Chapter Text
Cadwallo looked at Arthur with a dark, hooded gaze. He was no longer being insolent, no longer throwing up his chin with the proud hauteur he had displayed the evening before, when Merlin—arrayed in a velvet robe richly embroidered with gold thread as the formal envoy—had set out the terms of a possible truce. Those terms had been rejected with contempt and swaggering bravado.
Now the showy arrogance of the king of Gwynedd had fallen away, and his movements were stiff and awkward. Even his horse shifted nervously from foot to foot, as though it had caught all its master’s fretfulness.
Hengroen, by contrast, stood rooted like a pillar, his splendid white mane lifting as he held his head high. The powerful, well-schooled stallion waited obediently for his rider’s signal, swishing his tail with lazy assurance.
The host of Gwynedd, which only yesterday had seemed formidable, was now hemmed into a half-ring by superior forces. The knights of Camelot held the center. Troops from Powys and Dyfed, who had arrived at the field by morning, took the flanks.
Had the men of Ceredigion not been delayed, a full encirclement could have been achieved, as originally planned. Yet that would likely serve as a compelling final argument for the ruler of Gwynedd if he persisted.
Arthur had summoned Cadwallo to parley, as ever hoping to avoid senseless bloodshed and to lessen any harm that might be done.
Surrounded by knights in scarlet cloaks bearing his family crest and by the retinues of his vassals, the king of Camelot looked perfectly composed—strength and certainty embodied.
The massive crown’s gleam in the sun climbing toward its zenith only underscored the sense of plain superiority.
A popinjay.
Naturally, Arthur was counting that, should the negotiations fail, he would return to his place at the head of the host, and faithful Edmund—the quick, freckled lad who had by chance become the king’s manservant and squire and the Chief Counselor’s apprentice—would be ready to snatch the crown and hand up the helmet in its stead.
Yet Merlin had spent enough years at his lord’s side to notice that those broad shoulders were relaxed a shade too deliberately, and the firm thighs pressed a fraction too close to the stallion’s flanks—ready to give a silent command at any instant.
The keen eye of the Chief Royal Counselor, riding a little behind and to the right of his monarch, did not miss, either, how tightly the gloved fists clenched the reins.
“If we part in peace now, you will keep the lives of your warriors, your throne, the right of succession for your heirs, and two thirds of your lands.” The clear, commanding voice of the High king of Albion carried across the field, closing the distance between opponents and reaching the ears of the foremost ranks on both sides.
“Just two thirds?! Yesterday your envoy spoke of three quarters!” the ruler of Gwynedd shouted in anger, jerking his chin toward the Chief Counselor, who sat at a respectful remove from the king.
Merlin pretended not to hear Cadwallo’s indignant words, but he did note how their foe started to take up his reins with his left hand to steady the mare, then stopped mid-gesture and kept them in his right. Arthur, though, smiled into his short fair beard and gave a slight shrug.
“That was yesterday. That agreement concerned only Camelot’s portion. Now Camelot, Powys, and Dyfed will divide a third of Gwynedd’s lands among themselves, each along his side of the border. You will acknowledge the primacy of my throne over yours, send a third of your revenues in gold and grain to Camelot each year, and present yourself with your host at my first summons.”
“This is robbery outright! You cannot expect me to sign such a thing! I value my people’s lives, but I will not become your vassal, Arthur Pendragon—insatiable usurper of Albion’s lands!”
Sir Leon, who had ridden to the parley at his king’s left hand, clenched his jaw and stroked the hilt of his sword. Disapproval was written clearly upon the First Knight’s face, but of course he did not presume to intrude. The silver in his thick curls flashed dazzlingly in the sun.
Cadwallo, who sat before the three of them in the center of what would soon be the field of battle, perched uneasily on his fidgeting mare, looked somehow solitary and almost… pitiable.
A ruler who needed no other counsel, ever certain of his own rightness and convinced he held it by right of birth.
“Well then?” Arthur smiled with the left corner of his mouth, as though he had not heard the insult. “You may still indulge your pride and wait till evening. But then the treaty will speak not of a third, but a half of your lands, and the heirs to your throne will be named by Camelot’s sovereign. Or you may trust to fortune and give battle…”
Hengroen snorted and gave a bold toss of his head, as if he took his master’s words for a good jest.
“But I would not count on there being anything left of Gwynedd after the fight. I shall simply portion these lands among my allies who joined this campaign, and your ancestral stronghold I shall grant to one of my knights—one of those who most distinguish themselves this day.”
“Are you not a little too sure of yourself, Arthur Pendragon? I have heard many tall tales of your knights’ feats. But how long since you took a sword in your own hands? They say you prefer to sit snug behind your Round Table, feast and grow fat on ale, and trust to the protection of your secret sorcerer! Who knows—perhaps you have dragged him here as well?”
What an arrogant fool!
As if sharing Merlin’s thought, Leon stared at Cadwallo with wide eyes and pressed his lips tight in displeasure.
“Perhaps I have,” Arthur said. “Only, I have never in my life hidden behind other men’s backs. On that point your tales are false.”
There was no iron in his tone, but the Chief Counselor knew too well the hidden tender spots of his beloved king, and Cadwallo had trodden on one, likely without knowing it though. Reckless idiot.
Only a fortnight ago Merlin had managed to soothe that foolish crisis which had dragged on nearly all winter. A few sudden, carefully planned assaults of love—with the requisite passionate and rather rough stripping of a shirt in the middle of the day—and one wholly unplanned, stormy outburst of jealousy over a new royal barber whom the warlock judged far too impudent and overfree with his hands upon the king. After that, Arthur—who had filled out a little in recent years—at last stopped fretting over the loss of his allure and eating nothing but greens and cheese. And then this wretch had to blurt out his “grow fat”!
“What say you to settling this dispute man to man? You and I alone! On foot! A duel with swords—till first blood!”
Brave words, forsooth.
Arthur kept his silence, waiting for his opponent’s final terms. Thus far all was going as he had hoped.
“If I win,” Cadwallo said, “you and your pack will quit my borders at once. And if you win, I shall give you a quarter of my realm, but my heirs shall continue to rule in Gwynedd.”
Arthur drew an idle breath and narrowed his eyes a little against the sun, judging at what angle it would strike his face during the bout to come. He let his gaze rove unhurriedly round the field. As though he had not been expecting a duel from the moment they rode to the center. As though he were only now weighing and assessing the idea, and had not counted on this very turn when he set out on campaign.
For the first time since the meeting began, Merlin drew a full breath. He had not realized until then he had been holding it. No matter how many wars he saw, they always weighed heavy on him. The prospect of a heap of corpses and a mass of wounded, the worry for friends and the watching over prisoners—these always angered and troubled him.
“If I win,” Arthur said, “you will yield half. You will acknowledge Camelot’s primacy over Gwynedd. The demand for a third in grain and gold stands. Camelot will not meddle in questions of succession. That is my last word.” He stripped off his glove. “Accept, and we fight on foot now, with swords only, till first blood, as you proposed. Refuse, and surrender at once—or hope for a miracle, for only that will spare you encirclement and shameful captivity.”
At the first words, Merlin had already called Edmund—silently, mind to mind—well before the terms were finished. The fleet-footed druid lad ran the width of the field to his king. Thus, when Cadwallo spat a savage “I accept,” dismounted, and stooped to lift the thrown glove—reaching for it with his left hand again—Arthur took off his crown and, with a distracted air, held it out to the right. Helpful hands were already there, ready to receive it.
While the king of Camelot dismounted, put on his helmet, and gave Hengroen’s reins to Edmund, the First Knight and the Chief Counselor drew near their sovereign. Sir Leon heard his lord’s word of command: in case of defeat, withdraw the host at once; in case of victory, stand ready. Merlin, bending to the king’s ear, warned softly, “He is a natural left-hander who strives to pass for a right-handed man.” Meeting Arthur’s surprised and grateful look, he moved away again, his eyes never leaving the two men preparing for the duel or the restless sea of armed men around them.
News of the terms of single combat swept the ranks like a sudden gust of wind. And just as quickly all fell still.
The air over the field filled with a nervous silence.
Opponents faced one another and exchanged ceremonial courtesies. A heartbeat later Excalibur flashed from its sheath, and the duel began.
* * *
Cadwallo was not a skilled warrior. Even to a man untutored in the arts of war it was evident that he relied more on his strength and great height than on swordcraft. No wonder he had proposed to fight on foot.
He stood almost two heads taller than Arthur and, driving forward like a battering ram, looming like a crag, plainly counted on a few swift rushes to throw his foe into confusion, to force him to abandon any thought of attack and choose a purely defensive stance.
An arrogant fool—picking a fight with one of Albion’s finest and not troubling to learn his style!
Arthur was far too seasoned for such tricks. True, at thirty-eight he might no longer be as quick and nimble as in his youth, but the skills he had honed since he could walk—and exercised daily against opponents of every age and build—had not vanished.
The king of Camelot read his opponent’s movements two steps ahead. He could foretell where the man would go, how he would strike, how he would try to guard.
Watching the ease with which that tempered, spellbound blade moved—striking true, never missing—Merlin felt confidence spread through his whole body. The bout would end quickly, and in Arthur’s favor.
Perhaps it was a surprise to Cadwallo and his men, but to those who knew their fair-haired sovereign well, it was obvious who was fighting and who was being permitted to fight.
At the field’s edge stood a small copse—the remnant of a burned wood. From afar one could see that one fighter was pressing the other toward the jutting stumps of charred trees.
Arthur played with the king of Gwynedd as a cat with a mouse, turning the man’s towering height against him, wearing him down, forcing him to change the pace, to pour strength into futile lunges, to hold back for want of room to maneuver. He was driving Cadwallo into a trap.
Merlin suddenly remembered how he himself had once tried to fend off the sudden and seemingly headlong rush of a presumptuous youth armed with a mace. What marked this Arthur, tempered by years and battles, off from that swaggering, hot-headed youth was clear: the boy charged in, certain of quick triumph and hungry to dazzle; the man spent no strength on show. He fought in his assured, merciless fashion, without wasted effort, having no need to seem great—only to be so…
Economy of motion, clean and sharp from years of practice. Masterly footwork. A flawless sense of ground. It was impossible to watch and not be moved to admiration.
Pride in his king filled the Chief Counselor’s heart almost against his will. Few sights on earth could compare to Arthur, whole and in good spirits, fighting one to one. Even when he was not trying to impress… and when he was… He always impressed his faithful warlock.
The one thing Arthur sought now was to give the illusion of an equal fight. Percival would long since have wounded this blundering boor in either clumsy flank—or in those unbending legs. Leon would have been only too glad to put him in his place, the quicker and the more humiliating the better. But Arthur was wiser.
Knowing he dealt with a dull-witted braggart, he would not create a personal enemy consumed with the desire to avenge a reputation as a stout fighter—trampled in front of a multitude of witnesses.
He even let his opponent land one successful blow. The blow was hard but ill-aimed: the king of Gwynedd struck with the flat, and it only skated along the stout armor. Even so, Arthur’s right shoulder felt it.
The very spot where, five years ago, a foul water-horse—a kelpie—had bitten him while the king, having mounted the writhing creature, was wrenching off its bridle. The monster’s sharp teeth had gone through plate and chainmail and torn away a great lump of flesh and muscle.
Despite all Merlin’s efforts, the wound had taken near half a year to heal. Long and grievous. The arm had been damaged to the bone. The court physician had called it a wonder that its former freedom was restored. The vile bite made itself known whenever the weather turned damp and cold, and whenever the king had to sleep upon the ground.
Perhaps Cadwallo had, after all, made some inquiries before the duel…
The Chief Counselor would not allow himself to be dragged into heavy memories, but he could not quite master the anxiety growing in him.
The pretense of an even contest went on until the tall knight, to his own surprise, struck his shin against a fallen trunk half-sunk in the earth and grown over with moss. Surely the king of Gwynedd, unlike Arthur, had not spent time taking the measure of the ground. Arthur remembered not only this obstacle but kept in mind where he stood with respect to it at every instant of the bout.
Cadwallo toppled onto his back. His sword was knocked from his hand at once, and Excalibur’s edge came to rest at his throat. But the fallen man—no stickler for honor—whipped a short dagger from his boot and struck for Arthur’s leg.
A treacherous blow. A knave’s stroke.
Merlin’s magic moved faster than his thought. It sprang to shield his beloved warrior—but Excalibur’s enchantment worked first. In Arthur’s hands the long blade immediately turned a fraction, catching a ray of the sun and flinging the light into the enemy’s eyes. The dagger blow struck the charred, brittle branch that jutted toward Camelot’s king, and the wood gripped the blade like a vise.
Blood welled from a scratch upon the prone man’s throat. The crowd behind Merlin raised a shout of joy.
Arthur, long accustomed to his sword’s “special fastidiousness” regarding the agreed rules of combat, bent a little over his vanquished foe.
“For your attempt to betray the terms of the duel—terms you proposed yourself—I shall add one more article to the peace.”
Cadwallo swallowed and could not help it; the motion made the edge slide upon his skin and deepen the cut. He tugged in vain at the dagger again.
“The reckoning and transport of the grain and coin due to Camelot will be overseen by my men. They will have board and lodging in your castle as my permanent envoys.”
“And as your spies…”
Arthur smiled, lifted the sword, and stepped back a pace or two, signaling that he considered the duel ended.
Vexed and beaten, Cadwallo sat on the ground, worrying his ill-starred dagger, trying to draw it from its wooden prison. But the branch—rotten as it seemed—refused to yield its prey. Perhaps it had a little help.
Cadwallo’s sword lay far too distant to think of continuing. Realizing he was defeated, he struck the earth with his fist, kicked the dead trunk a few times, and at last got to his feet.
Only when Arthur and Cadwallo had exchanged a clasp of hands, then turned their backs on each other and taken several steps away from the center, and when faithful servants had led up their masters’ horses, did Merlin allow the dagger to slip free of the branch.
The loving eyes of the Chief Counselor did not miss how carefully his king worked his right shoulder as he slid his blade—stained with an enemy’s blood—back into the scabbard. As though his own sword had suddenly grown too heavy for his hand. Nor did the warlock miss how tightly the victor clenched his teeth as he climbed into the saddle.
Upon riding up to where Merlin awaited him, Arthur gave him a satisfied smile; but, catching his counselor’s look, he deliberately rolled his eyes. “Do not take leave of your senses; it is only a bruise.” The warlock sighed and followed after his lord, patiently keeping watch as he issued orders to wheel the host.
Returning to camp and dismounting, the king went to his counselor, who had but just come down from his horse, laid his right hand upon the dark-haired man’s wrist where it gripped the saddle-bow, met his eyes, and said softly, “Honestly, do not fret over such a trifle. The stroke merely chanced to fall upon the very spot of the old hurt; I have had worse. It will be gone in a day or two.”
The warlock kept stubborn silence; lips pressed in doubt.
“I am better already.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.” The king let his hand fall to his side and worked his shoulder—without any great effort. Merlin relaxed a little. “Come on, cheer up!”
The Chief Counselor brightened, though unwillingly.