Cerdic, watching him closely under those fierce brows, merely nodded.
"Tell me exactly what has happened," said Mordred quickly. "I hardly understood. If there could be any possibility of error… ?"
"As we go," said Cerdic. "Ride beside me. There is no time to waste. It seems that Arthur is not content with taking the shore villages, but he has driven their people inland, and is gathering his cavalry for pursuit. We must go to defend them." He spurred his pony, and as Mordred brought his own mount alongside, the old king repeated the rest of the messenger's tale.
Almost before he had done, Mordred, who had been biting his lips with impatient fury, exploded.
"This is absurd! Room for doubt, indeed! It is simply not to be believed! The High King break his own treaty? Is it not patent that his ships were driven ashore by the storm, and made landfall where they could? For one thing only, if he had intended to attack, he would have landed his cavalry first. It sounds to me as if he had been forced to go ashore, and that Cynric's people attacked on suspicion, without even an attempt at parley."
"That much is certainly true. But according to this man they knew only that the ships were British; the royal ship flew no standard. This in itself was suspicious—"
Mordred felt a sudden leap of the heart: shame and hope together; the chance that all, still, could be well. (Well? He did not pause, in that shame and hope, to examine the thought.) "Then it is possible that Arthur him self was not there? Was Arthur seen? Recognized? If his standard was not flying—"
"Once the British gained the beach, the Dragon was raised. He was there. This man saw him himself. Gawain as well. Gawain, incidentally, is dead."
The horses' hoofs beat softly on the sodden ground. Rain drove in their faces. After a long silence Mordred said, his voice once more cool and steady: "Then if Arthur lives, his treaty with you still stands. It cancels the new alliance, which was made on the assumption of his death. What's more, it is certain that he would not break that treaty. What could he stand to gain? He fought only because he was attacked. King Cerdic, you cannot make this a cause for war."
"For whatever reason, the treaty has been broken," said Cerdic. "He has advanced, armed, into my country, and has killed my people. And others have been driven from their homes. They have called to me for help, and I have to answer their call. I shall get the truth from Cynric when we meet. If you do not wish to ride with us—"
"I shall ride with you. If the King is indeed bringing his troops ashore through Saxon territory, then it is of necessity. He does not want war. This I know. There has been a tragic error. I know Arthur, and so, king, should you. He favours the council chamber, not the sword."
Cerdic's smile was grim. "Lately, perhaps. After he got his way."
"Why not?" retorted Mordred. "Well, ride to join Cynric if you must, but talk with Arthur, too, before any further follies are committed. If you will not, then you must give me leave to talk with him myself. We can come out of this storm yet, king, into calm weather."
"Very well," said the old king heavily, after a pause. "You know what you must do. But if it does come to fighting—"
"It must not."
"If Arthur fights, then I shall fight him. But you — what of you, Prince Mordred? You are no longer bound to me. And will your men obey you? They were his."
"And are now mine," said Mordred shortly. "But with your leave, I shall not put their loyalty to the test on this field. If parley fails, then we shall see."
Cerdic nodded, and the two men rode on side by side in silence.
Mordred, as events were to prove, was right in his judgment of his army. The main body of his troops were men who had trained and served under him, and who had accepted him willingly as king. If a new Saxon war was to be started, the people — the townspeople, the merchants, the now thriving farmers in their lands made safe by the old treaties — wanted none of it. Mordred's recent announcement of his decision to ratify the treaty and, more, close an alliance with the powerful West Saxon king had been welcomed loudly in the halls and market-places. His officers and men followed him loyally.
Whether they would take arms against Arthur himself, for whatever reason, was another matter. But of course it would not come to that.…
Arthur, leaving a picked force of men to guard the beached ships while the storm damage was repaired, led the remainder of his army fast inland, hoping to avoid the Saxon stragglers, and reach the border without further trouble. But soon his scouts returned with the news that Cerdic himself, marching to his son's rescue, was between the British and home. And presently, through a gap of the high downland, they could see the spears and tossing horsehair of Cerdic's war-band, with in the rear, dimly glimpsed through the rain, the glitter of cavalry massed and orderly under what looked like the Dragon of Arthur's own standard. Less mistakable was Mordred himself, riding beside Cerdic at the head of the Saxons.
The troops recognized him first. Mordred, the traitor. The mutter went through the ranks. There were men there who had heard Gawain's dying words, and now at the sight of Mordred himself, approaching with the Saxon army, conspicuous on the glossy black horse that had been Arthur's gift, a growl went round, like a wind-borne echo of Gawain's final breath.
"Mordred! Traitor!"
It was as if the cry had burst in Arthur's own brain. The doubts, the accumulation of exhaustion and grief, the accusations levelled by Gawain, whom in spite of his faults Arthur had loved, weighed on the King and numbed his powers of thought. Caught in his unguarded confusion, in the aftermath of so much grief and loss, he recalled at last, as if the winds had blown that, too, out of the past, the doom foretold by Merlin and echoed by Nimuë. Mordred, born to be his bane. Mordred, the death-dealer. Mordred, here on this dark battlefield, riding against him at the head of the Saxons, his ancient enemies…
The canker of suspicion, biting with sudden pain, became certainty. Against all belief, against all hope of error, it must be true. Mordred, the traitor.
Cerdic's army was moving, massing. The Saxon king, his arm thrown up in command, was speaking to Mordred. In the throng behind the two leaders there was an ominous shouting and clash of shields.
Arthur was never one to wait for surprise. Before Cerdic could form his war-band for battle, his cavalry charged.
Mordred, shouting, spurred forward, but Cerdic's hand came down on his rein.
"Too late. There'll be no talking today. Get back to your men. And keep them off my back. Do you hear me?"
"Trust me," said Mordred, and, wheeling his horse, lashed the reins down on its neck and sent it back through the Saxon ranks at a gallop.
His men, some way to the rear of the Saxons, had not yet seen what was happening. The regent's orders were curt and urgent. "Flight" was not the word he used, but that was the essence of the order. To his officers he was brief: "The High King is here, and joins battle with Cerdic. We have no part in this. I will not lead you against Arthur, but nor can I take Arthur's part against a man whose hand I have taken in treaty. Let this day come to an end and we will sort things out like reasonable men. Get the troops back towards Camelot."
So, with unbloodied swords and fresh horses, the regent's army retreated fast towards its base, leaving the field to the two ageing kings.
Arthur's star still held steady. He was, as Merlin had foretold, the victor in every field he took. The Saxons broke and yielded the field, and the High King, pausing only to gather the wounded and bury his dead, set off towards Camelot, in pursuit of Mordred's apparently fleeing troops.