THIRTEEN
The opposing war hosts were arrayed on the field of battle as before – rank on rank behind their chieftains, staring fiercely across the plain at each other. It was nearing midday and they were looking for Arthur to arrive, but he was nowhere to be seen.
A premature shout went up as I appeared, but died abruptly when they saw I was alone. They looked at one another with puzzled expressions and returned uneasily to their waiting.
The Britons were not the only ones anxious for Arthur's arrival. The Vandali also stretched their necks for a sign of him, and with even greater anticipation. For if the British king failed to appear, then Amilcar would be judged the victor; each moment that Arthur delayed, the expectation of triumph grew.
I did not know how long the Vandal king would content himself to stand aside while Arthur tarried. I hoped he might use the opportunity to belittle his opponent, but he seemed content to bide his time, and the longer he waited, the lower ebbed my hope and I began to fear that all my work would come to nothing. Had the wily Black Boar guessed what Arthur was planning?
No. Impossible.
Then why did Amilcar stand so amiably by? Why did he not denounce Arthur and call for the Britons to produce their king, or declare himself the victor?
The sun mounted higher in a formless sky, blazing hot, pooling inky shadows on the dry ground. I looked along the ranks of men, standing uneasily, sweating, their eyes narrowed slits against the hard, hard light. Across the plain, the barbarians shifted restlessly. The expectation was growing too great to contain any longer. Yet Amilcar waited.
When the Vandali war drums finally sounded, I thought: At last! The moment we have been waiting for, Arthur. Take it!
Amilcar advanced with his bodyguard and priest to his accustomed place. He stood for a moment scanning the ranks, then drew himself up and called out in a loud voice, which Hergest repeated: 'Where is your champion? Where is your great king? Is he hiding? Is he afraid to face me?'
The words met stony silence. 'Why does no one answer me? Has fear taken your tongues? Come out and fight! Show me you are not afraid!'
When he received no answer, his shouts became taunts. 'Dogs! Cowards! Now you show your true nature! Kings of cowards, where is your coward of a king?'
This went on for a time. The Britons grew sullen and restive under this abuse. I could see the seeds of doubt and worry taking root. This was all to the good – my plan would better succeed if even Arthur's own Cymbrogi were taken by surprise. And Amilcar's abuse was beginning to worry our men.
Bedwyr hurried to my side, a frown of deepest concern creasing his brows. 'I thought you said you would bring him.’
‘I did, and I have.'
'Then where is he? Amilcar will not wait for ever. Whatever you are planning – '
'Peace, Bedwyr,' I soothed. 'Return to your place. All is as it should be.'
'With you, Myrddin, nothing is ever as it should be.' He retreated a few steps behind me, telling Cai: 'It is no use, brother. He will tell us nothing.'
'Where is Arthur?' demanded Cai.
'Peace,' I replied. 'He is near.'
'Well, if Arthur does not come soon,' Cai called to me. 'Tell Twrch that 7 will fight him. That will stop him raving.'
Amilcar drew encouragement from the refusal of the Britons to meet his taunts. He preened and posed, strutting back and forth, crying his insults to the cowed and increasingly uncertain Britons. I saw in his swagger the confidence of a man who believes himself a conqueror and his adversary already vanquished.
Yes, I thought, he is ready. Come, Arthur, it is time. But Arthur did not come. And then it was my turn to worry. Where was he? Why did he wait? What if something had happened to him?
I endured this uncertainty for a time, wondering what to do, and was on the point of sending Cai and Bedwyr to find him, when I heard it: a low rumble, like distant thunder. The sound grew rapidly louder, mounting steadily like the wind of an approaching storm.
The Britons heard it and looked to the west. The Vandali heard it too, and turned towards the sound. Because of his shouting, the Black Boar was the last to hear the strange thunder. His voice faltered and he turned his gaze to the west where a pillar of dust had appeared.
The sound became a steady drumming rumble and Arthur appeared, as if out of a tempest. But it was Arthur as no one had ever seen him: standing upright on the platform of a speeding chariot, brandishing a spear. Llenlleawg, also painted with blue woad, held the traces, driving two of Fergus' swift Irish stallions. The chariot-for it did look very like a war chariot- was hung with a bearskin and there were spears lashed to the uprights, giving it an even more menacing appearance. This Llenlleawg had done on his own; so pressed for time to complete the vehicle, I had not thought of it.
As remarkable as the sudden and unexpected appearance of the chariot might be, however, I think it was scarcely noticed at all. For every eye was on Arthur alone, and he held them rapt. His hair was a wild, spiky mass, white and stiff with lime. Most startling of all, he was wearing neither leather nor mail. In truth, he wore nothing save his golden tore of kingship; the champions of an elder time often fought naked, disdaining armour, trusting only their own prowess for protection. His face and body were freshly shaved, and his skin daubed blue with woad – spirals, hands, stripes, jagged lightning patterns – all over his arms and chest, and down his thighs and legs – symbols and signs now forgotten, but once possessing great power.
The impact of his unexpected appearance could not have been greater. It was as if a hero of old had taken flesh anew – Morvran Iron Fist himself, rising bodily from the dust at their feet, would not have astonished them more. Some did not recognize Arthur at first, and even those who did know him stared in amazement.
'Behold!' I cried. 'The Pendragon of Ynys Prydein, riding to the defence of his realm.'
'How long has it been since a British king has appeared so before his people?' I felt a touch on my arm as Gwenhwyvar came to stand beside me. Her face was alight with pleasure at the effect of the surprise. 'Oh, he is a splendid man.’
‘Truly.'
'And do not think to send me back to the line,' she said. 'After what happened yesterday, I will not go.'
'Very well,' I replied. 'Stay.' We stood together, the queen and I, revelling in a sight that had not been witnessed in the Island of the Mighty for ten generations or more. Such a spectacle! So bold and proud, standing in the chariot, tore glinting in the sun, adazzle with the blue of an elder age – they were heroes indeed.
Arthur and Llenlleawg raced up and down the length of the British line, encouraging wild whoops and cheers from the gathered Cymbrogi – a sound to assault the heavens! When they had whipped the Britons into an ecstatic frenzy, Llenlleawg turned the horses and drove the chariot to the centre of the battlefield, where he stopped. Arthur lofted his spear and hurled it into the ground a few paces away, then stepped down. Llenlleawg turned the horses and drove the chariot from the field.
Taking up his shield and sword – both washed white with lime – the High King of Britain called out to the Vandal warlord. 'Twrch Trwyth, I have heard your empty boasts! Take up your weapons and let us make an end of this battle. I tell you the truth, the world is weary of your presence, and I grow tired of you myself. Come, death awaits you!'
Amilcar, much impressed by Arthur's appearance, was slow to answer. 'Indeed, one of us will leave the field, the other will stay.' The barbarian king spoke much less confidently now.
'So be it. Let whatever gods you pray to receive your soul.'
Thus the deadly dance began once more: around and around the warriors moved, circling, circling, edging, probing for an opening. Gwenhwyvar chewed her lip, never taking her eyes from the contest. I noticed that one hand found the hilt of her sword, the other her dagger. She stood there, at the ready, willing Arthur to make a beginning. 'Take him, Bear," she murmured. 'You can do it. Strike!'