“And more still coming,” I added.
“Like as not.” He spat towards the ford. “And they’ll have seen that Tewdric’s bull is missing.” He gave one of his rare smiles. “It’ll be a fight worth remembering, Lord Derfel.”
“I’m glad to share it with you, Lord,” I said fervently, and so I was. There was no warrior greater than Sagramor, no man more feared by his enemies. Even Arthur’s presence did not raise the same dread as the Numidian’s impassive face and ghastly sword. It was a curved sword of strange foreign make and Sagramor wielded it with a terrible quickness. I once asked Sagramor why he had first sworn loyalty to Arthur. “Because when I had nothing,” he explained curtly, “Arthur gave me everything.”
Our spearmen at last stopped singing as two Druids advanced from Gorfyddyd’s army. We only had Nimue to counter their enchantments and she now waded through the ford to meet the advancing men who were both hopping down the road with one arm raised and one eye closed. The Druids were lorweth, Gorfyddyd’s wizard, and Tanaburs in his long robe embroidered with moons and hares. The two men exchanged kisses with Nimue, talked with her for a short while and then she returned to our side of the ford. “They wanted us to surrender,” she said scornfully, ‘and I invited them to do the same.”
“Good,” Sagramor growled. lorweth hopped awkwardly to the ford’s farther side. “The Gods bring you greeting!” he shouted at us, though none of us answered. I had closed my cheek pieces so that I could not be recognized. Tanaburs was hopping up the river, using his staff to keep his balance. lorweth raised his own staff level above his head to show that he wished to speak further. “My King, the King of Powys and High King of Britain, King Gorfyddyd ap Cadell ap Brychan ap Laganis ap Coel ap Beli Mawr, will spare your bold souls a journey to the Otherworld. All you need do, brave warriors, is give us Arthur!” He levelled the staff at me and Nimue immediately hissed a protective prayer and tossed two handfuls of soil into the air.
I said nothing and silence was my refusal. lorweth whirled the staff and spat three times towards us, then he began hopping down the river’s bank to add his curses to Tanaburs’s spells. King Gorfyddyd, accompanied by his son Cuneglas and his ally Gundleus, had ridden halfway to the river to watch their Druids working, and work they did. They cursed our lives by the day and our souls by night. They gave our blood to the worms, our flesh to the beasts and our bones to agony. They cursed our women, our children, our fields and our livestock. Nimue countered the charms, but still our men shivered. The Christians called out that there was nothing to fear, but even they were making the sign of the cross as the curses flew across the river on wings of darkness.
The Druids cursed for a whole hour and left us shaking. Nimue walked the shield-line touching spearheads and assuring men that the curses had not worked, but our men were nervous of the Gods’ anger as the enemy spear-line at last advanced. “Shields up!” Sagramor shouted harshly. “Spears up!”
The enemy halted fifty paces from the river while one man alone advanced on foot. It was Valerin, the chief whom we had driven from the vale in the dawn, and who now advanced to the ford’s northern edge with shield and spear. He had suffered defeat in the dawn and his pride had forced him to this moment when he could retrieve his reputation. “Arthur!” he shouted at me. “You married a whore!”
“Keep silent, Derfel,” Sagramor warned me.
“A whore!” Valerin shouted. “She was used when she came to me. You want the list of her lovers? An hour, Arthur, would not be time enough to give that list! And who’s she whoring with now while you’re waiting to die? You think she’s waiting for you? I know that whore! She’s tangling her legs with a man or two!” He spread his arms and jerked his hips obscenely and my spearmen jeered back, but Valerin ignored their shouted insults. “A whore!” he called, ‘a rancid, used-up whore! You’d fight for your whore, Arthur? Or have you lost your belly for fighting? Defend your whore, you worm!” He walked through the ford that came up to his thighs and stopped on our bank, his cloak dripping, just a dozen paces away from me. He stared into the dark shadow of my helmet’s eye-hole. “A whore, Arthur,” he repeated, ‘your wife is a whore.” He spat. He was bare-headed and had woven sprigs of protective mistletoe into his long black hair. He had a breastplate, but no other body armour, while his shield was painted with Gorfyddyd’s spread-winged eagle. He laughed at me, then raised his voice to call to all our men. “Your leader won’t fight for his whore, so why should you fight for him?”