Stephen Lawhead - Pendragon

The petty kings were not at all happy with this decision. But though many argued against it, none could suggest a better plan. Thus Arthur won his way at length.

'So! It is settled,' the High King concluded. 'Gather your warbands. We will meet Amilcar now.'

I have thought many times what I could have done – perhaps should have done? – differently in those fearful days. Yet events swiftly outstripped my small ability to guide them. As is ever the way of things, those circumstances we would most gladly shape ever remain beyond our grasp, while we are made to bear unexpected burdens to unsuspected destinations. All stand helpless before a power too potent to contain, too immense to comprehend. So be it!

Thus I, who would have formed the days to my design, was made to stand with all the rest of the British war host ranged in ranks upon the plain, looking on in apprehension.

I see it now as then, always before me, the same stark image: Arthur standing alone under a blistering sun with neither shield nor helm, only Caledvwlch at his side. The sky is leached white with the searing heat; the grass is brittle underfoot and brown.

Arthur stands waiting, his shadow shrivelled small beneath him, as if it dare not stretch its full length in such heat. Across the plain the Vandal host appears – warriors, women, children. All advance slowly to the place of meeting: the broad plain of Lyit Coed, where the rivers Tamu and Ancer come together. A fortress once stood nearby, but the Vandali have burned it and the settlements round about have been destroyed, the people killed or forced to run.

I watch the enemy host advance, a crabbed and clotted line of black, the dust from their feet rising up in thick white columns behind them. They move slowly and we wait. We might still attack them, or they might attack us. There is nothing to prevent it, save Britain's High King standing alone on the cracked and burning plain, waiting in all good faith for the Black Boar of the Vandali to honour his word and meet him face-to-face.

There is but one question in the mind of every man looking on: Will the hosts fight, or will Amilcar treat with Arthur as he has promised?

The advance halts abruptly and dull silence descends over the heat-oppressed plain. Then the thunder begins. The plain echoes to the rumbling roar of the Vandali war drums, and for one terrible moment I think they will attack.

'Steady!' Bedwyr calls out, and his words are repeated down the line. 'Stand your ground, men.'

The drums are meant to frighten, to unnerve us. But Arthur stands, and so we stand – grim-faced, sweating, our stomachs knotted in anticipation and dread as the drums boom in our ears. The sound, once heard, is not easily forgotten. I hear it now.

When the invader had drawn up in striking distance of us, the beat of the drums abruptly ceased and the long triple line halted. The Vandali stood staring at us in a silence as terrible as the bone-rattling thunder of their drums. They remained motionless, not a muscle twitching, weapons gleaming dully, rank on rank, their grotesque boar's head standards rising above them, confronting us with the dread spectacle of their military might.

Arthur stood easy, patient, regarding the fearsome battle host with an unflinching gaze. After a time, one of the standard-bearers moved from his place in the forerank, advanced a few places and stopped. He was joined by a group of Vandali chieftains, Mercia and the slave Hergest foremost among them. Then, all together, they moved out to meet Britain's High King in the centre of the plain. After a few brief words – spoken in voices too low to hear – the standard-bearer returned to his place in the line.

'I cannot endure this,' muttered Gwenhwyvar crossly. 'I will stand with him.'

Bedwyr made bold to stay her, but she shook off his hand, slipped from the saddle, and stepped quickly out from the rank to reach Arthur's side before anyone could prevent her. The king welcomed her with a curt nod and the two stood side by side as the black boar's head on its skull-and-scalp-bedecked pole proceeded once more. This time it heralded the arrival of Amilcar himself.

The two lords eyed one another across a gap of but three paces. I saw Arthur's hand rise in the sign of peace. Amilcar made no gesture. Arthur said something, to which the Black Boar replied through Hergest. When the priest stopped speaking, Arthur turned to Gwenhwyvar, who made a reply while staring straight ahead at Amilcar.

As her words were repeated by Hergest, I saw the Black Boar's lip curl in a savage sneer. He growled a reply of low disdain, threw his head back haughtily and spat. Perhaps this is what she intended, for in the blink of an eye her slender sword was in her hand and she lunged at the Vandal king. She was quick – quicker than Arthur's restraining hand – and Amilcar was saved a grave, if not fatal, stroke only by the swift reaction of one of his chieftains, who knocked the sword aside with the shaft of his spear as die blade sliced the air a whisker's breadth from Amilcar's throat.

Amilcar recoiled, raising his spear in the same motion. Arthur shouted, seized Gwenhwyvar's arm and pulled her bodily away from her attack. The Black Boar, still wielding his spear, made a short, angry speech, to which Arthur made a solemn reply.

In all, the exchange was brief. A few more words passed between them, and then Arthur and Gwenhwyvar turned abruptly and walked back to the British line.

'We meet tomorrow at dawn,' said Arthur, with never a word of what had passed on the plain.

So began the long wait, and the British host bore the waiting hard. The warriors rested through the heat of the day while the sun made slow, slow sailing into the west, but as the white-hot disk disappeared behind the hills they began to stir and to talk, and to worry.

It was, I thought, time to remind them of the prize awaiting us, and the lord who held our trust. After a brief word with Arthur, the battlechiefs were summoned and instructed to assemble the men on the hillside above the council tent.

With the gathered host of Britain ranged before me as pale twilight crept over the vale, I advanced to my place. The stifling heat had begun to loose its grip on the land, and a light breeze stirred the wispy grass. A great beacon of a fire had been lit, a Beltane blaze to rekindle the past in their memories. A rising moon cast hard shadows on the ground and the sky above gleamed with stars from one horizon to the other.

The crowd surged; restless, anxious, wary, the warrior throngs waited, the very air tense with their uncertainty and apprehension. All knew of Arthur's ordeal and it troubled them. What if Arthur was killed? they thought. Who would lead them against the Vandali then? Thousands owed their lives to Arthur's skill as a War Leader; how would they fare without him? They watched me suspiciously; I could almost hear their muttered whispers: A song? Far better to sharpen blades this night.

I shouldered the harp, plucking notes at random and flinging them out as pebbles pitched into a seething sea. At first no one heard me – but I kept playing-and then they did not want to hear me. They kept murmuring, but their eyes strayed time and again to where I stood strumming the harp as if oblivious to their muttering.

Then, as the harpsong struck the fear-fretted air my vision ignited within me once more and glowed with the intensity of the sun itself. I saw again the half-burning, half-living tree and my spirit soared with the meaning of the riddle. For the first time in a very long while I felt like a bard again.

Giving the harp its voice, I played through their apprehension and unease until all eyes were on me, and I occupied every thought. Gradually, the music took hold as little by little the murmuring ceased. When all was quiet on the hillside, I called out in a loud voice, 'Hear me! I am a bard and the son of a bard; my true home is the Region of the Summer Stars.