Page 93 of The Quest for Excalibur
Aelle lowered his head like a bull about to charge, his nostrils flared, and the men on either side of him took hold of his upper arms. Perhaps due to our choice of interpreter. But he didn’t struggle. Instead, he barked a few sharp, guttural sentences back to his nephew.
Cerdic faltered, discomposure flashing across his face for a moment.
“Well?” Arthur asked. “What does he say?”
“That he is Bretwalda– king of Britain. That this is his land and his people’s.” Cerdic hesitated. “That I am a traitor to my people, and to him…”
That did sound as though he were telling us everything. Hopefully.
Arthur smiled. “He dares to claim kingship when he stands before me as my prisoner? Tell him I didn’t take him for a fool, but that is what he seems to be.”
More words passed between nephew and uncle. Merlin edged up beside me, and I moved a step closer to him, finding reassurance in his presence.
“He says to tell you that you may call this land your own, that you may throw him in irons or kill him, but that one day, soon, it will be his, his sons’ and his grandsons’ for the taking.” Cerdic had the grace to look apologetic.
However, a cold wave washed over me from head to foot, as every hair on my body stood on end, alert to these prophetic words. I glanced at Merlin, as my heart did acrobatic leaps, but his face remained impassive. Had he not seen this coming? Had he no idea that right here we burned the last dying light of Britain before the birth of an England that would extinguish it forever?
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
Arthur shook his head. “Tell him that whatever he thinks the future may hold, right now, this is my land, and my people’s land. That we are prepared to defend it to whatever end might lie ahead.”
He waited while Cerdic translated for him. Aelle’s face darkened as he listened to the words. He opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur held up a commanding hand.
“You are my prisoners. Your army has fled. They lurk a mile away, waiting to bury their dead.” He paused, eyes boring into Aelle’s. “Waiting for us to execute our prisoners. No doubt they want to give you a good send off.” His eyes glittered dangerously. “By rights, I should execute you all, here and now, on this very spot.” He gave a nod to Cerdic who swiftly put the words into Aelle’s tongue.
The two Saxon leaders glared at Arthur from between their captors, but a shred of their initial dignity had returned. Maybe they thought to make martyrs of themselves, and die with honor.
Arthur’s right hand fingered Excalibur’s hilt again, as though he’d like to draw it and perform the executions himself, perhaps. “But I am not a man who likes to kill for the sake of killing,” he said. “And I do not want to kill you.” He nodded to Cerdic, who, a puzzled look on his face, translated. He’d probably been expecting a beheading.
Arthur met Cerdic’s gaze. “Cerdic of Caer Guinntguic and I have fought on opposite sides in the past, but at our Council of Kings he paid me homage as High King. And I accepted his allegiance. Today he has proven beyond doubt that his word is his bond. In defending our lands against you, he has become a true British king.”
He paused, and for a moment his eyes slid sideways to me, before he stared once more at Aelle, as though willing that man to understand his words without translation. “But Britain is a wide land. A land where men might bring up families, till fields, raise cattle and sheep, and prosper. You Saxons already have lands of your own in the east. Lands granted to you by dead kings and that I do not wish to dispute. Lands your people have held for generations. Lands where you live side-by-side with British farmers, marrying their young women, in peace. I do not wish to drive you from those lands. I do not dispute your hard-won right to be there.”
He glanced at Cerdic, who translated quickly, while Aelle and Octha listened, puzzled frowns settling on their heavy brows.
When Cerdic finished speaking, Arthur went on. “I have fought against your people all my life– as a prince beside my father, as Dux of Britain, King of Dumnonia and now as High King. Rivers of blood have flowed, and the dead are without number.”
He threw out his right hand to encompass the piles of Saxon corpses still lying in the dirt. “This carnage can go on for as long as you wish. We, the British, are united in our cause. You do not fight one kingdom– you fight all of us. We will not let you steal our lands. If you continue your aggression, we will take the fight into your lands and to the doorsteps of your houses. We’ll burn your farms so your wives and children will starve in winter. We’ll maim your warriors so they cannot fight or till the land. We’ll destroy your ships and set them blazing on the water. You will regret not making a peace with me here today.”
He paused and Cerdic translated.
Aelle and Octha exchanged glances but remained silent. What were they thinking?
Arthur waited a few moments before he continued, letting the silence stretch out. No one moved. Everyone was listening. At last, he spoke. “But I don’t want that. I, as victor, would have it that we call a truce. That you and I agree to a peace between our people. That this battle, here today, shall mark the end of all hostility. That we shall learn to live, if not together then side-by-side, in peace.” He turned his hand palm uppermost, almost in supplication. “What say you?”
Cerdic translated.
For a long moment, Aelle regarded Arthur through narrowed eyes. What was going through his head? Perhaps that a fool stood before him who had his enemy in his power yet wanted to strike a deal. Perhaps that what Arthur suggested was reasonable and wise. Who knew?
Then, without taking his eyes from Arthur, he spoke to Cerdic again.
We waited. I schooled my face to calmness, mirroring my husband’s.
Cerdic’s eyes moved from Arthur to Aelle, then back again. “My uncle says that you speak wise words. He is not young anymore. He says he’s not a fool, either. You defeated two armies here, and you drew not only upon your own forces, but upon mine– and although he calls me traitor to my mother’s people, he acknowledges the power you have that brought me to your side.” He cleared his throat. “He will make a treaty with you, one Bretwalda to another.” He paused. “Bretwalda is to him and his people what High King is to yours… to ours.”
Arthur nodded. “As he is Bretwalda, can I trust that he speaks for all his people? That if we agree today, and we make a treaty together, it will encompass every Saxon, every Angle, every Jute who seeks to call our islands home? That all hostilities will cease, that his people will remain in what have become their ancestral lands here in Britain, and not bring battle to the west? Because if they go against him, then I will rain down my revenge, starting with him in Ceint.”
A quick exchange of words flashed between Cerdic and his uncle.
