'Does Arthur know?'
'God love him,' Bedwyr replied, shaking his head, 'as long as there is a drop left in his cup, he thinks there is enough for everyone, evermore.'
That was true. Arthur, who had never owned anything outright for himself, had as little regard for the ebb and flow of wealth as for that of the tide. 'Leave the matter with me,' I told him. 'I will see that Arthur is apprised.'
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 centre 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.
ELEVEN
'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 honour 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 in no way mount a counter-attack, 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.'