Lies, Damned Lies, and History(21)

This was Arthur Pendragon.





Chapter Five

I’ve been so lucky. I’ve seen more than my fair share of heroes. I saw Hector and Achilles fight at Troy. I watched Henry V prevail at Agincourt. I even witnessed Leonidas’s stand at Thermopylae. I’ve seen legends come to life in front of my very eyes and now, if I’d interpreted things correctly, I was about to see the biggest hero of them all.

Everyone around me was shouting, ‘Arthur’, or one of the many variations of his name, and jumping up and down as if just his presence was enough to win the day and, for all I knew, it might be. All around us, unseen dogs howled hysterically, the noises filling my head until I thought it would burst. I leaned against the wall for support.

In my ear, Peterson said, ‘Max,’ very faintly, but I wasn’t in any condition to respond. Because it was him. It was Arthur. Riding under the Red Dragon of the Pendragons. His own personal emblem.

I became aware I was clutching at the wall so tightly that two of my fingertips were bleeding. I smeared the blood across the stones for luck, because this was an age when stones demanded blood, and historians need all the luck they can get.

Someone must have thrown a bucket of water on the dogs, because the noise subsided and I could hear myself think again.

I pushed myself off the wall and watched people begin to move away, returning to their little camps, talking excitedly. Boys picked up sticks, using them as swords, pretending they were Arthur. I heard the word everywhere and now he was here and I’d just seen him. Up close. Nearly close enough to touch him. The real Arthur.

Forget the High King of medieval legend. Forget the myths and fairy stories. He didn’t found Camelot. Or the Knights of the Round Table. He didn’t search for the Holy Grail. He didn’t kill dragons or rescue damsels in distress. He didn’t have a magician named Merlin. Those are just pretty stories. He didn’t do any of that.

What he did do was fight. He was a war leader. A Dux Bellorum. And, by the looks of him, a bit of a bastard. Forget the tall hero with long, golden hair. The real Arthur was a stocky man, broad-shouldered and short-legged. Long, dark hair hung in greasy snarls around his face. His bare arms bulged with muscles. Later, when I was able to observe more closely, I would see he wore two golden arm bracelets, each depicting a dragon eating its own tail. No beginning and no end. Was this the origin of the legend of the Once and Future King? They were his only ornament.

Much is made of Arthur carrying the image of the Virgin on his shield. On other occasions, he may have done so. Or that story might simply be Christian embellishment. Today however, his shield bore the device of the Red Dragon, as did his standard. He was distinguished from his fellow riders only by a matted pelt which I assumed to be made from bear, which hung around his shoulders. More likely, it was just wolf, but it was a nice bit of PR, just the same.

There has always been a theory that there was more than one Arthur – a number of chieftains scattered around the countryside, leading the struggle against the Saxons and somehow they all merged into one mighty legend, because, physically, one man and his army couldn’t possibly have fought at all the battles with which he is credited, but here was a very likely explanation. This is how he managed to be at so many battles at so many different places around the country. He commanded a portable army. A small, highly organised mobile cavalry unit, working out of bases scattered around the land, and able to cover long distances very quickly, bringing reinforcements and much-needed professional assistance to beleaguered Brits in their struggle against the invaders. He had arrived at the best possible moment, skidding in under the very noses of the approaching army. Making a spectacular entrance. Raising morale. Because everyone knows the cavalry always arrives in the very nick of time.

I looked up. The sun had risen, but the sky was still dark. The smell of smoke was everywhere as the valleys burned below us.

Staring over the wall and through the thick trees, I could just make out an approaching mass of men. Torches flickered in the gloom. The sound of drumbeats floated on the wind.

They weren’t marching – there was no ordered tramp of feet, just a long, unbroken rumble of sound. Occasionally, a voice would be raised in command, shouting words I couldn’t make out. I tried to estimate numbers, but they were a continually shifting mass in thick woodland.

The day was overcast. Wisps of mist lay in pockets between the trees. A light drizzle fell. I smoothed the moisture off my sleeve and wondered how safe we were up here. I was wet. The grass was wet. There was mud. How easy is it to run uphill, sword in one hand, and shield in the other? With a hail of missiles raining down from above? With bloody great tree trunks rolling down towards you, bouncing over the rough ground? Uncontrolled and uncontrollable. Crushing everything in their path. How easy to slip on the wet grass, or in the mud? Or become entangled in the brushwood? Or impaled on sharp branches? How would they get up the hill? In attack formation? Or would they just grit their teeth, lower their heads, and charge?