Stephen Lawhead - Pendragon

'Agh! There is no talking to you.'

Arthur turned away and flung himself into Uther's camp chair. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his face. I moved to stand over him.

'We must change, or we will surely die. We must go back the way we came,' I declared. 'Think on that,' I challenged. 'Think long and hard, Arthur. For until you begin to understand what I am telling you, Britain is lost.'

The tent felt suffocatingly close; I could not breathe. Leaving the High King to his thoughts, I went in search of a place where I could be alone. I moved through a camp sunk in the gloom of defeat: silent, unmoving, awaiting the night's shadows to cover and claim it.

Warriors, spent and forlorn, sat or lay before unlit fires, speaking in hushed tones if they spoke at all. Boys were leading horses to the pickets, and women were working to bind the wounds of the injured. A pall hung over the camp, a lethargy deeper than simple fatigue – as if all understood the futility of effort alone to win any lasting gain.

I saw men sleeping, and knew that some of these would not rise in the morning. Jesu, have mercy! I saw several of the lords, heads together, holding close council; they stopped talking as I approached, watching me darkly. I ignored them and moved on.

My feet found the path leading to the stream; moving among the slumbering bodies of those who had come to drink and dropped there, I descended the bank, crossed the water and continued on. The path began to climb, ascending the hillside, and I followed where it led – up through pungent bracken and prickly gorse. Eventually, I found myself in a grassy hollow scooped out of the hillside. Smooth, lichen-covered rock formed a wall at the rear, fringed by elderberry and blackthorn shrubs,- beech trees stood on either side of the hollow, leaving the front open to a good view of the British camp below.

I sat down cross-legged on the soft turf between the two trees and watched twilight gradually enfold the glen in deep blue shadow. The sky held a pale lingering light for a long time, at last giving way before oncoming night. From my lofty perch I watched and listened, attending to the slow descent of the world into darkness.

My heart moved within me, for it seemed that as night stretched its dark hand over the glen, a weight of sorrow settled in my soul. Death had taken many good men this day, their sacrifice all but forgotten. As chief bard it was my duty to lead the people in laments of mourning for their fallen kinsmen. Yet here was I, sitting aloof from the concerns of my brothers. Once again, here was Myrddin, this day and always, a man apart, bearing all things, whether in triumph or tragedy, alone. You must go back the way you camel Thus spoke the truth of my vision, and thus I did believe. But how? Alas, I had no idea how such a thing might be accomplished, nor where I might begin.

I sat looking out over the glen in the steadily deepening twilight. Lost in thought, I did not hear the footsteps approaching from behind. Then, hearing them, I turned, supposing Arthur had sent Rhys to find me… I turned and strange faces rushed at me out of the shadowed darkness. Before I could lift a hand, I was taken.

Four immense Vandali, armed with stout spears, surrounded me. I made no move to resist; that would, I was instantly persuaded, have been futile. So I simply remained seated and forced myself to appear calm and unafraid.

It was a small thing, but great events often swing on such modest hinges. The Vandali, confronted by an unarmed enemy who appeared neither frightened nor in the least disturbed, hesitated. This emboldened me. I regarded them impassively and raised my hands in welcome – as if I had been expecting them.

'I recognize you,' I said, knowing full well they would not understand me. That was not important, however; I merely wanted to be the first to speak, thinking to keep them off their mettle. 'Put up your weapons and let us speak together as reasonable men.'

My ruse did not work. One of the Vandali raised his lance and made to strike. The narrow blade hovered, poised in the air, but the hand was stayed by a quick shout from the shadows. A voice barked a harsh order and the warrior froze.

I waited, my heart thumping violently in my chest. The spear still hesitated over me. I was less than a hair's breadth from death.

Then the voice spoke again. This time, to my complete surprise, it said, 'Stand easy. You are in great danger.'

With these words, a figure emerged from the gloom and came to stand before me. Though large and fully as powerful as those with him, he was younger than any of the others. I recognized him at once as one of the Black Boar's piglets: the young chieftain they called Mercia.

'I am well aware of my danger,' I replied easily. 'You need have no fear of me, Mercia. I am unarmed.'

He started at my use of his name. 'How do you know me?' I remembered him as the one who had remarked on Arthur's youth at that first meeting. 'You speak forthrightly,' I told him. 'Hergest has taught you well.' He stared. 'You know this, too?'

Well, it could be no other way. But I did not let on. Instead, I touched my forehead meaningfully and said, 'I am a bard; I know a great many things.'

His eyes narrowed shrewdly. 'Then tell me why I have come here.'

Without hesitation, I said, 'You have come to spy upon the British camp as you have done many nights before. Amilcar depends on the information you bring to order the battle. This is how Amilcar was able to defeat Arthur today.'

His eyes grew wide. 'Hergest said you were a mighty man of wisdom. The priest ever speaks true – even to his hurt.' Clearly, this high regard for truth impressed him.

'Will you sit with me, Mercia?' I said, indicating a place on the ground beside me. 'There is something I would tell you.’

‘You have been waiting for me?'

I let him think this. 'Sit. Let us talk.' I had no idea what I would say to him. My only plan was to win his confidence and find some way to persuade him to let me go. Even so, as he stood over me, quivering with indecision, a plan formed in my mind.

'Please,' I said, smiling in what I hoped was a confident and persuasive manner, 'we have little time. They will come looking for me soon.'

Signalling to his men, he growled a quick command; they raised their spears and backed away. Mercia sat down on the ground opposite, cross-legged, lance in his lap. We regarded one another in the fading light. 'What have you to say?' he asked at last.

'It is in my mind that Amilcar does not hold the trust of all his battlechiefs,' I said slowly, watching him to make certain that he followed my meaning. It was a crude but effective guess; I have never known a war leader yet who enjoyed the entire and utter confidence of all his lords. God knows, even Arthur, fighting for Britain's survival, battled his own lords.

He studied me a long time, as if making up his mind. Finally he said, 'It is true, there have been many disputes since coming here.' He paused. I nodded, understanding only too well – drawing the young man further into his confession. He obliged me by continuing with quiet defiance, 'Our renowned War Leader holds not the favour of all.'

'I believe your War Leader often goes against those who counsel wisdom – ' I suggested, watching Mercia's face for nuances of expression to guide me. I saw what I expected to see and thrust home, saying, 'All the more when those chieftains are held in low esteem because of their youth.'

The young battlechiefs eyes flashed quick fire, and I knew I had struck the raw wound of his complaint. 'He is a most stubborn lord,' Mercia allowed cautiously. 'Once he has set his hand to a thing, he will never yield – though it were wiser by far to do so.'

His use of the words 'by far' expressed worlds of meaning to me. And I began to discern the slenderest golden glimmer of hope.