A spear drove into Llamrei’s neck. The beast reared and shrieked and tossed Artorius from her back. He landed heavily, struggled to his feet, caught another spear on his shield as it lunged for his throat. Caledfwlch whirled in his hand, ripped out the spearman’s throat. Llamrei lay on her flank, squealing in agony as her lifeblood squirted into the earth. Artorius stood over her, alone, fighting off three men at once. He recognised their faces. They had all knelt before him in the Round Hall, placed their hands between his and swore to be his loyal men. Now those faces were twisted and contorted with unnatural passion.
Artorius slew each in turn, growling their names as he put them down.
“Llwydeu son of Cilcoed. Gwair Dathar Weindog. Panawr Penbagad.”
The screams and the tumult rose. All was chaos, a whirlpool of slaughter. There was no form or sense to the battle, just butchery, grim work, rent shields and men deep in blood, hacking down those they once called comrades and sword-brothers. The steep sides of the valley echoed to their dying, the piercing shriek of horses, clash of arms, shield on shield, a disaster, the red ruin of Britannia.
Artorius hewed a blood-path to Medraut. One of the traitor kings stumbled from the press, Aurelius Caninus, helmet gone, one eye hanging from its socket. He dropped his sword and knelt before Artorius, sobbing like a child.
“Please…dread king…great king…I didn’t mean…I never…”
Artorius snatched up the fallen sword and left it buried in Aurelius’ skull. He staggered on, a spear broken in his thigh. Hot blood oozed down his leg, showered the grass red. The pain was nothing. Artorius pushed it aside. Death, death, death. Death all around him, his good men, loyal man, dying on their feet. Red and black cloaks carpeted the valley, the fatal ground of Camlann. The skies darkened. A rustling, as of thousands of geese taking to the air at once. Arrows fell like rain, shot down men as they grappled and fought with each other. Artorius lifted his shield against the deadly hail. Arrows thumped against the thin oval of wood. Once the shock had passed, he risked a glance upwards. The mists had lifted to reveal Cerdic’s bowmen swarming over the tops of the hills. They shot down into the valley, cared not who they hit.
The war-horns boomed. Pale sunlight flashed and rippled off gleaming ringmail. Artorius glimpsed the fresh tide of bodies flow into Camlann from the south, thousands of Saxons roaring their battle songs. Cerdic had unleashed his warriors.
“Medraut!” howled Artorius. “Show yourself, traitor! Now your death day has come!”
Tattered ranks parted before him. Medraut stood alone, leaning on his bloodied sword. He was unhorsed and bleeding from many wounds, his coat of scales broken and smeared with filth. Around him lay three Companions. Two still twitched in their death-throes. Artorius went at him like a mad bull, head down. Medraut straightened to meet his father. Despite his wounds, he was still quick, and flung up his sword in both hands. It swept down and cracked against the side of Artorius’ helm with sickening impact. The heavy chopping edged seared through iron and ground on bone and flesh.
The High King’s momentum carried him forward. Even as his vision flickered, he picked out a weak link in Medraut’s armour. He stabbed with all his strength. Caledfwlch entered the traitor’s body, under the ribcage, ripped upwards through belly and heart and spine. The point of the blade erupted from his back. Artorius thought he heard distant laughter. The spirit of Caledfwlch, exulting over the kill.
His son was weeping. Artorius was on all fours, blood gushing from his mouth and nostrils. His sight flickered. He groped for Medraut, all hatred gone, wanted only to cradle him. Shield him against the world. Caledfwlch was gone. Torn away by unseen hands. The filthy sword, the man-killer. Artorius wished it broken and hurled into the deepest pit. He blindly reached out for his son. Their fingers brushed.
“Father…”
Another voice rose above the throng. Bedwyr’s voice, hoarse with shouting.
“Help me lift him! They are coming, they are coming! We must get him out – Maelwys, find a spare horse, in God’s name! Help me, help…”
The words echoed strangely in Artorius’ ears. They rose and fell, were muffled under the sluggish pounding of blood. Mingled with the howls, the dreadful baying of the sons of Hengist. Artorius could no longer see or feel. He choked, fought to draw breath, reached out for his son again. There was nothing.
19.
Bedwyr escaped the slaughter of Camlann. He took Artorius, slung over the back of a spare horse. Many Companions died covering their retreat. Maelwys was among them, faithful to the end, hacked to pieces by Saxon battle-axes. The lonely fugitives went south, following the road to Llandaff. There was no pursuit. The Saxons were too busy destroying the last of the Britons. Cerdic had won his victory. Mount Badon was paid for at last. Medraut, the man who had worked this catastrophe, lay among the heaps of dead. His name was cursed forever. Since his exile from Caerleon, Bishop Cadwy had resided at the church of Llandaff. Here, accompanied by a dwindling band of monks, the discredited clergyman offered up prayers for his sins. Bedwyr could think of nowhere else to go. Only the church offered any kind of refuge, however temporary, from the storm poised to sweep through Britannia.
Bedwyr rode through the night, sparing not the horses, until they reached the peaceful green country of southern Gwent. There was no sign of war here, no burnt farms and houses, wisps of smoke on the horizon. Here the land was rich and well-tilled, the people secure in their prosperity. The invaders had not yet penetrated this part of Artorius’ kingdom. They would come, soon enough, and reduce all to a desert. Bedwyr knew his time was limited. He stopped, twice, to check on Artorius. The High King still lived, though his breathing was shallow and dark red blood trickled from the wound above his ear. Bedwyr carefully removed the shattered helmet and tried to staunch the bleeding with a strip torn from his cloak. Artorius flickered in and out of consciousness.
He was awake when Bedwyr halted for the second time, and tried to speak.
“My wound is deep,” he whispered, breath whistling in his throat. “You cannot stop the blood, old friend. No man could. Soon I will sleep. Thank God…”
Bedwyr refused to listen. He removed the old bandage, now soaked through, and replaced it with another. Artorius had no strength to resist. He was thrown over the saddle like a bundle of laundry, limbs dangling. They rode on to Llandaff. The church was nestled in the middle of a gentle valley a few miles from the sea. It was a long building of stone, with a tiled roof and a round bell tower at the northern end. A flock of fat white sheep grazed in some enclosed pasture land to the west. As Bedwyr approached, the bell started to toll. A mournful noise, rolling across the quiet fields and woods.
A couple of black monks emerged from the main building to gape at Bedwyr. They dashed back inside, robes flapping about their ankles.
Bedwyr waited patiently. After a moment Bishop Cadwy stepped out with the monks in tow. Cadwy was still an imposing figure, though stooped and grey, aged before his time. The events of the past year had broken him. His features paled at the sight of Artorius.
“I’m sorry,” said Bedwyr. “I would have spared you this, but there was no other way. Your father has suffered a mortal wound. The enemy must not have him.”
Cadwy’s fragile, claw-like hand clutched the crucifix around his neck. A wooden crucifix, Bedwyr noticed, in place of the costly silver of old. The bishop wore a plain garment of homespun grey wool, with no fine robes or jewels to signify his high office. Once he had absorbed the shock, Cadwy went forward to lift his father off the horse. He signalled at the monks to help him. Bedwyr dismounted to lend a hand. Together they carefully lowered Artorius’ dead weight to the grass.
Cadwy unpeeled the bandage, rank with blood, and tossed it away. His fingers gently probed the deep gash in the side of his father’s head. Medraut’s blow had split the skull and driven a piece of bone deep into the brain. The bleeding would not stop. The monks looked solemn.
“Pater,” murmured Cadwy, “in manus tuas,
commendo spiritum…”
Bedwyr bowed his head. His eyes misted over with tears. He had seen countless men die of wounds suffered in battle, and knew there was no hope of recovery. Artorius’ own eyes flickered. He lifted his sword-hand, fingers groping.
“Caledfwlch….” he mumbled through bloodless lips.
“I have the sword, lord king,” said Bedwyr. “I drew it out of Medraut’s body and carried it off the field. Caledfwlch will never fall into the hands of the Saxons. Nor will you.”
Artorius paused to gather strength. “No grave,” he breathed, “no grave for me. I…cannot die…”
Bedwyr understood. There must be no body, no burial site. No bones. No proof of death. Artorius would fade away into the mists of legend and hearsay. The hero who never died. One day, perhaps, he would come again and lead his people to freedom.
“Let us carry him down to the sea,” said Bedwyr, “while his strength lasts.”
Cadwy sent his monks to fetch a pony and litter. They lifted Artorius onto the litter and set off for the coast. The sad little procession followed a worn track across the fields and through the autumn woods beyond. Bedwyr usually loved this time of year; the mists, the red-gold leaves on the trees, the invigorating snap of cold air. This time the cold lay heavy on him, chilled his very bones and pierced his heart. The kingdom was dying, even as the High King died. They went down to the seashore. A tiny shingle beach encircled by high rock faces, grey seas to the north. A bleak and isolated spot for any man to die, let alone a king. There was a small boat drawn up on the beach. The monks started to load it with bales and piles of straw, brought from the church. Meanwhile Artorius was lifted down from his litter.
He was very weak now. Bedwyr knelt beside the man he had known and served for so long, and clasped his hand.
“Bedwyr,” whispered Artorius, “you were always the best of us…”
“Where shall I go, lord king?” the other man cried. “How shall I hide myself in this new land, once you are gone? The old days are dead. Once, every morning brought a new opportunity, a fresh venture. Now the Round Table is broken, that was once the torch and envy of the world, and I must go companionless. A hunted man, a beast in the wild. No wife, no friends, no guide…”
He stopped, overcome by despair.
“The wheel turns,” answered the High King, “it raises men to glory, and flings them down…into the pit. Comfort yourself. What comfort is there in me?”
Artorius’ voice grew weaker. Blood pooled beside his head. “We lived. Fought. Did all we could. Pray, Bedwyr. Pray for better days…”
Bedwyr gazed bleakly at the future. To live out the last of his days as a holy man, a hermit in some isolated church, begging God to forgive the souls of his comrades. There was so much to forgive. Waves crashed in the background, fighting their endless battle with the land.
“The sea…” murmured Artorius, “the sea…”
Bedwyr knelt beside his friend, revolving many thoughts and memories. Only when the cold became unbearable did he notice the hand grown slack in his own, and that the High King had ceased to breathe.
* * *
Cadwy and his black monks lifted up the body and placed it inside the boat. Bedwyr climbed a path to the top of the cliffs. He took Caledfwlch with him. From the heights he watched as the flammable materials packed inside the boat were set alight. Before the flames could take hold, the vessel was quickly pushed out to sea. A strong tide carried it away.
He waited until the burning vessel was just a speck of flame on the edge of vision. Smoke twisted high into the air. High, and higher still, reaching for the sun. Bedwyr smiled through his tears.
The soul of Artorius, he thought, fighting his way into Heaven. Let the angels hold the gates against him, if they dare!
Artorius would need his sword. Bedwyr raised Caledfwlch in his right hand and flung it out to sea with all his strength. The blade spun through the air and plunged down like a falling star. Caledfwlch vanished among the waves. The spark on the horizon faded from view. Artorius was gone.
END
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The earliest notice of the fatal Battle of Camlann, where Arthur and Medraut met their deaths, is contained in the Annales Cambriae (Annals of Wales). Very little detail is given in the entry:
“The strife of Camlann, in which Arthur and Medraut perished, and there was plague in Britain and Ireland.”
The location of Camlann and why the battle was fought are not explained. Nor is it clear whether Arthur and Medraut were enemies or fought on opposing sides. Despite this, a strong tradition has grown up of Medraut – Sir Mordred in the later medieval romances – as the arch-traitor who destroyed Arthur and brought about the ruin of Britain. He is usually depicted as Arthur’s son or nephew. I made him one of Arthur’s bastard sons, along with Llacheu and Cadwy.
As ever in studies of the historical Arthur, theories abound.
‘Camlann’ translates from the Brittonic as ‘crooked enclosure’ or ‘crooked bank’, the latter implying a riverbank. This sounds reasonable, since most battles in the post-Roman era seem to have been fought near waterways. A number of places dotted about Britain have been proposed as the site of the battle: the old Roman fort of Cambloglanna (now Castlesteads) on Hadrian’s Wall; the valley of Camlann near Dolgellau in Gwynedd, north-west Wales; the evocatively named Slaughterbridge near Camelford in north Cornwall. And so on. I chose none of these, but opted for a fictional Camlann in no exact setting. This seemed appropriate for the tragedy of Camlann – that ‘last weird battle in the West’ as Alfred Lord Tennyson put it.
Readers may notice I placed a few words of Tennyson’s The Passing of Arthur in the mouth of Artorius as he lay dying. I hope they can forgive me the indulgence, since no writer can match or exceed the rare beauty of Tennyson’s lines. Now my Arthurian cycle is finished, and Artorius has passed out of life into legend, I shall end on another quote from the Passing:
“Then from the dawn it seemed there came, but faint
As from beyond the limit of the world,
Like the last echo born of a great cry,
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice
Around a king returning from his wars.
Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb
Even to the highest he could climb, and saw,
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,
Down that long water opening on the deep
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go
From less to less and vanish into light.
And the new sun rose bringing the new year.”
Medraut Page 21
