‘Everything changes.’ Arthur spoke wistfully, sighing as he gazed upon his brother. Kai was a handsbreadth shorter than Arthur now, but he had become stocky, and his beard was long and braided into a thick plait. He wore a leather breastplate and a bronze torc around his neck. He was a warrior, they both were, and Arthur was relieved the tension between them had disappeared. There was no need to discuss why Arthur had left, and what he had done in the year since their parting. It was clear enough that Arthur wished to become a warlord and lead men in the war against the Saxons, where Kai was happy to fight for his father in the Caer Ligualid war band. There was nothing wrong with that. If he fought well and earned Urien’s respect, then he would likely succeed Ector one day and become the lord of Caer Ligualid’s Roman fort. He would marry the daughter of another lord, have children, and such was life. But that was not Arthur’s destiny.
‘Balin is as sullen as ever.’
‘He is. One of the new men asked him about his brother and the fall of Bernicia one night at a winter fire, and I thought Balin would kill the man.’
Kai laughed. ‘What happened?’
‘Dewi and Aneirin warned the man off and told a different tale.’
‘In all the days since we left Dun Guaroy, has he ever spoken to you of his brother or his family?’
‘Never. And I have not asked. Balin will talk of planning, supplies, which route to take and where to camp. But he has never spoken to me of his past, and I have never asked. A man is entitled to his privacy.’
‘So, where will you go now? Octha’s army is back in Bernicia and Ida has rallied his forces for a summer of war. They could march into Rheged, and we could do with your sword and your men if they do.’
‘Balin and I will go to Urien and ask him for support. We must build an army with spearmen from all the kingdoms in Britain if we are going to defeat Ida and Octha. Rheged alone does not have enough warriors to defeat the Saxons, and we can only keep the borderlands safe for so long before Rheged is overwhelmed.’
‘We have enough to repel him, to drive him back across the mountains.’
‘You do,’ Arthur allowed, to soothe Kai’s pride in his people rather than because he believed it. ‘We saw the vastness of Octha’s army with our own eyes outside Dun Guaroy. Rheged might repel Ida or Octha, but could you march into Bernicia and drive them out? Or what if Ida and Octha combine their forces?’
‘Gododdin will come to our aid if we need them.’
‘They would. But what of King Brochvael the Fanged of Powys? Or King Cadwallon Longhand of Gwynedd? Or King Gwallog of Elmet? There’s as much chance of them attacking a weakened Rheged as of joining forces with Urien.’
Kai nodded sadly at that truth and said nothing to disagree with Arthur. The kingdoms held old grievances against one another, and frequently raided across borders for cattle, timber, salt, lead, clay, jet, copper or tin. ‘So, you will try to build a vast army from every kingdom?’
‘From every kingdom who will support our cause, yes. Otherwise, how can we ever destroy the Saxons?’
‘Why would they follow you?’ Kai stared deep into Arthur’s eyes, challenging him with that hardest of truths. Arthur was a bastard and an orphan, and there was no reason any king would even admit him to his hall, never mind support him with warriors.
‘They would follow Balin. They would heed Merlin’s call, and they would follow this.’ Arthur placed his hand on Excalibur’s hilt. It was belligerent and arrogant of him to speak so plainly, but it was the best hope he had. That belief had come to him after witnessing the sheer size of Octha’s army, and the realisation that so many Saxon warriors risked their lives sailing for Britain’s shores to conquer. They came to take everything, and Merlin’s words had rattled around Arthur’s head for a year like a mouse in thatch, gnawing and scratching. Arthur had Excalibur, and Merlin could convince men to follow both the sword and the man who wielded it with no allegiance to any king. Arthur had escaped the horror of Dun Guaroy and come from its water ready for that challenge, understanding what must be done.
‘And where is Merlin?’
‘I had hoped to find news of him in Caer Ligualid, and of Guinevere.’ Arthur still had the silver swan-shaped cloak pinned inside his sword belt, every night he would fall asleep thinking of Guinevere’s green eyes and long face, hoping she had not yet found a husband, yet he knew that half of Britain would want her hand once men laid eyes upon the princess of Cameliard.
‘Guinevere is at the Bear Fort still and has not gone to Uther’s court. I think the old king has a hunger for our pretty princess, though her father wanted her to serve at King Uther’s court in Dumnonia. Of Merlin, there is no news, but you will need him, brother. You are right about one thing. Men fear Merlin the druid and will take his advice.’
‘And you?’
‘I love you, brother,’ said Kai, and he pulled Arthur into a tight embrace. ‘And no matter how mad you sound, or what nonsense falls from your mouth, I will be here when you need me. There will always be a place for you in Caer Ligualid.’
‘And if it comes to war?’
‘Who else will watch your back if not me?’
Balin and Arthur left Ector’s war band the following morning, and though Arthur was glad to leave Ector and Kai on good terms, Lunete would not say goodbye and kept herself away from the parting farewells. Ector held Arthur close and whispered in his ear to keep his shield up and told Arthur he would always be his son. As always with fathers and sons, there was much left unsaid between Arthur and Ector. Arthur wanted to ask Ector why he hadn’t questioned him more on his plans, or why Ector hadn’t tried to talk him out of it. To travel Britain and try to bring the warriors of each kingdom together with just Balin of the Two Swords and a small band of warriors wasn’t just a risk, it was a dangerous quest, one most would think foolhardy, perhaps arrogant, but certainly a step above an unwanted orphan’s station. But Arthur had Merlin’s backing. He had Excalibur. He had men, and perhaps that was enough to convince even the mighty Ector that the goal was worth the attempt. There was a long look between father and foster son, a nod from Ector and smile from Arthur and though each man had much to say to the other, as it goes between men, they swallowed the difficult words and parted with a clap on the shoulder and a shake of the forearm.
The war band marched south-west into the face of a sudden summer rain. Arthur rode at the head of the column with his cloak pulled tight about him, its wool made heavy by the thumping, fat raindrops, and his hair lank about his ears. Arthur’s large shield hung over Llamrei’s back, Excalibur at his belt, and he carried a spear in his left hand. Balin rode beside him, silent and grim as ever, and sixty spearmen clad in leather, wool and linen marched behind them. Most wore leather or iron breastplates, some wore bowl-shaped helmets, and all wrapped their trews with strips of cloth from ankle to calf. They carried heavy shields and followed an old Roman road whose stone still showed beneath the mud and moss of long years of hard use without repair. They reached the Bear Fort as the rain cleared, and the sea-grey sky parted so that shafts of sunlight burst onto the Fort’s great hill as though the gods themselves showed the way to King Urien’s hall. Ten spearmen dressed in leather, carrying shields painted with Urien’s bear sigil, stalked down from the hill fort and emerged from the surrounding buildings to make a line across the path. Their leader wore a bowl-shaped, riveted iron helmet and had plaited his beard into two long ropes.
‘Welcome, men of Bernicia,’ said the helmeted warrior in a slow voice, eyeing the fox on Balin’s shield with a puzzled expression. ‘What brings you to the Bear Fort?’
‘I am Balin of the Two Swords. Come to speak with King Urien. The Saxons mass on his borders, and I would talk to him of war.’
The helmeted man nodded gravely to Balin and then raised an eyebrow at Arthur and the sword painted on his men’s shields. It was a new sigil, and not one of the familiar beasts of the great kingdoms of Britain.
‘I am Arthur… of Britain,’ Arthur said, not wanting to introduce himself as Arthur of Rheged or of Caer Ligualid. He was neither of those things now, and it would not do to ask King Urien for warriors as a man of his kingdom. Better to make the request as an unknown warrior who had yet to swear his oath to any king. Arthur was a new man, freshly emerged from the dread expedition to Dun Guaroy, and he was all too aware of the strangeness of his arrival and the request he must make of Rheged’s famous warrior-king.
The helmeted man stared at Arthur for a moment, unsure what to make of a man who introduced himself as a man of Britain and not of a particular kingdom. A man who belonged to no king was masterless, an outlaw without honour who lived outside of the law, a bucellari mercenary and not worthy of admittance to a king’s hall without invitation. But Balin was a lord and not to be kept waiting, and so the helmeted man tilted his head, quickly mulling over the risk of not admitting a lord like Balin to the Bear Fort, and the risk of incurring King Urien’s ire. He scratched his neck beneath the two thick plaits, shrugged and beckoned them on. The helmeted man led them through the stables, smithies and other wattle and timber huts which dotted the Bear Fort’s hill. Folk came from those houses, ducking beneath dripping thatch and stepping around brown puddles. Ruddy-faced churls in threadbare woollen clothes bowed their heads at Arthur and Balin, for both wore mail, carried swords and rode fine horses. They were warriors, men of that caste which sat above the laity and below only kings and druids in the order of Britain’s peoples. Arthur rode with his shoulders squared and his back straight. It was strange to have people bow as he approached, but he followed Balin’s lead and kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
The helmeted man had stewards take Llamrei and Balin’s horse to the fort’s stables to be brushed and fed, whilst their warriors were asked to rest outside the walls with a promise that bread, cheese and mead would be provided. That was no surprise, for no king would allow sixty grim-faced warriors inside his walls unless they were men sworn to his service. Arthur and Balin marched through the fort’s gates, boots squelching in the mud. A thin dog ran across Arthur’s path with its tail between its legs, and a woman with a goitred neck scurried between two buildings, carrying a basket of eggs towards Urien’s keep. The fort rose from the hill with timber walls made dark by the rain, and the surrounding buildings smelled of damp, smoke and animal droppings. Faces stared at Arthur through window shutters, and doors held ajar by dirty nailed fingers. It was a long walk in Arthur’s cloak made heavy by the rain, adding to the weight of his mail and weapons. Arthur’s mail chafed his shoulders, and he was grateful when they eventually reached the hall, where the hearth thankfully burned high to fill the large, long, high-raftered space with warmth. Arthur’s fingers were red-raw with wet cold, and he flexed his hands in the warmth to bring the feeling back.
Three hounds slept by the fire, filling the hall with the stink of wet dog, and a bandy-legged steward fetched Arthur and Balin each a wooden mug of strong mead. A door to the hall’s rear creaked open, and King Urien strode from the doorway’s darkness. His bald head shone in the firelight, and he walked with a stooped, rolling gait. Urien wore a leather tunic, stretched at the seams by his muscled neck and shoulders, and behind him came an equally muscled but younger man with long, dark hair framing a strong face. Their boots banged heavily on wooden steps, echoing around the high rafters as they mounted a raised platform to sit upon two thrones beneath the bone-white snarling bear’s skull mounted upon the wall behind them.
‘King Urien,’ said Balin, dropping to one knee, ‘and Prince Owain.’ Balin clapped a fist to his chest, and Arthur knelt and copied the gesture.
‘Lord Balin,’ said Urien in his gravel-filled voice. ‘Still alive, I see?’
‘Still alive, lord.’
‘I heard a rumour of your brother seen in the south, fighting with the Saxons against Elmet.’
‘One day I will find him, lord king, and there will be a reckoning for all he has done.’
‘This is Arthur… of Britain,’ said the helmeted man, his words dripping with sarcasm.
‘Arthur of Britain, is it?’ said Urien. He coughed and sniggered at the same time, and squinted as his flinty eyes drank in Arthur’s mail and sword. A line of courtiers hurried from behind Arthur. He glanced at them, and his stomach turned over when he noticed Princess Guinevere amongst them. She was radiant in an elegant black dress and her copper hair loose about her slender shoulders. She smiled at Arthur, and he flinched as his cheeks flushed red in response.
