‘Why are there so many men here?’ said Arthur as he sidled around a broad-shouldered man.
‘The king must have summoned his warriors whilst we were away,’ said Kai with a shrug. It would take over two days to bring all the warriors of Rheged together. Even Ector’s home at Caer Ligualid was a half-day ride from the Bear Fort. Arthur had visited Urien’s hall many times but had rarely seen it so full of fighting men. A fire burned in a stone hearth at the hall’s centre and its smoke escaped through a smoke hole in the thatch. The fire, combined with so many men, made the hall close and oppressive, and Arthur was glad when he reached the raised dais where Urien sat on his throne and glowered at the throng before him.
‘Lord king,’ Ector said. He stood below the king’s throne and bowed his head.
‘Ector has returned,’ growled the king, his voice deep and as full of gravel as a riverbed. ‘What news of the raiders?’ Urien sat slumped on his throne, a wide and deep chair carved of oak adorned with the skulls of five warriors he had killed during the Great War. Urien was bald, and his braided beard was as grey as an iron spit, but despite his age he exuded power and strength. A scar ran from the top of his head down through his eye to his jaw. He was broad and thick necked, with a pugnacious round face and clever eyes. As a boy, Arthur had loved to sit by a winter fire and listen to bards talk of mighty Urien, Uther Pendragon, Ector, Cadwallon Longhand, Gorlois, Ambrosius Aurelianus and the other heroes who had fought against the evil usurper Vortigern and his Saxon horde.
‘Bucellari from Bernicia’s borderlands, lord king,’ said Ector, and a rumble of voices swept across the hall. ‘A band of masterless men whose heads we mounted on spears to warn others what happens to those who raid in Rheged.’
‘Good. Perhaps I should have ridden with you. I could do with getting out of this cursed chair for a while. We should not call Bernicia and Deira by their old names any longer, for they are no longer part of our lands, no longer part of what was once Britain. They are Lloegyr, the lost lands, lost to pagan Saxons and their axes, shields and ships. Good land, rich land, all lost. By all the gods, but we must cast these bloody invaders from our shores.’
‘The raiders were mercenaries forced out of Bernicia by a new force of Saxons, my lord. I questioned one of their number, and he spoke of fifty ships landed this spring. Three thousand Saxon warriors led by a man named Octha.’
More murmurs rippled across the hall as men whispered in shock at the huge number of warriors.
‘There are already thousands of the scum in Bernicia and Deira, or Lloegyr, as you say, my lord. They swell Saxon armies to the size we haven’t seen since Vortigern first invited the Saxons to our shores. And they do not come in peace, lord king. There will be war this summer, and it will take all our forces to keep them out of Rheged.’
‘I know it, Ector. I heard tell of such a force. King Letan Luyddoc of Gododdin sent word days ago, which is why I have called my warriors and comitatuses’ here to the Bear Fort. I have sent my son Owain ahead with fifty men to scout our borders. We must rally our army and march east to guard our borders. Rheged will fight the Saxon whoresons, and so will Letan. We march to war, my warriors, red war!’
The men in the hall stamped their feet and roared their approval at the king’s command so that the hall shuddered with the noise.
‘They are pagan scum,’ screeched Dustan, Urien’s priest. He was a pinch-faced man with a small mouth and close-set eyes over sharp nose, so that he looked like a sparrow. He wore a filthy robe, woollen, with a ragged hem and loose sleeves from which shook his thin white hands. ‘Worshippers of foul gods, idolators, sinners and the enemies of God. They must be stopped, driven from this land like dogs. God wills it!’ His voice grew in pitch until he screamed like a fox. Spittle flew from his mean mouth and his eyes rolled with pious fury. Urien, like Ector, allowed a Christian priest to live in his hall and preach to his people, just as he permitted folk to worship the old gods. Both men did so more out of fear of upsetting the nailed god than out of love for him.
The warriors reached for the crosses at their necks or touched charms and the iron at their belts for luck and to ward off the God-fury Dustan invoked. All men feared God, Jesus, the Virgin Mother and the priests who spoke their word. There were other gods in Britain, old gods spoken of in whispers or called upon at times of need, childbirth, sickness or battle. Arthur liked the tales of those violent gods, told by bards and scops, just as much as the tales of kings and warriors. But the word of God and his priests had power, and when Dustan screeched, the warriors echoed his cries for the slaughter of invading pagans.
Urien raised a ringed hand, and the hall fell silent. Only the creak of the hall’s timbers and the sigh of men’s breath disturbed the stillness. Such was Urien’s command over his fighting men. Arthur wondered at Urien’s words, for he must have heard of this new army of Saxons before he despatched Ector to deal with the bucellari raiders, which meant he sent Ector out close to the borderlands where thousands of Saxons massed for war because he cared little for his champion’s life, or because he knew Ector would come back alive with the raiders punished.
‘There is a messenger come to speak to you, lord king,’ said Urien’s steward, a thin man with a crooked nose and a bent back. He wore a finely woven tunic and a green cloak and waved his hand at a warrior in a helmet and with long moustaches who stood to the side of the high platform.
‘Come forward and speak,’ rumbled Urien.
‘King Urien,’ said the man in a strange accent. ‘I come to you from your friend King Leodegrance of Cameliard. I have ridden far and crossed the sea, for my king has need of your help.’
‘Leodegrance,’ Urien said wistfully. The king sat back on his throne and smiled, his face creasing in a lattice of wrinkles across his broad skull. ‘All men know of my brotherhood with your king, of how he sent men across the sea from Cameliard and Armorica in the dark days to help our cause. What can I do for my old friend?’
The warrior bowed deeply in recognition of Urien’s respectful words. ‘There is war across the sea, lord king. The Saxons continue to march westwards. They flee their homelands, a place of never-ending war, riven with violence since the Romans left so long ago. The Franks march eastwards and the Saxons’ lands are a hell pit of slaughter and lawlessness.’
‘Just as our lands were when the Romans left in my father’s grandfather’s time,’ said Urien, and men in the hall nodded solemnly at the memory of those dark days.
‘We are beset by war, lord king. Armorica and our once peaceful land are under attack from Saxon pagans and the warriors of Frankia. So, King Leodegrance fears for his family’s safety and sent his daughter to you for protection, to be fostered by you until a suitable match can be found for her. She is of marrying age and ready for a good husband.’
‘I would do anything for Leodegrance. His daughter is welcome in my hall.’
‘He knew you would say that, my lord. Your legend burns as brightly across the sea as it does in your own lands. So, my king already sent his daughter to these shores on his fastest ship, guarded by his bravest men. But she has fallen foul of the very men your champion Ector spoke of. This Octha, a Saxon dog, has captured the princess and is demanding a monstrous ransom for her return amid threats of the worst possible kind.’
‘The Saxons have Leodegrance’s daughter?’ Urien rose from his seat, huge and baleful and swathed in a bear-fur cloak.
‘Aye, lord king. They have her in Bernicia, captured at sea, and your friend Leodegrance would ask you to free her from her captivity and bring her here, where our princess will be safe.’
Suddenly, the doors to Urien’s hall burst open, and a gust of wind whipped through the rafters and made the hearth fire flare. Men turned and gasped as a tall man strode into the hall. He walked confidently and straight-backed with a black staff in his right hand. He came barefoot, with a head of wild white hair and a thick white beard. His face was drawn and wrinkled with a long, hooked nose above a cruel slash of a mouth. The strange man wore a black tunic and a cloak of purest white billowed behind him. Two great wolfhounds padded beside the stranger, tongues lolling, and their padded feet kept time with the slaps of the stranger’s soles as he marched through the hall. The hairs on Arthur’s neck stood up, and he shivered involuntarily.
‘A druid,’ Kai hissed in his ear, and Arthur gaped at the stranger, who exuded a strange, ethereal power which cowed every man in the hall. Even the great King Urien, so famed for his brutality and ruthless strength, sat forward in his chair, stricken by the stranger’s dramatic entrance. The druids were the priests of the old gods, from the time before men worshipped God and Christ. They were men of great power who once held sway over all Britain, of similar standing and importance to kings. Arthur heard tell of their human sacrifices, their power, and the rumours of wizards and dark magic. The Romans had killed all but a few of the druids when the legions conquered Britain, but some remained upon their holy island of Ynys Môn, which some men called Anglesey, which was sacred to the old gods and their dead religion. Despite the growing Christian religion, all respected and feared the power of the old gods, of the demons and spirits of the forests, lakes, rivers, crags, caves and springs. So, though the druids did not hold the power or sway of ancient times, they were still feared and respected.
‘Pagan!’ screamed Dustan the priest. He pointed his finger at the stranger and rose from his bench, red-faced and furious. The stranger made the sign to ward off evil, stuck two fingers into his own throat and then pointed at Dustan, who promptly sat down. His face quickly changed from red anger to ash-white fear. The stranger marched past the hearth and tossed something into it, which made the fire hiss, and its flames turn blue-green. The warriors in the hall gasped. Some went to make the sign of the cross but stopped midway and sat upon their hands in fear of the druid’s power.
‘I am Kadvuz,’ the stranger bellowed, his voice like the crashing of the sea. It filled the hall and echoed around the rafters like thunder. ‘I come from Ynys Môn, at Merlin’s behest.’
Men whispered and gasped at the sound of Merlin’s name, the most powerful druid in Britain. Nobody had seen from Merlin since the days of the Great War, but all feared him, and bards told of his legends at hearths across Britain.
‘You are far from home, druid,’ said Urien, his mighty voice diminished by Kadvuz’s harsh tone.
‘War has come to Britain, and we have not faced such danger since Caesar himself came with the legions to rip our island asunder. We shall need the old gods’ favour if we are to throw the Saxons back across the sea whence they came. You have abandoned the old gods. Many men here wear the nailed god’s symbol, but will he protect you from the Saxons? Has he protected you from the Saxons?’
Urien glanced at Dustan, but the priest avoided his gaze and instead kept his eyes on the ground.
‘Merlin demands that you hear his words through me,’ said Kadvuz, after no man disputed the strength of his rebuke of God and Christ. ‘We balance on a precipice and our footing is unsure. This task, this woman from across the sea we must rescue, is sent to us from the gods to test our resolve. Do this thing, and we can defeat the Saxons; fail, and our kingdoms and island will be lost.’
‘Is the princess so favoured by Merlin and the old gods?’ asked Urien.
‘A band of warriors must march into Lloegyr, our lost lands, and recover her,’ Kadvuz barked, ignoring the question. ‘But those who take up the quest must be pure of heart and mighty of resolve. Merlin demands it.’
‘We shall send our finest warriors, druid, have no fear,’ said Urien.
‘The gods must choose!’ Kadvuz said, and he slammed his staff on the floor and cast his deep-set, dark eyes around every warrior in the hall.
Arthur noticed in the firelight that strange symbols etched the druid’s staff, which seemed to glow and pulse in the half-light, and Kadvuz pulled a handful of bones and charms from a pouch at his belt and cast them upon the rush-covered floor. He knelt, and cast his long, pale hand over the knucklebones, tiny bird skulls, snakes’ teeth and ingots of dark, shining metal. Kadvuz began to hum, the sound loud and undulating. His eyes rolled white in his head and the rumbling in his throat became as loud as a man shouting. Arthur glanced around the hall, and the druid and his fearful power transfixed every man, even the fiercest warriors. Every man hung on the druid’s chanting and what his strange trance augured of the quest. Kadvuz shrieked, and Arthur and Kai jumped.
‘Ten men will take the quest,’ Kadvuz said, but not in his own voice. He spoke in a deep, slow, guttural tone as though somebody else used his tongue. ‘Eight warriors of fair fame shall go, and two younger, untested boys who must be pure of spirit and body. Huell of Rheged shall lead, and he shall choose seven stout spearmen.’
