“Cornovia, Demetia, Gwynedd, Rheged and Demetia's Black-shields,” I said, finishing off the grim list.
“No wonder Tewdric wants peace,” Galahad said softly, marvelling at the host of men camped on either side of the river that ran beside the enemy's capital.
We rode down into that hive of iron. Children followed us, curious about our strange shields, while their mothers watched us suspiciously from the shadowed openings of their shelters. The men gave us brief glances, taking in our strange insignia and noting the quality of our weapons, but none challenged us until we reached the gates of Caer Sws where Gorfyddyd's royal guard barred our way with polished spearheads. “I am Galahad, Prince of Benoic,” Galahad announced grandly, 'come to see my cousin the High King."
“Is he a cousin?” I whispered.
“It's how we royalty talk,” he whispered back.
The scene inside the compound went some way to explaining why so many soldiers were gathered at Caer Sws. Three tall stakes had been driven into the earth and now waited for the formal ceremonies that preceded war. Powys was one of the least Christian kingdoms and the old rituals were done carefully here, and I suspected that many of the soldiers camped outside the walls had been fetched back from Branogenium specifically to witness the rites and so to inform their comrades that the Gods had been placated. There was to be nothing hasty about Gorfyddyd's invasion, everything would be done methodically, and Arthur, I thought, was probably right in thinking that such a pedestrian endeavour could be tipped off balance by a surprise attack.
Our horses were taken by servants, then, after a counsellor had questioned Galahad and determined that he was, indeed, who he claimed to be, we were ushered into the great feasting hall. The doorkeeper took our swords, shields and spears and added them to the stacks of similar weapons belonging to the men already gathered in Gorfyddyd's hall.
Over a hundred men were assembled between the squat oak pillars that were hung with human skulls to show that the kingdom was at war. The men beneath those grinning bones were the kings, princes, lords, chiefs and champions of the assembled armies. The only furniture in the hall was the row of thrones placed on a dais at the far dark end where Gorfyddyd sat beneath his symbol of the eagle, while next to him, but on a lower throne, sat Gundleus. The very sight of the Silurian King made the scar on my left hand pulse. Tanaburs squatted beside Gundleus, while Gorfyddyd had lorweth, his own Druid, at his right side. Cuneglas, Powys's Edling, sat on a third throne and was flanked by kings I did not recognize. No women were present. This was doubtless a council of war, or at least a chance for men to gloat over the victory that was about to be theirs. The men were dressed in mail coats and leather armour. We paused at the back of the hall and I saw Galahad mouth a silent prayer to his God. A wolfhound with a chewed ear and scarred haunches sniffed our boots, then loped back to its master who stood with the other warriors on the rush-covered earth floor. In a far corner of the hall a hard softly chanted a war song, though his staccato recitation was ignored by the men who were listening to Gundleus describing the forces he expected to come from Demetia. One chief, evidently a man who had suffered from the Irish in the past, protested that Powys had no need of the Black-shields' help to defeat Arthur and Tewdric, but his protest was stilled by an abrupt gesture from Gorfyddyd. I half expected that we would be forced to linger while the council finished its other business, but we did not have to wait more than a minute before we were conducted down the hall's centre to the open space in front of Gorfyddyd. I looked at both Gundleus and Tanaburs but neither recognized me.
We fell to our knees and waited.
“Rise,” Gorfyddyd said. We obeyed and once again I looked into his bitter face. He had not changed much in the years since I had seen him last. His face was as pouchy and suspicious as when Arthur had come to claim Ceinwyn's hand, though his sickness in the last few years had turned his hair and beard white. The beard was skimpy and could not hide a goitre that now disfigured his throat. He looked at us warily. “Galahad,” he said in a hoarse voice, “Prince of Benoic. We have heard of your brother, Lancelot, but not of you. Are you, like your brother, one of Arthur's whelps?”
“I am oath-bound to no man, Lord King,” Galahad said, 'except to my father whose bones were trampled by his enemies. I am landless."
Gorfyddyd shifted in his throne. His empty left sleeve hung beside the armrest, an ever-present reminder of his hated foe, Arthur. “So you come to me for land, Galahad of Benoic?” he asked. “Many others have come for the same purpose,” he warned, gesturing about the crowded hall. “Though I daresay there is land enough for all in Dumnonia.”
“I come to you, Lord King, with greetings, freely carried, from King Tewdric of Gwent.” That caused a stir in the hall. Men at the back who had not heard Galahad's announcement asked for it to be repeated and the murmur of conversation went on for several seconds. Cuneglas, Gorfyddyd's son, looked up sharply. His round face with its long dark moustaches looked worried, and no wonder, I thought, for Cuneglas was like Arthur, a man who craved peace, but when Arthur spurned Ceinwyn he had also destroyed Cuneglas's hopes and now the Edling of Powys could only follow his father into a war that threatened to lay waste the southern kingdoms.
“Our enemies, it seems, are losing their hunger for battle,” Gorfyddyd said. “Why else does Tewdric send greetings?”
“King Tewdric, High King, fears no man, but loves peace more,” Galahad said, carefully using the title Gorfyddyd had bestowed on himself in anticipation of his victory.
Gorfyddyd's body heaved and for a second I thought he was about to vomit, then I realized he was laughing. “We Kings only love peace,” Gorfyddyd said at last, 'when war becomes inconvenient to us. This gathering, Galahad of Benoic' he gestured at the throng of chiefs and princes 'will explain Tewdric's new love of peace."
He paused, gathering breath. “Till now, Galahad of Benoic, I have refused to receive Tewdric's messages. Why should I receive them? Does an eagle listen to a lamb bleating for mercy? In a few days I intend to listen to all Gwent's men bleating to me for peace, but for now, since you have come this far, you may amuse me. What does Tewdric offer?”
“Peace, Lord King, just peace.”
Gorfyddyd spat. “You are landless, Galahad, and empty-handed. Does Tewdric think peace is for the asking? Does Tewdric think I have expended my kingdom's gold on an army for no cause? Does he think I am a fool?”
“He thinks, Lord King, that blood shed between Britons is wasted blood.”
“You talk like a woman, Galahad of Benoic.” Gorfyddyd spoke the insult in a deliberately loud voice so that the raftered hall echoed with jeers and laughter. “Still,” he went on when the laughter had subsided, 'you must take some answer to Gwent's King, so let it be this.“ He paused to compose his thoughts. ”Tell Tewdric that he is a lamb sucking at Dumnonia's dry teat. Tell him my quarrel is not with him, but with Arthur, so tell Tewdric that he may have his peace on these two conditions. First, that he lets my army pass through his land without hindrance and second that he gives me enough grain to feed a thousand men for ten days.“ The warriors in the hall gasped, for they were generous terms, but also clever. If Tewdric accepted then he would avoid the sack of his country and make Gorfyddyd's invasion of Dumnonia easier. ”Are you empowered, Galahad of Benoic,“ Gorfyddyd asked, 'to accept these terms?”