'Pray,' Arthur replied solemnly. 'Pray God to remove this pestilence from our land. Or, if that is not to be, to show us the way through it. Truly, I fear in my bones that unless the Lord God upholds us, this travail will prove the doom
BOOK FOUR
ONE
Dry… dry… dry. And hot. The earth cracks. The rivers wane. No cloud touches the burning sky, and the land parches beneath an unrelenting sun. Sacred springs dry up, and holy wells echo to the sound of empty vessels. There is no breath of wind or breeze to cool the land. Animals thirst; their strength fails and they fall and, falling, die.
All the while, the pestilence snakes along the lowland tracks like an unseen fog. One after another, the caers, settlements, and holdings are visited by the Yellow Ravager. Strengthened by die drought, which drives men from their homes in search of water, the pestilence steals over the land. Children cry and women mutter in fear-fretted sleep; men complain bitterly that this is Arthur's fault.
The small kings blame him and plot treason in their hearts. 'It would not be so if I held this land,' they boast. 'I would put an end to this invader and drive all sickness from our shores.'
This they say as if the Vandal were no more than a drunken shepherd and the plague his mange-bitten dog. It steals the breath from my mouth to see how swiftly men abandon the one they pledged to serve through all things to the death. But when faith fails, men abandon all that sustains them. They flee the source of their uncertainty, rushing blind into betrayal and unbelief.
Behold! The Narrow Sea is ploughed with a thousand furrows as British boats sail for Armorica. With coward hearts once-brave men put oar to water, lest the land of their birth become also the land of their death.
Well and well, their fear can be forgiven. They merely do what their faltering courage allows. Far worse – and forever unforgiven – are those who strive to use the suffering and torment of others to advance their own bloated ambitions.
There are four openly against Arthur now: Gerontius, Brastias, Ulfias, and Urien. The first two I understand. Indeed, I know them only too well! Ulfias is weak and anxious to please his bellicose neighbour; he has decided that peace with Brastias is worth more than fealty to Arthur. In that, he is much mistaken.
If only they had left the camp – but no, they stamped around poisoning the very air with their complaints, stirring up resentment at every chance, swaying the less steady with their insidious slanders. Weaker brothers listened to them and were led astray – men like Urien.
I can only wonder at Urien. His fiery enthusiasm has burned itself out; his ardour, so bright and warm in the beginning, has grown cold. This is the way of it some times, God knows: the hotter the fire the more quickly it dies. Still, I had hoped for better from Urien Rheged. Young and raw, and painfully eager to please, it is true, he yet seemed a solid enough nobleman. Given maturity and experience, he might have grown into an able and honourable lord. He would have found in Arthur a steady and generous friend.
What, I wonder, turned him against Arthur? What failing did he perceive, or, more likely, imagine? What glittering inducement did Brastias offer, what irresistible promise, to turn Urien's fire-bright loyalty to sodden ash?
Sadly, even the most sacred vows are oft forgotten before the words die in the air. Ah, let it go, meddler! There is no binding a heart that will not be bound, less yet one that honours nothing higher than itself. So be it!
This, then, is how Lugnasadh found us: plague ravaging the people and the Black Boar ruining all the land.
Like the hounds of the Wild Hunt we pursued the invader north and east, driving deeper into the many-shadowed glens. Somehow the Vandali always remained just beyond reach. They refused to fight, preferring to flee, most often travelling by night. Moving along the ridges and river valleys, they were following Albion's ancient trackways into the rich heartland.
Arthur sent swift messengers ahead along these routes to warn the settlements of the invader's approach. Even this simple task was made difficult by the fact that the wily Amilcar had divided his forces, and then divided them again. There were now no fewer than seven enemy warbands loose in the land, each under the command of a Vandal chieftain intent on driving as far inland as possible, plundering every step of the way.
Twrch Trwyth seemed well pleased to allow his piglets to scatter while he escaped north and east with the main body of the Vandal host. There must have been a purpose to this mad design, but I could not discern it.
Still, we pursued relentlessly, catching them when we could, fighting when battle was offered – but mostly arriving a day behind their latest flight. Futility dogged us and the constant sun burned us black. Provisions ran low – a persistent problem, nagging as the ache in our empty bellies – for with Londinium quarantined, we were forced to buy grain and cattle from smaller markets as far away as Eboracum, and just getting enough was as tedious as it was time-consuming. Meanwhile, the small kings took to squabbling among themselves and disputing Arthur's command.
This alone would have been the undoing of many a lesser man. But Arthur had the plague to fight as well. And that proved no less stubborn than the Black Boar.
I see Paulinus, grown haggard and gaunt in his battle against the scourge. How not? He rests little and rarely sleeps. He toils like a slave demented, teaching, organizing, making and dispensing his medicine. The shy monk has become a valiant warrior, as relentless in his own way as any of Arthur's chieftains, engaged in a fight no less fierce than any fought with Amilcar.
At first word of a settlement or holding where the plague had taken hold, that was where Paulinus wanted to be. Taking no thought for himself, he gave all to the battle, winning renown in the war against the Yellow Destroyer. Others saw his example and were inspired to follow him. So, together with a handful of brothers from Llandaff who willingly joined him in the work, he shouldered the task of fighting the plague.
But the disease, like the invader, ran far, far ahead without slackening pace. There seemed to be no way to contain or subdue either of them. Thus, when his lords began deserting him, Arthur took it hard.
'Be at ease, Bear,' Bedwyr said, trying to calm the king.
'We do not need the likes of Brastias raising hackles at every turn.'
We were gathered in the large council tent, but Arthur, angry with the wayward kings, had not summoned them. He sat with his elbows on the board, frowning, while those nearest the High King tried to lighten his gloom.
'Better to see the back of them, I say,' Cai added.
'He is right, Bear,' Cador put in. 'They took but three hundred riders with them all told.'
'Blessed Jesu, it is not the loss of a few horses I mind!' roared Arthur. 'Three have defied me to my face. How long do you think it will be before the rot sets in with the rest?'
Gwenhwyvar, bright seraph in a cool white mantle, leaned close. 'Allow me to go to my people,' she soothed. 'The Erean kings are willing. Indeed, they are eager to repay the debt they owe Britain. You need only ask.'
'It would do no harm to replace the riders and warriors we have lost,' Bedwyr argued. 'It may be that the arrival of the Irish lords will shame the weak-willed and encourage the loyal.'
'That would be no bad thing,' Gwalchavad offered, adding: 'I welcome any man who stands beside me in this fight.'
Gwenhwyvar took Arthur's right hand in both of hers. 'Why do you yet hesitate, my husband? There is neither shame nor harm in this.' She clasped his hand and pressed it earnestly as she would press her argument. 'The sooner away, the sooner returned. You will hardly know that I have gone.'