‘My foster father, Ector, asked me to sit with Queen Igraine one night. We talked and then she slept. She gave me this talisman for luck. I only met her that one time, I am afraid.’
‘Ector. He was my man, once, when he was young, and I could still hold a sword. A good man, a great champion. He took Igraine north, after the Great War, after Merlin’s plans collapsed. I loved her, lad.’ Uther whispered those last words, as though the memories whipped away the sound of his voice. ‘God, how I loved her. Igraine was so beautiful that the mere sight of her would snatch your breath away. She loved me too, and that was our doom. I was wounded and Merlin brought me to Kernow to recover, and Igraine healed me. She was already wed to King Gorlois of Kernow, and he kept her in his dark keep at Tintagel, deep in Kernow, on the south-west tip of Britain. When Gorlois died in battle, I brought Igraine here to Dumnonia and would have wed her myself, but the other kings hated me for it. They said Merlin had arranged for Gorlois to die so that I could steal his wife. The fragile alliance of Britain fell apart, and the only way my brother could keep it together was to send Igraine away. I was the Pendragon, and to keep that title and maintain our fragile alliance was to let that happen. They sent her north to Urien, and I never saw her again. Ambrosius died fighting the Saxons, and we lost the war anyway, for our kings lost heart for the fight. They all returned to their hilltop fastnesses and left Deira and Kent to fight for themselves. Excalibur disappeared. Vortigern brought the bastard Saxons here, and now they have Kent, Deira, Bernicia and hammer at my eastern borders every summer. My sons are all dead, and I must marry again and sire a new heir for my line to survive, a line which harks back to the time before the Romans came to our shores.’
‘I am sorry for your troubles, King Uther,’ Arthur said. The king spoke in a hoarse whisper and Arthur wasn’t sure why Uther, who had seemed so cruel when he first entered the hall, spoke so softly of his past and those monumental events which had shaped Britain.
‘I gave Igraine that disc you wear as a gift to remember me by. It bears the dragon banner of my house. She wept as Ector took her north, and so did I. God forgive me, but I should have fought harder for her. I should have let the rest of the world burn and she and I could have lived out our days together.’ Uther sighed and groaned at some hidden pain in his scarred body. ‘A fool’s dream. Our love cost us the war, cost us everything. Not a day goes by where I don’t think of her eyes and her laugh. Look at me now. War has ravaged me, consumed me. That is your destiny, I think, Arthur of Nowhere. Merlin believes you can use that sword to unite the kingdoms and throw the Saxons back?’
‘I must try, lord king.’
‘Only the Pendragon can command the kings of Britain. The Pendragon is the high king, the lord of the rest, and the position can only be earned in battle. To be the Pendragon, a man must be a king first. Do you fancy yourself a king?’
‘No, lord, I am just a warrior.’
Uther laughed mirthlessly. ‘There is ambition in you, lad. I see it in your hungry eyes, it poured from as you slew my warrior. But why would Igraine give you such a gift, I wonder?’
‘She wasn’t herself, and I think perhaps her mind was not what it once was.’
‘That woman was sharper than Merlin himself, and she did nothing without purpose. Ector is your foster father? Who was your father?’
‘I am an orphan, left at Ector’s door as a babe and he raised me as his own.’
‘How old are you?’
‘I have seen eighteen summers, I think.’
Uther stared into Arthur’s eyes, his one eye rheumy and flecked with red veins. ‘It’s time for you to go. You can be halfway across Dumnonia before the sun goes down. Malegant will carry the fasces and the dragon banner of Dumnonia, the Pendragon’s banner. The other weasel-shit kings will give you men, now that they know you have my blessing.’
‘Thank you, lord king.’ Arthur rose, bowed again and made for the hall door.
‘Arthur,’ Uther called after him. He held up the three fingers on his left hand. ‘Destroy the Saxon bastards. Be as ruthless as you were today, be as cruel and savage as they are.’
Arthur nodded and strode out into the bright afternoon sun, where Balin and Nimue awaited him. He wondered at Uther’s words and his tale of love, and again why Igraine had given him the disc. Arthur only recalled Guinevere’s request as he left Uther’s hall, but he could not turn and ask the king for another favour, having just secured three hundred of Dumnonia’s best spearmen. Guinevere’s request to join Uther’s court must wait, despite the risk that Urien might force her into marriage. There were questions for Ector to answer. Arthur had to ask him again about the circumstances of his birth and how he came to Ector’s care, and Merlin had promised to tell Arthur more the next time they met. He had to know. There were too many coincidences. First Ector leaving Arthur with the queen when she was sick, then her gifting Arthur Uther’s dragon-etched disc, and now Uther’s words.
‘Are we ready to march?’ asked a clipped voice, snapping Arthur from his thoughts. It was the big man from Uther’s hall. He carried a long-handled axe wrapped in a bundle of birch rods resting on one shoulder. He was long-faced, with a short beard and his dark hair hung in two braids about the sides of his face. ‘I am Malegant, captain of King Uther’s spearmen. I have three hundred warriors, and twenty mounted scouts ready to go north.’
Arthur held out his hand and took Malegant’s arm in the warrior’s grip. ‘I am sorry I had to kill your man, but King Uther commanded it.’
Malegant shrugged. ‘Mynog was a great fighter, but he was a pain in the bloody arse, strutting about with his muscles as though he could churn milk to butter just by looking at it. I won’t miss the bastard. You fought well.’
‘We should march today with all haste. It’s a long way north. Why do you wrap your axe in birch rods? Surely you can’t use the weapon in that state?’
‘It’s not a weapon for fighting.’ Malegant grinned, holding the rod-wrapped axe up for Arthur to see more closely. ‘It’s called the fasces, an old Roman tradition. When men see it, they know the holder comes with the empire’s authority, or King Uther’s authority, these days. When we march with the fasces, our orders carry the weight of the Pendragon himself. Bloody Romans, gone since before my grandfather’s time and their ways still hold sway over us.’
Arthur, Balin and Nimue rejoined their war band and met Malegant in a wide field where three hundred spearmen rested around campfires, throwing dice and drinking mead. Malegant bawled at them, like only a captain of warriors can do, and they rose quickly to attention.
‘Up, you lazy whoresons,’ Malegant roared, strolling amongst the ranks, pulling at loose linen breastplates, frowning at a spear not held straight up. ‘This is Arthur, the man who slew Mynog the Boar in single combat. That sword at his side is Excalibur. He fights for Merlin, and for all the kingdoms of Britain. King Uther has pledged your spears and your lives to his cause, which is to fight and kill Saxon bastards. Will you fight?’ The warriors raised their spears and let out three clipped shouts in perfect time, the sound so loud that birds flew from a nearby clutch of trees. ‘Pick up your dice, pack your food and a skin of ale, leave your whores and kiss your wives goodbye for we march to war, lads, red war.’
Arthur, Balin and Malegant led the marching column. They rode before Uther’s three hundred, and their own force of seventy warriors. Arthur sent his ten riders and Malegant’s mounted men ahead to scout the road and seek a place to camp for the night. They had close to four hundred men, but it was not enough to meet Ida or Octha in battle. Arthur still needed support for the other kingdoms if they were to mount any kind of fight against the Saxon horde. Arthur grimaced as Llamrei whickered at the sound of two dogs barking as they followed the column. Nimue had strapped his bruised ribs tight with fresh linen and spoke whispered spells over the swelling on his head. He was not sure if her skull and dark enchantment had helped him defeat Mynog, but he noticed how the Dumnonian warriors nudged one another and pointed as she marched along with them. Though they were Christians, they feared Nimue’s dark magic and Arthur began to understand her and Merlin’s power was as much about belief as actual magic. Men believed in their power, and that was enough to make them fear the druid and the volva. That fear gave their commands power. The men bowed their heads to Arthur and called him lord, and he enjoyed their respect, though he kept his face calm and serious.
They marched through Dumnonia’s rolling fields of wheat and barley, alongside coppiced woodland and wide rivers. It was a rich land, swathed in green with thick, soft soil, and it was no surprise why the Saxons so coveted Britain’s fertile lands. The first night’s camp was a raucous affair, as men from Balin and Arthur’s war band wrestled and raced against the Dumnonians. Ale and mead flowed freely, and it was late into the night before men finally went to sleep. Then, on the second day as they reached Dumnonia’s north-eastern borders, a messenger came with tidings of war.
20
The rider came as Arthur and Balin watered their horses beside a swift stream in a valley with dark pine forest on one side and a hillside jutting with white rock and dense ferns on the other. He galloped from the pine trees, his chestnut gelding flecked with thick lather on both flanks as it thundered towards the shining waters. Malegant barked at his men to form a guard, and twenty warriors barred the rider’s path with spear points lowered to prevent him from attacking Arthur and Balin should he prove to be a foe.
‘I bring a message from Merlin,’ said the man. He had tired eyes and wore a travel-stained cloak and mud-spattered boots.
‘Let him through,’ said Arthur, waving at Malegant for his men to lower their weapons. The rider’s horse staggered, its forelegs quivering from the hard ride, and the rider slipped from its back, patting the beast’s long neck. ‘Merlin sent you?’
‘Aye, lord, I come from King Tewdrig of Gwent. Merlin was there, lord, two days ago, and it was he who sent me with this message for you.’
‘Merlin is in Gwent?’ asked Nimue, striding from the stream with her dress hitched up about her knees. She had been searching the waters for elf stones, lucky rocks left there by the hidden folk which would bring warriors good fortune if they kept them close in battle, and she carried a clutch of them using her skirts as a basket.
‘No longer, lady,’ said the rider, stiffening at Nimue’s strange appearance. ‘He left the day the dark news came.’
Nimue frowned and let her stones fall to the grass. ‘Where did Merlin go?’
‘North, lady, to Powys.’
‘What is your message?’ asked Balin, keen to cut to the chase as always.
‘An army of Saxons has attacked Gododdin, lord. There is war in the north. Merlin bids you return north with all haste, war is upon us.’
Arthur’s heart quickened, and he glanced at Balin, who ground his teeth in anger. ‘It will take us over two weeks to reach Gododdin from here,’ Arthur said, clenching his fists.
‘Then we need to force a fast march,’ said Balin. ‘Did King Tewdrig send men with Merlin?’
‘Yes, lord,’ said the rider. ‘Eighty men marched north with the druid.’
