“Merlin is his own master,” Arthur answered, ‘but this is his priestess.” He gestured at Nimue who stared one-eyed at the Saxon.
Aelle made a gesture that must have been his way of averting evil. He feared Nimue because of Merlin, and that was good to know. “But Merlin is in Britain?” Aelle asked fearfully.
“Some men say so,” I answered for Arthur, ‘and some say not. Who knows? Maybe he is out there in the dark.” I jerked my head towards the blackness beyond the fire-lit stones.
Aelle used a spear-shaft to prod one of his mad wizards awake. The man yowled piteously, and Aelle seemed content that the sound would avert any mischief. The Bretwalda had hung Sansum’s cross about his neck, while others of his men wore Ynys Wydryn’s heavy gold torques. Later in the night, when most of the Saxons were snoring, some of their slaves told us the tale of Durocobrivis’s fall, and how Prince Gereint had been taken alive and then tortured to death. The tale made Arthur weep. None of us had known Gereint well, but he had been a modest, unambitious man who had tried his best to hold back the growing Saxon forces. Some of the slaves begged us to take them away with us, but we dared not offend our hosts by granting the request. “We shall come for you one day,” Arthur promised the slaves. “We shall come.”
The Saxons left next afternoon. Aelle insisted we wait another whole night before leaving the Stones to make certain we did not follow him, and he took Balin, Lanval and the man from Powys with his war-band. Nimue, consulted by Arthur on whether Aelle would keep his word, nodded and said she had dreamed of the Saxon’s compliance and of the safe return of our hostages. “But Ratae’s blood is on your hands,” she said ominously.
We packed and made ready for our own journey, which would not begin until the next day’s dawn. Arthur was never happy when forced to idleness and as evening came he asked that Sagramor and I walk with him to the southern woods. For a time it seemed that we wandered aimlessly, but at last Arthur stopped beneath a huge oak hung with long beards of grey lichen. “I feel dirty,” he said. “I failed to keep my oath to Benoic, now I am buying the death of hundreds of Britons.”
“You could not have saved Benoic,” I insisted.
“A land that buys poets instead of spearmen does not deserve to survive,” Sagramor added.
“Whether I could have saved it or not,” Arthur said, ‘does not matter. I took an oath to Ban and did not keep it.”
“A man whose house is burning to the ground does not carry water to his neighbour’s fire,” Sagramor said. His black face, as impenetrably tough as Aelle’s, had fascinated the Saxons. Many had fought against him in the last years and believed him to be some kind of demon summoned by Merlin, and Arthur had played on those fears by hinting that he would leave Sagramor to defend the new frontier. In truth Arthur would take Sagramor to Gwent, for he needed all his best men to fight Gorfyddyd. “You weren’t able to keep your oath to Benoic,” Sagramor went on, ‘so the Gods will forgive you.” Sagramor had a robustly pragmatic view of Gods and man; it was one of his strengths.
“The Gods may forgive me,” Arthur said, ‘but I don’t. And now I pay Saxons to kill Britons.” He shuddered at the very thought. “I found myself wishing for Merlin last night,” he said, ‘to know that he would approve of what we are doing.”
“He would,” I said. Nimue might not have approved of sacrificing Ratae, but Nimue was always purer than Merlin. She understood the necessity of paying Saxons, but revolted at the thought of paying with British blood even if that blood did belong to our enemies.
“But it doesn’t matter what Merlin thinks,” Arthur said angrily. “It wouldn’t matter if every priest, Druid and hard in Britain agreed with me. To ask another man’s blessing is simply to avoid taking the responsibility. Nimue is right, I shall be responsible for all the deaths in Ratae.”