‘Caer Fyrddin would have defied us for years if Ironfist had chosen to sit tight. It guards the whole river valley.’
‘But your plan winkled him out of his citadel, Artor,’ Lot said.
‘A great deal of the credit for that must go to Bedwyr for robbing Glamdring of his counsellor. Although I never met him, Wyrr appears to have been a potent weapon, and his absence gave us a great advantage. On such random chances do the fortunes of war hang.’ Artor looked thoughtful. Memories came back to him of Anderida, his first successful battle. ‘Bedwyr, does Glamdring guard his back?’
‘I don’t understand what you mean, my lord.’ Bedwyr scratched at the stubble of russet beard that already blurred the clean lines of his lower face.
‘Is it possible to climb the cliff faces?’
‘Not Anderida again,’ Targo complained, quick to understand the king’s thinking. ‘I hate heights even more than mud and swamps.’
Llanwith laughed at the memory of the suicidal trap that Uther Pendragon had set for his son so many years before.
King Lot simply looked puzzled.
Still none the wiser, Bedwyr attempted to picture the steep cliffs that encircled the ancient fortress.
‘Not really. Of course, there are old sewers under the fortress.’
Artor raised one expressive eyebrow, and Bedwyr hurried to explain.
‘The Saxons razed the original Roman outpost to build their halls and to develop their own system of defences. But the old sewers used by the Romans became a garbage dump in the lower reaches of the system, and were used for granaries and storage areas closer to ground level. The original sewers open out directly on to the sides of a cliff, about halfway from the bottom. Don’t ask me how they ever worked, for I don’t know. I don’t think Glamdring even realizes the stone channels are there.’
‘How do you know about the sewers, Bedwyr?’ Artor’s voice was patient but his eyes were very sharp.
‘I never gave up searching for an escape route during the time I was a prisoner, especially when I realized that Glamdring had ceased to notice me as a human being. I discovered I could go anywhere in Caer Fyrddin as long as I was careful. One day, as I was trying to find a way out of the fortress, I crept down into the foundations. I found the stone sewers, and I managed to discover a path that ran through them, but they finished with a sheer drop down the side of a cliff face. Stealing rope wasn’t an option, because such items were carefully guarded. At that time, I didn’t consider that route would be of any use to me. It was a very long drop to the ground below.’
‘Were you afraid of falling?’ Artor asked bluntly.
Bedwyr blushed to the roots of his ginger hair. Then he paled under Artor’s scrutiny, and his voice, when he did try to explain, was cracked and hesitant.
‘I’m afraid of heights, Lord Artor.’
Targo began to laugh, until he realized the young man was in deadly earnest.
‘I kept trying to find rope that was long enough for my needs, but I was always glad whenever I was unsuccessful. God knows what I’d have done if I’d had to climb down a rope into nothingness. I suppose I’ll never know now. Oddly, I don’t mind climbing up, especially when I can’t see the ground. I climbed the watchtower at Caer Fyrddin in a fearful rush, so I didn’t have time to be afraid, and I’ve climbed trees since boyhood. I don’t understand why I was too frightened to climb down the cliffs from the sewer, and I’m ashamed of the fear that kept me in that hideous place.’
Artor touched Bedwyr fleetingly on one shoulder. ‘You made amends for it at the shield wall, lad, but I had to know why you never used that route to escape.’
Targo and Odin exchanged sympathetic glances, but Artor’s expression remained stern.
‘That particular foible must soon be overcome, Bedwyr. While I might sympathize with your experiences, I don’t have time for your fears. Could the cliff be climbed to the point where the sewer outlet comes out if we could lower a rope down from inside the tunnel?’
‘Possibly.’ Bedwyr blanched. ‘But I’m not thrilled at the prospect.’
Artor sat quietly and sipped wine. Lot and Llanwith watched him think.
‘Gruffydd? I want you,’ Artor called.
Gruffydd appeared silently out of the gloom. ‘You bellowed, my lord?’
Artor paid no heed to Gruffydd’s humour, but King Lot was affronted by the sword bearer’s familiarity.
‘Do you still think you can pass close scrutiny as a Saxon? I imagine Glamdring will accept any and all volunteers at this moment. His force must be reduced to a bare one hundred men, but even that small number could pose a problem for an attacking force.’
‘If entering his fortress will lead to victory over Glamdring’s forces, then any risk is acceptable,’ Gruffydd responded. ‘Otherwise, we’ll be back fighting the bastard within a year or two.’
‘Sadly, that’s true. Do you feel the same way, Bedwyr?’
The young Celt’s heart lurched. ‘Gruffydd might enter the fortress as a Saxon without any real difficulty, but Glamdring will recognize me as his dog even if he only has time for a cursory glance. He will know of my arrival as soon as I enter the gates of his fortress. It was me, after all, who killed Wyrr, so he must long for my death.’ He looked at Artor. ‘I will go if you ask, my lord, because it’s preferable to climbing a rope over a long drop, but I’ll need an excellent disguise. I know I’m in the best possible position to find my way through the sewers, but if I’m discovered, then so is Gruffydd.’
‘Don’t fret, Bedwyr,’ Artor rejoined conversationally. ‘We’re still many miles from Caer Fyrddin, so we’ll talk again tomorrow.’
Bedwyr was beginning to realize that the High King rarely acted on impulse. In many ways, Glamdring and Artor shared the same traits of pride, charisma and the ability to command, but Artor’s mind was cold and it was ruled by logic. He would willingly sacrifice his closest friends if the Celtic nation required their blood, but his sorrow was real and lasting. His responses were chilly, unlike those of the mercurial Glamdring, but, most telling of all, men loved Artor, even as they died for him, because he asked no more of them than he expected of himself. Bedwyr had no doubt that if Artor had been fluent in the Saxon tongue, he would have been the first man to attempt entry into Glamdring Ironfist’s citadel.
During the following afternoon, the Celtic forces ambushed five Saxon warriors and dispatched them quickly. Artor ordered their bodies to be stripped and their rough clothing cleaned of all traces of blood.
‘Did you ever hear of the Trojan horse, Bedwyr?’ Artor asked at the campfire that night.
‘No, my lord,’ Bedwyr replied, confused as usual by the leaps that Artor’s agile mind made with such ease.
‘It was a trick used at a place called Troy in a battle that occurred many, many years ago,’ Llanwith told him. ‘Long before Rome was even a collection of mud huts, Troy was the greatest fortress in the known world.’
Bedwyr looked nonplussed.
‘Many years ago,’ Artor explained, ‘a man called Homer wrote that the ancient Greeks once attacked the city of Troy in a war that was fought over a woman, of all things. Homer’s army carried out a siege that lasted many years and employed an enormous army of warriors, but the city proved to be impregnable, and the siege couldn’t force the Trojans to surrender. Eventually, a clever warrior in the Greek army called Odysseus built a huge wooden horse, an animal that was sacred to Poseidon, the god of Troy. They left the wooden horse outside the gates of the city.’ He smiled at his assembled warriors. ‘Then the Greeks sailed away over the horizon.’
Lot frowned. ‘So did the Greeks simply give up?’
‘Not quite, Lot. Odysseus had left twenty men inside the horse.
The Trojans dragged their gift into the city, and celebrated what they believed to be their defeat of the Greeks who had retreated in their ships. Odysseus and his men waited until the Trojans had drunk themselves into a stupor and then crept out of their hiding places. Some of the Greeks opened the gates to the city to allow their returning comrades to enter, while the rest began to slaughter the population.’ Artor made a throat-cutting action with one hand. ‘There is an old saying that still warns us to beware of Greeks bearing gifts.’
‘So Bedwyr and I are to be your Trojan horse,’ Gruffydd said.
‘In a nutshell. And three more Saxon-speaking warriors should join you, for we captured sufficient clothing to disguise five warriors.’ Artor looked at Bedwyr. ‘Obviously your red hair will have to go. If we can’t dye it, we’ll have to shave it, eyebrows included. And no beard, of course. You will also wear a long coil of rope wrapped round your waist under your clothing. The extra padding will make you look portly, which will help to disguise you. Once you negotiate the sewers and find your way to the opening in the cliff, you will lower one end of the rope down to our warriors who will be positioned below.’
He paused, and Bedwyr nodded his understanding.
‘My warriors will then attach it to a rope ladder which you will pull up to the opening in the cliff. You must attach it to a secure object inside the sewer entrance. When the rope ladder is in position, it will be a simple matter for my warriors to enter Caer Fyrddin through the sewers. Glamdring will have no means of knowing we are entering under his feet.’
‘It’s an excellent plan,’ Llanwith said. ‘The perfect Trojan horse strategy, but do you have a rope ladder that’s long enough to use?’
‘I don’t climb well,’ Lot complained, patting his large paunch as he spoke.
‘Would you climb the ladder for the memory of Gaheris?’
Lot nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat.
‘Farryll, Camwy and Lucan all speak Saxon fluently,’ Gruffydd remarked. ‘So that makes five of us.’
Artor smiled. ‘Then it’s time for you to have a very close haircut, Bedwyr. Glamdring has never really looked closely at you, has he?’
‘No. To Glamdring, I was only Dog. But he will recognize the mark of the slave collar.’
‘Only if he sees it.’ Artor carefully considered the outward appearance of the young Cornovii. ‘I’m certain we can make you look like a different man if we disguise your clothes and your hair. And, of course, your scars.’
‘Of course,’ Bedwyr echoed faintly.
He realized he was going into Caer Fyrddin regardless of his misgivings, so he acquiesced glumly. As he had said earlier, entering the fortress in disguise was far preferable to climbing a rope ladder over a yawning chasm.
When Caer Fyrddin was within easy riding distance, Odin shaved Bedwyr’s head with a razor-sharp blade. His growing beard was removed as well, and Odin rubbed a little coal dye into Bedwyr’s russet eyebrows. Bedwyr felt distinctly odd. From somewhere, Artor had produced yards and yards of sturdy woven rope that, once wrapped round Bedwyr’s waist, gave him a very plump appearance and completely changed his body shape.
He was a new man.
Once the five spies had donned their Saxon dress and armour, picked up their circular shields and donned the distinctive Saxon helmets, even Bedwyr had to admit that they were unrecognizable as Celts.
Artor smiled down at his young charge. ‘Your task is to enter the citadel and report to Glamdring that our force is two hours away from Caer Fyrddin. While you’re carrying out this errand, we will position a small number of warriors close to the cliff below the sewer outlet. Once you have lowered your ropes to them and the rope ladder is secured, the need for subterfuge will be over. Can you master your hatred of Glamdring until then?’
‘Aye. I can pretend to fawn at his feet if I can cut his throat at the end,’ Bedwyr replied sardonically.
‘Good.’
The following morning, five disguised Celtic warriors found themselves loping up the long track that led to the fortress at Caer Fyrddin. They were seen long before they reached the walls, and when they reached the shadow of the watchtower, they were acutely aware that longbows were trained on them.
‘Glamdring appears to have learned a valuable lesson about the effectiveness of his bowmen,’ Bedwyr hissed.
‘I’ll do the talking, and you remain silent,’ Gruffydd whispered. ‘It’s possible that Glamdring might remember the sound of your voice.’
‘I am Cerdan Shapechanger, and this man is Modrod of Forden,’ Gruffydd called out to the Saxons on the ramparts. ‘And these three oafs are our servants. We have eluded Artor’s outriders and we bring news from Castell Collen. Let us in! Artor’s cavalry are not far behind us, and his main force is only a few hours’ ride from Caer Fyrddin.’
In spite of the Saxon appearance of the five warriors below them, the men on the watchtower were taking no chances.
‘Wait. We will call for the master.’
‘Better and better,’ Gruffydd mumbled sarcastically in Saxon.
While Gruffydd and his companions cooled their heels outside the fortress, Bedwyr noticed that the village huts had been hurriedly abandoned. Obviously, Glamdring had ordered every living soul into the fortress to swell the ranks of the defenders.
Above the gates, heads stared down at him with empty eye sockets. With a wrench, Bedwyr recognized face after face, the Celtic slaves of Caer Fyrddin, beheaded and rotting on poles. He pointed upward with one dirty finger.
Gruffydd laughed uproariously, and muttered at Bedwyr through his mirth. ‘Laugh, you idiot! Someone will be watching on the wall for our reactions.’
Bedwyr managed a weak grin. ‘They were my fellow captives, every one of them, and they’ve been slain down to the last child.’
‘So laugh, Bedwyr!’ Gruffydd insisted. ‘Glamdring will answer for his sins the sooner, and no one has been left alive to betray you by accident.’
Bedwyr made a great play of nudging another of the disguised men, and pointed out the youngest head, a child of fourteen.
‘He’ll pay for little Gannett,’ he said under his laughter.
Llanwith had briefed Gruffydd on the fall of Castell Collen, so when Glamdring appeared on the wall, Gruffydd was able to give an accurate account of the rout. As Glamdring nodded on several occasions, it seemed likely that the thane already knew the details of the sacking of the northern fortress. Bedwyr was grateful that Artor had left little to chance.