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Rhys appeared with a cup and pressed it into the monk's hands. Paulinus drank thirstily and dried his mouth with his sleeve. 'I wish I had a better word, lord,' the monk said.

'How bad is it?' asked Gwenhwyvar, stepping close.

'It is not good,' Paulinus replied. 'The fever spreads despite our best efforts. The roads from Londinium are secured, but people still persist in travelling on the river; it seems we can do nothing to stop them. Thus, the plague follows the waterways.' He paused, gulped from the cup, and concluded, 'We have succeeded in rescuing a few settlements where the disease has not yet gained a foothold, but much of the land south of Londinium has succumbed.'

Paulinus drank again, and returned the cup to Rhys. 'Three of our own have taken ill, and one has died. Nor do I expect the others to live.'

Arthur stood over the priest, hands at his sides, fists balled, but there was nothing to strike. Paulinus, seeing his king's frustration, rose slowly. 'I am sorry, lord. I wish I had better tidings. I had hoped – we had all hoped…"

'You are doing all you can, we know,' Gwenhwyvar said. 'Go now, we will speak again when you are rested.'

Beckoning his steward, Arthur said, 'Rhys, see that our friend has something to eat and a place to lay his head.' Paulinus took his leave and, when he had gone, Arthur turned to the others. 'I cannot stop the plague,' he said softly. 'But if I can end the war with the Black Boar, I deem it a risk worth taking. I will fight Amilcar.'

A little while before midday, the lords of Britain and their battlechiefs were assembled once more and brought to stand before the High King's tent. Arthur acknowledged them one by one and lauded their loyalty. Then he said, 'Sword brothers all, you have heard the Black Boar's challenge. I have given the matter careful thought, and I have decided that if there is a chance to end the war by defeating Amilcar in single combat, then I must take that chance. Therefore, I will accept the barbarian's challenge and meet him on the plain.' The decision provoked a general uproar. 'Is this wise, Arthur?' wondered Ector aloud. 'Certainly, we all stand ready to ride beside you.' A score of voices added their agreement.

'Of that I have no doubt,' Arthur replied, holding up his hands for silence. 'Indeed, many good men have stood beside me already, and, alas! too many have died. Truly, if not for the loyalty of all noble Britons, we could not have driven the enemy to this desperate cast. I am persuaded that the will to continue this war rests with Amilcar. Thus, when he is dead, the war will end.'

'But what if you are killed instead?' shouted Cunomor, his voice rising above the din. 'What then?'

'If I am killed,' Arthur replied, 'it will be left to those who remain to carry on however they choose. The death of one man matters little, weighed against the death and destruction which has gone before and all that will certainly follow.'

'We came to fight for you!' shouted Meurig, 'not to stand by and watch you fight alone.'

Ogryvan added, 'We fight for Arthur! He does not fight for us!'

This produced a clamour which continued for some time. When it began to die away another cried out. 'Lord Arthur!' The voice was strange to many ears. The British lords turned as Aedd stepped forward. 'The man who wins this fight will gain everlasting glory and his name will be sung in the halls of kings for ever. Therefore, though I am least among your lords, I beg the boon of serving you. Let me face this barbarian Amilcar in your place. Great King, let me be your champion in this fight.'

Aedd, God bless him, was in earnest; he would readily trade life for life with Arthur, but the High King could not allow it. 'I thank you, Lord Aedd,' he said, 'and I will not forget your offer. But it seems that Amilcar believes me a tyrant like himself – in that if I am defeated, Britain's defence will crumble away. We must encourage him in this belief. My life must be the prize.'

The petty kings were not at all happy with this decision. But though many argued against it, none could suggest a better plan. Thus Arthur won his way at length.

'So! It is settled,' the High King concluded. 'Gather your warbands. We will meet Amilcar now.'

EIGHT

I have thought many times what I could have done – perhaps should have done? – differently in those fearful days. Yet events swiftly outstripped my small ability to guide them. As is ever the way of things, those circumstances we would most gladly shape ever remain beyond our grasp, while we are made to bear unexpected burdens to unsuspected destinations. All stand helpless before a power too potent to contain, too immense to comprehend. So be it!

Thus I, who would have formed the days to my design, was made to stand with all the rest of the British war host ranged in ranks upon the plain, looking on in apprehension.

I see it now as then, always before me, the same stark image: Arthur standing alone under a blistering sun with neither shield nor helm, only Caledvwlch at his side. The sky is leached white with the searing heat; the grass is brittle underfoot and brown.

Arthur stands waiting, his shadow shrivelled small beneath him, as if it dare not stretch its full length in such heat. Across the plain the Vandal host appears – warriors, women, children. All advance slowly to the place of meeting: the broad plain of Lyit Coed, where the rivers Tamu and Ancer come together. A fortress once stood nearby, but the Vandali have burned it and the settlements round about have been destroyed, the people killed or forced to run.

I watch the enemy host advance, a crabbed and clotted line of black, the dust from their feet rising up in thick white columns behind them. They move slowly and we wait. We might still attack them, or they might attack us. There is nothing to prevent it, save Britain's High King standing alone on the cracked and burning plain, waiting in all good faith for the Black Boar of the Vandali to honour his word and meet him face-to-face.

There is but one question in the mind of every man looking on: Will the hosts fight, or will Amilcar treat with Arthur as he has promised?

The advance halts abruptly and dull silence descends over the heat-oppressed plain. Then the thunder begins. The plain echoes to the rumbling roar of the Vandali war drums, and for one terrible moment I think they will attack.

'Steady!' Bedwyr calls out, and his words are repeated down the line. 'Stand your ground, men.'

The drums are meant to frighten, to unnerve us. But Arthur stands, and so we stand – grim-faced, sweating, our stomachs knotted in anticipation and dread as the drums boom in our ears. The sound, once heard, is not easily forgotten. I hear it now.

When the invader had drawn up in striking distance of us, the beat of the drums abruptly ceased and the long triple line halted. The Vandali stood staring at us in a silence as terrible as the bone-rattling thunder of their drums. They remained motionless, not a muscle twitching, weapons gleaming dully, rank on rank, their grotesque boar's head standards rising above them, confronting us with the dread spectacle of their military might.

Arthur stood easy, patient, regarding the fearsome battle host with an unflinching gaze. After a time, one of the standard-bearers moved from his place in the forerank, advanced a few places and stopped. He was joined by a group of Vandali chieftains, Mercia and the slave Hergest foremost among them. Then, all together, they moved out to meet Britain's High King in the centre of the plain. After a few brief words – spoken in voices too low to hear – the standard-bearer returned to his place in the line.

'I cannot endure this,' muttered Gwenhwyvar crossly. 'I will stand with him.'

Bedwyr made bold to stay her, but she shook off his hand, slipped from the saddle, and stepped quickly out from the rank to reach Arthur's side before anyone could prevent her. The king welcomed her with a curt nod and the two stood side by side as the black boar's head on its skull-and-scalp-bedecked pole proceeded once more. This time it heralded the arrival of Amilcar himself.