Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Myrddin!” I turned and was swept into his embrace.

  “Winter-starved and spring-hungry, eh?” he said, gripping my arms and peering into my eyes as if searching my soul for the answer. He always did that. Some people find it most unnerving, I am told.

  “God’s truth, I am!” I declared. “But you look as if you have lived on roast duck and honey cakes all winter. God be good to you, look at you now!”

  Indeed, he appeared as fit as I have ever seen him—not that he ever changed all that much.

  “Sit down, all of you,” said Arthur, indicating the benches at his council table. “We must talk.” He drew up his chair—it was Uther’s old camp chair. I never learned where or how he had come by it, unless Tewdrig had somehow got it for him.

  Spreading his hands across the board, Arthur studied his fingers as if trying to decide which of the ten pleased him most. “It is my intention to ride to the Saecsen Shore in three days’ time.”

  I glanced around at the others. No one showed a flicker of surprise. Perhaps I have misheard him, I thought; perhaps he said, “It is my intention to have mutton for supper.”

  But as no one else responded, I said, “Forgive me, brother, did I understand you to say that we were to attack the Saecsen Shore in three days?”

  Arthur smiled his fishy smile again, and shook his head. “No, there will be no attack. I am going to offer them terms for peace.”

  “Peace?” I stared dumbfounded. “Now I know you have straw for brains, Artos. Leaving aside the fact that you have not the authority, what makes you think they will honor a treaty of peace made with you?”

  “I am the Duke of Britain, the War Leader. Who else has the right to grant peace if I do not?”

  “But, the Saecsens! Have you forgotten the slaughter of four years ago?”

  “I have not forgotten, Bedwyr. But I stand ready to forgive them if they will hold peace with us.”

  “And if not?”

  “Then we will do what we have to do,” he said, sounding a little more like the Arthur I knew. “But we would be less than Christians if we did not offer peace before taking up the sword.”

  “I see. And what will prevent them from cleaving your head from your shoulders before your tongue has finished flapping? They are Saecsens!”

  “And they are men, as we are. No more will I make war on any man—be he Saecsen or Briton—unless I have first offered peace.” The conviction with which he spoke was unassailable.

  “Is that the way of it?”

  “That is the way of it.” Arthur might have been a standing stone for all he would be moved. Once he had an idea in his head, there was no shaking it from him. Arthur was not the Bear of Britain for nothing.

  “I am sending messengers to bid any king who will to ride with us,” Arthur continued. “I pray that some will. But whether they ride with me or not, we leave Caer Melyn in three days.”

  “And may God go with us,” I said.

  We fell to talking about readying the warband to ride—moving so many men is always a chore. Nothing more was said about Arthur’s crack-brained peacemongering scheme. When we finished, Arthur called for beer to be brought and we drank. Then we went about our various tasks.

  So it was not until we returned to the hall for our supper that I found opportunity to speak to Myrddin.

  “Tell me, Wise Emrys,” I said as I sidled up to him, “what has become of our beloved Duke?”

  He regarded me closely with those golden eyes of his. “He is coming into his power.”

  “That is no answer. What power? How has it come to him? Who conferred it? Where has it come from? And why does it make him soft-headed?”

  “It is not his head that has changed, Bedwyr, but his heart.”

  “Head, heart—I hardly recognize him!”

  Myrddin smiled understandingly. “Give it time. He will come back to himself.”

  “I welcome your assurance. Unfortunately, we will all be dead. Saecsens do not want our peace; they want our land and cattle.”

  “Arthur has learned a greater truth. His kingdom will be established on justice and mercy toward all men who shelter in this island.”

  “Including the Saecsens?”

  “Yes, Bedwyr, including the Saecsens. It must be this way.”

  “That is not truth, that is madness.”

  “If any man has reason to hate the Saecsens, it is me,” Myrddin replied gently. “Do you know what my friend Hafgan used to tell me?”

  Hafgan, I knew, was Myrddin’s druid teacher. He was now remembered as the last of the Three True Bards of the Island of the Mighty. “No, Wise Emrys, enlighten me. What did Hafgan tell you?”

  “He said that once some men were digging a well and came upon a great, flat stone. It was, they discovered, the foundation stone of this worlds-realm, so they decided to lift it up and see what lay beneath it. This they did. And do you know what they found?”

  “I cannot say. What did they find?”

  “Love,” replied Myrddin simply.

  “Love. That is all?” I resented myself for being cozened by Myrddin’s children’s tale.

  “There is nothing else, Bedwyr. Love lies beneath all that is and upholds it. Arthur has seen that this is so. His kingdom will be built upon the only enduring foundation.”

  I went away shaking my head. It was not that I did not believe. For the love of God, if faith alone lent men rank, I would be Pope! But I know a thing or two about Saecsens, I will say. And it is a difficult thing to preach the love of Christ to a man with his axe in your skull!

  Wonderfully benevolent Arthur’s plan might be, and wonderfully foolish as well.

  Yet, if Myrddin was with him in this, there was nothing to be done. Bors might have been counted on to argue against Arthur’s peace scheme, but he had not returned from Benowyc, and would not until the spring seas calmed. It was no good trying to enlist Cai’s aid. Cai would never hear a word against Arthur, God love him. His devotion knew no hindrance, his loyalty no restraint. He gave all to Arthur without stint. Right or wrong—it was all the same to Cai where Arthur came into it.

  This was due, I believe, to something that had happened between them years ago. I once heard the tale from Pelleas—about how the two of them had climbed a mountain together. Owing to Cai’s crooked leg, this could have been no easy task. Be that as it may, when the deed was done Arthur had inspired in Cai the kind of devotion few men ever know: zealous, deep, unselfish, stronger, and more steadfast than death.

  So, since that was the way of it, I decided to say my prayers and sharpen my sword.

  2

  A Saecsen camp is not a pleasant sight. They are barbarians, after all. But after thirteen days in the saddle, I would have thought even a hole in the ground a palace if it kept the rain off my head at night. Thirteen days of rain! Why, it is enough to make misery seem good company. We were well past misery.

  I think the Saecsens were unhappy, too, and looking for a diversion. Or perhaps the rain had softened them. However it was, we found them in a most rare temper: docile.

  That is to say, they did not kill us upon first sight.

  We had left Caer Melyn three days after Arthur’s return, and had slowly made our way east to the Ouse River on the old Iceni border where we camped. We knew that Aelle, who was battlechief of the Saecsen hordes there, would already have detected our movements. We wanted him to know that we were not trying to attack outright. So, we settled down in the mud and waited.

  And yes, two days later we awakened to the horns and drums of a Saecsen warhost across the river. Arthur rose and ordered three horses saddled: his, mine, and Cai’s. Myrddin protested that he should go along, but the Duke would not hear it. He said, “If anything happens to me, at least the Soul of Britain will still be alive.”

  To Cai and me he said, “Leave your weapons. If all goes well, you will not need them.”

  “And if it fails?” I asked.

  “They will be no help.”

 
Reluctantly, we obeyed—although this was going several paces too far, even for Cai’s loyalty.

  “Help or no, I would ride easier with my sword to hand,” he grumbled as we mounted our horses and rode out of camp.

  “Things might be worse,” I told him. “At least it is not raining. I would hate being killed in the rain.”

  The Ouse is deep-set and good fording places few. We had camped near enough to one of the best—the site of numerous battles in the past—and made our way to it now, each of us holding green willow branches in our hands. The Saecsens used this sign themselves and recognized it when it suited them. I prayed it might do so now.

  At our approach, the warhost raised their ear-splitting shriek. This went on for a good while, but when they saw it was just three men with willow branches, they quieted and waited to see what we would do.

  Arthur rode to the center of the river ford and halted, Cai and I on either side. “Now,” he said, “we will see what sort of men they are.”

  I could have told him what sort of men they were!

  “Aelle!” called Arthur. “Come, Aelle! I would speak to you!”

  I surveyed the host arrayed against us—there were a thousand if there were ten, and none of them with glad welcome on their lips. They remained silent, and in a moment a single warrior stepped away from a throng gathered around one of their hideous skull-and-horsetail standards. He was a huge brute with hair the color of new thatch hanging in two long braids, and he walked with such arrogance, such insolence in his gait, I knew him to be Aelle in the flesh.

  He came down to the water’s edge, his great war axe in his hand. “I am Aelle,” he said, not bothering to conceal his conceit. “What do you want?”

  Oh, yes, he spoke our tongue. This is not as surprising as you might think, for many of the Saecsens had lived longer on our shores than ever they stayed on their own. Britain was the only home they knew.

  “Peace,” replied Arthur just like that.

  I nearly fell off my horse. It is foolish enough to try making a treaty with the Saecsens, but you must be cunning about it. They respect nothing but the sharp edge of a sword and the strength behind it. Everything else is weakness to them and is despised. We were lost.

  “Arthur! Think what you are doing!” I whispered harshly.

  “I know what I am doing!” he replied.

  Aelle stood at the river’s edge blinking. Then it started to rain.

  The Saecsen battlechief glared at Arthur with one eye and at the rain clouds with the other and decided that neither was going to go away very soon. Under the circumstances, he could at least escape the one by talking to the other.

  “Come,” he called across the water, “I will talk to you.”

  With that, Arthur lifted his reins, and his horse moved forward. Cai and I followed, and together we three crossed over into Saecsen-held land.

  Upon reaching the far shore we were immediately surrounded by Aelle’s house carles—twenty enormous hulking savages, chosen for their size and courage to protect their leader to the death. I could read nothing but loathing in their cold blue eyes.

  “Who are you, Wealas?” sneered Aelle. He had been about to say something rude, and I swear he would have got a boot in the face for his insolence. But he showed at least that much sense.

  “I am Arthur, War Leader of Britain. I have come to offer peace to you and your people.”

  Aelle considered this as he scanned our camp across the river. We were less than two hundred, for aside from Meurig none of the British kings deigned to ride with us. Aelle did not fail to grasp this fact, and it did not argue well for us.

  “Are you so powerful?” It was a strange question. And it came to me that Aelle was genuinely confused. He did not know what to make of Arthur.

  I began to see the matter through his eyes. Here was a British lord who rode to meet a host many times larger with only a small force, unarmed, and offering peace—it was madness, surely. Unless the lord before him was a very, very powerful man indeed—a man so powerful that he had no need of a larger force, no need of the support of the other British lords. But who possessed such might?

  “I am as you see me,” replied Arthur. This confused the Saecsen even more. What did that mean?

  The rain fell, running down our faces in rivulets. The barbarians seemed not to notice it.

  “Come, let us go where it is dry and we can talk,” Arthur continued.

  Aelle gazed at Arthur for a long moment, making up his mind. Then with a sharp nod he turned to his men and barked a harsh command in their repulsive tongue. The carles turned as one and hastened away. In a moment the whole of the warhost began moving back, retreating from the river.

  “We will go to my camp,” Aelle said, and began leading the way.

  The Saecsen camp lay but a short distance away—just a valley and a hill east of the Ouse. We passed through the charred ruins of a small settlement on the way, and that was hard. Cai did not look at the fire-blackened remains, nor did Arthur. But I saw his hands tighten on the reins.

  As I say, a Saecsen camp is a wretched place. They despoil everything they touch—including the earth where they squat. A few crude skin tents and huts made of grass and branches formed a loose circle in the center of which burned a fire. The hacked carcasses of butchered cattle and sheep lay on the ground near the firering, among the scattered bones of others. The place stank of excrement and refuse.

  The foremost dwelling belonged to Aelle, and he entered it. We dismounted outside it and followed him in. It was a dark, damp, filthy, fetid hole, but it kept the rain off. We sat on the bare earth—Aelle sat on an ox-hide—and waited while a slave fixed torches to the tent poles on either side of Aelle. The slave, I noticed, was Gaulish, but I did not doubt there were Britons among the slaves in Aelle’s camp.

  “What have you to say to me?” asked Aelle.

  This is how it began. The Saecsen leader did not deem it necessary to include any advisors in the proceedings. Except for their omen readers, by which they set great store, Saecsen rulers rarely consulted their minions.

  “I have this to say to you, Aelle,” said Arthur, speaking with an easy authority. “These lands you now hold do not belong to you. They are British lands. You have killed our people and burned our settlements to get them.”

  Aelle frowned defiantly at this, and opened his mouth to speak. But Arthur held up a hand and continued.

  “I could demand your life and the lives of all your people in repayment for the wrong you have done us. I could raise the entire warhost of Britain and attack you, and we would win. You would be killed.”

  Aelle’s frown deepened to a scowl. “Others have tried. I am not so easy to kill, I think. Maybe I will kill you.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps we would both be killed, and all our warriors with us. And then what? Other lords and battlechiefs would rise up against you. The war would continue until there was no one left to fight it.”

  “We are ready to fight,” muttered Aelle stubbornly.

  “But we do not have to fight,” Arthur said. “There can be peace between us, and between our people. The bloodshed can end now, and you can keep the land you have taken from us.”

  “How can this be?” asked the Saecsen warily.

  “I will grant it,” replied Arthur. “I will give the land to you in return for your promise.”

  “What is this promise?”

  “Your word, your vow never to make war against my people again. That is first,” said Arthur, making a stroke with his finger in the dirt before him. “Then you must agree to stay on this side of the Ouse water.” He drew another mark, and Aelle watched him.

  “And then?”

  Arthur made a third mark, saying, “And then you must give back those of my people you have taken as slaves.”

  Aelle stared suspiciously at the three marks in the dirt—as if they were a ruse by which Arthur meant to trick him somehow.

  “What if I do not agree?” he said at last.

>   “Then you will be dead before Beltane.”

  The Saecsen bristled at this. “I am not afraid.”

  “I am the War Leader of Britain,” Arthur reminded him, “and I have conquered all who rose against me. I will see this land at peace, Aelle. I offer peace freely from my hand today…Tomorrow I will win it with my sword.”

  This was said with such certainty that Aelle accepted it without question. He turned his face and gazed out at the rain for a moment, then rose and went out.

  “We will have our answer soon,” Arthur said. Cai and I looked uncertainly at one another, neither one knowing what to say. The rain pattered down outside, filling the footprints in the mud with water. Our horses stood sodden and forlorn, heads down, manes streaming water.

  “Patience, brother,” Arthur said. I turned and found him looking at me. “Have faith. It is God’s work we are doing here; he will not see us fail.”

  I nodded, tried to smile, and gave up with a shrug.

  “I wonder if it will rain all day?” muttered Cai.

  “Why should this day be any different from the others?” I said.

  “Take heart,” Arthur told us. “The rain aids our purpose most excellently. No man likes to fight in the rain, least of all a Saecsen.”

  “That is true,” allowed Cai doubtfully.

  We sat for some time in the tent, and I began to believe that Aelle had forgotten about us. But just as I was about to get up and stretch my legs, there came a commotion from outside the tent. Someone shouted, and a crowd gathered. The shout was answered by a low, spitting threat in the barbarian tongue. The clash of steel rang sharp and quick.

  I made to rise, but Arthur pulled me back down. “Stay. It is not for us to intrude.”

  No, but we craned our necks and peered out through the tent slit. I saw nothing but the backs of the throng gathered around the firering. But from the grunts of the combatants and the shattering chime of steel on steel, it was clear to us that a fight was in progress.

  It ended as quickly as it began. And with much murmuring and muttering—although of approval or disdain, I could not tell—the throng dispersed.