It was then, with Aelle's Saxon army threatening to capture Durocobrivis and with Gwent's forces occupied against both Powys and the northern Saxons and with Cadwy's undefeated rebellion being encouraged by King Mark of Kernow, tlfet Ban of Benoic sent his summons. We all knew that King Ban had only ever permitted Arthur to come to Dumnonia on condition that he returned to Armorica if Benoic was ever in jeopardy. Now, Ban's messenger claimed, Benoic was in dire danger and King Ban, insisting that Arthur fulfill his oath, was demanding Arthur's return. The news came to us in Durocobrivis. The town had once been a prosperous Roman settlement with lavish baths, a marble justice hall and a fine market place, but now it was an impoverished frontier fort, forever watching east towards the Saxons. The buildings beyond the town's earth wall had all been burnt by Aelle's raiders and were never rebuilt, while inside the wall the great Roman structures crumbled to ruin. Ban's messenger came to us in what remained of the arched hall of the Roman baths. It was night and a fire burned in the pit of the old plunge bath, its smoke churning about the arched ceiling where the wind caught and sucked the smoke out of a small window. We had been eating our evening meal, seated in a circle on the cold floor, and Arthur led Ban's messenger into the circle's centre where he scratched a crude map of Dumnonia in the dirt, then scattered red and white mosaic scraps to show where our enemies and friends were placed. Everywhere the red tiles of Dumnonia were being squeezed by the white stone scraps. We had fought that day and Arthur had taken a spear cut on his right cheekbone, not a dangerous wound, but deep enough to crust his cheek in blood. He had been fighting without his helmet, claiming he saw better without the enclosing metal, but if the Saxon had thrust an inch higher and to one side he would have rammed his steel through Arthur's brain. He had fought on foot, as he usually did, because he was saving his heavy horses for the more desperate battles. A half dozen of his horsemen were mounted each day, but most of the expensive, rare war horses were kept deep in Dumnonia where they were safe from enemy raids. This day, after Arthur had been wounded, our handful of heavy cavalrymen had scattered the Saxon line, killing their chief and sending the survivors back east, but Arthur's narrow escape had left us all uneasy. King Ban's messenger, a chief called Bleiddig, only deepened that gloom.
“You see,” Arthur said to Bleiddig, 'why I cannot leave?" He gestured at the red and white scraps.
“An oath is an oath,” Bleiddig answered bluntly.
“If the Prince leaves Dumnonia,” Prince Gereint intervened, “Dumnonia falls.” Gereint was a heavy, dull-witted man, but loyal and honest. As Uther's nephew he had a claim on Dumnonia's throne, but he never made the claim and was always true to Arthur, his bastard cousin.
“Better that Dumnonia fall than Benoic,” Bleiddig said, and ignored the angry murmur that followed his words.
“I took an oath to defend Mordred,” Arthur pointed out.
“You took an oath to defend Benoic,” Bleiddig answered, shrugging away Arthur's objection. “Bring the child with you.”
“I must give Mordred his kingdom,” Arthur insisted. “If he leaves the kingdom loses its king and its heart. Mordred stays here.”
“And who threatens to take the kingdom from him?” Bleiddig demanded angrily. The Benoic chieftain was a big man, not unlike Owain and with much of Owain's brute force. “You!” He pointed scornfully at Arthur. “If you had married Ceinwyn there would be no war! If you had married Ceinwyn then not only Dumnonia, but Gwent and Powys would be sending troops to aid my King!” Men were shouting and swords were drawn, but Arthur bellowed for silence. A trickle of blood escaped from beneath his wound's scab and ran down his long, hollow cheek. “How long,” he asked Bleiddig,
'before Benoic falls?"
Bleiddig frowned. It was clear he could not guess the answer, but he suggested six months or maybe a year. The Franks, he said, had brought new armies into the east of his country and Ban could not fight them all. Ban's own army, led by his champion, Bors, was holding the northern border while the men Arthur had left behind, led by his cousin Culhwch, held the southern frontier. Arthur was staring at his map of red and white tiles. “Three months,” he said, 'and I will come. If I can!
Three months. But in the meanwhile, Bleiddig, I shall send you a war-band of good men." Bleiddig argued, protesting that Arthur's oath demanded Arthur's immediate presence in Armorica, but Arthur would not be budged. Three months, he said, or not at all, and Bleiddig had to accept the compromise.
Arthur gestured for me to walk with him in the colonnaded courtyard that lay next to the hall. There were vats in the small courtyard that stank like a latrine, but he appeared not to notice the stench. “God knows, Derfel,” he said, and I knew he was under strain for using the word “God', just as I noticed he used the singular Christian word though he immediately balanced the score, 'the Gods know I don't want to lose you, but I need to send someone who isn't afraid to break a shield-wall. I need to send you.”
"Lord Prince' I began.
“Don't call me prince,” he interrupted angrily. “I'm not a prince. And don't argue with me. I have everyone arguing with me. Everyone knows how to win this war except me. Melwas is screaming for men, Tewdric wants me in the north, Cei says he needs another hundred spears, and now Ban wants me! If he spent more money on his army and less on his poets he wouldn't be in trouble!”
“Poets?”
“Ynys Trebes is a haven of poets,” he said bitterly, referring to King Ban's island capital. “Poets! We need spearmen, not poets.” He stopped and leaned against a pillar. He looked more tired than I had ever seen him. “I can't achieve anything,” he said, 'until we stop fighting. If I could just talk to Cuneglas, face to face, there might be hope."
“Not while Gorfyddyd lives,” I said.
“Not while Gorfyddyd lives,” he agreed, then went silent and I knew he was thinking of Ceinwyn and Guinevere. Moonlight came through a gap in the colonnade's roof to touch his bony face with silver. He closed his eyes and I knew he was blaming himself for the war, but what was done could not be undone. A new peace would have to be made and there was only one man who could force that peace on Britain, and that was Arthur himself. He opened his eyes and grimaced. “What's the smell?” he asked, noticing it at last.
“They bleach cloth here, Lord,” I explained, and gestured toward the wooden vats that were filled with urine and washed chicken dung to produce the valuable white fabric like the cloaks Arthur himself favoured.
Arthur would usually have been encouraged at such evidence of industry in a decayed town like Durocobrivis, but that night he just shrugged away the smell and touched the trickle of fresh blood on his cheek. “One more scar,” he said ruefully. “I'll soon have as many as you, Derfel.”
“You should wear your helmet, Lord,” I said.
“I can't see right and left when I do,” he said dismissively. He pushed away from the pillar and gestured for me to walk with him round the arcade. “Now listen, Derfel. Fighting Franks is just like fighting Saxons. They're all German.;, and there's nothing special about the Franks except that they like to carry throwing spears as well as the usual weapons. So keep your head down when they first attack, but after that it's just shield-wall against shield-wall. They're hard fighters, but they drink too much so you can usually out-think them. That's why I'm sending you. You're young, but you can think which is more than most of our soldiers do. They just believe it's enough to get drunk and hack away, but no one will win wars that way.” He paused and tried to hide a yawn. “Forgive me. And for all I know, Derfel, Benoic isn't in danger at all. Ban is an emotional man' he used the description sourly 'and he panics easily, but if he loses Ynys Trebes then he'll break his heart and I'll have to live with that guilt too. You can trust Culhwch, he's good. Bors is capable.”