Emrys?'

  'Nothing,' he replied. 'There is nothing to be done. These men have risked the Pendragon's wrath to come here. They will not be turned away, nor should they be.'

  'But the shrine… '

  'Well,' observed Myrddin Emrys, 'the Round Table will no more remain secret. After this day, the world will know of it. Easier to hold back the tide with one your brooms, Aneirin, than to call back a word once it has been spoken.'

  As they assembled on the shore, the Emrys sent me to fetch the Pendragon. I did so and returned with Arthur, Gwenhwyvar and Bedwyr to see ten thousand warriors – all the Cymbrogi, of course, and a good few others had come to observe the funeral rites of their battlechiefs.

  'God love them,' said Arthur, gazing out upon the strand, now populated with warriors drawn up in ranks and divisions, and arrayed in bright batt
le dress. 'Their disobedience is greater tribute than we can boast. Let them join us.'

  'Very well,' replied Bedwyr, and started down the hill track to the shore.

  'How did they find this place?' wondered Gwenhwyvar.

  'Tegyr, I suppose,' said Myrddin, and I remembered the steward.

  'Or Barinthus,' offered Arthur.

  'Your pilot? He would never do such a thing,' the queen insisted. She looked upon the ordered ranks of warriors and smiled. 'I hope that I receive such homage when I go to my grave.'

  'For me,' the Pendragon said, 'let there be a perpetual choir established in a church built over my tomb. I will have need of such prayers, I think.'

  At these words the Emrys looked round and observed the High King closely. 'Are you ill, Arthur?'

  'I am tired this morning,' he admitted. 'The battle has left its mark. It will pass.'

  'Let me tend your wound.'

  'A scratch,' said Arthur, making a dismissive gesture with his hands. There is nothing to see.'

  But the Wise Emrys was not to be put off. 'Then I will see that as well. Open your mantle and have done with it.'

  The Pendragon hesitated, but no man alive is able to resist the Emrys for long. At last Arthur gave in and drew back his cloak and pulled aside his mantle. The wound was, truly, nothing more than a long, ragged scratch, running around the base of the throat where Medraut had caught him with a wild slash of the knife.

  But that scratch had festered and was now an angry red welt, visibly raised and, I imagine, very painful. The edges of the wound were tinged with green and a watery pus oozed from several places where movement had opened the gash afresh.

  Gwenhwyvar gasped. 'No wonder you cried out when I touched you – it is a nasty thing.'

  'It is slow healing,' Arthur allowed, pulling his cloak over his shoulder once more. 'But I have had worse.'