Dan ran from the stone church, ran from the strength of Ursula’s disappointment. He could not bear it that she did not understand. He could still feel the waves of other people’s feelings threatening to engulf him. He had never felt so intimately connected with every person he met, nor so alone.
He hitched up his long robe and lengthened his stride. He had to get away from here. He did not notice the commanding presence of Brother Frontalis and all but ran into him.
‘Gawain! What ails you, man?’
Dan looked up into the frank and kindly gaze of the gladiator-monk. He did not know what to say. He drowned in waves of the monk’s compassion.
‘I can’t stay here. Do you know of anywhere I could go?’ Brother Frontalis looked thoughtful. ‘It seems to me, Gawain, that a man of your gifts, if gifts they are and not demons in need of exorcism, needs to spend time in quiet prayer and solitude. I could try exorcism, by the grace of our Lord, the Christos, but I fear that if you have a gift of the spirit it would go ill with any who tried to tamper with it.’
Dan looked blank, he was not at all sure he knew what Brother Frontalis was talking about.
‘I don’t think I’m possessed with demons, Brother Frontalis. Maybe if I could just get some peace, even for a few hours …’ Dan eyed the other man’s right arm suspiciously, ‘without losing consciousness, then, maybe, I could cope.’
Brother Frontalis guided Dan towards the shelter of the barracks hospital. Dan winced at the horrifying memories of those who lay there.
‘Gawain, there is a place where most of my brothers remain to prepare for the coming of the Kingdom of God on Earth. You will be needed here tomorrow for the Council of Britannia but I could guide you to the retreat after that.’
‘What do you mean, “I’m needed tomorrow”?’
‘The High King is chosen by lengthy debate and each man or woman present at the Council votes. You are a Combrogi hero; it is inconceivable that your opinion will not be sought. You cannot go anywhere before then.’
Dan looked into Brother Frontalis’s broad face and found it implacable. Dan knew there would be no escape from Camulodunum before then.
‘Thank you, Brother Frontalis.’
Dan turned away from the stables and would have left but there was a sudden flurry of movement as men and women ran from their homes towards the city gate.
Bedewyr saw Dan and smiled delightedly. ‘It’s King Meirchion Gul of Rheged with his Sarmatian Cataphracts.’
‘His what?’
‘Cataphracts – his heavy cavalry. Come and see.’
Now that Dan stopped to listen he could feel the ground tremble from the deep, reverberating rumble of many mounted men. It was a noise at once threatening and exhilarating, more rhythmic than distant thunder. He felt the vibrations through his spine and shivered.
Ursula stood on the parapet and watched the dust rise like a mist to mask the approach of some five hundred mounted men plus their baggage carts, servants, wives, and camp followers. It was a breathtaking sight, even through the haze of dust. Each man was dressed in a conical helmet and an elbow-length coat of scaled armour. Some shimmered blue-green and seemed to be of horn, others were of red lacquer or the rich brown of rawhide, and some few wore metal armour. Most of the horses were similarly apparelled with bronze or red-lacquered head guards and mail skirts that protected their chests and sides. The men also wore tunics and trews of Celtic brilliance: greens, reds and yellows only dimmed by dust and mud. They carried sheathed swords and light bows across their back as well as the long slender lance, the kontos, favoured by horsemen. As far as Ursula could see many were unusually dark-skinned and dark-eyed, though she spotted some with the light eyes and dark skin that so distinguished Gwynefa. King Meirchion Gul of Rheged, Gwynefa’s father, rode at the head of his troop, a tall, lean-looking man, notable for his elaborate golden helmet and metal armour. Next to him rode standard bearers carrying great red-and-gold dragons – these Sarmatian dracos were an infinitely more impressive version of a wind-sock. The wind blew through the open maw of each dragon so that its long, hollow body was inflated and it undulated like a live creature in the breeze. It was an awe-inspiring sight – the proud stance of the riders carrying their decorated lances, the horses riding three abreast in a column that extended as far back as the eye could see. The sound they made was deafening, not just the pounding of the horses’ hooves against the stone road but the animal snorting, breathing and occasional whickering of five hundred weary horses, the clatter of mail and weapons and the jingle of harnesses. It continued long after the first arrivals were safely stabled in the barracks’ mews or housed in the temporary shelters that had been erected on the parade ground. According to Taliesin these Cataphracts were descendants of the Sarmatians who arrived in Britannia from the far reaches of the Roman Empire. They had intermarried with the local women and a substantial number of them chose to remain when the rest of the troops left Britannia. The armour and the technique of training and breeding the horses had been passed on down the generations and were part of a unique heritage. The Cataphracts of old shared their barracks with their horses and their great grandsons prided themselves on keeping to the same tradition. Ursula, breathing in the overpowering stench of hot, damp horses, was inclined to believe him. She took Taliesin’s advice and returned to the inn to dress herself in heroic splendour before joining Taliesin at Arturus’s villa to greet the leaders of the Cataphracts. She agreed with him that it would be best to make a good impression. She wished she knew where Dan was. She was worried about him and had struggled to see the old Dan in the strained, hooded figure of their last encounter. Her urge to fight something had dissipated suddenly. She felt empty and lonely and too far from home. She was trying to phrase an apology, which was not really an apology – but might persuade Dan to speak to her – when she noticed the extravagantly dressed figure of Larcius hurrying to greet her. Her stomach did that thing again where it seemed to twist and knot her insides to leave her breathless. Larcius was wearing leather scale armour and a fine purple cloak with some kind of fur collar. His dark hair was clean and he smelled fragrantly of spices.
‘My dear Lady Ursa, might I escort you to the War Duke’s presence?’
At a loss for words, Ursula smiled her assent. Her palms felt suddenly hot and the sheepskin fez she was wearing under her helmet caused small beads of perspiration to form on her forehead. Larcius chatted lightly about the Cataphracts and their great skill as horsemen, not unlike Ursula’s own ability. Her leap from her own horse to Gawain’s was now famous.
‘You will like King Meirchion Gul – his is very much a Celtic kingdom. He prizes strong women, and Gwynefa is the light of his life.’
‘You know him?’
‘I know everybody. He and my father were allies. After my mother died I often stayed with them in Rheged. I’ve known Gwynefa almost since she was born.’
‘She is very beautiful,’ Ursula offered, half expecting one of Larcius’s elaborate compliments for her own beauty to follow.
‘Yes. She is,’ he said shortly and changed the subject. ‘You will, of course, be voting at the Council of Britannia tomorrow?’
‘Will I?’
‘As a Celtic hero you will surely help choose the new High King at the Council of Britannia tomorrow. Arturus is still here and not mounting campaigns from his castle at Cado as he would prefer it because he is a candidate.’
‘I don’t understand – who is the choice between?’
‘Well, the main contenders are Meirchion, Medraut, Cerdic and Arturus. But if Arturus marries Gwynefa, King Meirchion will waive his right and back Arturus. Medraut, well, he’s not very popular, and the fact that half his kingdom is in enemy hands doesn’t help his cause. Then Cerdic of Dumnonia, he’s the elder half-brother to Arturus so …’ he shrugged, ‘who knows? Of the others, many are young or too old and don’t have the standing yet, though Agricola of Dyfed shows promise, and then there’s me, the great Ambrosius’s son,’ Larcius said with a sardonic smile.
A heavily laden horse and cart wobbled in their direction and he placed a protective arm round Ursula’s waist. It made her feel uncomfortable.
‘Well, my lady, be sure that even if I were High King you would always be Queen of my grateful heart.’
Ursula was distracted from his words by a glimpse of a man in dark robes, running from the villa.
‘Larcius, thank you for your company, but I need to go. Please give my apologies to the Duke. I will be back soon.’
She extricated herself from his arm and ran in the direction of the dark-robed figure. It had to be Dan and she had to speak to him.