Medraut

by David Pilling

  Medraut scarcely dared to breathe. He had never known Cerdic to sound so reflective before, or reveal his inner thoughts. Why was this savagely unpredictable man confiding in him?

  Cerdic raised his right hand and slowly clenched it into a fist.

  “The runt of his litter, Hengist used to call me. I watched the old wolf die. Made him speak my mother’s name before he drew his final breath. He will be looking down at us now, from his seat in Woden’s hall.”

  He looked up at the raftered ceiling. “Do you see me, father? Your runt is the head of the litter now. He will finish your work.”

  Medraut dared to hope.

  “March with me, then,” he asked eagerly. “Bring all your power against Artorius. He has less than a thousand spears. Together we can bury him under sheer weight of numbers.”

  “Yes,” the other man answered after an uncomfortable silence. “I will empty Caerleon of fighting men. All my reserves. Let this be the final trial of strength.”

  Cerdic was as good as his word. That same day he gave orders to his chieftains to gather their warriors, rouse them out of the taverns and barracks and plundered houses, make ready to march. For a brief hour the ravaged, burnt-out shell of Caerleon flickered into life again. Hundreds of Saxon warriors, many nursing sore heads from over-indulgence in mead, made their way out of the city. They left behind them empty streets, piles of debris, overturned statues of ancient Roman gods and buildings scorched with fire. A few cowed British citizens, those who had survived the massacre and been taken into slavery, cowered among the ruins like frightened rats. Otherwise Caerleon was a dead city, as though the days of glory under Artorius had never been.

  Medraut waited on a hillside outside the northern gates and looked down at the desolation.

  “My city,” he murmured, “I will come back and make you great again. I swear it.”

  “If we come back, lord king,” Duach remarked nervously. Medraut ignored him. Duach was a broken reed, his nerve shattered by the defeats in the north. He had lost most of one ear in the battle at Penllyn, sheared off by an axe. The wound healed, but left an ugly purple scar on the side of his head. Vain of his looks, Duach attempted to hide the scar by growing his hair long. Duach was not the only one whose morale had suffered. Medraut’s young officers were also broken by the defeats they had suffered. They had believed in their commander and his unshakeable faith in destiny, listened to his promises. They were the future, Medraut told them in his fiery speeches. They fought in a righteous cause. Artorius was a great man turned sour, a wicked tyrant who needed to be put out of his misery.

  Medraut’s followers had gone north in high spirits. They expected an easy victory against a handful of tired greybeards, already decimated by the war in Hibernia. Instead Artorius and his veterans swept the rebels aside with contemptuous ease. Beaten and humiliated them in open battle, driven them into headlong flight. Maelgwn of Gwynedd was dead, and Cuneglasus of Powys had abandoned the cause and fled back to his own kingdom. Aurelius Caninus and Vortipor remained loyal, though their warbands had lost over half their number. All in all, Medraut’s prospects were bleak. He looked over his battered host, scarcely four hundred spears and a handful of cavalry. Weary and dispirited men, exhausted by days of painful marching. Many had deserted on the retreat south. Unless he won a victory, and soon, he would no longer have an army.

  “Now is our chance for redemption,” he cried, “to avenge friends and comrades slaughtered by the tyrant!”

  Medraut drew his sword and jabbed the blade at the Saxon host emerging from Caerleon. Long lines of mailed warriors marched under Cerdic’s wolf banners, axes and spears slung over their shoulders.

  “See our allies. Three thousand of the best fighting men in the world. What has Artorius to match them? A few old men and raw boys, a handful of ragged Scotti cut-throats. I promise you, within a week our enemies shall lie trampled in the dust. We will make play with their wives, wipe our backsides on their cloaks!”

  His speech was forced and unconvincing, and raised few cheers. Medraut’s warriors looked with dread at the Saxons. It was Cerdic’s folk who stood to gain from the spoils of this war.

  “Once Artorius is dead,” whispered Duach, “how long before we join him?”

  Medraut had no answer.

  18.

  Artorius sat in his tent and listened to the rain. The only light came from a pile of red-hot coals inside a round iron brazier. Shadows flickered on the canvas walls of his tent. Flickered, died, and rose again. Outside the mist lay thick and heavy, muffling all sound. He heard the occasional low murmur of voices, the clank of harness. Otherwise he might have been alone in the world.

  If only I was.

  Caledfwlch lay naked across his knees. Artorius rested his hands on the blade, trying to draw strength from the spirit buried inside. His belief in the spirit went against the teachings of the church, but in his secret heart Artorius remained a pagan. Why should one god lord it over another? He needed help from any god now. The war, the endless betrayals, the death of Gwenhwyfar, the loss of Llacheu, all combined to break him. The furious burst of energy that had carried him so far was exhausted. Artorius wanted only to die or crawl off to his longed-for monastery, where he could mourn the dead and seek repentance for his countless sins.

  The faces of his dear ones hovered before him. Gwenhwyfar, the woman he had thought himself incapable of loving. Only now, after she was lost, did he realise the depth of his love for her. She was his prop, his guide, the one fixed star in his universe. The star had winked out, leaving the arch of the sky black and full of nameless horrors. Llacheu, the eldest and best of his sons. Artorius’ heart ached to think of him; the tall, brave youth, born to be king. A far better king than Artorius could ever be. Llacheu was his greatest accomplishment. Gone now, into the darkness that had swallowed up Gwenhwyfar and Cei and so many others.

  And what of Cadwy, his youngest son? Had he survived the sack of Caerleon?

  The good bishop will survive. He always does.

  There was one more battle to fight. One more, and all was over. His army lay on the northern edge of a crooked valley, some half a mile long. Medraut and his Saxon allies were camped at the southern end. Their fires could be dimly seen through the mist, like so many distant torches. Snatches of raucous singing drifted through the valley on the night wind. Medraut’s men were drinking hard, probably to drown their fears. They outnumbered Artorius three, maybe even four, to one, but the god of battles was a fickle creature.

  The valley was named Camlann. Artorius had glimpsed it before the mists fell. A dark, narrow glen, like a sword-cut gouged out of the land. If – when – the opposing armies clashed, there would be no room for clever manoeuvres. Just blade to blade in the shield wall, a hellish press, until one side proved stronger. The cramped walls of the valley might prevent Medraut outflanking Artorius, but he could afford to feed more men into the slaughter. In the end, unless he and Cerdic were slain or panic consumed their host, greater numbers would win the day.

  “Lord king. You asked to see me.”

  Peredur stood in the entrance of the tent. The young man looked slightly embarrassed. Despite all his adventures in the past year, there was still something callow and boyish about him. Something innocent.

  God grant he stays that way, thought Artorius.

  He beckoned the youth to come inside. Peredur entered and stood before the High King. His huge frame cast a new and monstrous shadow on the canvas, blotting out the others.

  Artorius cleared his throat. This would be difficult.

  “Tomorrow,” he began, “there will be a battle. The last battle.”

  “Yes, my king,” said Peredur, “and we shall win.”

  The confidence in his voice broke Artorius’ heart.

  “No, Peredur. There will be no victors, save perhaps Cerdic. Tomorrow I die. All those brave men out there will die with me. If there is a single shred of justice in the world, so will Medraut.”

  He sli
d the palm of his hand across Caledfwlch. “Whatever happens, the traitor must be killed. I cannot leave this world, knowing the snake still lives.

  “Yet, when the battle is over, something must remain. Otherwise it was all for nothing. The Companions. Caerleon. Mount Badon. The Round Table. Someone must live. One who knew me. What I tried to achieve.”

  Artorius leaned forward slightly. “I’m asking you to live, Peredur. Go. Now. Take horse and ride away from Camlann, as fast as you can. Don’t look back. Keep the memories alive. Tell stories of Artorius and his followers. Wipe out our sins and mistakes, the many evils we committed. Turn us into heroes. The people of Britannia will have great need of heroes in the evil days to come. Memories of a time when they were free in their own land. You can help to sustain them.”

  Peredur dropped heavily to one knee.

  “Lord,” he pleaded, “don’t send me away. I want to fight. If I leave, men will call me coward and oath-breaker. They will say I deserted you.”

  The young man’s face was wet with tears.

  “It is an order, Peredur,” said Artorius with a touch of his old severity. “I am still the High King and you will obey my command.

  “You are young,” he added, more gently, “with a life ahead of you. I have sent too many young men to their deaths. Live. Don’t let the people forget who we were. The effort failed, but at least it was made. Someday, perhaps centuries from now, the Britons shall find the strength to try again.”

  He risked a smile. “For now, some fragment of us will remain. You. Perhaps the Quest didn’t fail after all.”

  Peredur’s mouth worked. His face was ashen, and he seemed to be wrestling with some inner torment. Artorius gave him time to speak.

  “Lord king,” the youth burst out at last, “when I was on the Quest, I experienced a dream. A prophecy, in which God revealed to me the face of the traitor. Medraut’s face. I was too frightened to tell anyone. Too vain. I cared more for my reputation than the truth. All this misery and ruin lies on my shoulders.”

  Artorius was too tired and sick at heart to be angry.

  “Your shoulders are broad enough to bear it,” he said, “though the burden of guilt is heavy. I promise you it gets heavier over the years. You will bear yours, as I have borne mine. There is no easy way out, Peredur. No glorious death in battle. Go. Your true quest has only just begun.”

  Peredur seized the king’s hand and kissed it. Weeping, he rose and fled from the tent.

  * * *

  Dawn came, grey and heavy. Artorius, who had not slept, sent envoys to ask for a truce. Not that he expected or wanted peace from Medraut and Cerdic. He had one last gamble in mind, a desperate throw of the dice. Artorius had always been a gambler, and a fortunate one. He prayed his luck would hold, just once more. To his relief, the envoys came galloping back down the misted valley. He had half-expected Cerdic to return them in pieces, or not at all. The Bretwalda held all the advantages. Artorius’ best hope – his only hope – was to drive a wedge between the Saxons and their British allies.

  Part of him also wanted to look upon his son’s face. To see if some terrible change had come over Medraut, or if the poison had always been there, lurking under the surface.

  “Medraut and Cerdic agree to talk,” one of the envoys told him. “They will meet you in the middle of the valley under a flag of truce. A dozen men apiece.”

  Bedwyr was immediately suspicious. “A trap,” the one-armed warrior warned, “meant to lure you away from the host. Go into that valley and you won’t come out alive.”

  I know, Artorius thought sadly.

  “The risk must be taken,” he said. “Stay here and await my return. If you hear a horn-blast, charge. Hold nothing back.”

  Artorius picked out twelve Companions and rode down into the crooked glen. The mist had lifted slightly overnight, but Camlann was still wreathed in a grey shroud, impossible to see from one end to the other. Clusters of black cloud lowered overhead.

  Artorius found his son in the middle of the valley, as promised. Medraut sat on a white horse, guarded by six traitor Companions. Artorius refused to even look at these men.

  Of more interest was Cerdic. He had not laid eyes on the Bretwalda for twenty years. If he could travel back in time, Artorius would have slit the young Cerdic’s throat without a second thought. Who could have predicted that the least of Hengist’s sons would prove the most dangerous?

  Cerdic was accompanied by five of his big huscarls. He was a big man himself, and put on much flesh since his youth. Artorius was aware of his rival weighing him up in turn. Their eyes met, and a certain understanding passed between them.

  “Well, Medraut,” Artorius said grimly, eyeing his son. The young man’s face was pale and haggard under his helm, with black circles under the eyes. Like his father, he had clearly enjoyed precious little sleep. Those eyes, however tired, glittered with undisguised hostility.

  “Why did you call this meeting?” he hissed through gritted teeth. “There is nothing to say. Nothing between us. We fight, and may the Devil take the loser.”

  Artorius regarded him almost with pity. There was something tragic about Medraut, the deathless hatred in his voice, the way he tried to ape his father. He, too, wore the white and purple cloak of the High King. It hung awkwardly off his armoured shoulders, made him appear a play-actor, aspiring to a role beyond his reach. For the first time Artorius wondered if he was quite sane. He turned to Cerdic.

  “You have always been careful with the lives of your warriors. Hoarded them like precious gold. Few need die today.”

  The Saxon said nothing. He was always a hard man to read, Artorius remembered. Doubtless the legacy of growing up a half-British bastard at Hengist’s savage court.

  “Withdraw your hall-troops,” Artorius went on, “and let me fight it out with Medraut. My host against his.”

  Medraut’s laughter was shrill, with a touch of hysteria to it.

  “A crude ploy! Is this the best you can do, father?”

  Cerdic was quiet. He looked from Artorius to his ally, and back again. A slow smile crawled across his face.

  “You talk much, little king,” he said, “too much. I have heard you talk a great deal. Now I shall see you fight.”

  With a nod to Artorius, he turned on his heel and strode away, followed by his guards. Medraut’s mouth opened and shut noiselessly. His long fingers tightened on the reins, then went slack.

  “Betrayed,” said Artorius. “How does it feel, my son?”

  Medraut glared at his father with desperate loathing. There was a hunted look about him, like a wild beast when the dogs closed on it.

  “To Hell with the Saxons,” he spat. “I have enough men left in the field to swallow up your pathetic little host. Once you are dead, I shall turn on Cerdic and destroy him too.”

  He thumped his chest. “I will be the only power left in Britannia. The High King indeed, ruler of the whole island! Unlike you, mine shall not be an empty title.”

  “No,” said Artorius, “we both die today. Cerdic will let us tear each other in pieces, then move in to sweep up the remains. Just tell me one thing, Medraut. Why. Why did you do it?

  “For your mother’s sake?” he added when his son failed to answer. “Ganhumara was not worth a single life. She, too, betrayed me. Treachery is in your blood.”

  Medraut bared his teeth. “Yes!” he rasped. “For her, the woman you murdered to salve your pride. And for the true gods of old, whom you abandoned for Christ. And…”

  He hesitated. A little of the hatred in his eyes died away. “And because I wanted to be…more than I am.”

  “You should have stayed in the East, Medraut,” said Artorius, “made a great name for yourself in the service of the Caesars. Carved out your own little kingdom. You brought nothing to your homeland save ruin and death and the memory of a traitor. The people of Britannia will never forget you. Have no doubt of that.”

  He wheeled Llamrei about and set her to a canter. Behind hi
m, Medraut was silent. Artorius reached the northern end of Camlann to find his little army drawn up in battle order. Bedwyr rode forward to salute him.

  “Cerdic has withdrawn,” said Artorius. “We fight only Medraut today.”

  Bedwyr frowned. “Withdrawn? Why should the Saxon do that? He has waited twenty years for this moment.”

  “Because he wants Medraut to do his dirty work for him. Why risk his own warriors, when he can set the Britons against each other, like dogs in a pit?”

  Artorius looked to his men. Scarcely five hundred cavalry and spearmen. Some had deserted in the night, including all the ceitherne of Munster. They had no interest in dying in a foreign country for another man’s cause. Artorius could hardly blame them. The men who remained were those of unbreakable loyalty; men for whom death was preferable to breaking their oaths to the High King. Veterans, mostly, hard-bitten survivors from the wars of his youth. He knew each by name and reputation. Mixed among them were a few younger men, who had grown up on tales of Artorius and worshipped him almost as a living god.

  He had nothing to say to them. The older men all knew their duty, and they knew Artorius. The youths already knew enough of war to do without rousing speeches.

  “Cavalry in front,” he said to Bedwyr, “infantry to follow behind. Medraut wants to tear out my throat. He will come at us first.”

  When all was ready, Artorius took his men down into the dark and crooked glen. Waves of damp, clinging mist rolled across the floor of the valley. There was no wind, no rain. Camlann stretched before them, quiet as the grave.

  The blast of a horn shattered the silence. Hoofbeats thumped the earth. Artorius drew Caledfwlch and held his men in check until he saw the first of the enemy horsemen, charging through the grey gauze. He drove in his spurs. Bedwyr roared the order to charge. Llamrei surged into a gallop, and the meeting waters collided in the middle of the valley. Artorius hurled himself into the first clash. Avoided a thrown spear, winced as an unseen blade scorched across his face. He blinked away blood, cut to his right, swept a man from the saddle. All around him were bodies, shouting, spears and swords flailing in the gloom. He looked for Medraut in the press. There was no sign of his son, only red and purple cloaks mingled all together, men screaming hate, clawing each other from their horses. Medraut’s followers had dyed their cloaks black, doubtless on his orders, so they could tell each other apart from the loyal Companions.