by Simon Lister
Arthur sat with Elwyn, Morgund and Ceinwen and they were discussing the defences at the Causeway and Caer Cadarn. Laethrig sat with them and reported on the work that was in progress. Ceinwen yawned mightily and wiped her tired, watery eyes before taking another mouthful of her wine. She triggered a yawning fit in Morgund and they swapped cavernous yawns. Arthur was suggesting to Elwyn that the families of the Anglians that were now based at the Causeway should come to Whitehorse Hill and set up their homes here for the present leaving the Causeway for the warriors to defend. Laethrig added that he could certainly put the extra hands to work and Elwyn agreed it would be a good idea. The talk became sporadic and Morgund finally stumbled to his feet and made his way to the table where Morveren sat, stopping on the way to steady himself on a back of a chair as yawns racked his body.
Morveren smiled up at him and they chatted for a while before Morgund made some parting comment and left the hall. Ceinwen watched as Morveren glanced back at the departing warrior and turned back to the others with an eyebrow raised in question but none of the three were looking at her; Laethrig was intent on draining the beer Morgund had left behind, Arthur was staring at nothing in particular with his thoughts clearly elsewhere while Elwyn was staring grim-faced at the door that had just closed behind Morgund. Ceinwen smiled to herself as she closed her eyes.
Laethrig finished the beer and got up to go too. He caught Arthur’s eye and nodded towards Ceinwen who was slumped in her chair fast asleep. Arthur hauled himself to his feet then gently picked her up and carried her out to Ruadan’s small roundhouse. He laid her down on her bed and buried her in warm fur covers. He watched her for a moment then turned to go. She was already snoring before he left the hut.
Arthur returned to the hall and retired to his own room where a fire had been lit for him. He lay awake for several hours replaying in his mind the meeting at the Veiled City. Perhaps he should not have precipitated the clash with Lord Venning but they had needed to be shaken from their comfortable complacency. He hoped that over the next few weeks they would come to realise their accustomed comfort and security no longer existed and that the only certainty in their future was the Adren host that wanted the Veiled City for their own.
His thoughts turned to Merdynn and Cei in the East and wondered what their tale would tell. He felt with a dread certainty that should they fail then Britain would eventually fall too. Even if he could unite all the king’s people with the Uathach and the Cithol and then forge an army from such an alliance they would still be terribly outnumbered.
As he drifted into sleep he was thinking of the coming meeting with the king and what plans he might have already put in place. The last time he had seen Maldred was at the King’s Council and he had agreed to Arthur going east in the hope that he would not return. Tomorrow he would return.
Arthur awoke to a clattering in his room. Ceinwen had brought in a hot breakfast and was heating a drink over a fresh fire she had started. She saw he was awake and threw his winter cloak to him.
‘Thanks for putting me to bed last night,’ she said with a smile.
‘Pleasure,’ Arthur replied with a laugh.
‘Laethrig is impatient to continue the account of his work while we’ve been away,’ she said with a roll of her eyes.
‘That’ll send you back to sleep. Tell him I’ll be with him shortly, and then feel free to make yourself scarce,’ Arthur said and helped himself to the warm food she had brought. Ceinwen nodded and left him to eat in peace.
When he had finished he sought out Laethrig and together they toured the hill fort. Laethrig pointed out the work done in various areas of the fortifications and then took Arthur to the store huts. The wood crafters had cut thousands of arrow shafts and two groups of children sat around a fire, one group fitting the flight feathers and the other slotting the arrowheads into the grooves and binding them with thin strips of leather which they then soaked so that the bindings would shrink to an even tighter fit. The children had been chatting and laughing as they worked but when they saw who had entered they went about their work with a studied vigour and a seriousness that made Laethrig laugh.
‘Now I know how to make the buggers work! Just bring the warlord in!’
Arthur knew that under Laethrig’s guidance the children would be happy and work well. The blacksmith had raised half a dozen children himself and knew exactly when to be stern and when to be gentle. Arthur inspected some of the work nonetheless and praised them on their work telling them it was important, their parents would depend on the feathers being straight and the arrowhead bindings tight. After they had left it was some time before the children started chatting again and there was less laughter but the feathers were straight and the bindings thorough. They argued about who would be the warlord amongst them when their time came but in the back of each mind was the thought that if the arrow they were working on did not fly true then it may cost their father or mother’s life. One of the older Anglian children, Aelfric, began to periodically check the arrows they were making to ensure they were true.
Arthur spent the next few hours inspecting the new swords, shields and spears that had been fashioned while he had been away in the East. He told Laethrig’s workers that the warriors were proud of their work and that they knew they could rely on the quality of the weapons they turned out.
Laethrig showed Arthur the thousands of hardened iron strips that were to be fitted into the warriors’ stout leather battle jerkins. The Adren swords were curved and used far more for cutting and slashing rather than thrusting. The iron strips bound into the jerkins along the shoulders, upper arms, sides and back could save many warriors’ lives.
Finally he checked on the longbows. These were works of great skill and only a few master craftsmen were capable of making them. Half of the longbows were fully sized six-foot bows and the archer had to be both well trained and strong to use them properly. The other half were shorter, between three and four foot in length and these were used by those without the strength to stand for hours firing the exhausting full sized bows. Their range was shorter and their penetrating power was less but at close quarters they were just as deadly.
Before going back to the main hall, Arthur quickly visited the herdsmen and the long barns where their animals were kept for most of the dark winter. The feed supplies would last the winter easily and the animals were in good health. Everything at Caer Cadarn was in order and preparations were well advanced. Arthur was satisfied with the work done and he turned his thoughts to Caer Sulis and King Maldred. It was time to visit the king.
He took with him the forty of the war band that had travelled with him from the Causeway. They left Whitehorse Hill under the same low clouds that still reflected the fires in shades of dark red and as they left the first flakes of a new snowfall dropped from the reddened glow like beads of blood upon the hill fort.
They travelled back down the Ridgeway wrapped in their thick winter cloaks and by the time they reached the Westway the snow had settled into a heavy, silent fall that blanketed the dark world around them and muted their journey to Caer Sulis.
The warriors knew the origins and depth of the dispute between their warlord and the king and a quiet tension filled them as they drew nearer to the king’s town. While the Wessex and Anglian warriors had been on good enough terms even before the Adren attacks, neither were comfortable near the king’s men, the Mercian war band, and the general distrust was mutual. This friction between the war bands only ever manifested itself in the occasional individual conflict or drunken brawl and had not spiralled out of control in decades. An uneasy but effective peace existed between them.
So it came as a surprise when they found the road down through the hills blocked to them. They had expected guards but not to be denied passage. Arthur had been riding near the back of the line with Morveren and Elwyn when the column came to a halt. He left them to see what the delay was and rode to the front where Morgund and Ceinwen were arguing with some figures in the darkness
beyond the barricade that stretched across the road.
‘I assure you that he’s very much alive,’ Ceinwen was saying patiently.
‘What’s the delay, Ceinwen?’ Arthur asked as he rode up.
His appearance at the barrier of felled trees had a strange effect on the Mercian guards. As one man they all took a step backward, some making the sign to ward off evil spirits.
‘You’re dead apparently,’ Morgund answered.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, killed in the Shadow Lands,’ Morgund added.
‘Strange, I don’t seem to remember that.’
‘And you’d have thought it’d be the kind of thing you would recall really.’
‘I remember killing a lot of Adren,’ Arthur offered.
‘Not the same as being killed yourself though,’ Morgund pointed out.
‘True.’ Arthur turned to the still stunned Mercians, ‘So then, how did I die? Well, I hope.’
They were silent.
‘Perhaps more importantly, how and when will you die?’ There was no longer any trace of levity in Arthur’s tone.
‘You can’t enter, Arthur,’ the Mercian leader said.
‘Well, that answers my last question then,’ Arthur replied looking at Morgund and drawing his sword. Behind him rang the sound of his warriors drawing their weapons in the still winter air.
Arthur dismounted and handed his reins to Ceinwen. He walked up to the barrier and the riders drew close about the barricade. Arthur leapt lightly on top of the trees and jumped down the other side. The Mercians drew their swords but backed away from him.
He stared at them in silence for a minute then said, ‘Do you mean to bar the Westway to the Warlord of Wessex?’
The Westway was always open for anyone of the three tribes to travel on and it was one of the duties of the war bands to keep their section of it open and free of Uathach raiders. The five Mercians were unsettled. They had been told that Arthur had died in the Shadow Lands only to find him appearing like a ghost out of the snow. They knew full well that the law of the land demanded the Westway be kept open yet they had their orders from the king to bar it to any of the Wessex or Anglian warriors that might return. They looked to their captain.
‘We have our orders, Arthur,’ he said, looking past Arthur at the war band he knew he could not stop.
Arthur looked at them once again then called out for his warriors to stay their hands.
‘So be it then. Your orders are against the law of this land but if you will not go against them then my war band will turn round and go back - if you and your guards can deny me passage.’
The Mercians looked at one another, five of them against the Wessex Warlord. They took up defensive stances. The mounted warriors lined up jostling along the barricade, each trying to get a better view of what was about to happen. Most of them missed it and those who did witness it were astonished by the speed of Arthur’s attack. What astounded them even more was that not a single Mercian had been cut by Arthur’s sword. A cheer went up along the line and as they hauled aside the barricade Arthur knelt by the Mercian Captain, the only one still conscious, and told him quietly never again to bar the Westway to legitimate travellers.
As they rode on toward Caer Sulis Morgund asked Arthur why he had spared them.
‘They aren’t the ones to blame,’ Arthur replied.
‘Then who is?’ Morgund asked.
Arthur was silent and Morgund knew better than to repeat the question. Ceinwen’s anxiety increased.
When they reached the outskirts of the town they found their way barred once more, this time by fifty of the king’s war band. The Mercians peered through the heavy, slow falling snow at the approach of the riders and called out a challenge.
‘Arthur of Wessex, seeking passage to Caer Sulis on business with the king,’ Arthur called out in reply.
His appearance had the same effect on these guards as it had on the others a few miles back on the Westway and they stared at Arthur as if seeing an apparition.
‘Arthur died in the Shadow Lands,’ the captain of the guard replied.
‘Here we go again,’ muttered Morgund.
‘I am here and wish to enter Caer Sulis and see the king.’
The captain stepped closer and recognised Arthur’s bearded and scarred face. ‘The king is in council and you cannot pass, Arthur. The road is barred to any Wessex or Anglian warriors.’
‘As Warlord of the Wessex I’m one of the King’s Counsellors. By whose authority do you bar me from the council?’ Arthur asked.
‘King Maldred’s.’
‘And who is King Maldred in council with if not his counsellors?’
‘The council is disbanded. He talks with the Northern tribes,’ the captain did not look Arthur in the eye as he replied.
‘The Uathach?’ Morgund exclaimed and those around him stirred in anger.
Arthur turned his horse around and walked it back into the midst of the warriors.
‘I want as little bloodshed as possible. We’ll need every warrior against the Adren. The town is not walled, we’ll ride around the barricade to the North, head for the King’s Hall,’ Arthur said, and then digging his heels into his horse’s flanks led the charge around the northern flank of the Mercians.
Arthur’s riders dashed madly across the field, snow flying from their horse’s hooves as arrows from the guards flew through the darkness around them. Morveren led the faster riders and they grouped around Arthur to protect him as they entered the streets of Caer Sulis leaving behind the Mercian guards.
The people of the town, who had not taken the journey west, ran to the streets and windows of their houses to see what the thundering noise meant. They feared they were under attack but many recognised the Wessex or Anglian warriors and word spread quickly that Arthur was alive and in Caer Sulis.
They reached the King’s Hall in minutes and Arthur flung himself from his saddle as his horse slid on the ice in front of the long house. There were two sets of guards in front of the hall, Mercian and Uathach, both drew their weapons as Arthur’s warriors careered to a stop and made straight for the hall’s doors.
‘Stand aside! I have no wish to kill you!’ Arthur roared at them as he cast his heavy cloak into the snow and drew his sword, making the alternative clear. Behind him longbows were drawn.
The Uathach raced inside the hall, two Mercians stood to bar Arthur’s way and without breaking stride Arthur knocked them both down instantly. The other Mercian guards backed against the wall and lowered their weapons. Arthur sent the hall doors flying open with a furious kick and he strode straight towards the raised dais with the others spilling into the hall behind him.
Those at the top end of the hall rose as one in the sudden silence and stared at the approaching Arthur.
‘You! No! You died in the Shadow Lands!’ the king screamed at him.
Arthur took the steps up to the dais two at a time and brought his sword crashing down onto the table in a fury that split it in two.
‘This council is broken!’ Arthur said amid the flying platters of food and beakers of wine.
The king’s face twisted in hatred and his counsellors looked aghast as Arthur took his eyes from Maldred and stared at those standing around the debris of the broken table.
Besides the king and his counsellors there were three Uathach chieftains and their advisers. Arthur recognised each of the chieftains. The foremost of the three was Ablach and he stood with his arms folded and his small, black eyes shifted between Arthur and Maldred with a keen interest. He was a bear of a man, as broad as Arthur and even taller, with tangled black hair and a beard greasy from the food that now lay around the shattered table.
To his right was the smaller Hund, chieftain of the lands to the North of Mercia. If Ablach was like a bear then Hund was like a weasel, his nervous, darting hands refused to remain still and a long straight nose sharply divided his heavy lidded eyes. He watched Arthur and Maldred avoiding eye contact as his gaze fl
icked between them at chest level.
Arthur turned his gaze to the third, ignoring Maldred who had begun to spit more vitriol towards him. The third chieftain was Benoc, a red haired giant from beyond Ablach and Hund’s lands. Arthur had only seen him the once, years ago on a distant raid north. He was the only one of the three who appeared on the point of attacking Arthur.
‘Don’t. Or your tribe will need a new leader for tomorrow,’ Arthur said with his sword pointing at the giant’s midriff.
Benoc snarled and readied himself to spring at Arthur. Arthur just smiled at him and Ablach unfolded his thick arms and placed a hand in front of Benoc to restrain him.
‘Wait,’ he said, keen to see what would happen next between Arthur and King Maldred.
Below the dais the hall was divided into two with Maldred’s men down one side and the Uathach warriors on the other. There were about fifty of each and now there were forty of Arthur’s war band spread out in a semi-circle from the hall’s doors, with their longbows half drawn. All the warriors were trying to watch each other and what was unfolding on the dais at the same time.
‘You’re too late, thief of Wessex, dead or alive you’re too late,’ Maldred hissed at him, his fine silver hair now hanging around his lined face.
Arthur turned his attention to the king and the Great Hall was completely silent.
‘Too late?’
Maldred laughed, ‘Yes, too late. You should have died in the Shadow Lands where you were supposed to. I know your plans warlord thief, you’ve craved the throne for years! Since you were a yelping brat in the Wessex war band you’ve wanted to be king. Too late! You’re not even the Wessex Warlord now! How could you be? There’s not even a Wessex Council! I’m the sole ruler of Wessex now and Ablach rules the Anglian lands.’
Arthur looked at Ablach who shrugged with a half smile.
‘And the Wessex and Anglian chieftains?’ Arthur asked.
