I was forced to ride to Caer Sws. In all my years with Arthur I never did accustom myself to sitting on a horse’s back. To me it always seemed a natural thing to sit well back on a horse, but sitting thus it was impossible to grip the animal’s flanks with your knees, for which you had to slide forward until you were perched just behind its neck with your feet dangling in the air behind its forelegs. In the end I used to tuck one foot into the saddle girth to give me an anchoring point, a shift that offended Galahad who was proud of his horsemanship. “Ride it properly!” he would say.
“But there’s nowhere to put my feet!”
“The horse has got four. How many more do you want?”
We rode to Caer Lud, Gorfyddyd’s major fortress in the border hills. The town stood on a hill in a river bend and we reckoned its sentries would be less wary than those who guarded the Roman road at Lugg Vale. Even so we did not state our real business in Powys, but simply declared ourselves as landless men from Ar-mo rica seeking entry into Gorfyddyd’s country. The guards, discovering Galahad was a prince, insisted on escorting him to the town’s commander and so led us through the town that was filled with armed men whose spears were stacked at every door and whose helmets were piled under all the tavern benches. The town commander was a harassed man who plainly hated the responsibilities of governing a garrison swollen by the imminence of war. “I knew you must be from Armorica when I saw your shields, Lord Prince,” he told Galahad. “An outlandish symbol to our provincial eyes.”
“An honoured one in mine,” Galahad said gravely, not catching my eye.
“To be sure, to be sure,” the commander said. His name was Halsyd. “And of course you are welcome, Lord Prince. Our High King is welcoming all…” He paused, embarrassed. He had been about to say that Gorfyddyd was welcoming all landless warriors, but that phrase cut too close to insult when uttered to a dispossessed prince of an Armorican kingdom. “All brave men,” the commander said instead. “You were not thinking of staying here, by any chance?” He was worried that we would prove two more hungry mouths in a town already hard pressed to feed its existing garrison.
“I would ride to Caer Sws,” Galahad announced. “With my servant.” He gestured towards me.
“May the Gods speed your path, Lord Prince.”
And thus we entered the enemy country. We rode through quiet valleys where newly stocked corn patterned the fields and orchards hung heavy with ripening apples. The next day we were among the hills, following an earth road that wound through great tracts of damp woodland until, at last, we climbed above the trees and crossed the pass that led down to Gorfyddyd’s capital. I felt a shudder of nerves as I saw Caer Sws’s raw earth walls. Gorfyddyd’s army might be gathering in Branogenium, some forty miles away, but still the land around Caer Sws was thick with soldiers. The troops had thrown up crude shelters with walls of stone roofed with turf, and the shelters surrounded the fort that flew eight banners from its walls to show that the men of eight kingdoms served in Gorfyddyd’s growing ranks. “Eight?” Galahad asked. “Powys, Siluria, Elmet, but who else?”
“Cornovia, Demetia, Gwynedd, Rheged and Demetia’s Black-shields,” I said, finishing off the grim list.
“No wonder Tewdric wants peace,” Galahad said softly, marvelling at the host of men camped on either side of the river that ran beside the enemy’s capital.
We rode down into that hive of iron. Children followed us, curious about our strange shields, while their mothers watched us suspiciously from the shadowed openings of their shelters. The men gave us brief glances, taking in our strange insignia and noting the quality of our weapons, but none challenged us until we reached the gates of Caer Sws where Gorfyddyd’s royal guard barred our way with polished spearheads. “I am Galahad, Prince of Benoic,” Galahad announced grandly, ‘come to see my cousin the High King.”