Warriors of Camlann Read online

  Gawain spoke good Latin to Bedewyr’s evident surprise. His companion’s face remained closed, unreadable. He was a big man, broad shouldered and heavily muscled. His face was wide and his nose, broken more than once, gave him the pugnacious air of a boxer. A thin scar that ran down one side of his face from temple to chin – a knife wound by the look of it – gave his mouth a slightly twisted look.

  ‘I am Medraut, rightful King of Ceint and Count of the Saxon Shore. I believe you are a friend of the Druid.’ The man’s eyes were grey and cold, but he made no move to draw a weapon.

  Gawain felt his heart pump faster. There was danger here and he was unarmed. This man had the eyes of a killer.

  ‘I was attacked and sadly my memory of the Druid, as of all else, eludes me. But I am grateful to Bedewyr, for he helped me when I was wounded. I am in his debt.’

  Medraut gave him a bold, appraising stare. ‘I see you are unarmed.’

  ‘But for my dog.’

  The dog’s teeth were still bared and he gave a low growl.

  ‘A fine specimen,’ said Medraut.

  Gawain made his gaze as uncompromising as Medraut’s own. It was a kind of challenge, as blatant in its way as the dog’s warning growl.

  Medraut seemed to accept it as such, but continued: ‘Welcome to Camulodunum, the seat of Arturus Urbicus, War Duke of Britain.’

  Gawain inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of the reluctant welcome and signalled for the war dog to cease his growling. Keeping a close eye on Medraut he rode on beside him.

  It was dark by the time they reached Camulodunum proper. The great Roman walls of stone were mixed with layers of red tiles; clear even in the flickering light of the braziers that lit the walls. The stone structure was topped by a well-manned wooden palisade. To Gawain it seemed that the whole area thrummed with nervous tension, with the anxieties of many men at battle readiness. It made his own stomach churn with nerves. The gate to Camulodunum was massive and heavily guarded. It swung open to admit them and Gawain found himself facing a small cluster of strangers, all armed, he noted warily, and all were staring at him expectantly. A soldier took his horse and Medraut indicated that he should dismount. Gawain laid a warning hand on the war hound and stood to a kind of attention, though in truth he felt dizzy from the head wound, the long ride and the after-effects of the bloody battle.

  One man stepped forward from the waiting throng. He was wearing a dark hooded cloak that covered most of his face and body, but there was something familiar about his movements, something that hovered on the very edge of Gawain’s memory. The man clasped him in a warm embrace.

  ‘Daniel, by Lugh, it is you and you are safe.’

  ‘Do I know you?’ Gawain’s voice was hesitant.

  The man by way of answer threw back his hood and fixed him with a searching look. It was the bard, Taliesin. He looked older and his beard was greyer than the last time Dan had seen him, standing at Macsen’s shoulder, saluting him in farewell, but it was unmistakably Taliesin. He did not think to wonder at the change in him for in that one instant Gawain felt his personal universe tilt and realign. He moved from being Gawain, the unknown soldier, to Dan, schoolboy and former Combrogi warrior. It was a strange and dizzying realignment.

  ‘Taliesin? But what—?’

  ‘Later, Daniel,’ Taliesin whispered under his breath. ‘There is too much to say. But where is Ursula?’

  ‘I don’t know. We were together, and then there was an attack and there was no time. My God, Ursula!’ Dan paled. How could he have forgotten Ursula even with concussion? He felt flooded with appalling guilt. ‘I banged my head, and forgot who I was.’

  ‘And who is this boy, Druid, that you have brought to this citadel?’ It was Medraut, unmoved by the reunion.

  ‘Why, Medraut, I thought that a fighter such as yourself would recognise another in the same heroic mould. This is the Bear Sark of legend, come as I have ever promised to help us in our hour of darkest need.’ Taliesin paused for dramatic effect. ‘I have told you before of the prophecy given to me in the sacred grove by the wisest of sages. “As the bear on the high hillside protects the cubs, so The Bear of Ynys Prydein, the Island of the Mighty, protects its own. Remember The Bear and cherish it, for when The Bear is gone the hillside falls.” This man may yet fulfil the prophecy.’ Taliesin beamed triumphantly and Dan had the uncomfortable sensation that he had walked in on someone else’s dream. The world darkened and he felt a thundering in his ears like the sound of a thousand horsemen at full gallop. For the first time in his life he passed out.

  Dan woke to find himself in a chamber of some magnificence. He was lying on a sheepskin stretcher in a warm room. He heard voices arguing. He shut his eyes again the better to listen.

  ‘Look, whatever Taliesin has said to us in the past – he’s exaggerated. This Dan is a youth – no more. I don’t doubt that he knows how to fight in a skirmish but he’s no heroic fighter. He’s no older than Bedewyr.’

  Dan recognised the first voice as belonging to Medraut, the second was new to him.

  ‘And Bedewyr claims that this youth killed five Aenglisc single-handed – well, with the help of that dog of his.’

  Dan opened his eyes to see ‘that dog of his’, Braveheart, his faithful hound, mounting guard over his stretcher. Dan lay still, trying to orient himself. He was in a room of apparently Raven design and luxury. The complex mosaic of the floor was warm to the touch and the air was scented and clean. He was in Camulodunum, which even in Macsen’s day had been a major city – though admittedly less major, once Boudicca had burned it to the ground. Taliesin was there, surrounded by Ravens. What could be going on? He had left Taliesin with Macsen and the other Combrogi when he and Ursula, having defeated the Ravens, had entered the Veil. How could Taliesin be here, now, ahead of them, aged, and working with the Ravens? It made no sense. Did it matter? Whatever was going on, his first duty was to get out of the city, find Ursula and try to get them home. His thoughts were interrupted by the warm wetness of Braveheart’s tongue greeting his renewed consciousness with noisy enthusiasm.

  ‘I see you have awoken.’ It was a man’s voice, the same voice that had been speaking to Medraut.

  Dan struggled gracelessly to his feet with a little assistance from Braveheart.

  ‘Sir,’ he began, in Latin. ‘I apologise for the display of weakness – I sustained a head wound earlier, I—’

  ‘Please, no apology, come and make yourself comfortable. You would have wine? We still have wine to offer honoured guests.’

  The speaker was a slim young man, clean-shaven with short blond hair worn in a clipped military style. Dressed in a knee-length undyed tunic decorated with red roundels at the shoulders, he lay in Roman fashion on a shabby gilded couch. He waved Dan in the direction of a second couch, covered in a sheepskin to disguise its much-mended upholstery.

  ‘I am Arturus Urbicus, War Duke of Britannia, and I believe that you are the Bear Sark of legend.’

  Dan did not know how to respond to that, but sat awkwardly on the couch as if it were a sofa. He took the wine offered to him by a young servant boy in a homespun tunic, and sipped it. It was strong. He dare not drink more. He needed what remained of his wits.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  Medraut laughed abruptly. ‘You are not alone in that. According to the Druid, our merlin-man, you fight like a demon from the very bowels of hell and are exactly what we need to help our cause.’ His tone was mocking.

  Dan said nothing, being uncomfortably aware, for the first time, of the silent audience of men observing him from the furthest walls of the chamber. It was a very large hall and the domestic nature of the arranged couches had misled him from its public function. It was a kind of audience chamber and any impression of intimacy was illusory; all that was done here was done for display. That thought did not make him any more comfortable.

  ‘Are you the Bear Sark that the Druid has told us so much about?’

  Arturus looke
d at him with piercing blue eyes that seemed older and more harrowed than his youthful demeanour suggested. Dan felt compelled to honesty.

  ‘I was the Bear Sark, yes, but …’ He paused, aware of how strange his words would seem. ‘But, I do not think I am that person now.’

  There was another loud guffaw from Medraut who spoke rapidly to Arturus in the language of the Carvetii. ‘See, I told you. He is a fraud and a weakling – the Druid plays a game of his own. I don’t know why you trust him.’

  Dan wondered if the assembled men could understand Medraut’s rapid Carvettian, or had he changed languages only to keep his thought from Dan? In the same tongue, Dan replied, ‘I may be a weakling, but I am no fraud. I was called the Bear Sark before, when I fought for King Macsen …’ He paused, not knowing how to explain the gulf between that place and this. He understood now what Ursula had known at once at an almost cellular level: this was not Macsen’s world and they were not what they had once been. ‘I don’t know what you have been told about me but I’m not sure I am what you need. Anyway, I can’t stay here. I have to help my friend who is in trouble.’

  ‘The Boar Skull?’

  If Arturus had been surprised by Dan’s grasp of the tribal language he did not show it, his tone was measured, calm.

  ‘Yes, the Boar Skull.’

  Medraut murmured to Arturus, ‘I don’t like it. We should not trust this man.’

  ‘But what if he is the Bear Sark? To have such a figure with us would surely inspire the men. We would be fools to throw away such a prize! And then there is the prophecy …’ Arturus speaking in little more than a whisper glanced appraisingly at the waiting men, who were fidgeting slightly as they watched the scene played out. ‘And morale is not all it might be, since the High King Ambrosius died,’ he added in a harder undertone.

  Medraut smiled his twisted smile again.

  ‘There is only one thing to do! He has to fight. If he is the Bear Sark he will prove himself in battle; if he is not, then we will quickly be rid of him.’

  Medraut’s voice was cold and firm. Dan felt the sinking sensation in his gut that was a precursor to real fear. He never wanted to fight again. In the moment that his recognition of Taliesin had opened the floodgates of all his memories he had realised one thing. He was no longer a berserker. He was sane and whole and could not lose himself in the wild killing frenzy that had earned him his name. Now he was himself again, Dan, he did not think he could fight without it.

  Chapter Eight

  Six soldiers in variations on Roman military dress escorted Dan to the barracks training ground. He was not under arrest, for Arturus smoothly assured him that he was their honoured guest, but he was unarmed and the soldiers weren’t, so Dan drew his own conclusions. They had let him sleep in a guarded room with Braveheart but Taliesin had not come to visit as Dan had hoped. Maybe Medraut had prevented him. Dan was aware that for some reason the bulky soldier had taken a determined dislike to him. He did not know why.

  Dan had slept well, exhaustion overriding all other considerations. He had tried to think about the mystery of Taliesin’s presence, tried to think about what might have happened to Ursula, but his body had its own ideas and oblivion had overcome him. He had breakfasted on oatcakes drizzled with honey and ale of the kind that Macsen’s men had drunk, though not so finely brewed. It was weak enough not to worry him. His body, so many months among the Combrogi, was used to it.

  It was not long after dawn, and a cool morning. As Dan was marched through the straight streets of the Roman city, Braveheart by his side, his curiosity almost overrode his nerves. What he saw was not quite what he had expected of Camulodunum. They passed a vast temple decorated with brightly painted statues, but the paint had peeled to reveal the white marble beneath. Someone had placed a large rustic cross at the entrance and grass grew between the stone slabs that formed the steps. There were weeds too in the roads and many of the stone houses and shops were tumbled down or ruined. Some had been roughly mended with timber or straw with scant regard given to their appearance. There were some soldiers dressed in the Roman style but many more wore simple homespun tunics and cloaks, sporting just a helmet, a belt or a sword that bore the marks of Roman origin. The whole population had turned out to watch the fight and few of the townspeople wore Roman dress; the checks and plaids of the Combrogi were more in evidence, though their colours were muddier and less vibrant than those that Macsen’s men had worn. There was little evident display of wealth and Dan was disappointed. He had always wondered what a Roman city looked like. This one was clearly past its best.

  Dan was led into the amphitheatre, a vast arena, surrounded by tiers of ruined benches. Arturus’s men had formed a circle around the perimeter to make a smaller arena, and to make sure he could not escape, they stood with swords drawn. Crowds of people had followed them and were arranging themselves on the broken benches. Dan began to sweat in spite of the coolness of the morning. He wished he had his sword, Bright Killer. He wished he were still the Bear Sark. He wished he still possessed his capacity for madness. He looked out for Taliesin’s familiar form but saw no one he recognised except for Bedewyr, who rushed towards him.

  ‘Gawain—I mean, Dan!’

  ‘You can call me Gawain if you want to, Bedewyr. I’m not sure I know who I am anymore.’

  The oddness of that reply seemed to confuse Bedewyr further. ‘Well, I heard you are to fight Arturus’s champion, and I thought you might need me, as you didn’t know anyone else – I mean, besides the merlin-man.’

  ‘Who?’

  Bedewyr made some rapid sign against the evil eye. ‘I mean, beside the Druid you call Taliesin.’

  ‘Thank you. I—’

  ‘You will need a second to hold your cloak and to be sure that the fight is fair.’

  ‘Thank you, Bedewyr, I didn’t know that. Would you also take care of Braveheart for me and see that he is looked after if—’

  ‘Medraut won’t beat you.’

  ‘Medraut?’

  ‘He’s got a reputation, but he must be thirty years old! You would make a lot of people very happy if you finished him off.’

  ‘Finished him off? Is this a fight to the death?’

  ‘Oh yes. Arturus says it’s like the old games and a bit of old-fashioned gladiatorial killing is good for the men – gets their blood up. It’s the only thing he really disagrees with his priests and monks about. He’d bring back the gladiators if we had any fighting men to spare, which of course we don’t.’

  It was worse than he’d feared. Dan patted Braveheart’s head absently. He wished Ursula were there. She might have come up with something that meant he wouldn’t have to enter that arena of armed men and try to kill the formidable Medraut. He had only ever fought as a beserker or, in his brief period as Gawain, as an amnesiac working on instinct. He still couldn’t understand how, when he’d fought as Gawain, he could have experienced in his own body the blows he’d dealt his enemies. It seemed unbelievable and yet he was sure it was so. He needed Ursula’s calm common sense. Even if she had been unable to find a reason for him not to fight, just her presence would have helped. He felt very alone. He managed somehow to fake a smile for Bedewyr.

  ‘Thank you, Bedewyr, I would be very grateful if you would be my second. You couldn’t lend me a sword as well could you?’

  ‘The Duke Arturus will give you each a sword, to make sure there’s no foul play – poison and the like.’

  Bedewyr said it so breezily Dan was quite taken aback. What kind of a world was this?

  The guards guided him towards the lean figure of Arturus, muffled against the morning in a long, richly dyed cloak of emerald green. It was lined with fur and very beautiful but somewhat ineptly patched in places where the fine wool fabric had torn and pulled. His eyes were flint hard and unreadable.

  Medraut already stood before the Duke in his chain mail and elaborately decorated, gem-encrusted, crested helmet. Dan had no armour or weapon of any kind.

  ‘For t
his to be a fair fight I will arm you both,’ Arturus began, but Bedewyr interrupted.

  ‘Excuse me, Duke, but Gawain – I mean, Dan – has no armour. Surely the Count may not fight in his if his opponent has none?’

  ‘Do you challenge my justice, Bedewyr?’ Arturus did not raise his voice but managed to make it sound subtly threatening.

  Bedewyr flushed. ‘No sir, but—’

  ‘Your point has been noted but, in Dan, Medraut must fight a hero, while Dan fights a mere man, battle-hardened veteran though he may be. Be ready.’

  No one it seemed argued with the Duke for long. Dan signalled for Braveheart to stay at Bedewyr’s side, and accepted the sword from Arturus. It was not of the quality of Bright Killer, though fortunately it still had a killing edge as well as a stabbing point. It would have to do. He smiled more genuinely at Bedewyr as he gave him his cloak.

  ‘He favours his right hand and side but he’s very tricky,’ Bedewyr whispered, and Dan felt the dampness of his own sweat, suddenly cold on his skin. Now that he had regained his memory he knew he had always found his quiet place of inward focus before any major event in his life. When he had been a berserker that place had been red with blood and wildness. Now, it was, as it had always been when he raced or played football in his almost forgotten schooldays, the place where nervousness ended and where concentration began. He could still fight. He had fought as Gawain. The memory of that bloody battle sickened him. He did not want to kill again, but neither did he want to die. He closed his eyes briefly to prepare himself for combat and had an alarming vision of a young man in a soft woollen tunic, lean and well muscled, dark hair bound back in a braid. He opened his eyes in horrified confusion and for an instant he saw the young man’s eyes open; dark eyes, harder than his years suggested. He recognised the vision. It was himself.

  Dan started to sweat, his palms were damp and unless he was careful the hilt of the sword would become slick – he could not afford to lose his grip on his sword, or on reality. Something weird was happening to him, stranger and more frightening than even his beserker rages – he had been largely unaware of them. Now, he was suddenly aware of too much.