Page 93 of The Road to Avalon
“Lay down your arms!” Arthur’s voice echoed across the plain, deep and commanding. “Lay down your arms, and submit to the judgement of your High King. YourappointedHigh King.”
Medraut stood at the front of his men, the solid shape of Cinbelin beside him. As I watched, he too urged his horse forward, but not so far as Arthur had done, perhaps afraid one of our archers might be a better shot than his. The sort of trick he’d play, and one I’d not shy away from myself. How easily Camlann could be averted, and the legend changed by a sniper with a rifle. If only.
Clearly both leaders had the measure of each other.
“Walk away, old man,” Medraut bellowed back. “While you’re still alive. Your time is done, and Din Cadan and Dumnonia belong to me, now.” He paused, probably for breath. “You can keep your Ring Maiden. What would I need her for, when I have the Sword of Destiny?”
With an overly theatrical flourish, he whipped out the sword Arthur had long ago pulled from the stone in the forum at Viroconium and brandished it above his head. Probably it had played a big part in winning the young warriors over to his side. Arthur’s men had always been a superstitious lot, and the young were as bad, or worse, than the older ones. Medraut was more than clever enough to have used this sword to his advantage.
Medraut’s warriors set up a rousing cheer, and a rumble of disquiet rustled through the ranks of Arthur’s army. They must all have known by now that Medraut had the sword, but seeing it probably hammered it home. Most of them were of an age to have been present when their king drew it from the stone.
Arthur wisely didn’t let them ruminate on that for long. With the air of a conjuror pulling a rabbit out of his hat, he drew Excalibur, an altogether more splendid weapon, from its sheath and raised it solemnly above his own head.
The damascene blade glimmered in the sunlight, flashing and reflecting the light in arcs that shot across the battlefield. As if by magic, the cheers of Medraut’s men died to nothing, as the sword drew every gaze.
“What is that plain warrior’s weapon when compared with Excalibur, the sword of the Emperor, Macsen Wledig?” Arthur shouted into the silence. “A sword that lay waiting, hidden where none could find it, for the chosen heir to take it up. I put aside the sword you bear, because its time and usefulness was over.Thisis the sword of kingship. The sword that makes me High King and will defeat you today.”
Movement whispered between Medraut’s men, who’d no doubt been swayed by Arthur’s words. Every man here, on both sides, had seen Excalibur on Arthur’s hip enough times, and they all knew the story of how he’d come by it, augmented a little in each telling, often by me. Not for nothing did I know the stories of the Lady of the Lake, and I’d seen no reason not to repeat them. They’d not been disbelieved. Now everyone believed a mysterious arm had risen from the waters of the lake and handed Arthur the sword he’d had to dive for. I had past experience at recreating legends.
“And I alreadyhavethe Ring Maiden,” Arthur shouted, after a pause to let his words sink in. “She’s here, with me, and she has the ring.” He threw a glance over his shoulder at his warriors, a complicit grin on his face, then turned to face Medraut again. “Your last chance to surrender, nephew. The last chance your men will have to live. What do you say?”
Silence fell. Might Medraut be considering surrender? Might he turn tail and run? The better choice. No chance. If he did, he’d never command the respect of any man again, and this was a proud young man we were facing, one who wouldn’t want to lose face and who thought he had a better than good chance of winning. No, a man who believed he was facing men who were past it and that hewouldwin.
“Fucking little bastard,” one of the warriors nearest to me muttered to his neighbor.
The neighbor nodded. “I’d like to nail his balls to the door of the Great Hall and stick his head on a spike by the gates.”
“And chuck the rest of him in for the pigs to eat.”
They shifted their grips on their throwing spears and exchanged macabre grins.
“Just let me at him,” the first one said. “I’ll show him who’s old.”
Medraut swung his horse around and urged it back to the ranks, where he spun it again to face us. Still with his sword in his hand, he stood in his stirrups. His voice carried across the battlefield. “Sound the charge!”
Battle horns rang out from within his ranks, long and strident.
Arthur’s shout rose above the distant braying. “Sound our horns. Ready to charge.”
I tightened my grip on Enfys’s reins, knowing she’d try to join in. In front of me, the horses’ backs lowered as the powerhouses of their quarters bunched beneath them.
“For Dumnonia!” the cry rang out.
Like coiled springs released, they leapt forward from standstill into gallop. I fought for control, spinning Enfys in a circle while trying to keep my eyes on the backs of the charging warriors.
Spears lanced through the air. Dull thuds sounded as they sank into wooden shields, the metal tips bending as they did so, forcing men to throw down their suddenly unwieldy only protection. A hundred and fifty yards from where I struggled with Enfys, the two armies came together with a crash that rose to the sky in a cacophony of raucous, tearing sound.
Chaos.
A battle is never ordered no matter how the two sides start. Wood splintered, swords rang, hooves trampled in the dirt, horses squealed. The dust of a long hot summer rose in a cloud about the fighting men. Choking, it stuck to sweaty bodies, got up noses and into eyes. Men fell underfoot and were trampled. Swords slashed and blood spurted. The buzzards swooped lower, the smell of blood luring them ever closer.
Impossible to keep track of our men. Impossible to keep Arthur in my sights.
Any man fighting for his life is an ugly thing. There’s nothing noble about the hacking of swords, the spouting blood, the spraying of brains, the cries of the wounded and dying. Still less when the men fighting are old friends: fathers against sons and nephews; sons against fathers and uncles.
Arthur had trained most of the men now fighting against him. He’d sparred with them on the practice grounds, laughed with them, congratulated them on learning a new tactic. They wereallhis men and yet Medraut had turned them with easy offers of booty and glory. How fickle is a man, how treacherous and greedy, how out only for his own advancement.
Camlann, being fought on the plain below Din Cadan on the edge of the tiny River Cam, where one day the quiet village of Queen Camel would lie, was a battle that should never have been fought. A battle I’d known was coming but hadn’t been able to avert.
