To Archbishop Dafydd:
We must speak of the evils wrought upon us by my nephew Modred and his Saxon allies, how the peace formerly made has been violated in all the clauses of the treaty, how churches have been fired and devastated, and ecclesiastical persons, priests, monks and nuns slaughtered, women slain with children at their breast, hospitals and other houses of religion burned, the Welsh murdered in their homes, in churches, yes at the very altar, with other sacrilegious offences horrible to hear…
We fight because we are forced to fight and are left without any remedy … I do not ask for your blessing in these last endeavors, only your understanding.
Arthur ap Uther,
King of Wales and Lord of Eryri
November, 537 A.D.
Chapter One
11 December 537 AD
“Get over here, Myrddin!”
I urged my horse across the clearing, through the ankle-deep snow and towards Gawain, the captain of my lord’s guard. He resembled a greyhound, whip-thin but muscled, his grey-streaked hair held away from his face by a leather tie at the nape of his neck.
“Sir,” I said.
Gawain pointed to a stand of pine trees some hundred yards away on the other side of the Cam River. “What do you see?”
At thirty-six, after a lifetime of soldiering, my eyes weren’t what they used to be. I stared anyway, trying to glimpse what Gawain had noticed. Christ! It can’t be! Cold settled into my belly. “The branches are moving.” I glanced at Gawain. “Didn’t our scouts check those trees?”
“Yes.” The word hissed through Gawain’s teeth. “They did. I saw to it myself.”
“The company must move now. It isn’t safe here.” I forced myself to remain calm instead of shouting the words at Gawain as I wanted to.
“No, it isn’t,” Gawain said. “I said as much to the king before we began this journey.”
“Maybe he’ll listen now.”
“I’ll speak to him. For your part, take four men—Ifan, Dai, two others. Clear out those trees. I don’t care how you do it.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder, punctuating the command.
“Yes, sir.”
I directed my horse towards the north, riding past the church, St. Cannen’s, that squatted in the middle of the clearing. An up-and-coming half-Saxon lord, Edgar, son of King Arthur’s youngest sister, had sent a letter asking to discuss the transfer of his allegiance from Modred to Arthur. That his overture was genuine had always seemed unlikely, yet Modred’s war had gone on so long that Arthur felt he had to grab any chance that came his way, on the hope that he could shift the balance of power in his favor. Recent victories had given us real hope that we might prevail, but if those trees held Saxon soldiers, then the king was going to die, along with all of his men. Including me. He’d walked into a trap from which none of us would escape.
“Ifan!” I waved my friend closer.
He spurred his horse to intersect mine. “What is it?”
“Mercians,” I said. “Possibly.”
Ifan, as pale as I was dark such that a man could mistake him for a Saxon, had campaigned beside King Arthur even longer than I. He didn’t ask for details. Once I’d collected several more men, we circled behind the church, heading for the ford of the River Cam on the northwestern edge of the church property. The trees along the river shielded us from the field beyond. Once across the Cam, however, we left their cover.
“Shields up,” I said—and just in time. An arrow slammed into Ifan’s shield and then, a moment later, into mine.
“Back, back!” Ifan wheeled his horse to retreat down the riverbank. “We’ll have to go around!”
But before we’d ridden halfway across the river, a company of Saxon cavalry burst from the woods to the west of the church. A quick glance revealed their considerable numbers—more than the eighteen men the king had brought to the rendezvous. Along with a few of our compatriots, who reacted at the same instant, we raced to intercept them, splashing through the water and back into the clearing. Our numbers wouldn’t be enough to turn them aside, but as I met the first Saxon sword with my own, I put our chances from my mind.
I slashed my sword—once, twice, three times—before my horse stumbled, a tendon severed by a man on the ground. I pulled my feet from the stirrups, leaping free in time to meet the advancing sword of yet another Saxon. He glared through his visored helmet, a thick, red beard the only part of his face I could see.
“Retreat!”
The call came from behind me. I almost laughed. Retreat where? The church had little advantage in defense over the clearing. Admittedly, I’d last seen Arthur standing alongside the priest in the nave near the altar. In the back of my mind, I’d held onto the hope that if he made his last stand inside, even a heathen Saxon would be loath to kill my king before the cross.
I ducked under the Saxon’s guard and then burst upwards, one hand on the hilt of my sword and my gauntleted left hand on the blade. I thrust my weapon at his mid-section, forcing it through his mail armor. I pulled the sword from his body, and he fell. Then I turned and ran full out for the front of the church, hurtling past the small knots of men battling between me and the front door.
But the king had already left the safety of the nave. A pace from the church steps, Arthur faced two men at the same time. The king had twenty years on me yet fought like a much younger man. He slashed his sword at one Saxon soldier and then snapped an elbow into the face of the other. Blood cascaded from the man’s nose.
I launched myself at the second Saxon soldier, driving my shoulder into his ribs and sending both of us sprawling. Hardly pausing for breath, I pushed up on one knee and shoved the tip of my sword beneath his chin. Helmet askew and blood coating my surcoat, I stood, spinning on one heel, determined to defend my king to my last breath.
Except King Arthur had already fallen, overcome by a third knight coming late to the fight.
Aghast, I drove my sword into the man’s back just as he raised his arms for a final strike at the king. As the Saxon died, I knocked him aside and turned to stand astride the body of my lord. Even if it meant my death, I would gainsay anyone who dared come against me. But as my sword met that of the next Saxon warrior, the back of my head exploded in sudden pain from a blow I hadn’t seen coming. Barely conscious, I fell across the failing body of King Arthur.
