The King, the story said, would not leave the terrace for if Arthur came and he were not there, what would men say? He insisted he would stay to greet Arthur, but first he kissed his wife, embraced his heir, then wished them both fair winds for Britain before turning to gaze for the rescue that never came.
It was a mighty tale, and next day, when it seemed that no more ships would come from far Armorica, the tale changed subtly. Now it was the men of Dumnonia, the forces led by Culhwch and Derfel, who had allowed the enemy into Ynys Trebes. “They fought,” Lancelot assured Guinevere, ‘but they could not hold.”
Arthur, who had been campaigning against Cerdic’s Saxons, rode hard for Durnovaria to welcome his guests. He arrived just hours before our sad party trudged unremarked up the road that ran from the sea past the great grassy ramparts of Mai Dun. One of the guards on the city’s southern gate recognized me and let us in. “You’re just in time,” he said.
“For what?” I asked.
“Arthur’s here. They’re going to tell the tale of Ynys Trebes.”
“Are they now?” I glanced across the town towards the palace on its western hill. “I’d like to hear that,” I said, then I led my companions into the town. I hurried towards the crossroads in the centre, curious to inspect the chapel Sansum had built for Mordred, but to my surprise there was neither chapel nor temple on the site, just a waste space where ragweed grew. “Nimue,” I said, amused.
“What?” Merlin asked me. He was cowled so that no one would recognize him.
“A self-important little man,” I said, ‘was going to build a church here. Guinevere summoned Nimue to stop him.”
“So Guinevere is not entirely without sense?” Merlin asked.
“Did I say she was?”
“No, dear Derfel, you did not. Shall we go on?” We turned up the hill towards the palace. It was evening and the palace slaves were putting torches into beckets about the courtyard where, heedless of the damage they were causing to Guinevere’s roses and water channels, a crowd had gathered to see Lancelot and Arthur. No one recognized us as we came through the gate. Merlin was hooded, while Galahad and I wore the cheek pieces of our wolf-tailed helmets closed across our faces. We squeezed with Culhwch and a dozen other men into the arcade at the very back of the crowd.
And there, as night fell, we heard the tale of Ynys Trebes’s fall.
Lancelot, Guinevere, Elaine, Arthur, Bors and Bedwin stood on the eastern side of the courtyard where the pavement was elevated a few feet above the other three sides to make a natural stage; an impression heightened by the bright torches fixed to the wall beneath the terrace that had steps leading down to the courtyard. I looked for Nimue, but could not see her, nor was young Bishop Sansum there. Bishop Bedwin said a prayer and the Christians in the crowd murmured their response, crossed themselves, then settled to listen once again to the awful tale of Ynys Trebes’s fall. Bors told the story. He stood at the head of the steps and he told of Benoic’s fight and the listening crowd gasped as they heard of the horror and cheered when he described some particular passage of Lancelot’s heroism. Once, overcome by emotion, Bors simply gestured at Lancelot who tried to quell the cheers by raising a hand thickly wrapped in bandages and when the gesture failed he shook his head as though the crowd’s praise was simply too great to bear. Elaine, draped in black, wept beside her son. Bors did not dwell on Arthur’s failure to reinforce the doomed garrison, instead he explained that though Lancelot knew Arthur was fighting in Britain, King Ban had clung to his unrealistic hopes. Arthur, wounded all the same, shook his head and seemed close to tears, especially when Bors told the touching tale of King Ban’s farewell to his wife and son. I was close to tears too, not because of the lies I heard, but out of sheer joy at seeing Arthur again. He had not changed. The bony face was still strong and his eyes still full of care.