Warriors of Camlann (6 page)

One of the Aenglisc had returned with a horse complete with leather bridle and Roman saddle. Ursula saw
the fear in his eyes as he handed her the reins. She kept her own face impassive as a rock. It was hard not to break down and weep. She had forgotten Dan's sword had moulded itself to the very shape of his hand. She was almost overwhelmed by grief. She managed to mount the horse without assistance – there were no stirrups but she was used to that. She rode over to Rhonwen and Larcius. Rhonwen's face was closed and grim. Larcius looked astonished.

‘Tie her up!' she said to Larcius. ‘And gag her! I want no invocations following us.'

She kept Bright Killer pointed at Rhonwen's throat.

‘I will not kill you, Rhonwen, though I could. I give you your life for Macsen's sake but in all this' – she slashed at Rhonwen's belt with its assortment of fetishes – ‘I fear you bring him shame. Is this the way a Combrogi priestess and princess debases herself!'

Like the previous speech the words came to her mouth unbidden. She did not know why she was saying them but Rhonwen flinched. Ursula knew enough about Rhonwen's past to be able to hurt her. She picked up the crystal ball and boar's tooth with her sword, an idea forming in her overheated brain. Maybe she could buy them more time. Taking the ball and tooth in her left hand she held them up for the Aenglisc to see.

‘I am a great and powerful Heahrune. If you untie this woman before sunset all her power will fly to me. If
you pursue us she will die! With these things of hers I can kill her however far apart we are. Without her you are powerless against me. Do you understand?'

Ursula's translator looked grave and it seemed as if her guess about the importance of these objects was a good one. He trembled as he translated her words to the other Aenglisc. She hoped they could reach some kind of safety before sunset.

Rhonwen lay on the ground beside the magical cairn of stones, trussed up like a chicken and gagged with a strip of fabric from her own robe. Ursula had a bad feeling that she would pay for this one day.

‘Come, Larcius, let's get out of here.'

‘Bryn, well done! Let's ride!'

Trusting to the power of her words she turned her back on the armed Aenglisc spearmen and rode away. She hated to turn her back on an enemy but some instinct told her that it would give credence to her claims of power. It must have worked: no spear buried itself between her shoulder blades and they rode on unhindered. It took a long time for her breathing to return to normal and the palsied shaking of her hands to cease.

Bedewyr and Gawain rode on in silence. Bedewyr was too afraid to speak – he did not know what kind of man or monster rode with him – while Gawain struggled to obliterate the memories of the recent fight from his mind. His body ached as if he had received the blows he'd dealt. He did not want to think too much. He trusted that his memory would return, as he trusted that the youth Bedewyr would take him somewhere safe. It was by far the easiest recourse. He trusted as the giant dog trotting at his side trusted, and relaxed into the saddle.

He did not recognise the land they travelled through. They saw no fellow travellers on the overgrown Roman road and the land on either side of them was untilled and abandoned; it was like riding at the end of the world. They stopped a couple of times to drink water from a nearby stream and Bedewyr shared with him some coarse unleavened bread and poorly dried meat.
Gawain ate both with quiet gratitude.

‘Do you remember anything now?' asked Bedewyr tentatively.

Gawain shook his head. ‘If I may borrow your brother's name a little longer, I would be grateful.'

‘Your courage and skill in battle lends it honour,' replied Bedewyr without conviction, though it was mostly true. His own brother would have been proud beyond description to have possessed even a quarter of this man's skill with the sword – for himself he had never seen such savagery and Bedewyr feared it as much as he admired it.

It was growing dark when Gawain became aware of a change in the appearance of the countryside. Even in the failing light it was obvious that they now rode through land that was farmed and cared for. He became uneasily aware of hidden eyes observing him. The road ahead was blocked by three mounted men riding abreast towards them. Gawain wished earnestly that he had not returned Bedewyr's sword. The men were dressed as Ravens. All three wore helmets that covered their cheeks and shaded their faces; the helmets gleamed, bright with silver. They each carried flaming torches and their mail shirts glinted fire in their reflected light. Bedewyr relaxed perceptibly and Gawain was confused. Bedewyr was Combrogi; were these Ravens allies?

Bedewyr rode ahead of him and eagerly greeted the
mounted men in Latin so heavily accented it took Gawain a moment to recognise the language he knew as well as the Combrogi tongues. ‘Petronax went to track this man's companions. Tell the Druid I have brought one of the men he sought.'

Two of the mounted men turned the horses round and spurred them back the way they'd come, the third man listened as Bedewyr spoke in a low voice, with rapid frightened glances in Gawain's direction. The war dog's teeth were bared.

Gawain spurred his horse forward, determined not to be excluded from a conversation that might bring him trouble. ‘I fear that I have not my true name to offer you but for now I am Gawain. You are?'

Gawain spoke good Latin to Bedewyr's evident surprise. His companion's face remained closed, unreadable. He was a big man, broad shouldered and heavily muscled. His face was wide and his nose, broken more than once, gave him the pugnacious air of a boxer. A thin scar that ran down one side of his face from temple to chin – a knife wound by the look of it – gave his mouth a slightly twisted look.

‘I am Medraut, rightful King of Ceint and Count of the Saxon Shore. I believe you are a friend of the Druid.' The man's eyes were grey and cold, but he made no move to draw a weapon.

Gawain felt his heart pump faster. There was danger
here and he was unarmed. This man had the eyes of a killer.

‘I was attacked and sadly my memory of the Druid, as of all else, eludes me. But I am grateful to Bedewyr, for he helped me when I was wounded. I am in his debt.'

Medraut gave him a bold, appraising stare. ‘I see you are unarmed.'

‘But for my dog.'

The dog's teeth were still bared and he gave a low growl.

‘A fine specimen,' said Medraut.

Gawain made his gaze as uncompromising as Medraut's own. It was a kind of challenge, as blatant in its way as the dog's warning growl.

Medraut seemed to accept it as such, but continued: ‘Welcome to Camulodunum, the seat of Arturus Urbicus, War Duke of Britain.'

Gawain inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of the reluctant welcome and signalled for the war dog to cease his growling. Keeping a close eye on Medraut he rode on beside him.

It was dark by the time they reached Camulodunum proper. The great Roman walls of stone were mixed with layers of red tiles; clear even in the flickering light of the braziers that lit the walls. The stone structure was topped by a well-manned wooden palisade. To Gawain it seemed that the whole area thrummed with nervous
tension, with the anxieties of many men at battle readiness. It made his own stomach churn with nerves. The gate to Camulodunum was massive and heavily guarded. It swung open to admit them and Gawain found himself facing a small cluster of strangers, all armed, he noted warily, and all were staring at him expectantly. A soldier took his horse and Medraut indicated that he should dismount. Gawain laid a warning hand on the war hound and stood to a kind of attention, though in truth he felt dizzy from the head wound, the long ride and the after-effects of the bloody battle.

One man stepped forward from the waiting throng. He was wearing a dark hooded cloak that covered most of his face and body, but there was something familiar about his movements, something that hovered on the very edge of Gawain's memory. The man clasped him in a warm embrace.

‘
Daniel
, by Lugh, it is you and you are safe.'

‘Do I know you?' Gawain's voice was hesitant.

The man by way of answer threw back his hood and fixed him with a searching look. It was the bard, Taliesin. He looked older and his beard was greyer than the last time Dan had seen him, standing at Macsen's shoulder, saluting him in farewell, but it was unmistakably Taliesin. He did not think to wonder at the change in him for in that one instant Gawain felt his personal universe tilt and realign. He moved from being Gawain,
the unknown soldier, to Dan, schoolboy and former Combrogi warrior. It was a strange and dizzying realignment.

‘Taliesin? But what—?'

‘Later, Daniel,' Taliesin whispered under his breath. ‘There is too much to say. But where is Ursula?'

‘I don't know. We were together, and then there was an attack and there was no time. My God, Ursula!' Dan paled. How could he have forgotten Ursula even with concussion? He felt flooded with appalling guilt. ‘I banged my head, and forgot who I was.'

‘And who is this boy, Druid, that you have brought to this citadel?' It was Medraut, unmoved by the reunion.

‘Why, Medraut, I thought that a fighter such as yourself would recognise another in the same heroic mould. This is the Bear Sark of legend, come as I have ever promised to help us in our hour of darkest need.' Taliesin paused for dramatic effect. ‘I have told you before of the prophecy given to me in the sacred grove by the wisest of sages. “As the bear on the high hillside protects the cubs, so
The Bear
of Ynys Prydein, the Island of the Mighty, protects its own. Remember
The Bear
and cherish it, for when
The Bear
is gone the hillside falls.” This man may yet fulfil the prophecy.' Taliesin beamed triumphantly and Dan had the uncomfortable sensation that he had walked in on someone else's dream. The world darkened and he felt a
thundering in his ears like the sound of a thousand horsemen at full gallop. For the first time in his life he passed out.

Dan woke to find himself in a chamber of some magnificence. He was lying on a sheepskin stretcher in a warm room. He heard voices arguing. He shut his eyes again the better to listen.

‘Look, whatever Taliesin has said to us in the past – he's exaggerated. This
Dan
is a youth – no more. I don't doubt that he knows how to fight in a skirmish but he's no heroic fighter. He's no older than Bedewyr.'

Dan recognised the first voice as belonging to Medraut, the second was new to him.

‘And Bedewyr claims that this youth killed five Aenglisc single-handed – well, with the help of that dog of his.'

Dan opened his eyes to see ‘that dog of his', Braveheart, his faithful hound, mounting guard over his stretcher. Dan lay still, trying to orient himself. He was in a room of apparently Raven design and luxury. The complex mosaic of the floor was warm to the touch and the air was scented and clean. He was in Camulodunum, which even in Macsen's day had been a major city – though admittedly less major, once Boudicca had burned it to the ground. Taliesin was there, surrounded by Ravens. What could be going on? He had left
Taliesin with Macsen and the other Combrogi when he and Ursula, having defeated the Ravens, had entered the Veil. How could Taliesin be here, now, ahead of them, aged, and working with the Ravens? It made no sense. Did it matter? Whatever was going on, his first duty was to get out of the city, find Ursula and try to get them home. His thoughts were interrupted by the warm wetness of Braveheart's tongue greeting his renewed consciousness with noisy enthusiasm.

‘I see you have awoken.' It was a man's voice, the same voice that had been speaking to Medraut.

Dan struggled gracelessly to his feet with a little assistance from Braveheart.

‘Sir,' he began, in Latin. ‘I apologise for the display of weakness – I sustained a head wound earlier, I—'

‘Please, no apology, come and make yourself comfortable. You would have wine? We still have wine to offer honoured guests.'

The speaker was a slim young man, clean-shaven with short blond hair worn in a clipped military style. Dressed in a knee-length undyed tunic decorated with red roundels at the shoulders, he lay in Roman fashion on a shabby gilded couch. He waved Dan in the direction of a second couch, covered in a sheepskin to disguise its much-mended upholstery.

‘I am Arturus Urbicus, War Duke of Britannia, and I believe that you are the Bear Sark of legend.'

Dan did not know how to respond to that, but sat awkwardly on the couch as if it were a sofa. He took the wine offered to him by a young servant boy in a homespun tunic, and sipped it. It was strong. He dare not drink more. He needed what remained of his wits.

‘I'm not sure what you mean.'

Medraut laughed abruptly. ‘You are not alone in that. According to the Druid, our merlin-man, you fight like a demon from the very bowels of hell and are exactly what we need to help our cause.' His tone was mocking.

Dan said nothing, being uncomfortably aware, for the first time, of the silent audience of men observing him from the furthest walls of the chamber. It was a very large hall and the domestic nature of the arranged couches had misled him from its public function. It was a kind of audience chamber and any impression of intimacy was illusory; all that was done here was done for display. That thought did not make him any more comfortable.

‘Are you the Bear Sark that the Druid has told us so much about?'

Arturus looked at him with piercing blue eyes that seemed older and more harrowed than his youthful demeanour suggested. Dan felt compelled to honesty.

‘I was the Bear Sark, yes, but …' He paused, aware of how strange his words would seem. ‘But, I do not think I am that person now.'

There was another loud guffaw from Medraut who spoke rapidly to Arturus in the language of the Carvetii. ‘See, I told you. He is a fraud and a weakling – the Druid plays a game of his own. I don't know why you trust him.'