“Nor I!” Arthur said loudly.
“But what, Lord Arthur, if King Gorfyddyd has no designs on that throne?” King Tewdric asked. “If he means to keep Mordred as King, then why do we fight?”
There was uproar in the hall. We Dumnonians smelled treachery, the men of Gwent smelled an escape from the war, and for a time we shouted at each other until at last Arthur regained order by slapping his hand on the table. “The last envoy I sent to Gorfyddyd,” Arthur said, ‘had his head sent back in a sack. Are you suggesting, Lord King, we send another?”
Tewdric shook his head. “Gorfyddyd is refusing to receive my envoys. They are turned back at the frontier. But if we wait here and let his army waste its efforts against our walls then I believe he will become discouraged and will then negotiate.” His men murmured agreement.
Arthur tried one more time to dissuade Tewdric. He conjured a picture of our army rooted behind walls while Gorfyddyd’s horde ravaged the newly harvested farms, but the men of Gwent would not be moved by his oratory or his passion. They only saw outflanked shield-walls and fields of dead men, and so they seized on their King’s belief that peace would come if only they retreated into Magnis and let Gorfyddyd weary his men by battering its strong walls. They began to demand Arthur’s agreement for their strategy and I saw the hurt on his face. He had lost. If he waited here then Gorfyddyd would demand his head. If he ran to Armorica he would live, but he would be abandoning Mordred and his own dream of a just, united Britain. The clamour in the hall grew louder, and it was then that Galahad stood and shouted for a chance to be heard.
Tewdric pointed at Galahad, who first introduced himself. “I am Galahad, Lord King,” he said, ‘a Prince of Benoic. If King Gorfyd-dyd will receive no envoys from Gwent or Dumnonia, then surely he will not refuse one from Armorica? Let me go, Lord King, to Caer Sws and enquire what Gorfyddyd intends to do with Mordred. And if I do go, Lord King, will you accept my word as to his verdict?”
Tewdric was happy to accept. He was happy with anything that might avert war, but he was still anxious for Arthur’s agreement. “Suppose Gorfyddyd decrees that Mordred is safe,” he suggested to Arthur. “What will you do then?”
Arthur stared at the table. He was losing his dream, but he could not tell a lie to save that dream and so he looked up with a rueful smile. “In that case, Lord King, I would leave Britain and I would entrust Mordred to your keeping.”
Once again we Dumnonians shouted our protests, but this time Tewdric silenced us. “We do not know what answer Prince Galahad will bring,” he said, ‘but this I promise. If Mordred’s throne is threatened then I, King Tewdric, will fight. If not? I see no reason to fight.”
And with that promise we had to be content. The war, it seemed, hung on Gorfyddyd’s answer. To find it, next morning, Galahad rode north.
I rode with Galahad. He had not wanted me to come, saying that my life would be in danger, but I argued with him as I had never argued before. I also pleaded with Arthur, saying that at least one Dumnonian should hear Gorfyddyd declare his intentions about our King, and Arthur pleaded my case with Galahad who at last relented. We were friends, after all, though for my own safety Galahad insisted that I travel as his servant and that I carry his symbol on my shield. “You have no symbol,” I told him.
“I do now,” he said, and ordered that our shields be painted with crosses. “Why not?” he asked me, “I’m a Christian.”
“It looks wrong,” I said. I was accustomed to warriors’ shields being blazoned with bulls, eagles, dragons and stags, not with some desiccated piece of religious geometry.
“I like it,” he said, ‘and besides, you are now my humble servant,
Derfel, so your opinion is of no interest to me. None.” He laughed and skipped away from a blow I aimed at his arm.