“My father is dying,” Cuneglas said. “A spear thrust took him in the back.” He made it sound like an accusation, though everyone knew that once a shield-wall broke many men would die with their wounds behind.
Arthur stayed on one knee. For a moment he did not seem to know what to say, then he looked up at Cuneglas. “May I see him?” he asked. “I offended your house, Lord Prince, and insulted its honour, and though no insult was meant, I would still beg your father's forgiveness.” It was Cuneglas's turn to seem bemused, then he shrugged as though he was not certain he was making the right decision, but at last he gestured towards his shield-wall. Arthur stood and, side by side with the Prince, went to see the dying King Gorfyddyd.
I wanted to call out to Arthur not to go, but he was swallowed in the enemy's ranks before my muddled wits recovered. I cringed to think what Gorfyddyd would say to Arthur, and I knew Gorfyddyd would say those things, the same filthy things that he had spat at me across the rim of his spear-scarred shield. King Gorfyddyd was not a man to forgive his enemies, nor one to spare an enemy hurt, even if he was dying. Especially if he was dying. It would be Gorfyddyd's final pleasure in this world to know that he had hurt his foe. Sagramor shared my fears, and both of us watched in anguish as, after a few moments, Arthur emerged from the defeated ranks with a face as dark as Cruachan's Cave. Sagramor stepped towards him. “He lied, Lord,” Sagramor said softly. “He always lied.”
“I know he lied,” Arthur said, then shuddered. “But some untruths are hard to hear and impossible to forgive.” Anger suddenly swelled up inside him and he drew Excalibur and turned fiercely on the trapped enemy. “Does any man of you want to fight for your King's lies?” he shouted as he paced up and down their line. “Is there one of you? Just one man willing to fight for that evil thing that dies with you? Just one? Or else I'll have your King's soul cursed to the last darkness! Come on, fight!” He flailed Excalibur at their raised shields. “Fight! You scum!” His rage was as terrible as anything the vale had seen that whole day. “In the name of the Gods,” he called, “I declare your King a liar, a bastard, a thing without honour, a nothing!” He spat at them, then fumbled one-handed at the buckles of my leather breastplate that he still wore. He succeeded in freeing the shoulder straps, but not the waist, so that the breastplate hung in front of him like a blacksmith's apron. “I'll make it easy for you!” he yelled. “No armour. No shield. Come and fight me! Prove to me that your bastard whore-monger ing King speaks truth! Not one of you?” His rage was out of control for he was in the Gods' hands now and spattering his anger at a world that cowered from his dreadful force. He spat again. “You rancid whores!” He whirled around as Cuneglas reappeared in the shield-wall. “You, whelp?” He pointed Excalibur at Cuneglas. “You'd fight for that lump of dying filth?”
Cuneglas, like every man there, was shaken by Arthur's fury, but he walked weaponless from the shield-wall and then, just feet from Arthur, he sank to his knees. “We are at your mercy, Lord Arthur,” he said and Arthur stared at him. His body was tense for all the rage and frustration of a day's fighting was boiling inside him and for a second I thought that Excalibur would hiss in the dusk to strike Cuneglas's head from his shoulders, but then Cuneglas looked up. “I am now King of Powys, Lord Arthur, but at your mercy.”
Arthur closed his eyes. Then, still with his eyes shut, he felt for Excalibur's scabbard and thrust the long sword home. He turned away from Cuneglas, opened his eyes and stared at us, his spearmen, and I saw the madness pass away from him. He was still seething with anger, but the uncontrollable rage had passed and his voice was calm as he begged Cuneglas to stand. Then Arthur summoned his banner holders so that the twin standards of the dragon and the bear would add dignity to his words. “My terms are these,” he said so that everyone in the darkening vale could hear him. “I demand King Gundleus's head. He has kept it too long and the murderer of my King's mother must be brought to justice. That granted, I ask only for peace between King Cuneglas and my King and between King Cuneglas and King Tewdric. I ask for peace between all the Britons.”
There was an astonished silence. Arthur was the winner on this field. His forces had killed the enemy's king and captured Powys's heir, and every man in the vale expected Arthur to demand a royal ransom for Cuneglas's life. Instead he was asking for nothing but peace.
Cuneglas frowned. “What of my throne?” he managed to ask.
“Your throne is yours, Lord King,” Arthur said. “Whose else can it be? Accept my terms, Lord King, and you are free to return to it.”
“And Gundleus's throne?” Cuneglas asked, perhaps suspecting that Arthur wanted Siluria for himself.
“Is not yours,” Arthur replied firmly, 'nor mine. Together we shall find someone to keep it warm. Once Gundleus is dead,“ he added ominously. ”Where is he?“ Cuneglas gestured towards the village. ”In one of the buildings, Lord." Arthur turned towards Powys's defeated spearmen and raised his voice so that each man could hear him.
“This war should never have been fought!” he called. “That it was fought is my fault, and I accept that fault and shall pay for it in any coin other than my life. To the Princess Ceinwyn I owe more than apology and shall pay whatever she demands, but all I now ask is that we should be allies. New Saxons come daily to take our land and enslave our women. We should fight them, not amongst ourselves. I ask for your friendship, and as a token of that desire I leave you your land, your weapons and your gold. This is neither victory nor defeat' he gestured at the bloody, smoke-palled valley 'it is a peace. All I ask is peace and one life. That of Gundleus.” He looked back to Cuneglas and lowered his voice. “I wait your decision, Lord King.”
The Druid lorweth hurried to Cuneglas's side and the two men spoke together. Neither seemed to believe Arthur's offer, for warlords were not usually magnanimous in victory. Battle winners demanded ransom, gold, slaves and land; Arthur wanted only friendship. “What of Gwent?” Cuneglas asked Arthur. “What will Tewdric want?”
Arthur made a show of looking about the darkening valley. “I see no men of Gwent, Lord King. If a man is not party to a fight then he cannot be party to the settlement afterward. But I can tell you, Lord King, that Gwent craves for peace. King Tewdric will ask for nothing except your friendship and the friendship of my King. A friendship we shall mutually pledge never to break.”
“And I am free to go if I give you that pledge?” Cuneglas asked suspiciously.
“Wherever you wish, Lord King, though I ask your permission to come to you at Caer Sws to talk further.”
“And my men are free to go?” Cuneglas asked.
“With their weapons, their gold, their lives and my friendship,” Arthur answered. He was at his most earnest, desperate to ensure that this was the last battle ever to be fought among the Britons, though he had taken good care, I noticed, to mention nothing of Ratae. That surprise could wait. Cuneglas still seemed to find the offer too good to be true, but then, perhaps remembering his former friendship with Arthur, he smiled. “You shall have your peace, Lord Arthur.”