Stephen Lawhead - Pendragon

I called Rhys to me and set him the task of bringing food and drink. 'I have already seen to it,' he said, slightly annoyed that I should have thought to command him in such an obvious duty. 'The food is soon ready and I will bring it, Lord Emrys, never fear.'

Arthur passed a restful night. He ate well and slept soundly, rising with strength and spirit renewed – no less eager to continue the fight than on the previous day. He greeted his lords and warriors with good humour, and spent the morning tending to his weapons, choosing a new spear from among the many presented to him by eager Cymbrogi. Just before midday, he broke fast on hard bread and water. Then, donning his mail shirt and helm, he took up his weapons and went out to do battle once more.

As before, they met on the plain, the war hosts arrayed in long ranks behind them. The Black Boar took his place, his battlechiefs by his side, looking smugly impassive. Indeed, it seemed to me as I gazed at his cold-eyed expression that Amilcar appeared even more confident than before. Perhaps their previous encounter had answered any anxiety he may have had in confronting Arthur. Or, more likely, he had armed himself with additional tricks and feints which he hoped would turn the fight his way.

Arthur did not care to allow Amilcar the first word. 'Hail, Twrch Trwyth!' he called across the distance between them. 'You appear most eager to die. Come then, I will give you your heart's desire!'

Through Hergest the priest, the Vandal chieftain received Arthur's taunt. By way of reply, he spat.

Arthur replied acidly, 'As always, your wit is charming.'

The fight began as before – both warriors circling and circling, searching for an opportunity to strike the first, perhaps decisive, blow. I took my place with Cai and Bedwyr beside me, and the Vandali chieftains took theirs; we stood opposite one another, watching the efforts of our champions.

As expected, the Black Boar had armed himself with further deceptions. These might have beguiled a less wary and experienced warrior, but Arthur handled them easily. So the day passed to the sound of spear on shield. The two warriors strained to their work, hewing at one another, each trying to beat down the resistance of the other, but neither forcing a decisive advantage. I watched the day stretch long, a feeling of frustration and helplessness growing in me.

Once, during the heat of the day, Hergest approached to offer the warriors a drink of water. I saw him standing between the two combatants and came to myself with a start; I had been drifting in reverie, oblivious to the battle before me. But I saw the priest holding out the water jar – offering a healing drink to the two combatants – and the words came again into my mind: You must go back the way you camel

I have done that, I thought. What more can I do?

But the words became a voice-my own, yet not my own- and the voice grew insistent; stern, accusing, it persisted, drowning out all other thought until I heard nothing else. Go back! Go back the way you came! If you would conquer, you must go back the way you came\

I stood squinting in the sun, staring at Arthur as he leaned against his spear and drank. When he finished, he raised the bowl and poured water over his head. I saw the High King of Britain, head back, the harsh light full on his sweating face, holding the bowl above him as the water splashed down.

It was a vision old as Britain: a weary warrior refreshing himself before returning to the fight.

The voice in my head stopped its insistent refrain, as if silenced by the sight. But it was not silent long. For, as I beheld the vision of Arthur dousing himself with water, another voice stirred to life: This day I am Britain.

They were Arthur's words, the words of the king to his queen, spoken to remind her of his rank and responsibility. True words, certainly, but as the cooling water bathed his face, I heard in them the echo of a truth long forgotten – too long forgotten, or overlooked in our headlong drive for victory.

Great Light, forgive me! I am a slow-witted and ignorant man. Kill me, Lord; it would be a mercy.

The fight resumed and continued until pale twilight descended over the battleground. The day was spent and neither warrior had succeeded in gaining any advantage over the other. As before, I signalled Mercia and we approached the combatants with the offer of breaking off the battle and resuming the next day. Both men, weary beyond endurance, readily agreed; lowering their weapons, they stepped away from one another.

I turned to summon Cai and Bedwyr to help Arthur, and Amilcar's chieftains advanced to aid their king. The instant my head was turned, the Black Boar's lance flashed out. I saw the swift movement of his arm and shouted: 'Arthur!'

The spearpoint caught Arthur in the upper shoulder. He fell forward with the force of the throw, his shield slamming to the ground. The spear glanced and dropped into the dust. Cai leaped forward, snatched up the shield, and placed himself between Arthur and Amilcar.

Mercia, shouting wildly, rushed forward and took hold of Amilcar, pulling him way before he could strike again. Bedwyr and I, having reached Arthur, stooped to examine his wound. 'It is nothing,' Arthur said, his teeth clenched. 'Help me stand. It is nothing. Here, do not let the Cymbrogi see me so.'

'Yes, yes, in a moment. I want to see the injury.' I reached a hand to the wound, but he shrugged away.

'Myrddin! Help me stand! I will not be seen to lie here!' Bedwyr, white-faced with shock and rage, took Arthur by the uninjured arm and helped him to his feet. 'The brute,' he growled. 'Give me your sword, Artos; I will gut him like a hog.’

‘Stay, brother,' Arthur said, his voice calm and even. 'It is nothing. I would not like him to think he has gained any advantage in this. Let him think I but stumbled at the spear-cast.'

I looked across to the waiting Cymbrogi. Every eye was on their king; more than a few had drawn weapons and were prepared to attack. Gwenhwyvar was running to meet us, her expression caught between concern and fury. Arthur raised a hand to halt her, and waved her back.

'Cai, Bedwyr – do not look back,' Arthur commanded. 'Walk away.'

'May his barbarian soul for ever burn in Hell,' muttered Cai. 'Take my arm, Bear; let us go from here.'

We made our way from the field with exaggerated dignity. Gwenhwyvar, Llenlleawg, and Cador brought the horses and helped Arthur to mount. 'Cymbrogi!' he called aloud. 'Have no fear for me. I am tired from the fight and Twrch's spear-cast caught me unawares. My good mail shirt has done me a service, however, and I am unharmed.'

With that, he raised his hand to them – showing that his arm was not injured – jerked the reins and rode back to camp with Gwenhwyvar beside him. Cai, Bedwyr and I followed, while the British battlehost watched the barbarians and waited for them to depart.

It was as Arthur had said, his mail shirt had done him admirable service and the wound was not serious. 'Well?' he asked, after I had examined it properly.

'It is not, as you say, nothing,' I answered. 'The lance was well thrown, if not well aimed. The blade cut through your shirt and you have an ugly gash.'

'But it could have been worse,' Gwenhwyvar added. 'Much worse.'

'Even so, I do not like the look of it,' I told them both bluntly. 'I think it best to let the cut bleed as much as it will, and then to bathe it with warm water. Put a little salt in the water to help cleanse the wound, and then bind it. Keep your shoulder warm through the night and I will examine it again in the morning.'

Both of them caught the implication of my instructions. 'Why, Myrddin? Will you not be here?'

'No. There is something I must do. Gwenhwyvar, tend to this,' I replied. 'I will return before morning.'