Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Consider wisely now. For I tell you truly, whatever glory we achieve will die with us unless Jesu the Christ goes before us. But if we are called by his holy name, his glory will cover us like a mantle of gold—and though we die, our deeds will be remembered for a thousand years, and a thousand thousand after that.”

  Llenlleawg stepped close, bearing the Duke’s shield. Arthur took it, turned it toward us, and held it up above his head. Upon the new white-washed surface had been painted a great red cross, the symbol of the Christ. “From this day, I wear the Cross of Jesu. By this, he goes before me into battle. If the High King of Heaven fights for us, who can prevail against us?”

  The Cymbrogi were silent. Behind them stood throngs of others who had heard Arthur’s voice and, drawn to it as to a beacon fire, had pressed closer to hear what he said.

  Arthur planted the shield before him on the shore. He lifted a hand heavenward, pointing over their heads into the twilight sky where new-kindled stars burned. “Look! The feet of the Holy One are already on the path. He will lead us if we follow him. I ask you, my brothers, who will follow?”

  Up they rose as one man. The Cymbrogi surged forward and by press of numbers forced Arthur into the lake. He stood in water up to his knees, but heeded it not. “Kneel, Cymbrogi, and swear everlasting allegiance to the High King of Heaven, who has promised to save all who own him Lord! He will be your strong arm and your wise counsellor; he will be a shield to cover you, and a sword to defend you!”

  They knelt by the hundreds there in the shallow water. Some of the priests from Mailros who were with us—they had taken refuge with Ector when the barbarians arrived—began moving among them, cupping water in their hands and baptizing the new believers into the Fellowship of Faith. I looked on in awe, my heart beating in my throat, for Arthur’s words had wakened in me the thirst for the divine glory he described.

  I was of the Christianogi already, so had no need of another baptism, but I went down to the water, too, to ask forgiveness for my sins so that I might enter battle with a spotless soul. Many another Christian among us did the same, while others began singing a hymn of praise to the Gifting God, and the dusky hills echoed with the holiest of sounds.

  15

  We rose before dawn and broke fast. We donned leather and mail; we helmed ourselves with iron and strapped steel to our hips. We slung our heavy wooden shields over our shoulders and bound our arms and legs with hard leather. We saddled our horses, formed the ranks, then moved silently through the wood to Baedun Hill.

  Before daylight we assembled below the hulking flanks of Baedun and looked long upon the two dark fortresses rising above us. The enemy sentries saw us gathering below the hill on the eastern side and sounded the alarm. In moments the screams assaulted our ears as the massed barbarian host—Picti, Angli, Irish, Saecsens, and others—raised their hideous battle cry.

  Rhys on his left hand, Llenlleawg on his right, Arthur advanced slowly up the slope. The grade rises sharply halfway up, and here Arthur halted the army, dismounted, and walked forward alone. He walked boldly to the bank of the first ditch and stopped. “Cerdic!” he called. “Come down! I would speak to you!”

  “Speak, Bastard of Britain!” came the sharp reply. “I can hear you.”

  “I stretch out my hand to you in peace, Cerdic,” said the Duke. “I stand ready to forgive you and all those with you if you will swear fealty to me.”

  “Whorespawn!” screamed Cerdic. “I have no need of your forgiveness or pardon. I will swear only to your death. Come up here, if you are not afraid, and we will see who bends the knee.”

  “I have offered peace, and I am reviled,” said Arthur. “Yet I will have peace in the end.” With that he turned and walked back to his horse.

  Once remounted, he signalled Rhys, who raised the horn to his lips, giving forth the long, ringing call to battle. Arthur drew Caledvwlch and lofted it high. The sun’s first rays struck the well-honed blade and set it aflame. “For God and Britain!” he cried, and his cry echoed along the line on either hand and down from the stone wall above.

  The battle call sounded again, and his horse trotted forward. The ala surged forth behind him, the doubled ranks of footmen behind them. The trot became a canter and then a flying gallop.

  The combined warbands of Britain stormed up the rock-strewn slope and reached the first ditch. Down we plummeted, and up we rose, scrambling for a foothold on the opposite side. Then we were up and over, and climbing steeply. The mighty battlehorns of the Saecsens—great bull-roarers to shake the dead in their graves!—trembled the cool dawn air. I felt the pounding thump of the war drums in my stomach and the cool rush of air on my face.

  But my hands were steady on my spear; my shield was solid beside me. I gave my mount his head and let him choose the ascent. The terrain was so rocky that I could not guide him and fight at the same time. Ahead I saw the leading bank of the second ditch. I stole a glance to either side to see that my men were with me, and then we plunged into the ditch together.

  As in previous battles the ala was formed into divisions, each led by one of Arthur’s battlechiefs: Cai, Bors, Gwalchavad, and myself, two kings each below us. Arthur and Cador, and the remaining lords, led the footmen, coming on behind us as swiftly as they could. Even above the thunder of the horses’ hooves, I could hear the dull pounding of their feet on the earth.

  The second ditch was deeper than the first, its sides steeper. Many horses stumbled, throwing their riders; many more balked at the climb and fell back. But all the rest cleared the ditch and charged ahead.

  Seeing that our approach was not greatly hindered by the ditch, the barbarians leaped over the wall and flew down the hill to meet us. The steep downward slope lent force to their blows and let them inflict wounds more easily. This they did.

  Many fell in the first assault. Difficult terrain and the ferocity of the foe conspired to bring good men down to their deaths. Thus was our first foray turned back.

  At the rim of the upper ditch I reformed my division. Quickly scanning the higher slopes, I saw that the other divisions had fared no better. All along the hillside we were being forced back.

  Upon my cry, the ala charged once more.

  This time we let the foemen hurl themselves at us. We held back at the last, and they plunged headlong onto our spears. It was a simple trick, but it worked laudably well. The barbarians learned quickly enough and reeled back—leaving hundreds dead and wounded upon the ground.

  Still, though we pushed after them, our horses foundered on the higher slope. We fell back once again and the enemy pursued us, striking wildly at our backs. Upon reaching the bank of the upper ditch, we were met by the footmen charging up from below.

  I gave command of the division to Owain, and rode quickly to Arthur. “It is no good,” I told him. “We cannot carry an attack up here—it is too steep and there are too many of them.”

  Arthur saw that I spoke the plain truth. “It is as I feared. Very well, save the horses. We may need them later. We will carry the attack on foot.” His blue eyes searched the wall line looming above us, and his finger pointed. “That place there—do you see it?”

  “That low place? I see it.”

  “We will center the attack there. Follow me!”

  I hurried back to my division and passed along Arthur’s order. Rhys signalled the dismount, and a moment later we were racing back up the hillside, scrambling over the rocks, falling, picking ourselves up, running on.

  The enemy saw that we had abandoned our horses and took this as a good omen for them. They raised their evil screams with renewed vigor, and danced their frenzied war dances along the top of the wall. They were frothing mad with blood-lust.

  As soon as we came within range, the enemy loosed their throwing axes at us. We threw our shields before us and stumbled on. Some among us picked up the hateful axes and hurled them back. More than one barbarian was killed with his own weapon.

  The sun had risen higher, and I could feel its w
armth on my back. My blood pounded hot in my veins, and I drew the cool morning air deep into my lungs. It was a good day for a battle, I thought, and then remembered that in numbers and position, Cerdic boasted the advantage.

  The place Arthur had found proved the only weak place that side of the wall. He had chosen the eastern side for assault because the incline was easiest, but the enemy realized this, too, and had built up the wall on that side. The low place Arthur saw was a section that had been hastily repaired, and some of the stone had fallen in when the first foemen swarmed over.

  We drove toward this place, all of us, our force becoming a spearhead to thrust up under the enemy’s defenses and into his heart.

  It nearly worked.

  But there were simply too many barbarians, and the incline too steep. Though we stood to our work like woodmen felling trees, we could make no headway. Picti, Cruithne, Angli, and Scotti, Saecsens and Frisians and Jutes…there were too, too many. We could not come near the wall.

  For every pace we advanced, the enemy pushed us back two. For every foeman we killed, three more sprang up before us. Our warriors were being dragged down by the enormous crush of the enemy hosts. They rushed down upon us, hacking with their cruel axes: eyes wild, mouths twisted, arms swinging like flails.

  But our warriors had fought barbarians before and were not unnerved. We lowered our heads and stood to our grim toil. And the battle settled into its awkward, lurching rhythm.

  The day passed in a haze of blood and havoc. As the sun descended westward, I heard Rhys raise the retreat and knew that we were beaten. I gathered my division and we withdrew with our wounded; everywhere were warriors streaming down the hillside to the refuge of the wood.

  The enemy seemed eager to give chase at first—would that they had done so! We would have cut them down with the ala. But Cerdic knew enough to halt the pursuit at the lower ditch, and the barbarians returned to the hillfort.

  While the warriors lay under the trees recovering strength and having their wounds bound, the cooks and stewards brought us meat and bread and watered ale, and we ate. My limbs ached and my head throbbed. My clothing was sodden with sweat and blood. I stank.

  A still and sinister dusk settled over the land. The trees around us filled with crows from the battlefield, croaking grotesquely over their ghastly feast. But that was as nothing to the wild cries of victory from the hillfort above us. Fires leaped high into the darkening sky as the victory celebration commenced.

  We slept fitfully that night, the sound of savage revelry loud in our ears. At dawn we awoke, broke fast, took up our weapons, and climbed the hill once more. The barbarians allowed us to crawl so far and then fell upon us, hurtling down from the heights, axes whirling.

  We took them on the points of our spears and swords, and struck them with our shields. But many a warrior fell, his helm or shield or mail shirt riven asunder. The carnage was appalling, the tumult deafening.

  Once again the flanks of Baedun Hill blushed crimson with the blood of the brave.

  And once again, as the sun passed midday, Rhys signalled the retreat and we withdrew to the wood to lick our wounds. The warriors sank to the grass and slept. The stewards crept among them with water jars and woke the sleeping soldiers to drink. The wood grew still, given only to the hum of flies and the flutter of birds’ wings in the branches above. On Baedun, the enemy was silent.

  When they had refreshed themselves and put off their weapons, the lords of Britain held council with Arthur.

  “I say we must lay siege to the hill and send south for more men.” This was Maglos’ suggestion, and after the heavy going of the morning, several agreed with him.

  “If we could only take the fortress…” began Ceredig, but he was cut off by the scorn of the others.

  “Take the fortress!” Idris shouted. “What else were we doing up there? It is impossible—there are too many! I agree with Maglos: we should lay siege and wait for more men.”

  “No,” said Arthur. “That we cannot do.”

  “Why not?” demanded Idris. “It worked at Caer Alclyd; it worked at Trath Gwryd…”

  “It will not work here,” Arthur told him flatly.

  But Idris gave no heed to the iron in Arthur’s voice. He persisted, saying, “Why? Because you want to exalt yourself over Cerdic?”

  “If that is what you think—” I snapped, jerking my head toward the hill, “join him!”

  Myrddin, leaning on his rowan staff nearby, stirred and came near. “This hill is cursed,” he intoned softly. We all quieted to hear him better. “There is distress and calamity here. The slopes are treacherous with torment, and disaster reigns over all.”

  We all glanced over our shoulders at the looming hill. The clouds playing across its surface gave it a brooding, dangerous aspect. Certainly, the corpses scattered on its rock-crusted slopes argued eloquently for disaster. Myrddin did not need sight to know our torment—but what else did he see?

  “In older times armies have fought upon this troubled mound. A great victory was won here through betrayal, and the wicked defeat of good men clings to the earth and rocks. The mountain is unquiet with the evil practiced upon it. Cerdic’s treachery has awakened the vile spirit of this place to work again.”

  “Tell us, Emrys,” said Custennin. “Give us benefit of your wise counsel. What are we to do?”

  It was the formal request of a king to his bard. Myrddin did not fail to oblige. “This battle will not be won by stealth or might. It will not be won by bloodshed alone. The spirit abiding here will not be overthrown except by the power of God.”

  The lords peered helplessly at one another. “What are we to do about that?” they demanded.

  “We must pray, Lords of Britain. We must erect a fortress of our own whose walls cannot be battered down or broken. A caer that cannot be conquered. A stronghold of prayer.”

  Some of the lords scowled at this, and embarrassed themselves with their lack of faith and understanding. But Arthur rose and said, “It will be done as you say, Wise Counsellor.”

  Myrddin placed his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “I will do all to uphold you—as I have ever done to this day.”

  Though men may scoff, it is no small thing to be upheld by the Chief Bard and Emrys of Britain.

  * * *

  The next morning as we arrayed ourselves for battle, I saw the solitary figure of Myrddin toiling up the hillside, picking his slow, blind way with his staff, his cloak wrapped tightly around him. For the day broke grey and misty, and a chill wind blew at us out of the north.

  “Do you want me to go after him?” I asked, fearful for Myrddin’s safety.

  “Wait here. I will go to him,” replied Arthur, starting after the stumbling Emrys.

  I watched Arthur stride out upon the hillside. Cai and Bors saw him and came running to where I stood at the edge of the wood. “What is he doing?” asked Bors. “Does he think himself invisible?”

  “I do not know,” I answered.

  “I am going to bring him back,” said Cai.

  “He said to wait here. But signal Rhys to be ready to sound the attack. If the barbarians come over the wall, I want the Cymbrogi to move at once.”

  Llenlleawg, who had been lurking nearby, came to stand beside me. He spoke not a word and his eyes never left the hill, but he gave me to know that our hearts beat as one for Arthur.

  “Now what are they doing?” wondered Bors aloud. “It looks like they are gathering stones.”

  God’s truth, that is what they were doing. Arthur, after a brief word with Myrddin, stooped and began piling rocks upon the ground. Myrddin laid aside his staff and, kneeling down, began to heft rocks onto the pile.

  “They are building a cairn,” observed Cai, eyes wide with disbelief.

  “Not a cairn,” I said. “A wall.”

  “Bah!” huffed Bors, who was having none of it. “They will get themselves killed out there as soon as the enemy stirs.”

  The leaden sky had lightened somewhat wi
th the rising sun. Arthur and Myrddin toiled openly on the slope. The enemy must have observed their presence by now. Our own army had gathered at the edge of the wood to view the strange proceedings.

  “We cannot let this continue,” blustered Bors. “It is not meet for the Duke of Britain to heap rocks on the ground.”

  “What do you propose?” I asked.

  “You must stop him!”

  “You stop him.”

  Bors drew himself up. “Very well, I will.” So saying, he stalked from the wood.

  Gwalchavad came running to us. “What is happening? What are they doing out there?”

  “Building a wall,” Cai replied.

  Gwalchavad opened his mouth to laugh, and then stared in amazement. “They are!” he declared. “They will be killed!”

  “Possibly,” I allowed.

  “Is no one going to stop them?”

  “Bors is going to do that,” said Cai.

  Gwalchavad gaped at us as if we had lost our reason. Out on the hill Bors picked his way among the tumbled stones. “Well, he will need help,” Gwalchavad said, and hastened after Bors, who had reached the place where Arthur and Myrddin toiled.

  The lord of Benowyc waved toward the hilltop stronghold and then in the direction of the wood. Arthur raised his head, spoke a word, and Bors stopped gesturing. The Duke returned to his labor, and Bors stood looking on.

  “Look at that,” scoffed Cai. “Bors has certainly stopped them.”

  Gwalchavad reached the three on the hill and fell to work beside them at once.

  At the appearance of Gwalchavad running out upon the hillside, the floodgates opened and others began moving from the cover of the wood. By twos and threes they went, then by dozens and scores to see what was happening.

  “Well, Gwalchavad has persuaded them beyond all doubt,” Cai observed. “What are we to do now? Our army is advancing without us.”