Part 27 (2/2)

The King set sail at last on a cloudy day with white spume blowing back from the wave-tops and the far sky leaning low over the heaving grey. The sea witch, it seemed, held sway over the Channel waters.

Though the wind had changed its quarter at last, sea and sky alike still seemed to conspire against Arthur her old enemy. Even the gulls, flakes ripped from the white waves, drove to and fro in the wind with shrieks of uncanny laughter, like a mockery. A gloomy, driving sea, without glitter, without light, heaved northward in the sudden turn of the wind. A gust took the Sea Dragon Sea Dragon 's standard and shredded it into streamers that whirled downwind. ”An omen,” men whispered, but Arthur, looking up, laughed, and said: 's standard and shredded it into streamers that whirled downwind. ”An omen,” men whispered, but Arthur, looking up, laughed, and said: ”He has gone ahead of us. If we seize the weather, we shall fly as fast as he.”

And fly they did. What they could not know was that Cynric's Saxons had seized the same chance of wind, and that the longboats were also on their way across the Narrow Sea. Long and low, in those heaving seas the British caught no sight of them until, in the final gleams of a late and clouded afternoon, as they scudded along with the line of the Saxon Sh.o.r.e like a white wall on the horizon, the Sea Dragon Sea Dragon 's lookout saw what looked like Saxon longs.h.i.+ps riding in nearer the coast.

But when the King, with the heavy slowness that he showed these days, clambered up to a viewpoint by the mast, the longs.h.i.+ps - or their shadows - were gone.

”South Saxon s.h.i.+ps, caught by the change of wind,” said the master, at Arthur's elbow. ”Shallow draught. They're lucky. They'll be back at anchor now, and no trouble to us. If we- He did not finish. A shout from the masthead made them all look round.

Low over the sea, its rain tearing out like a witch's hair, came a squall. Its shadow fled on before like a doom. The master shouted. The seamen ran to their places. King, knights, sailors gripped the nearest stay.

The squall struck. In an instant all was screaming wind and rain. The air was black. Water cascaded down, whipping their faces so that they covered their eyes. The little s.h.i.+p shook and shuddered, stopped as if struck on a rock, then heeled over, reared and bucked like a frightened horse. Ropes strained and snapped. The whole s.h.i.+p's structure groaned. Somewhere a crack of timber gave warning.

The squall blew for perhaps ten minutes. When, as suddenly as it had come, it blew away, fleeing over the sea above its shadow, the fleet, scattered and damaged, found itself driven almost within hailing distance of the coast. But the coast was the West Saxon sh.o.r.e, and there was no way that they could beat farther westward against a capriciously veering wind, to make the Dumnonian harbours, or even the debated shelter of Potters' Bay.

The King, with water licking the lower deck of the Sea Dragon, Sea Dragon, and two of her sister s.h.i.+ps wallowing badly alongside, gave the order. and two of her sister s.h.i.+ps wallowing badly alongside, gave the order.

And so the sea witch drove Arthur ash.o.r.e in Saxon territory where Cerdic's son Cynric, watching for the stragglers of his own immigrant fleet, rested with a band of his men after their stormy voyage. To him, from the ruins of the Roman lighthouse, came the watchman, running. s.h.i.+ps - three s.h.i.+ps, and others heading sh.o.r.ewards behind them - were coming into the deep harbour to westward. There was no standard, no device. But by their lines and rig they were British s.h.i.+ps, and they were setting insh.o.r.e where they surely had no right to be. He had had, in the rapidly worsening light, no hint of their beaten condition.

Cynric did not know that the proposed immigration was known to, and approved by the British; nor could he know that, by Mordred's new treaty with Cerdic, the incoming British s.h.i.+ps were welcome to land. He drew his own conclusions. His landing had been observed, and was now, perhaps, to be opposed. He sent a messenger urgently inland to report his arrival and summon Cerdic's help, then gathered his men together to oppose the British landing.

If the two forces could have held apart long enough for the leaders to recognize one another or dispatch and receive a message, all might have been well. But they met in the growing dusk of that murky day, each side bent on its own desperate course and blind to all else.

The Saxons were tired after a stormy voyage, and most of them strange to the country and therefore alive to apprehension. They also had with them their women and children. Primed with legends about the wars fought for each hide of land since Hengist's time, and seeing the incoming troops at a disadvantage as their craft ran insh.o.r.e, they seized their weapons and raced down to the attack.

Arthur was indeed at a sad disadvantage. His men were highly trained and seasoned troops, but they had had little rest, and were some of them still suffering badly from the effects of the voyage. He did have one stroke of luck: the horse carriers, seeking a flat beach, had ventured farther along the coast to land, so those of the cavalry mounts which had survived the crossing uninjured were safely got to sh.o.r.e some distance off. But they - Arthur's best troops - could be no help against Cynric's men. Arthur and those of his knights who were with him, met by armed Saxons as they struggled up the steep and streaming pebbles of the sh.o.r.e, fought on foot and in no sort of order. The struggle was disorganized, b.l.o.o.d.y and, on both sides, disastrous. Just before dark a panting messenger on a lathered pony came to Cynric's side. The message pa.s.sed. Cerdic was on his way and Britain's new king with him. Cynric was to withdraw.

Cynric, thankfully, withdrew as best he could, his men streaming off inland into the gathering darkness, guided by the messenger towards the oncoming army of the West Saxons.

Arthur, exhausted but unhurt, listened in silence to the report of someone who had heard the Saxon's shouted message.

”It was Cynric himself, my lord, who led this attack. Now he has sent to his father for help, and Cerdic is coming. With Britain's new king, I heard them say so, marching against you to help Cynric and these invaders.”

Arthur, weary to death and grieving over his losses, which were even now being a.s.sessed, leaned heavily on his spear, confused, and, what was strange to him, irresolute. That ”Britain's new king” must be Mordred was obvious. Even if Mordred believed him, Arthur, dead, he would hardly march with Saxons to intercept British troops.h.i.+ps obviously bringing home Arthur's battle-weary troops, unless Constantine had been right, and he coveted the kingdom to the point of treachery.

Someone was approaching, his feet sliding in the grinding pebbles. As Arthur turned, half expecting the angry Orkney voice at his elbow, triumphant over this evidence of treachery, a man came up.

”My lord, my lord! Prince Gawain is hurt. His boat was wrecked as it drove ash.o.r.e, and he was wounded even before he could come to land. It is thought that he is dying.”

”Take me there,” said the King.

Gawain had been carried ash.o.r.e on a stretcher of smashed planking from the wrecked boat. The remains of this, splintered and gaping, lay tilted on the s.h.i.+ngle in the edge of the tide. Bodies of the dead and wounded lay about on the beach, looking like heaps of sodden clothing.

Gawain was conscious, but it was plain that he had received his death wound. His face was waxen, and his breathing shallow and spa.r.s.e.

Arthur bent over him. ”How is it with you, nephew?”

The pale lips gaped. In a while Gawain whispered: ”My evil luck. Just as the war starts.”

The war he had wanted, had almost worked for. The King put the thought aside, and stooping lower, moistened the dying man's lips from his wine flask.

The lips moved again.

”What's that? I didn't hear.”

”Bedwyr,” said Gawain.

”Yes,” said the King, wondering. ”Bedwyr is well enough. They say he is recovering fast.”

”Bedwyr...”

”Gawain, I know that you have much to forgive Bedwyr for, but if you are asking me to take any message other than one of forgiveness and friends.h.i.+p, you ask in vain, dying or no.”

”Not that. Bring Bedwyr back now. Needed. Help you kill... the traitor... Mordred.”

Arthur made no reply to that. But in a few moments he could see that none was needed.

So, still counselling murder and strife, died the fourth of Morgause's sons. Leaving only the one, Mordred, his own son. Mordred, the traitor? Mordred, the traitor?

8.

MORDRED WAS BACK IN CAMELOTwhen the news reached him of fighting on the south coast.

No details were given. Mindful of his commitment to Cerdic, he gathered what troops were available and hastened southward, falling in with the West Saxon army just as a second messenger came panting with a fuller but strange-sounding version of what had happened.

His story was this: King Arthur's troops.h.i.+ps had been sighted by the Saxon sh.o.r.e-dwellers, appearing soon after the longs.h.i.+ps, unable to reach the harbour at the mouth of the Itchen, had discharged their cargo of immigrants in the shallow, sheltered water behind Seal Island. Then a flying scud of cloud and mist had blotted out the fleet. The Saxon incomers, nervous, and not knowing what to expect from the approaching s.h.i.+ps, had hurried their women and children inland away from the sh.o.r.e, and gathered in a defensive crowd within reach of signals from the lighthouse. The sh.o.r.e-folk who had come down to receive them gave them quick rea.s.surance. They were safe now. The High King's s.h.i.+ps, whether or no the King himself was on board, would not come into the sh.o.r.e ports, which were by treaty ceded to the Saxons these many years.

But hard on the rea.s.surance came the runner from the lighthouse, gasping. The s.h.i.+ps had turned under cover of the squall, had come insh.o.r.e, and were even now landing armed men on the beaches only a short way to the west. It was apparent that, having been warned of this fresh influx of Saxon immigrants, Arthur had hoped to stop them by sea, but having failed, had sent his troops ash.o.r.e to kill them or take them prisoner. To those who expressed doubt of this - these were the citizens of long standing, and Cynric himself was among them - the newcomers would not listen. The risk was too great. If the British meant business, and were allowed time to get their horses ash.o.r.e... Everyone knew the reputation of Arthur's cavalry....

So the Saxons, unorganized and weary as they were, had charged to the beaches and closed with Arthur's men. There they had met slaughter and defeat, and now, exhausted, were straggling inland with the frightened inhabitants of the sh.o.r.e villages, with Arthur and his cavalry in pursuit. And, the messenger concluded, with a sidelong glance of mistrust at Mordred, the Saxons - men, women, and little children - cried to their king for help against Arthur the breaker of treaties, the invader of their rightful kingdom, the slayer of lawful and peaceful incomers.

The distressful tale came pelting out, in the rough tongue of the Saxon peasant. It is doubtful if Mordred understood more than one word in three. But he grasped the central fact, and, rigid at Cerdic's side, felt the cold creep over him as if the blood drained from his body down into the chalky earth. The man stopped speaking, Cerdic began a question, but across it Mordred, for once heedless of courtesy, demanded harshly: ”The High King? Is that what he is saying? That Arthur himself is there?”

”Yes. It seems,” said Cerdic, with fierce self-control, ”that we have moved too soon, Prince Mordred!”

”This is certain?”

”Certain.”

”This changes everything.” Mordred, with an effort, made the under statement calmly, but his mind was whirling. What had happened could lead - had already led - to complete disaster: for himself, for the Queen, for the future of Britain.

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