‘Yes, lord king,’ Arthur stuttered, turning back to face Urien’s hard slab of a face.
‘So not the Arthur of Caer Ligualid, raised by Ector as a son of Rheged?’
‘Yes, the same Arthur, lord king.’
‘So, it’s Arthur of Rheged, then?’
‘Yes, I am of Rheged, but I…’
Urien slammed a heavy fist onto the arm of his throne, startling Arthur. ‘Every bastard with a blade thinks himself a lord these days. You are my man or a masterless man, boy. You were born and raised in Rheged, and you owe me your oath. That sword of yours is mine, should I wish it, along with the horse you rode in on, and your spearman at my gate. What does Ector think of your rejection of his hall and lordship? You owe me your oath!’
‘Do you dispute the wishes of Merlin of Ynys Môn, King Urien?’ came a shrill but familiarly accented woman’s voice from the hall’s entrance. Nimue came striding through the hall, her black staff held before her stout frame, and a white cloak billowing as she stomped through the hall. The people in the hall involuntarily took a step back from her strangeness as Nimue strode through, because Nimue had shorn her head of hair in honour of a druid’s tonsure, painted the top half of her face as black as night to make the whites of her eyes shine like stars, and daubed the bottom half as white as bone. ‘Merlin himself told you of Arthur’s coming and of Excalibur, King Urien. He comes to talk of the great war to come, and his fight is the druid’s fight, the fight for Britain.’
Urien snarled and spat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. ‘How much longer do I have to put up with this gwyllion in my hall?’ he grumbled.
‘I stay because Merlin orders it.’ Nimue slammed her staff hard into the earthen floor. ‘And you, King Urien, would do well to listen as these men speak.’
Urien gnashed his teeth and glowered at Nimue, but he was unwilling to argue with the powerful volva. Arthur was surprised to see that Merlin had anointed her with so much power that she could command her voice to be heard by a king. Nimue was a woman, and only men could become a druid. But Nimue had power. Arthur had seen how she had commanded a troop of Saxon warriors in Lloegyr, and how Merlin spoke highly of her knowledge and experience of the old ways. Owain placed a hand on his father’s arm, and the gnarled old king nodded to his son and looked away.
‘You are both welcome in Rheged, Arthur and Balin of the Two Swords,’ Owain said brightly. He stood from his throne and opened his arms. ‘Merlin has entrusted the Lady Nimue to protect Rheged with her power. She has cast spells of protection over our borders and sacrificed to the gods so that they will protect our people. Merlin himself told us of your coming. Times are changing. Merlin had emerged from exile, the Saxons muster for war, and Excalibur, the sword of Britain, comes unlooked for to our hall.’
Arthur waited for Balin to speak, but he stood as silent as a rock. Arthur gulped, feeling every eye in the hall upon him, judging him, making him feel as small as a mouse. His stomach clenched, and he wanted to turn and run from the hall rather than speak in front of so many important people. Guinevere was there, the woman who had occupied his head since the moment he had laid eyes upon her at Dun Guaroy, King Urien, Prince Owain, Nimue the volva and a dozen other noble members of Urien’s court all waited for him to speak. Arthur’s request was of the highest importance, but the words would not muster in his suddenly dry throat. Urien’s eyes bore into him like daggers, disapproval and anger dripping from him like poison. The Saxons massed in Lloegyr and Arthur felt responsible for the fate of Britain, but the words he needed to ask Urien for men to support him in the fight against Octha would not come. Nimue turned and cast her fearsome gaze upon him. She urged him to speak with her blazing eyes, made fiercer by her black-painted face, and Arthur wanted to run. He felt like a boy in a hall full of great people, a boy dressed up like a lord who was nothing more than a jumped-up nothing. Arthur opened his mouth, but the words would not come.
18
A bead of sweat trickled down Arthur’s spine, and he wished somebody would douse the hearth fire or open a window shutter. A man to Arthur’s left coughed, and a burning log spat in the fire. One of King Urien’s dogs yawned and stretched its paws, and Arthur thought the hall would close in upon him like a collapsing cave. He shifted his feet and rolled his shoulders beneath his heavy coat of chain mail. His hand brushed against Excalibur’s pommel, and the cold iron sent a shiver up his arm. Arthur curled his hand around the leather-wrapped hilt and clenched his teeth. He had killed men in battle, led thirty of his own oathsworn warriors, and had raided the great fortress of Dun Guaroy deep in eastern lands lost to Saxon blades. Arthur squared his shoulders, set his jaw and told himself he had earned the right to speak in the Bear Fort.
‘Merlin himself set me upon this task,’ Arthur said, speaking loudly and clearly. ‘The greatest of druids entrusted Excalibur into my keeping to wield against the ever-growing Saxon threat. Ida has almost completed his dread fortress atop Dun Guaroy and marshals his army for a summer of war. Octha, a warlord come fresh across the narrow sea, fought against Elmet and Powys last year and has wintered in Lloegyr with three thousand men and he must keep those warriors paid with silver, women, glory, land and battle. It is spring now, and Octha will march again, perhaps west to Rheged, to take our lands, our women and our children. There will be war. So, I come to you, lord king, to ask for spears to bind to our own so that we may…’
‘Our lands?’ barked King Urien, interrupting Arthur just as he found his stride. Owain slumped into his high seat and stared at the floor whilst his father took command of the hall. ‘What land do you own, Arthur of Nowhere?’
‘No lands, lord king, no hall and no crown. But when the Saxons come, they don’t just come to kill kings, but all our people. They will kill every farmer, woodsman, smith, weaver, mother, grandmother and daughter until they make our lands their own. Octha has fought in the south and not found the kingdom he craves, so now that summer is coming, he will march again. I saw his horde at Dun Guaroy, three thousand warriors ready to strike out from Lloegyr and take everything we have. Not settlers, women, old folk or children. Every man in Octha’s army is a warrior who braved the wild sea in search of land, women and glory. They come for our lives, lord king, to take everything from us. We need to unite the forces of every kingdom in Britain if our people are to survive.’
‘This Octha won’t come for Rheged. There are mountains between us and Bernicia, and he would need to get through Ector and the men of Caer Ligualid first. There are passes and valleys there which a hundred men can hold for a week against thousands of shit-stinking Saxon swine. If the Saxons attack in the north and I send my warriors to protect Gododdin, who will protect my borders from Gwynedd, Powys and Lothian? They would raid my lands all summer, mercilessly stealing my cattle, cutting my coppiced wood, killing and enslaving my people, and stealing my silver, tin, salt and copper. Where will you be then, Arthur of Nowhere? Where will my warriors be? Have you asked Powys, Gwynedd or Lothian to give you men, or do you come to me first because Merlin thinks me weak? Does the Pendragon order us to fight? I think not. Though I like him not, Uther is the Pendragon, our king of kings. I will not call my spearmen and march away to your and Merlin’s war in another man’s kingdom. The Saxons will go south again to Elmet or beyond, or perhaps to Gododdin on their northern border. But not Rheged, and I am Rheged.’
‘With all due respect, lord king, but that is what the men of Bernicia, Deira and Kent thought when Vortigern first brought the Saxons to our shores.’
‘Don’t talk to me of the Great War, boy!’ Urien roared like an old bear. He stood from his throne and wagged a thick finger at Arthur, his bald pate wrinkling under a thunderous frown. ‘I was there. I fought against Vortigern and his Saxons, Hengist and Horsa. I saw Bernicia and Deira burn, so don’t talk to me about Saxons as though you know them better than I. Have you ever fought a battle, pup? Not a skirmish of a few hundred spears, mind, a proper battle with thousands of warriors on each side, where the cries of the dying and the clash of arms shakes the very ground.’
‘No, lord king, I have not. If the Saxons take Elmet, or Gododdin or any other kingdom, word shall travel back to their homeland and more Saxons will come across the narrow sea, forever more until the kingdoms of Britain are but memories, a shadow of a lost people. Merlin believes…’
‘Merlin?’ Urien shook a fist at Nimue, who growled at the king’s tone. ‘Where was Merlin when Deira fell? Or when they took Lord Balin’s home? Where was he when my Queen Igraine died this winter? Merlin brought Igraine to me. Years ago, when his grand plan failed. Merlin wished to take Igraine from her husband King Gorlois when the king of Kernow’s corpse was yet warm and deliver her to Uther, to sate the Pendragon’s lust. Merlin came to my door when the other kings rebelled against his plotting. The great druid stuck with a whore princess and no whore master to marry her. I took her in at his request, and then Merlin disappeared into exile on Ynys Môn. His plotting failed and left Britain half in the hands of the Saxons and the rest of us alone again. The kingdoms of Britain grew suspicious of each other once more. The alliance failed, and we lost the Great War. Now, Merlin rouses himself like a beast from winter’s slumber to leave his gwyllion here in my hall, and my queen died without care or aid from the druids. Merlin does what pleases Merlin. He once made Uther Pendragon and I his puppets, but never again. You have Excalibur, you say? I saw the sword when Uther’s brother Ambrosius wielded it, and it didn’t do him much good. It’s nothing but another of Merlin’s tricks. An old sword dug up from a barrow somewhere and imbued with legend by Merlin, the master of shadow and deep cunning, travelling the land telling men at every fire in every hall of its power and the gods who once wielded it. If Merlin says it is the sword of Britain and that men should follow its power, men believe it, will even fight for it, for who would not believe the great druid? Merlin tells folk that the sword will restore Lloegyr to us Britons, and they want to believe it so much that men would die following the man who wields it. I say the Saxons cannot conquer Rheged, not whilst we have the mountains, Ector and my son Owain, to throw them back. Let other men send their young warriors to fight for Merlin’s cause and die in Lloegyr. Begone with you, Arthur of Nowhere and Balin of a fallen kingdom, and take Merlin’s hag with you.’
Owain shifted uncomfortably in his seat at Urien’s hard words about his mother, the queen, Merlin and Nimue. A murmur passed across the hall as folk whispered fearful surprise at Urien’s disrespect for the powerful and feared druid and Nimue the volva. At a nod from the king, the helmeted warrior and his ten men marched from the hall’s rear to stand between the throne, Arthur and Balin. Urien stalked from his high seat with clenched fists and out of the hall’s back door. Balin took a step forward as though to address King Urien, but the warriors lowered their spears and Balin held his tongue.
What struck Arthur more in that moment was not the king’s refusal of support, but that Queen Igraine was dead. He reached for the bronze disc beneath his chain mail and held it for a moment. Arthur remembered the queen in her sick bed, and the strange night he had spent at her bedside. He didn’t know Queen Igraine, only the words they had exchanged that dark night before his life turned upside down, and yet her death saddened Arthur. There was much to consider in Urien’s tirade about Merlin, about Excalibur, Uther, Igraine, Gorlois, Ambrosius and Merlin, and the words banged around Arthur’s skull like a rat in a trap. He noticed now that Guinevere and the other courtiers were all wearing black in mourning for the dead queen, and Arthur had hoped to call upon Igraine again whilst he was at the Bear Fort, to thank her for the gift which he believed had brought him luck and good fortune since the moment he had worn her charm.
‘Never point your spears at me again,’ Balin warned the helmeted man and his warriors, and his voice was as cold as a winter storm. Their spears came up and Arthur followed Balin, stalking from King Urien’s hall with a heavy heart. He exchanged a glance with Guinevere on the way out of the great doors and was surprised to see her follow him outside.
‘Lady Guinevere,’ Arthur said, stopping and smiling at her. ‘I had expected you to be in Dumnonia by now, as your father wished.’
‘So did I,’ she said with a sigh. ‘But King Urien keeps me here, even though I have asked to go.’
‘Why? Prince Owain is married and there are no other men in Rheged worthy of your hand?’
‘Queen Igraine is dead, and I fear Urien wants to wed me.’ She shuddered, and Arthur resisted the urge to reach and hold her. ‘He called me to his chambers, said he would send a messenger to my father, that I would be his queen and bear him sons. My father needs an alliance. We are under threat from the Franks who raid our borders and make open war against our neighbours in Armorica. Urien is old, fierce and looks at me as though he can see me undressed. They say he was cruel to the queen, that he beat her, treated her roughly and took many lovers without a care for her pride or honour. He is a beast.’
‘He is a king, and a friend of your father.’ Balin went to get their horses and left Arthur alone with Guinevere on the hall’s steps. A breeze blew eastwards from the coast and ruffled Guinevere’s hair, and her green eyes were pools Arthur could stare into all day. Arthur longed for her, dreamed for her when he slept under the stars, clutching her swan cloak pin in his hand. But he could never be with her, could never even give voice to that foolish dream. Guinevere was a princess, and Arthur was a simple soldier without lands, silver, title or hope of ever winning her hand. He did not intend to speak so bluntly, but against the power of King Urien, what could she do? Her father was also a king in distant Cameliard, but what king wouldn’t approve of his daughter becoming a queen of a land which could provide trade, wealth and warriors?
‘Nimue says you will go to King Uther in Dumnonia now, seeking men to build an army. Take me with you to Dumnonia, Arthur. Don’t leave me here in this awful place. Cameliard is bright and airy. My father’s court had bards, poets, libraries full of scrolls etched with Roman and Greek thinking. There is music and dancing, where here there is only this grim, cold hall and its cruel king. It is always cold, even though it is supposed to be summer. My father sent me to Britain to find suitors at Uther Pendragon’s court in Dumnonia, where the sun shines and fields of wheat sway like gold beneath the summer breeze. Take me there, Arthur.’
‘I would if I could, lady,’ Arthur said. He stared into the green pools of her eyes, and looked for the courage to tell her of his longing, to grab her hand and run for his horse and ride away from the Bear Fort. ‘But King Urien would send warriors after us, and I am trying to unite the kingdoms, not drive a deeper wedge between them.’
‘Will you at least tell King Uther of my plight and of my father’s wishes? Perhaps he will send for me, and he is the Pendragon after all, the king of kings. Urien will have to let me go if Uther commands it.’
‘I will, princess. I hope you find the happiness you are looking for.’
‘We don’t have time for you to gawp at the princess of Cameliard,’ said Nimue in her clipped accent, striding from the hall’s rear, staff held before her, her cloak pulled tight about her neck, and a cloth sack for travel slung across one shoulder. ‘We march for Dumnonia, where Merlin awaits us. If Urien will not fight, then the Pendragon must order it.’
Arthur glanced at Guinevere, wanting to say more, but Nimue was not for waiting and he left Guinevere staring after him from the Bear Fort’s steps. He followed Nimue to the stables where Balin waited with his own horse and Llamrei, and they left Rheged’s fortress under a cloud of failure. Balin, Arthur and his ten horsemen led the way south, with sixty spearmen marching behind them. Nimue strode next to Arthur’s horse, and the men kept well away from her fearsome appearance. Many made the sign to ward off evil as she came from the fort, and others the sign of the cross, but Nimue either did not notice or did not care.
‘We march for Elmet,’ Nimue barked, pointing her black staff southwards.
‘We decide where we go,’ Balin said, leaning across his stallion’s neck to glower at Nimue. ‘Not a Saxon witch. Even if you have Merlin’s ear.’
‘You don’t need to fear me, Balin of the Two Swords. I am an Irish volva, a gwyllion as you call it, and am every bit as powerful as your druid. I marched with the Saxons because they captured me, but I have no loyalty to them, though they worship the old gods. If I wanted you dead, you would be a corpse already. We fight for the same cause, to restore this country to its people.’
‘And what is that to you? You are not a Briton?’
