David Pilling: The Red Death

There was no pursuit. We didn’t know it then, but soon after our flight from Caerwent the hosts of Arthur and Medraut destroyed each other in the valley of Camlann.

The details of that dreadful battle, fought over several days in a haze of mist and blood, are vague and contradictory. It is known that Medraut perished and Arthur disappeared. Certainly his body was never found. His Legion, the elite company of horse-soldiers that had protected Britain from her many foes for over twenty years, was wiped out almost to a man. Of them all, only noble Bedwyr survived to live out his remaining days as a hermit, and perhaps a handful of others whose names are forgotten.

While this catastrophe was unfolding, my mother and her tiny company struggled ashore on a deserted stretch of coast. Thunder boomed and lightning crackled overhead, tearing the clouds to shreds and whipping the foam-flecked breakers into a maelstrom.

“I carried you through the shallows to the beach,” Eliffer was fond of telling me when I was older, “the waves were fierce, and at times threatened to engulf me, so I held you over my head.”

At last the company reached dry land, and took refuge from the elements in a little cave just above the beach. There they crouched like frightened rats, miserable, soaked and half-starved. They had nothing to eat save some meagre portions of bread and biscuit, which Eliffer insisted on dividing equally.

“I am no great lady now,” she declared, “and my descent from the kings of old counts for nothing on this storm-wracked shore.”

It was here that Owain revealed the secret he carried on his person, and which was to prove the bane and blessing of my life. He drew from the scabbard at his belt a sword. Not any sword, but the half-legendary blade known to the Britons as Caledfwlch.

Caledfwlch was Arthur’s sword. It had been knocked from his hand, so Owain claimed, during the battle against Amhar’s men.

“I saw this lying on the ground,” said Owain, holding the sword up for the others to admire, “and snatched it while Arthur was busy defending himself with his shield. When all was over, and the broken bodies of my comrades lay scattered across the field, I stole away with the sword hidden under my cloak.”

The blade of Caledfwlch shone, so my mother recalled, like a silver flame in the damp and darkness of the cave.

“I was going to keep it for myself,” Owain went on, “but that is not right. It was Arthur’s, and should be carried by men of his blood.”

He placed the hilt in my hand. I grasped it tightly and refused to let go, causing the wretched fugitives to laugh for the first time since their flight from Caerwent.

I close my eyes a moment and picture the sword I carried for most of my life. It was an old Roman gladius, a short stabbing blade with a broad base and sharply tapering point. The bone grip was well-worn and inlaid with strips of gold.

Arthur wielded Caledflwch in all his battles. It had once been the property of Nennius, an ancient British prince who fought the invading Romans. He won the sword in single combat with Julius Caesar himself. Nennius got little joy of his prize, for Caesar left it buried in his skull.

Caledfwlch or Hard Hitter was Arthur’s name for the sword. It has gone under other names. The Romans called it Crocea Mors or the Yellow Death, and the British variants were Angau Coch (Red Death) or Agheu Glas (Grey Death).

Said to be forged by Vulcan in the forges under Mount Olympus, some deadly magic was worked into the metal, ensuring that the blade never lost its edge and would cut through any armour, no matter how well-made. A wound inflicted by the Red Death, even if just a graze, would instantly slay the man it struck.

The chief power of Caledfwlch, besides its keen cutting edge, was as a symbol. This was a weapon forged by a god and wielded by heroes. Whoever possessed it could claim to be the natural heir of such men. In Britain and Domnonia there was a lingering prophecy that whoever owned Caledfwlch would gain dominion over the Western Empire. Arthur wisely never tried to fulfil such an impossible dream, but there were many lesser men who dreamed of inheriting the throne of the Caesars.

No human eyes shall see Caledfwlch again. I have taken care to hide it somewhere safe, secret, and well-guarded. The sword has fallen into the wrong hands too often (including mine) and must be hidden from men and their selfish ambitions.

It took me many years to realise the necessity of putting Caledfwlch somewhere it could never be found. Poor Owain, whose intentions were honourable, thought he was presenting me with a gift beyond price when he placed the hilt in my hand. He would have saved many lives, and eased the course of mine, if he had thrown the thing into the sea.

My mother had some notion of claiming sanctuary at the court of Rhiwal Mawr, the King of Domnonia, but Owain advised against it.

“Rhiwal was Arthur’s ally,” he warned, “and Arthur will have sent envoys to Rennes to tell him of your escape. Rhiwal will not risk the alliance for your sake. He will either clap you in chains and send you back to Britain, or kill you out of hand.”

His words put Eliffer at a loss, for as yet she had no knowledge of the slaughter at Camlann. Owain persuaded her to travel to Frankia on foot, where he planned to enlist in the armies of Clovis, the great warrior-king of the Franks.

It was about this time that he made his love for Eliffer known to her, and begged her hand in marriage. He was rebuffed. My mother was still in mourning for Amhar, and not so forgetful of her high birth that she would consent to wed the son of a petty chieftain.

Owain swallowed the pain of her refusal and stayed with us as we toiled through Domnonia on their way east to the Frankish border. Eliffer spent the last of her gold on food during the journey, bought from passing tradesmen and merchant caravans.

Domnonia was a kingdom forged by British settlers fleeing from the incessant wars and disturbances of their homeland. Eliffer and her companions spoke the same tongue as most of those they met on the road, and learned of Camlann and its aftermath from a group of travelling wine merchants.

“Who rules in Britain now?” he asked.

“No-one,” was the reply, “all the petty kings have turned to fighting each other. Some say that Cador of Cornwall will prove the strongest. So he might, with King Rhiwal to help him. But for now the land is lit from sea to sea by the fires of burning towns, and there is no sanctuary to be found anywhere.”

“What of the Saxons?”

“Their chief Cerdic has broken loose from the treaty lands, and his war-bands are ravaging the west. There are few to stop them, now Arthur’s Legion is no more. Those who try are slaughtered.”

The news could not be worse. Britain had lurched into war and chaos again, as though Arthur’s hard-won peace had never existed.

“Domnonia will be overrun by refugees,” said one man, giving us a hard look, “all looking for work and food. There is none to be had. The wars with Clovis have drained us.”

We moved on hurriedly, before the mood could turn sour and the merchants started asking awkward questions. Owain was careful to keep Caledfwlch in a plain wooden scabbard at his belt, and wrapped the hilt in leather to hide the gold decoration.

“No-one must know we have it,” he said, “Cador of Cornwall would give much to have Arthur’s sword in his grasp.”

“And Arthur’s grandson in his care,” added my mother. She was convinced that the squabbling kings of Britain regarded me as a prize worth having. In truth I was of no importance whatsoever. Having Arthur’s blood in my veins gave me no claim to kingship, for he had refused the High Kingship and ruled as Dux Bellorum, a purely military rank.