Twelve years of warfare had transformed Prince Gawayne from a lanky, enthusiastic boy into a mature, engaging and handsome man. Of middling height, Gawayne was powerfully built, and possessed a horseman’s natural grace. His blond-red hair, a scattering of freckles across his cheeks and his pale eyes gave him a boyish appearance that was accentuated by his frank and open gaze. Many men underestimated Gawayne because he spoke freely without first censoring his tongue, and his ready smiles deceived them into overlooking both his remarkably acute instincts and his loyalty to his uncle.
Gawayne was ruled by his libido, which was probably his greatest flaw. Women were instinctively drawn to him and the prince loved the fair sex, whether they were old or young, married or unmarried. No woman had any cause to complain of his attentions to her, but many husbands did.
But the prince was now angry, and his good humour had fled. Someone would pay for the spilled blood of Gaheris, for Gawayne had pressed his younger brother to prove his allegiance to King Artor. At the time, Gawayne was being mischievous and was tweaking the nose of his rigid father. Guilt, as well as rage, now flayed the prince, and Gawayne was determined that the western Saxons would be obliterated.
Myrddion gazed impassively at the assembled group and gauged the mood of those kings who had arrived at Cadbury, and the emissaries of those who could not attend in person. Slowly, he rose to his feet and took Ulf ’s place in a spot where he could face all the warriors and kings within the hall.
Vortigern and his yellow-haired Rowena were long dead, but not forgotten, so it was incumbent on Myrddion to recount the memories of his childhood to the assembly. Only Artor knew the full details of the tale that Myrddion told. Only Artor knew how shamelessly Myrddion tampered with the truth to manipulate these superstitious, cautious men.
‘I was born a devil’s spawn at Moridunum, and raised near a small town that the Romans called Segontium. Most of you know the story of my birth, even if I have often wondered if my mother concocted a tale so fearsome and strange that no one dared to expose me on a hillside for the wolves to devour. Suffice to say that my mother swore that she was raped by a demon in the privacy of her room, so I grew up with the taint of evil as my birthright.’ He smiled across the table at the assembled nobles. ‘But I need not prattle on about tales you already know.’
The warriors nodded, for all men knew that Myrddion Merlinus was the son of a demon who mated with a virginal Cymru princess.
Now that Myrddion needed their compliance, he was playing ruthlessly upon their prejudices.
‘Instead I will recount to you the tale of how Vortigern’s tower at Dinas Emrys tumbled down again and again while it was being constructed, and how his sorcerers convinced the king that only the blood of a devil’s child could cement the foundation stones together.’ Myrddion paused for effect.
Although they might have argued that Myrddion’s story had no bearing on the current problem, his audience listened, gape-mouthed. The smallest child in the land knew that Myrddion had spirited himself out of Dinas Emrys through the use of sorcery.
‘I did not intend to be sacrificed in order to mortar the stones of a Saxon fortress.’
The members of his audience nodded wisely, and Artor grinned appreciatively from behind his hand. Even Targo stared at Myrddion with an odd mixture of reverence and recognition, and Artor marvelled anew at how the strongest and shrewdest of men prized the glamour of magic in a world that was bloody and prosaic.
‘Any fool could see that the foundation stones were wet with underground water that had soaked upward through the soil. I was barely eleven years of age, but I had two good eyes and I told the sorcerers and their unholy master, Vortigern, to dig into the foundations at a certain spot where they would find a pool of water.’
Myrddion’s listeners were captivated. Their eyes shone in the flare of the torches at the thought of a boy issuing orders to a High King, especially a lord who was so lost to reason that he had welcomed the Saxons into the lands of the Celts. They remembered that the first Saxons to settle in Dyfed had come at Vortigern’s invitation.
‘Vortigern accepted your advice, I take it,’ Targo stated flatly. ‘Or else you’d not be here.’
‘Aye, Targo. They dug through the foundations and they found the pool, exactly as I had predicted.’
Myrddion’s eyes clouded and Artor could swear that those same eyes rolled back into his head. The warriors’ breathing hissed between their teeth, and the air seemed colder and thicker.
‘Within the pool, two dragons coiled and struggled. I could see them quite clearly, although other, wiser men present swore that they could not. One dragon was as white as hoar frost and its breath was gelid with cold. Its claws were curved blades of ice and its tail lashed the pool into a storm of sleet and snow.’
The audience leaned forward, mesmerized by Myrddion’s fair and compelling voice.
‘The other dragon was red, and the plates of mail that covered its body were hot and steaming. Fire poured from its nostrils, and its claws made the pond water boil at a single touch.’
He paused, dramatically.
‘The dragons leapt at each other and fire met ice. The struggle was terrible as the breath of the white dragon turned the flames of the red dragon to steam. But where the red dragon clutched with its great claws, and where its plated tail wrapped round the body of its enemy, the white dragon shrank and melted. Terrible was the struggle, but at last the red dragon was triumphant and only whitened, glacial bones lay at the bottom of the pond to testify that the ice dragon had ever existed. Then the red dragon of the Celts spread its wings over the land, rose and hovered on the breast of the wind. The white dragon of the Saxons was defeated, and Vortigern was doomed to lose his crown and die.’
The warriors sighed, but one princeling wasn’t satisfied. He broke the rapt silence.
‘Did Vortigern see this battle? Did the sorcerers not try to aid the white dragon?’
‘They couldn’t see the battle, they only witnessed the roiling and bubbling of the water. I fell into a faint, and many of those who were there swore that I prophesied - but I can’t speak for the accuracy of their recollections. One thing is certain. I’ve carried the weight of this prophecy for forty years, and I know it is true. The red dragon of the tribes will destroy the white dragon of the Saxons, and we’ll strike Glamdring Ironfist like fire on ice. I cannot promise that we will always defeat the dragon of the north, but we will be triumphant while the Red Dragon of Artor rides high. We will strive until we turn this troubled land into a haven of peace. This I do swear, as long as Celtic hearts remain faithful and as long as the High King dares to stand against murder and brutality. We will prevail and we will defeat the western Saxons of Dyfed, King Vortigern’s poisoned legacy to the Celtic people.’
All eyes swivelled towards Artor, who stood stiffly, his hands on the hilt of his sword and his head bowed as if in prayer. Slowly, so slowly, he raised his eyes, and even those doughty warriors, his allies, quailed before his angry, flaming face. His eyes were not veiled as was his usual custom, and the nobles swore later that they saw fire burning deep in their grey depths, as if the dragons of ice and flame still struggled within them.
As, perhaps, they did.
‘This High King will not brook the murder of his ambassadors under a flag of truce. Artor will not be content until every Saxon west of the great mountain chain is dead, or else herded back into the sea whence they came. Choose, men of the west, for now is the time for the testing of our hearts and of our courage. Until now, the Saxons have come to us, battering at our defences and seeking our weaknesses, but we have always managed to drive them back.’
Loud were the cries of assent in the hall.
‘Now we must risk all that we hold dear to our hearts. We must do battle with a man who is thane of a country so barren and so cruel that his forces have withstood all the efforts of Llanwith pen Bryn, and Llanwith’s father before him.’
The room became silent, and Artor could feel doubt in many of the downcast eyes and the covert glances that slid back and forth between the assembled kings.
‘Ulf, what did Gaheris say to Glamdring Ironfist when he faced certain death?’
Ulf faced Artor squarely. ‘He told him that the Saxons never learn - and they never change. Then Ironfist struck off his head.’
Artor turned again to his audience. ‘Is this not true? Did the noble young prince perceive the Saxon weaknesses clearly? Aye! They do not learn, and they do not change their barbaric practices. They destroy Roman-built garrisons to build their own wooden palisades. They smash stone towers into rubble. They kill horses and use them only for food. And they don’t change!’
Each word was spoken with measured, bell-clear emphasis, so that each man in the great hall was forced to consider the weight of the message delivered by Gaheris.
Eventually, murmurs of assent became more audible. The spoken words weren’t loud in Artor’s keen ears, but a level of agreement was growing inexorably within the assembly.
Caius, Artor’s foster-brother and steward of Artor’s household on Cadbury Tor, rose smoothly as the council wavered uneasily in the face of the High King’s determination. A snap of his slender fingers summoned servants who refilled wine cups and removed used platters. His clever, black eyes gauged his brother’s determination.
We go to war! Good! Caius thought excitedly, although no trace of his eager anticipation reached his controlled face. Caius was tired of peace and weary of counting hams, the weapons in Artor’s armoury or overseeing the collection of the High King’s taxes. Men such as Caius are only ever comfortable and at peace in the midst of war, when the violence they crave is readily on offer.
‘All races are born with the same measure of courage,’ Artor insisted. ‘And courage is a resource that can be used or wasted. Never forget that the Saxons are just as brave as we are.’
The audience stirred nervously.
‘Many of the western Saxons have been born in these isles, as were our forefathers. Ironfist is as much a Briton as my foster-brother, Caius, who stands here with you. And Caius, for all his Roman bloodline, is still a proud and noble Briton.’
Snickers of amusement ran through the gathering. For, while Caius enjoyed considerable respect as Artor’s steward, his pride and arrogance won him few friends, and most of the kings present were aware that the relationship between Artor and Caius was strained.
Respect among fighting men is a strange and hard-won reward. Caius had proved his courage again and again, just as he had proved his prowess as a fighting man and as a leader. But few men really liked him, for there was something about Caius that was mildly repulsive. His mouth was a little too full and too red; his eyes glittered a little too brightly, and his manner was just a fraction too obsequious to be pleasing. Prince Gawayne had been heard to say that men such as Caius were either at your knees or at your throat, and most of Artor’s captains would have agreed with this view if pressed for an opinion.
Two hot coins of colour appeared on Caius’s cheekbones. He was well aware how his peers thought of him. He realized that he wasn’t trusted, even though he had served the High King with conspicuous gallantry for twelve years.
Caius willed the colour to fade from his face. He hated these smug Celtic lordlings with their crude and simplistic view of the world.
As if he could read his foster-brother’s mind, Artor smiled encouragingly.
‘No, Ironfist and his warriors are no different from our Celtic ancestors,’ he continued. ‘They are no different, except for their refusal to learn from their mistakes. As their fathers lived and built, so do the Saxons of today. As their grandfathers fought and died, so do the Saxons of today. But, in time, the Saxons will be forced to accept new ideas from other races, just as we Celts were forced to accept changes in our outlooks and in our lives. We took Roman knowledge, and we used it to our advantage. And now we maintain their roads and we recognize the strength of their fortresses. And we’ve learned to use the horse to maintain our military might. At this moment - this rare, fleeting moment - we still have an edge over our enemies. May the gods help us if we cast our advantage aside out of timidity and ineptitude.’
Targo flushed with pride, for Artor had used the voice of authority to force his message upon the great ones. All the wiser heads in council now nodded in agreement.
‘When Ironfist falls, the Saxons in the east will be forced to halt their advance. They will settle in the east, and they will bury their roots in our soil. They will marry Celtic women and their lives will change until the day eventually comes when all the races who inhabit these lands may be prepared to call themselves brothers. But that day has not yet come. Nor will it happen in our time.’ Artor gazed into the attentive faces of his nobles. ‘Do we let Glamdring’s aggression remain unchallenged? Do we hide in our fortresses until Ironfist and King Lot surge out of the wilderness to lay waste to our fields and rape our women? Are we in our dotage that we must accept their uncouth insults?’
‘No! No! No!’ roared the war council.
You fools! Caius thought contemptuously. Artor can manipulate you at will.
‘Even if all of you should vote for peace, it is my intention to ride against Ironfist, even if I must go alone. Make your choices, and make them quickly, for I leave within the week, even though death may take me.’
Then Artor strode from the hall, and the assembled nobles and warriors bowed before him. The High King’s eyes veered neither to right nor left, but were focused on the north.
And the eyes of the shark were pitiless.
Caius wiped his suddenly sweaty hands dry on the sides of his tunic before striding out boldly behind his foster-brother. His red lips were curved into a gentle smile of satisfaction.