But it was not until the next day, when the last of the warriors were boarding and the first ships were already poling their way out into deeper water, that I found opportunity to speak to Arthur alone.
“The council went well,” he said, pleased to be moving again.
“Did it? I noticed you did not tell them how many Vandali stood against us. The lords may have second thoughts when they see the size of the barbarian host.” Arthur dismissed my qualms with a toss of his head, so I turned to the concern uppermost in my mind: “Bedwyr tells me we do not have enough provisions to feed the war host.”
“No?” He glanced at me to assess the gravity of the problem. “Well, we will raise all we can here and obtain whatever is lacking in Ierne,” he concluded simply. “The Irish kings will support us.”
That was, on the face of it, a logical solution; and we had no better choice in any event. “Very well,” I replied, “but we must inform Conaire as soon as we arrive. He may need time to raise enough tribute.”
The return voyage was maddeningly slow. The winds of summer can be fickle in any event, but these were mere breezes, sighs that billowed the sails one moment and died away to nothing the next. All day long Arthur urged his doughty pilot to make haste, only to be told in the same dry, uncompromising tone that unless the king could wring wind from a calm sea and cloudless sky he must be satisfied with what little speed he got.
In the event, we all took a turn at the oars. Fully three days later we passed through the narrows and rounded the northern tip of Ierne and, half a day after, reached the bay from which the enemy fleet had fled. There were, of course, no ships to be seen there, so we continued south along the coast, searching the innumerable nameless coves for the black ships.
At last, at last, we sighted the Vandali fleet massed in the center of a sheltered bay high up the west coast. Arthur, almost beside himself with impatience, ordered the ships to make landfall a little to the north, out of sight of the Vandali fleet. No sooner were the men, horses and supplies ashore than the ships put out to sea again—there were too many Britons to cross all at once, so the ships must make a second voyage to bring the rest of the men and whatever additional provisions Rhys had obtained.
As soon as his horse was on dry land, Arthur was in the saddle, leading the war host inland. “Do you know where you are going, Bear?” asked Bedwyr as we created the sea bluffs and began descending to the wooded lowlands.
Arthur thought the question foolish. “I am following the Black Boar, of course.”
“Should we not rather be looking for Gwenhwyvar and Fergus?”
Arthur did not bother to turn his head to answer. “The Black Boar is ashore now, and where he is to be found, there we will find the defenders.”
Find them we did: the Irish war host—his own queen among them—at the end of a long shallow valley with their backs to a rocky escarpment, surrounded on three sides by the screaming barbarian swarm.
11
“MUST I BE EVERYWHERE AT once?” Arthur’s cool blue eyes sparked quick fire as they played over the battleground where the surrounded Irish were fighting for their lives. “By the Hand that made me, someone will answer for this!”
Caledvwlch came ringing from its sheath at his side; he lofted the great sword, raised himself in the saddle, turned to look behind him, and gave a mighty shout: “For Christ and glory!”
A heartbeat later, the Flight of Dragons thundered to the attack. Our war host was divided into three. Arthur led the Cymbrogi, Bedwyr led the western bands, and Cai those of the south. At Cador’s horn blast we swept down into the valley as one—separating into our contingent groups only at the last so that the enemy could not anticipate where we would strike.
The Vandali, emboldened by early success and hopeful of an easy victory over the ill-prepared Irish, had not posted a rear guard. Arthur, anxious to divert the foe—and they were so easily diverted!—drove down upon them with all the tumult at his command. The enemy heard the sound, turned, and lost all expectation of victory. One look at flight upon flight of mounted British warriors sweeping down upon them and they fell into confusion. The battle suddenly shifted front to back: the Vandal foreranks with their guiding battlelords were trapped behind the press of their own men; and those in the rearward ranks, more lightly armed, found themselves facing a ferocious attack with no one to lead them.
Slashing with spear and sword, we thrust into the midst of the foe, reckless in our attack. The Cymbrogi raised their battle cry, making as much noise as possible to announce their arrival and divert the Black Boar.
I saw the fearful expressions on their broad faces as they turned on stumbling feet, weapons slack in their hands, and pitied them. They were so ill-prepared. Even so, I knew they would have killed us all without remorse. Heavy-hearted, I struck; we all struck the killing blows, driving them down and running them over. The screaming of those frightened, dying barbarians was bitter to hear.
A Vandal battlechief appeared before me. He drew back his great shield and swung it, slashing edgewise at the horse’s head and neck. I pulled back hard on the reins, lifting my mount’s forelegs off the ground. The animal was well trained to battle; a hoof lashed out, catching the foeman on the chin. His head snapped back with a crack and he sank like a stone beneath the onrushing wave of battle.
I felt a hand on my sword arm. Glancing down, I saw a warrior clutching my arm and clawing desperately for a better grip. I threw the reins to the side. The horse wheeled away and the clinging warrior was lifted off his feet and thrown through the air to land hard on his back. He made to rise, but could not, and fell back, fainting.
The force of our charge carried us deep into the Vandal battle cluster. Surrounded by frightened, confused enemy warriors, we drove deeper still, hacking our way through them. Blood mist rose in our eyes; the pungent sweetness of warm entrails assaulted us.
I let my horse have its head, and smashed through the enemy with the flat of my shield, striking here and there with my sword as opportunity allowed. The killing was easy. There was no glory in it—not that there ever is. Though when two skilled warriors meet and prowess alone decides their fate, there is a kind of honor in the contest.
The Vandali lacked skill, but tried to redeem this lack by the force of numbers. This might have worked for them in the walled cities of the East, and on less able defenders. But it would take more than numbers alone to overcome the battle-wise Cymry.
Since Twrch could no way mount a counterattack, he had no choice but flight. The fight was short and sharp, and sent the enemy howling in rage back down the valley. We pursued as far as we dared, but Arthur was wary of carrying the pursuit too far lest we become ensnared.
While Cador and Meurig guarded against the enemy’s return, the Cymbrogi liberated the Irish. Clearly, we had arrived at the most providential moment: the Irish defenders were exhausted; they stood swaying on their legs, barely able to raise their arms. Most of their horses were dead, and far too many warriors.
Gwenhwyvar stood at the forefront of the Irish, her shield riven and her clothing filthy and blood-spattered. At her side, Llenlleawg—wild-eyed, his mouth flecked with foam—gripped the remains of a splintered spear, bloody at both ends.
“Greetings, husband,” Gwenhwyvar said as we rode into their midst. She lifted an arm and drew her sleeve across her forehead, smearing gore and grime. Her sword was ragged and notched. “I would we had devised a better welcome for you.”
“Lady,” Arthur said gently, “the sight of you whole is welcome enough. Are you hurt?”
“No,” Gwenhwyvar said, shaking her head, frustration and humiliation making her voice hollow. “I am only sorry you were obliged to rescue us.”
“Not half as sorry as you would be if I had not,” Arthur replied. “How did this happen?” He looked around, his relief quickly giving way to anger. “Where are the other Irish lords?” he demanded.
The question was apt. I saw only those defenders we had left behind—and far few
er of those than before. Where were the others Conaire had vowed to rally?
“There are none,” Fergus shouted angrily. He lurched to where we stood, and leaned on his spear, breathing heavily. “There are none because Conaire would not ask.”
Cai was mystified. “For the love of God, man, why not?”
“Conaire thought to vanquish the Vandal unaided,” Gwenhwyvar explained, giving an involuntary shudder of disgust.
“He would share the glory with no one,” Fergus continued bitterly. “Least of all a Briton.”
Arthur turned to confront Conaire, who stood glowering at us a short distance away. “Is this true?” the Bear of Britain demanded.
The Irish king drew himself up. “I will not deny it,” he growled. “And I would have defeated them, too, but for the treachery of my own battlechiefs.”
“Treachery! Treachery?” cried Fergus. “I call it prudence. We were being cut down like timber where we stood.”
“I counted on you to attack,” Conaire argued. “Your thoughtless retreat cost us the battle.”
“It was retreat or be slaughtered!” Fergus insisted.
“Enough,” Gwenhwyvar snarled. “Both of you!”
“Perhaps you did not see how many Vandal stood against us!” Fergus charged. “Perhaps you thought the Black Boar would turn tail and run away when the Mighty Conaire Crobh Rua appeared!”
Conaire, growing red in the face, shouted, “It was you who turned tail and ran away!”
“Mallacht Dé air!” Fergus spat on the ground.
“Silence!” roared Arthur. The two sputtered and subsided. “Never,” said Arthur, speaking deliberately and low so that only the chieftains would hear, “disgrace yourself before men who must follow you in battle. We will speak of this in private. I advise you to gather your wounded and return to your stronghold before the Vandali recover their courage.”
Conaire turned on his heel and stalked away. Fergus glowered at him, and then moved off. Gwenhwyvar said, “I am sorry, Arthur. It was against my will that we allowed ourselves to be party to this—”
“Calamity.” Arthur supplied the word for her.
Gwenhwyvar’s eyes sparked quick fire, but she swallowed, bent her head, and accepted his judgment. “I hold myself to blame,” she offered, shame making her meek. “I should have prevented it.”
“Someone should have prevented it,” Arthur agreed curtly. “We will rue the loss of these warriors,” he said, gazing around at the carnage, his mouth a hard, thin line. “A cruel waste—the more since it was pointless.” He turned again to his wife and demanded, “What were you thinking?”
Gwenhwyvar’s head rose. “I am sorry, my lord,” she whispered. There were tears in her eyes.
Only then did Arthur relent. He turned away from her and began ordering the Cymbrogi to bury the dead and remove the wounded. I stepped close to Gwenhwyvar. “He is angry with Conaire, and he—” I began.
“No,” she stopped me, pushing the tears away with the heels of her hands, “he is right.” She drew a deep breath, steadied herself, and turned to the task at hand. She picked up her sword and asked, “Is he always right?”
I offered her a smile. “No,” I replied gently. “But he is rarely wrong.”
The stronghold was an abandoned hillfort which Conaire had found in lands long neglected. Rock-bound and hilly, the soil thin and unproductive, it had been many years since any Irish lord had laid claim to the realm. There were few settlements, and those were not large. All the better for the Black Boar—it provided him a safe haven from which to raid more prosperous lands to the north. And this, Conaire’s negligible presence notwithstanding, he had proceeded to do.
During our absence, the Vandal warlord had successfully carried off cattle and plunder from the nearby small holdings, and had destroyed the strongholds of three noblemen as well. Most of the Irish had fled north and east, out of harm’s way. This in itself was unfortunate, for if they had gone south, they might at least have alerted the southern lords to the invader. As it happened, the better part of twelve hundred Vandali warriors now lay between us and direct passage to the south, effectively cutting off communication with any support we might receive.
The rickety fort was not large enough to house the gathered British warbands, so they were forced to make camp outside the stronghold below earthen banks. While the kings of Ynys Prydein saw to the crude comfort of their men, Arthur held council with Fergus and Conaire in the ruined barn that passed for a hall in that place. Most of the roof thatch had blown off, and part of one wall was collapsed, but the hearth was intact and the board and benches were serviceable enough.
So, we sat over our cups in the hall listening to Fergus recount all that had transpired since we were last together. Arthur’s face grew darker and his eyes harder by degrees as Fergus explained how the matter stood. After the debacle of Conaire’s defeat, Arthur was in no humor to view our plight in any but the harshest light. The Bear of Britain scowled, taking the news in grim and prickly silence.
For his part, Conaire had grown suitably contrite. He wore his chagrin like a battered crown; his back bent under the weight of disgrace and his head drooped in sympathy with his shoulders. He had not breathed a word since returning from the battlefield.
“Tomorrow,” Arthur said, with controlled and quiet fury, “we will undertake to hold the invader in the valley and prevent him from making any more raids or moving farther into the land. And you, Conaire Crobh Rua, will take three of your best men and ride to rally the southern lords.”
The Irish king nodded glumly, but said nothing.
“Go now,” Arthur commanded. “This matter is ended.”
Conaire rose and, looking neither right nor left, walked slowly from the ruined hall.
“You crushed him, Bear,” Bedwyr said when Conaire had departed.
“He will recover,” Arthur grumbled. “Which is more than can be said for many of the men who trusted him with their lives.”
“Better the slap of a friend,” observed Fergus, “than the stab of an enemy.”
Arthur turned cold eyes on Fergus. “And you,” he said in a tone of tight restraint, “will ride to the settlements round about—if any are left intact—to raise tribute for us. We have had to come away with only what we could carry, and there is not enough food or drink to sustain us.”
“It will be done.” Fergus rose and walked out, pausing at the threshold for a moment to say, “I never was so glad to see a man with a sword in his hand as when I saw you today, Arthur ap Aurelius. I thank you.” He ducked his head through the door and disappeared.
“My father is right,” Gwenhwyvar murmured. “If not for you, we would all be dead now.”
“It is God you must thank,” Arthur told her. “If the winds had been contrary, or a storm had raised the waves—or if I had chosen to spend the night in my bed rather than in the bottom of a boat…” He looked at his wife, considering the implications. “I thank God you are alive,” he said. “We are fortunate indeed.”
Gwenhwyvar leaned close, took up his sword hand and pressed it to her lips. “Well I know it, husband,” she whispered. “Well I know it.”
The British lords, having settled their men, began arriving in the hall just then. Gwenhwyvar kissed Arthur quickly, rose, and departed. Her fingers lingered along the line of his shoulders as she passed behind him.
Cador sat down beside Arthur. “You did not tell us that there were so many barbarians,” he chided.
“If I had told you,” Arthur replied easily, “you might have found it more agreeable to stay home.”
“At least I would have had a bed.” Cador drew a hand through his hair and rubbed his face. “These Vandali are certainly strange-looking creatures.”
One of Fergus’ men appeared with more cups and jars of ale. He proceeded to fill and distribute the cups among the lords as they sat down. “Where is their homeland?” wondered Meurig.
Arthur invited me to answer. “They have come from Cart
hage, where they have lived for many years,” I replied. “The Emperor of the East has driven them from that place, and so now they search for new lands, and plunder as they go.”
“You know this truly?” mused Owain.
“They have with them a slave—a priest named Hergest, who speaks our tongue,” Arthur answered. “He has told us the little we know.”
“But who are they?” demanded Ogryvan. “And who is their king?”
“They are a northern race,” I answered, “led by one, Amilcar, who styles himself Twrch Trwyth, the Black Boar of Hussa, Rögat, and Vandalia. He is a rapacious lord whose greed is exceeded only by his vanity.”
We talked of this for a time, and then the conversation turned to the lack of any worthwhile Irish presence. The British kings were sharply critical of the circumstance, and allowed their opinions free rein. They decried the catastrophe on the battlefield.
“I would have welcomed a little more support from the Irish,” Ogryvan suggested delicately.
“Support?” sneered Brastias. “Even my cowherds are better able to defend themselves. Can they not be bothered to protect their own lands?”
“Hold, Brastias,” Bedwyr warned. “They know their mistake. Arthur has dealt with them. The matter is ended.”
The lords stared uneasily into their cups, and it was only when the haunches of venison appeared and men began to eat that tempers eased. Still, it was not a good beginning; the lords trusted Arthur, yes, and for now were content to extend that trust to include the Irish. But for how long?
That was the question concerning me. Taking the matter into my own hands, I left the lords to their repast and went in search of Conaire. I found him sitting with three of his chieftains beside a small fire; I did not wait to be greeted. “May I join you?” I asked.