That confidence was so high that, after Cuneglas’s army arrived, Arthur felt able to leave us. I was astonished at first, for he offered no explanation other than he had an important errand that lay a day’s long ride northwards. I suppose my astonishment must have showed, for he laid an arm on my shoulders.
‘We haven’t won yet,’ he told me.
‘I know, Lord.’
‘But when we do, Derfel, I want this victory to be overwhelming. No other ambition would take me away from here.’ He smiled. ‘Trust me?’
‘Of course, Lord.’
He left Cuneglas in command of our army, but with strict orders that we were to make no attacks into the valley. The Saxons were to be left imagining that they had us cornered, and to help that deception a handful of volunteers pretended to be deserters and ran to the Saxon camps with news that our men were in such low spirits that some were running away rather than face a fight, and that our leaders were in furious dispute over whether to stay and face a Saxon attack or run north to beg for shelter in Gwent.
‘I’m still not sure I see a way to end this,’ Cuneglas admitted to me on the day after Arthur had left.
‘We’re strong enough to keep them from the high ground,’ he went on, ‘but not strong enough to go down into the valley and beat them.’
‘So maybe Arthur’s gone to fetch help, Lord King?’ I suggested.
‘What help?’ Cuneglas asked.
‘Culhwch perhaps?’ I said, though that was unlikely because Culhwch was said to be east of the Saxons, and Arthur was riding north. ‘Oengus mac Airem?’ I offered. The King of Demetia had promised his Blackshield army, but those Irishmen had still not come.
‘Oengus, maybe,’ Cuneglas agreed, ‘but even with the Black-shields we won’t have enough men to beat those bastards.’ He nodded down into the valley. ‘We need Gwent’s spearmen to do that.’
‘And Meurig won’t march,’ I said.
‘Meurig won’t march,’ Cuneglas agreed, ‘but there are some men in Gwent who will. They still remember Lugg Vale.’ He offered me a wry smile, for on that occasion Cuneglas had been our enemy and the men of Gwent, who were our allies, had feared to march against the army led by Cuneglas’s father. Some in Gwent were still ashamed of that failure, a shame made worse because Arthur had won without their help, and I supposed it possible that, if Meurig permitted it, Arthur might lead some of those volunteers south to Aquae Sulis; but I still did not see how he could collect enough men to let us go down into that nest of Saxons and slaughter them.
‘Perhaps,’ Guinevere suggested, ‘he’s gone to find Merlin?’
Guinevere had refused to leave with the other women and children, insisting that she would see the battle through to defeat or victory. I thought Arthur might insist that she left, but whenever Arthur had come to the hilltop Guinevere had hidden herself, usually in the crude hut we had made on the plateau, and it was only after Arthur left that she reappeared. Arthur surely knew that she had remained on Mynydd Baddon, for he had watched our women leave with a careful eye and he must have seen she was not among them, but he had said nothing. Nor, when Guinevere emerged, did she mention Arthur, though she did smile whenever she saw that he had allowed her banner to remain on the ramparts. I had originally encouraged her to leave the mount, but she had scorned my suggestion and none of my men had wanted her to go. They ascribed their survival to Guinevere, and rightly too, and their reward was to equip her for battle. They had taken a fine mail shirt from a rich Saxon corpse and, once the blood was scrubbed from the mail’s links, they had presented it to Guinevere, they had painted her symbol on a captured shield, and one of my men had even yielded his own prized wolftail helmet, so that she was now dressed like the rest of my spearmen, though being Guinevere she managed to make the wargear look disturbingly seductive. She had become our talisman, a heroine to all my men.
‘No one knows where Merlin is,’ I said, responding to her suggestion.
‘There was a rumour he was in Demetia,’ Cuneglas said, ‘so maybe he’ll come with Oengus?’
‘But your Druid has come?’ Guinevere asked Cuneglas.
‘Malaine is here,’ Cuneglas confirmed, ‘and he can curse well enough. Not like Merlin, perhaps, but well enough.’
‘What about Taliesin?’ Guinevere asked.
Cuneglas showed no surprise that she had heard of the young bard, for clearly Taliesin’s fame was spreading swiftly. ‘He went to seek Merlin,’ he said.
‘And is he truly good?’ Guinevere asked.
‘Truly,’ Cuneglas said. ‘He can sing eagles from the sky and salmon from their pools.’
‘I pray we shall hear him soon,’ Guinevere said, and indeed those strange days on that sunny hilltop did seem more suited to singing than to fighting. The spring had become fine, summer was not far off, and we lazed on the warm grass and watched our enemies who seemed struck by a sudden helplessness. They attempted their few futile attacks on the hills, but made no real effort to leave the valley. We later heard they were arguing. Aelle had wanted to combine all the Saxon spearmen and strike north into the hills, so splitting our army into two parts that could be destroyed separately, but Cerdic preferred to wait until our food ran short and our confidence ebbed, though that was a vain hope for we had plenty of food and our confidence was increasing every day. It was the Saxons who went hungry, for Arthur’s light horsemen harried their foraging parties, and it was Saxon confidence that waned, for after a week we saw mounds of fresh earth appear on the meadows by their huts and we knew that the enemy were digging graves for their dead. The disease that turns the bowels to liquid and robs a man of his strength had come to the enemy, and the Saxons weakened every day. Saxon women staked fish traps in the river to find food for their children, Saxon men dug graves, and we lay in the high sun and talked of bards.
Arthur returned the day after the first Saxon graves were dug. He spurred his horse across the saddle and up Mynydd Baddon’s steep northern slope, prompting Guinevere to pull on her new helmet and squat among a group of my men. Her red hair flaunted itself under the helmet’s rim like a banner, but Arthur pretended not to notice. I had walked to meet him and, halfway across the hill’s summit, I stopped and stared at him in astonishment.
His shield was a circle of willow boards covered in leather, and over the leather was hammered a thin sheet of polished silver that shone with the reflected sunlight, but now there was a new symbol on his shield. It was the cross; a red cross, made from cloth strips that had been gummed onto the silver. The Christian cross. He saw my astonishment and grinned. ‘Do you like it, Derfel?’
‘You’ve become a Christian, Lord?’ I sounded appalled.
‘We’ve all become Christians,’ he said, ‘you as well. Heat a spear blade and burn the cross into your shields.’
I spat to avert evil. ‘You want us to do what, Lord?’
‘You heard me, Derfel,’ he said, then slid off Llamrei’s back and walked to the southern ramparts from where he could stare down at the enemy. ‘They’re still here,’ he said, ‘good.’
Cuneglas had joined me and overheard Arthur’s previous words. ‘You want us to put a cross on our shields?’ he asked.
‘I can demand nothing of you, Lord King,’ Arthur said, ‘but if you would place a cross on your shield, and on your men’s shields, I would be grateful.’