Pendragon

I bade Mercia summon the remaining Vandali battlechiefs and there, over the corpse of their dead leader, I received their surrender.

Mercia, assuming command, made bold to answer for all. Through the captive priest, he said, 'The battle was fought fairly. Our king is dead. We accept your terms and stand ready to give whatever spoils you ask, whether hostages or victims for sacrifice.'

Cai did not like this. 'Do not trust them, Myrddin. They are all lying barbarians.'

'You will be disarmed,' I told Mercia. 'Your people will be taken from here and returned to your camp to await the Pendragon's pleasure.'

Hergest repeated my words in their tongue, whereupon, under Mercia's commanding glare, the Vandali battlechiefs threw their weapons upon the ground. When they were disarmed, the young chieftain spoke once more, and Hergest said, 'You called the king of Britain a strange name: Pendragon. Did you not?'

'I did,' I replied.

Mercia spoke up, addressing me directly. 'What means this word?'

'Pendragon – the word means Chief Dragon,' I explained. 'It is the title the Cymry use for the supreme ruler and defender of the Island of the Mighty.'

Hergest translated my words, and Mercia placed his hand on his heart and then touched his head. It was a sign of submission and honour. 'I place my life in the hands of the Pendragon of Britain.'

Leaving Bedwyr, Cai, Cador, and the rest of the lords to deal with the Vandali, I returned to the line, mounted the nearest horse, and raced back to camp as fast as the beast could fly.

I pressed through the worried throng gathered before Arthur's tent. The few women and invalid warriors who had not attended the battle – but had witnessed their wounded king's return – swarmed the entrance to his tent, anxious and worried. Pushing my way through, I entered the tent to find Gwenhwyvar cradling Arthur against her as she held him, half-sitting, half-lying on his pallet. Her clothing was smeared and stained with blue woad and red blood. 'It is over, my soul,' she soothed, dabbing at his arm with a cloth. 'It is finished.'

'Gwenhwyvar, I-it is-' Arthur began, then winced, pain twisting his features. He bit back the words and his eyelids fluttered and closed.

'Be easy, Bear,' she said, kissing his brow, then raised her head and looked around furiously. 'Llenlleawg!' she cried, saw me, and said, 'Myrddin, help me. He keeps fainting.'

'I am here.' Keeling beside her, I took the cloth and, gently, gently, oh so carefully, I lifted Arthur's arm; he groaned. Gwenhwyvar gasped at what she saw.

The point of the lance had been driven through the arm, passing between the two arm bones. The broken shaft protruded from one side – a mass of splinters where Amilcar had hacked at it – the thick iron tip poked through the other. But there was more. The force of the thrust had driven the spearhead through the arm and into the soft crease above his thigh, where the veins gathered thick. One of these had been severed. He was bleeding into his abdomen. I pressed the cloth to the gash, and sat back to think.

'Where is Llenlleawg?'

'I sent him for water to bathe the wound.'

'Hold tight,' I told her, indicating Arthur's arm.

'What are you going to do?' Gwenhwyvar asked.

Easing the arm upright, I took hold of the Black Boar's broken spear. Grasping the splintered stump, I gave a quick, firm pull.

'Aghh!' Arthur gasped in agony.

'Stop it!' shouted Gwenhwyvar. 'Myrddin! Stop!'

'It must be done,' I told her. 'Again.'

I tightened my grip on the stub end, greasy with blood. Gwenhwyvar, her lips a tight line, held Arthur's arm in both her own, clutching it to her breast. Blood welled from the wound, spilling over her hands.

'Now!' I shouted, and yanked with all my might.

Arthur gave a strangled cry, his head lolled on his shoulders. The shaft broke away from the head, but the blade did not come free. I had succeeded only in making the wound bleed more freely.

Llenlleawg entered the tent with a basin of water. He brought it to me and knelt down, holding it. I took the bit of cloth he offered, dipped it into the water and began to bathe the wound, washing away the blood and dirt.

'Is the arm broken?' asked Llenlleawg.

'No,' I replied, probing the injury with my fingertips, 'but this is not the worst.' I told them about the groin wound. 'Truly, that alarms me far more than the arm.'

I rose, making up my mind at once. I turned to Llenlleawg. 'There is room in the chariot for three. You will drive; Arthur and Gwenhwyvar will go with you. I will ride ahead to alert Barinthus and ready a boat.' I turned, starting away. 'Make him as comfortable as possible, and come at once.'

'Where are we going?' demanded Gwenhwyvar.

'To Ynys Avallach,' I called over my shoulder.

FIFTEEN

Charis, grave with concern, emerged from the room where Arthur lay. 'I think the bleeding has stopped at last,' she said solemnly.

'Thank God,' Gwenhwyvar breathed, her relief almost tangible.

'But,' Charis continued – there was no comfort in her voice – 'he is very weak.' She paused, looking from Gwenhwyvar to me. 'Truly, I fear for him.'

Gwenhwyvar shook her head, denying what Charis was saying. 'The wound is not so bad,' Gwenhwyvar insisted, her voice growing uncertain. 'Once the blade was removed, I thought… I thought he would…' Her voice cracked, very close to tears.

'Arthur has lost much blood,' Charis said, putting her arm around the queen's shoulders. 'It often happens that loss of blood is more harmful than the injury itself. We must pray he awakens soon.'

'And if he does not?' asked the queen, horrified by the thought, but asking nonetheless.

'It is in God's hands, Gwenhwyvar,' Charis said. 'We can do no more.'

After a breathless chase through the vale and Barinthus' swift boat across Mor Hafren, we had reached the Fisher King's palace. Charis and Elfodd had taken over Arthur's care. With skills honed by long experience, the point of the broken lance had been carefully removed from the High King's arm, and he had been given healing draughts to drink.

Arthur had seemed to revive at first; he sat up and talked to us. Then he slept, and we thought the rest a benefit to him. The thigh wound had opened again in the night, however, and by morning, he had lapsed into a dull, insensate sleep. He slept all through the day; and now, as evening stole across the quiet hills, Arthur could not be roused.

Charis was clearly worried. She squeezed the queen's shoulder. 'It is in God's hands,' she whispered. 'Hope and pray.'

Gwenhwyvar clutched my arm, her fingers digging into my flesh. 'Do something, Myrddin,' she urged. 'Please! Save him. Save my husband.'

I took her hand and clasped it tightly. 'Go with Charis and rest a little. I will stay with him now, and send for you if there is any change.'

Charis led Gwenhwyvar away, and I entered the chamber where Arthur lay on the litter the Fisher King used when his old affliction came upon him. Abbot Elfodd raised his head as I came to stand beside him. He saw the question in my eyes and shook his head.

'I will watch with him now,' I whispered.

The good abbot declined to go, saying, 'We will watch together.'

We stood a long time in silence listening to Arthur's slow, shallow breathing. 'God will not let him die,' I said, willing it to be so.

Elfodd looked at me curiously. 'I remember another time when I stood here like this and another spoke those selfsame words.' He paused and indicated Arthur's sleeping form. 'But it was you, Myrddin, lying there in the sleep of death, and it was Pelleas standing over you, refusing to let you go that way.'

My mind flooded with the memory: we had been in Armorica, Pelleas and I, where Morgian thought to slay me with a wicked enchantment. Pelleas had brought me to Ynys Avallach for healing, much as I had brought Arthur.

'I remember,' I said, thinking of that strange, unhappy time. 'With all thanks to you, I was saved.'