But Arthur stood apart and watched the rejoicing with a cold eye. Gwenhwyvar, having borne her concern with great fortitude for so many days, could not but reproach him for his gloom. 'Your scowl could sour honey,' she told him. 'Ierne has shaken off the invader. That is the best news we could receive.'
He turned his scowl upon his wife. 'That,' he told her curtly, 'is the worst news of all. The very thing I feared most has befallen us.' He flung a hand to the roistering warriors. 'The saving of Eiru is the ruin of Ynys Prydein!'
With that he stormed into the centre of the gathering and, snatching the hunting horn from Rhys, raised it to his lips and gave a loud blast. Expecting a speech of commendation and the bestowal of gifts, the crowd called for silence and pressed close about to hear what the High King would say. When he knew that they could hear him, Arthur spoke. 'The victory is won for Ierne, but you must continue your celebration alone. For I must return to Britain at once.' Arthur then commanded the Britons to begin preparing to leave.
'Nay, Arthur. Nay!' Fergus cried. 'You have suffered much for our sake; therefore you must stay, take your rest, and let us feast you three days. It is but a small thing in light of your toil on our behalf.'
'I thank you, and my lords thank you,' Arthur replied. 'It may be that we will all meet again, if God wills, to renew our feast in better times. I fear we have waited here too long already.'
'One day more, at least,' Fergus insisted. 'You must allow us to pay proper homage to the victory you have won for us. For I swear by head and hand, without you there would be no free man drawing breath this day.'
Conaire, lurking nearby, heard this and grimaced with distaste. 'Lord Arthur has spoken, Fergus. It is not meet to keep such exalted men from their lofty affairs.'
Some of the nearby British lords heard the remark, and bristled at it. Urien leapt to his feet, fists clenched. 'Irish filth!' he growled, his voice low.
Gerontius started forward. Brastias threw out a restraining arm. 'Be easy, brother.'
Owain, nearest Arthur, rose to his feet. 'Lord Arthur,' he called loudly, 'we have waited this long; one day more will make no difference. Whether in feast or fight, I would have these Irish kings know that Britain stands foremost,' he concluded, eyeing Conaire with cool defiance.
The other Britons quickly assented to Owain's suggestion – repudiating Conaire's discourtesy. But Arthur would not be moved.
'Not a moment more may be spared,' he insisted. 'Gather your men, Owain – you and your brother lords – and make for the ships. We sail for Ynys Prydein at once.'
The High King's decision was thoroughly resented by all the warriors and most of the lords. Only those who knew Arthur best accepted his command, even if they did not understand it. Only Cai, Bedwyr, Cador, and myself thought he had acted wisely; the rest regarded his behaviour as rash, uncouth and inconsiderate.
Nevertheless, the ships were soon full-laden and the arduous process of moving Britain's war host began once more. As on the previous crossing, the wind refused to aid us in any but the most ineffectual manner; we made up for its lack by plying the oars – which most warriors regarded as tedious punishment. When resting from their labours, the Cymbrogi drowsed or talked, filling the long summer day. As the sun ploughed its slow furrow across the empty skyfield, I stood at the prow, listening to the talk around me and the slow, rhythmic splash of the oars, gazing at the heat-haze dancing on the flat level horizon. I felt the sun hot on my head, smiting me with peculiar intensity. And I began to wonder how long it had been since the last rain. How long since I had last seen a sky grey with clouds and felt a cool north breeze on my face?
Deep in thought I heard a voice call out to me: We have no choice. Burn it down. Burn it to the ground.
This strange intrusion startled me. I turned to see who had spoken – but all was as before: men in their various positions of repose, no one paying particular attention to me. It took me a moment to realize I had not heard the voice at all-not with my ear, at least. The voice had come to me as voices some times do.
I strained to hear more, but it was gone already. 'No choice,' I whispered to myself, repeating what I had heard. 'Burn it down.'
What did it mean?
Another long hot day followed, and another; we glimpsed the cragged west coast of Britain in the twilight, but it was dark when we entered Mor Hafren, and the tide was flowing against us. Rather than disembark in the dead of night on the rocky coast, our small fleet anchored, waiting for the tide to turn before making our way up the estuary channel to the landing-place below Caer Legionis.
It was not until daybreak that we were able to proceed. As ours was the lead ship, we were first to taste smoke on the morning air, and first to sight the dark, ugly haze smudged across the eastern sky. Alas! We were first also to behold that sight most dreaded in our race's long experience: the black bank formed by the massed hulls of enemy ships.
The hateful keels had been driven hard aground, and the ships – scores of them, in all shapes and sizes, enough to serve an emperor! – hundreds of ships, lashed together rail-to-rail and put to the torch. The sails and hulls must have burned for days – even now the smoke rolled heavenward from the smouldering masts and keels.
Oh, but there were so many! Score upon score of enemy ships – many times more than we had encountered in Ierne- and all of them fired to the waterline. We gazed with shock and dismay at the loathsome sight, and rued the meaning in our bones.
For the Black Boar was loose in the Island of the Mighty. And, Blessed Jesu have mercy, he meant to stay.
THREE
Coldly furious, Arthur ordered Barinthus to make landfall farther up the estuary, and sent Bedwyr, Llenlleawg, and the Cymbrogi to scout the way ahead. He stood in water to his knees, commanding his battlechiefs as they disembarked. The last ships had not even touched shore before the first divisions were armed, mounted, and moving away.
The Vandali had left a wide trail along the valley floor – grass trampled into the dry dirt by thousands upon thousands of trampling feet.
The trail led directly to Caer Legionis. The city itself, such as it was, had been abandoned in the days of Macsen Wledig when the legions left; the people had moved back into the surrounding hills and built a hillfort there, returning once more to an older way and a more secure.
We skirted the deserted town and continued on to Arthur's fortress at Caer Melyn. As we drew nearer, we met Bedwyr and two scouts returning. 'They sacked our stronghold,' he reported, 'and tried to burn it. But the fire did not take hold. The gate is broken.'
'And those inside?' asked Arthur.
'Dead,' answered Bedwyr. 'All of them – dead.'
When Arthur made no reply, Bedwyr continued. 'They took what they could carry off, and moved on. Shall I send Llenlleawg and the others ahead to discover where they have gone?'
Still Arthur made no reply. He seemed to look through Bedwyr to the hills beyond.
'Artos?' said Gwenhwyvar. She was coming more and more to recognize and understand her husband's moods. 'What are you thinking?'
Without a word, he lifted the reins and continued to the caer. If the Black Boar had wanted to devastate the fortress, not a single timber would have remained upright. As it was, however, aside from the broken gate, the stronghold appeared intact – quiet, but undamaged. It was not until we entered the yard that we saw the fire-blackened walls and smelled the death stink. A party of Cymbrogi were already at the sorrowful chore of dragging out the dead, preparing to bury them on the slope of the hill below the timber palisade.