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  “What do they want now?” growled Bedwyr.

  Like Bedwyr, I desired nothing more than to end this day of heat and dust in good company. “I will deal with them,” I said, thinking to send them away; I stood to call out.

  “Stay, brother.” Bedwyr sighed, changing his mind. “As we have not had more than a dusty glimpse of them for a day or two, we had better allow him his say.”

  Swarthy Mercia, dark hair and eyes—darker still in the fading twilight—hailed us with his customary salute, striking his heart with his fist. The once-captive priest, Hergest, spoke when Mercia spoke, saying, “Greetings, friends.”

  “Greetings,” Bedwyr replied bleakly. After days of herding Vandali, he was finding it hard to muster any enthusiasm for their concerns.

  “Sit down if you will,” I said, making a gesture towards courtesy. “We would offer you a cup to wet your throats on such a sultry day, but we have nothing to put in it.” I said this last to discourage the appeal I knew was coming. Every day since the beginning of this journey, one or another of the barbarian chieftains had come before us to demand a greater water ration—sometimes two or three on the same day. What little water we had was shared out to all in equal measure, as I told them—each and every day.

  “It is hot, yes,” said Mercia. His speech, though broken, was rapidly improving. No doubt Hergest was a good teacher.

  “Yes,” Bedwyr answered, leaning back in his chair. “We need rain—the land needs rain.”

  “My people thirst,” Mercia said bluntly.

  Bedwyr reacted irritably. “Am I a fountain? I just said we need rain. It is a drought, you know. Everyone is thirsty.”

  Mercia gazed mildly back, undisturbed by this outburst. He glanced at Hergest, who uttered a few harsh-sounding words in his own tongue. The Vandal merely nodded and loosed a lengthy torrent of barbarian jabber.

  When he finished, he nodded again, this time to the priest, who said, “Lord Mercia wants you both to know that he would be less than noble if he did not ask for water when his people are thirsty. He intended no disrespect.”

  “Very well,” Bedwyr muttered, somewhat chastened by his reply.

  “Mercia also says that he is unhappy,” continued Hergest. Before Bedwyr or I could frame a reply, the priest said, “The source of his unhappiness is this: rooting Britons from their homes sits ill with him. To be the cause of such hardship does make him seem small in his own eyes.”

  “I understand,” Bedwyr told him, “but there is nothing to be done. The hardship to the Britons has come about by the willful action of their lords who broke faith with Arthur. The punishment is shared by all. That is the High King’s command.”

  When the stalwart priest had conveyed my meaning, Mercia answered. “I quarrel not with Arthur’s judgment. But I would offer a—ah, an understanding,” he said, speaking through Hergest.

  “Yes?” asked Bedwyr warily. “What is this understanding?”

  “Allow us to settle unclaimed lands,” suggested Mercia through his priest. “Let stay who will, but tell them we will not possess inhabited British holdings.”

  This was unforeseen. “And let Britons and Vandali live together in the same realm?” I asked.

  “If any care to stay,” Hergest answered. “The Vandal would share the land with any willing to share the land with them.”

  “Is he earnest?” Bedwyr inquired, pulling on his chin.

  “Indeed.” Hergest assured us adamantly. “He has spoken to the other chieftains, and they all agree. They would rather settle the wilderness than displace the innocent.” He paused. “May I explain?”

  “If you can.”

  “It is this way,” said Hergest. “Arthur’s generosity is more than they expected and it has shamed them. The people of Vandalia are a proud race, and resourceful. Because need is great, they will accept the land Arthur has decreed for them, but their pride recoils from causing hardship to the kinsmen of those who have befriended them.”

  I shook my head in amazement. “Hardship? Blessed Jesu, only a few days ago these bloodlusting barbarians were plundering and burning these same British settlements!”

  “That,” Mercia spat, “was Amilcar’s doing.” Obviously, there was little love between the defeated Vandal king and his minions.

  “And is Mercia so very different?” Bedwyr asked harshly, pressing the matter, I think, to see what sort of man the new king might be.

  Without hesitation, the priest replied. “Mercia regrets the plundering and burning that Amilcar inflicted on this land. It was war. Such things happen. But now that Mercia is lord of the Vandali, Hussae, and Rögatti, he has pledged friendship with Arthur. This friendship he values greatly, and would increase its worth by extending it to the Britons holding the lands wherein the Vandal tribes must settle.”

  I was amazed. The suggestion showed both benevolence and shrewdness. The cunning I might have expected, but the compassion in the barbarian’s suggestion took me by surprise. I looked at Bedwyr, who looked at me, rubbing the back of his neck.

  Hergest saw our hesitation. “Mercia does not ask that you trust him—only that you try him.”

  “It is not a matter of trust,” Bedwyr said slowly. “The summer is far advanced; there is no time to raise crops before winter comes. You will require dwellings, and cattle pens, and…everything else. Where will you get them, if not from the Britons?”

  When the priest had explained Bedwyr’s words to him, the young chieftain smiled. “We are not without skill in such matters,” he replied through Hergest. “Besides, the wise ones among us say that this winter shall be like those of our homeland in the southern sea. It will do us no harm.”

  “Winter in the north is harsh and long,” Bedwyr told him, “as I know only too well.”

  “Your concern does you honor, Lord Bedwyr,” Hergest answered. “But would not homeless Britons suffer the winter as readily as homeless Vandali?” He lifted a hand to Mercia. “My lord says that if we are to live under Arthur’s rule, let it be among Arthur’s people.”

  The young chieftain’s eyes shifted from Bedwyr to me, and back again—willing us to believe.

  I regarded him carefully, uncertain what to do. Truly, they offered us a way out of the hateful task of forcing people from their homes—countrymen whose only sin was having unfaithful noblemen for lords. What would Arthur do?

  I was on the point of sending them away to allow us to think the thing through when Mercia said, “Lord Bedvyr…Lord Galahad”—that was as much as he could make of our names—“please, I beg you, let us prove the trust that has been granted us.”

  “Very well,” Bedwyr said, making up his mind at once. “Let it be as you say. We will conduct you to unclaimed lands and there you shall make your home. I leave it to you how to divide the realms between your tribes. Make your settlements as you will. But there is to be no trouble between your people and the Britons who choose to remain.”

  He said this sternly, every word an implied threat. Mercia rushed forward, knelt before him, seized his hand, and kissed it. No doubt this was a common thing among the Vandal kind, but we are not so accustomed. Bedwyr snatched his hand away, saying, “Rise, Mercia. You have the thing you seek. Go and tell your people.”

  Mercia rose and stood a little apart, smiling his good pleasure. “A wise decision, Prince Bedwyr,” Hergest assured us; he touched a hand to his throat and I noticed he no longer wore the iron slave ring.

  “Make certain I do not live to regret it.”

  “The Vandali are barbarians, it is true. They give their word rarely, but when they do, the vow endures to the fifth generation,” the priest affirmed. “I trust Mercia.”

  “May God be good to you,” Bedwyr told him. “I am content.”

  “I am heartily glad you are content,” I told Bedwyr when they had gone. “I only wonder what Arthur will say when he hears what we have done.”

  “I care nothing for that,” replied Bedwyr. He turned away quickly, adding, “I pray instead he
lives to hear it.”

  Chapter Two

  Bedwyr retreated to the tent, but I remained outside, thinking, and listening to the sounds of the camp settling in for the night. Twilight deepened around me. I watched the dusky slope of the distant hillside begin to glow as campfires wakened in the darkness; soon the aroma of roasting meat stirred me.

  What has become of Rhys? I wondered, thinking that he should have returned long ago.

  He and a small company of warriors had gone in search of water as soon as we halted our day’s march. We were camped in a shallow valley, and there were streams in the surrounding hills. Finding water had become the chief task of each and every day; we did not neglect any possible means of filling the waterskins and jars. As we moved farther up the vale, the streams narrowed and thinned, and the search became more difficult. We had not located any drinking water this day, so Rhys had undertaken to continue looking.

  The rest of the Cymbrogi were nearby, having established camp at a second place on the hillside. We did this by way of guarding the Vandal host, yet allowing ourselves a ready retreat. For though they were no longer armed—their spears alone filled three wagons!—there were so many of them that we could easily be overrun. Thus, we always made two camps a short distance apart and kept watch through the night.

  “He will soon return,” Bedwyr assured me when I pointed out that it was well past dark and still no sign of Rhys and his company. “Why uneasy, brother?”

  “How much water remains?” The Cymbrogi also stood guard over the water wagons, lest anyone try to steal another share.

  “One day at full rations,” he replied; he had already reckoned the amount. “We could go on half rations, but I would rather wait until Rhys returns to make that decision.”

  I left him to his rest, and returned to the campfire feeling uneasy and troubled—though I could not think why. Perhaps I was merely tired. It seemed like years since I had slept more than two nights in the same place…years since I had slept without a weapon in my hand. Once Mercia and his folk were settled, I thought, we will begin to enjoy the peace we have all fought so long to achieve.

  A pale phantom moon rose and soared like a silent specter over the narrow valley. I supped on something tough and tasteless—stewed saddle, perhaps—and finished the last of my day’s ration of water. I retreated to the tent and lay down, but found the closeness inside stifling; so I took up the oxhide and stretched out on the ground a short distance away—whereupon I found I could not sleep for the barking of the camp dogs. I lay on my back with my arms folded over my chest, gazing up at the heavens, marking the slow progression of the moon, and wondering if the mutts were always so loud.

  I lay a long time before realizing that I was listening for Rhys’ return. I identified all the night sounds of the camp—horses whickering and jittery at their pickets, the tight voices of the sentries as they moved along the boundary, the far-off call of a night bird in a distant tree—all familiar, yet made peculiar by my listening. Or perhaps it was something else—something in the air making them seem that way.

  I must have dozed without knowing it, for when I looked again, the moon was well down. I heard the short, sharp challenge of a sentry, and the expected reply. I rose at once and made my way to the picket line to see Rhys and his band dismounting. Some of the men swayed on their feet, exhausted by their long search.

  “Good hunting?” I called, hurrying to join them.

  Rhys turned when he heard me. The look on his face halted me in my steps. “Rhys?”

  He tossed a quick command over his shoulder and then stepped near. “We found a spring,” he said, his voice husky and strange. Perhaps it was merely fatigue, but I have seen terror often enough to recognize its many guises, and I thought Rhys wore it now.

  “A spring, yes,” I said, searching the steward’s face for a sign. “Good. Well done. Is it far?”

  He took my arm, wheeled me around, and started walking me away. When we were out of hearing of the men, he said, “No, not far. The spring is not large, but it supplies a pool. We can get water there.” He paused, hesitating, uncertain how to proceed.

  “Rhys?”

  “There is something queer…”

  “About the spring?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said it was not far—”

  “Indeed, it is just beyond the hill.” He lifted a hand, but the gesture died and he lapsed again into a hesitant silence.

  “Well?” I demanded, growing impatient with his reticence. “Speak, man.”

  His reply was swift and harsh. “I do not like it! Something queer is out there.” He glowered at me.

  “Calm yourself,” I said soothingly. “Come to the tent. Sit down. You have not eaten anything all day. You must be starving. Come, Rhys.”

  I led him to the tent and sat him in Arthur’s chair, then roused one of the younger men who served the Dragon Flight. “Wake you, Baram,” I said. “Rhys has returned. Fetch food and water.”

  Rhys sat slumped in the camp chair, his head bent forward, resting in his hands. I had never seen him so. “Food is coming,” I said, dragging up a stool. Thinking to distract him from his thoughts, I began telling him about our talk with Mercia and Hergest. In a little while, Baram appeared with the food; I dismissed him to his rest once more, and served Rhys myself.

  When he finished eating, he seemed in better spirits, so I said, “Now, then, tell me about this strange pool you have found.”

  Rhys nodded, took a long draught of water, swallowed slowly, and then began. “We came upon it before sundown. It is no great distance from here, and we discovered it soon after we began. There is a rocky outcrop on the hillside, and a beech grove below. The leaves on the trees looked fresh—not wilted like all the rest—so we rode to the place for a closer look. The grove hides a cleft in the rocks—pass through it and you come to the pool.”

  Rhys’ voice trailed off, as if he were revisiting a painful memory of long ago. His dark eyes were downcast and he clutched the empty water jar tightly.

  “A cool place to escape the sun,” I observed, encouraging him to continue. “It must have been a welcome find.”

  He glanced at me and then away again quickly. “We entered the grove and rode to the pool,” he said after a moment. “I dismounted and heard a sound…singing—it sounded like someone singing, but though the grove and pool are small, I could not see anyone.” He fell silent again.

  “Hiding in the rocks, perhaps,” I remarked.

  He paid me no heed, but sat hunched forward, his jaw bulging as he clenched his teeth.

  “Rhys,” I said softly. “Fear for nothing, man. It is Gwalchavad beside you now.”

  After a time, he said, “I knelt to drink. I remember stretching forth my hand to touch the water….”

  “Yes? And then?”

  He raised his eyes and the fear leapt out in his glance. “I do not know!” He stood abruptly. “I reached toward the water and I—when I looked again, it was night and the moon was shining in the pool.”

  “Night comes quickly to these glens,” I offered halfheartedly. “It must have been later than you knew.”

  “Am I a babe in arms to know nothing of day or night?” he shouted.

  “Calm yourself, brother. I only meant—”

  “I remember nothing of what happened in the grove. One moment it was bright day, and the next I knew, it was night—and that far gone.”

  I gazed at his anguished expression and tried to soothe him. “Perhaps you fell asleep. It was hot and you had ridden long. You were tired, and it was cool in the shade. Overcome by your fatigue, you fell asleep, and why not? A little nap is no bad thing. The men with you, did any of them remember falling asleep?”

  “No—they remember no more than I,” he said, his voice tense with the effort of holding it steady. “All I know is that the sun shone as I knelt, and when I stood again, the sky was bright with stars and night was far advanced. We returned at once.”

  “It is dis
turbing, perhaps,” I granted, “but nothing to worry over. No doubt you make more of it than there is.”

  Rhys glared defiantly. “It is sorcery!” he growled. “Mark me, something evil lurks there.”

  I slept ill, rising at dawn to ride with Rhys to the enchanted pool. As he had said, it was no great distance away, lying in a narrow valley just a hill or two away from camp. A grove of beech trees stood at one end of the glen, dark in the shadow of the hillside. There were six men with us, leading the wagons, for I was determined to have that water, enchantment or no.

  We dismounted at the edge of the grove and stood for a moment gazing into its dark-shadowed heart, as into a cave or tomb. It was quiet, but not unnaturally so.

  “Do you hear?” Rhys whispered.

  “It seems peaceful enough.”

  “Aye, too peaceful.” He arched an eyebrow knowingly. “There are no birds.”

  “Well, it may be they have gone—” I began.

  “And this the only water nearby?” he challenged. “The dell should be alive with birds.”

  “Stop whispering!” I told him sharply. “If there is anyone here, they will have seen us long ago. Come.” I started into the grove. “Let us examine the pond.”

  Night’s chill hung in the shaded depths of the grove—as if the sun’s warming rays had no power to penetrate beyond the outer branches of the trees. We passed between the leaning boles and ducked under low-hanging limbs, and after a few steps came to the water. My eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light, and I saw that though the pool was not large, it was set in a deep, rock-rimmed bowl. I made my way to the water’s edge and looked in, but could not see the bottom.

  A gray rock rose from the far end of the basin like a great squatting toad. I heard the slow rhythmic drip, drip, drip of water splashing from the rock into the dark water.

  “You see?” whispered Rhys. “It is just as I told you.”

  “It is an unlovely place, to be sure,” I replied. “But I find nothing amiss here.”