'They have taken him to Ynys Avallach,' Rhys said, his face grey with fatigue and worry. 'If you know any prayers, say them now.' For if Arthur would be healed, it must be in that holy place and none other. The Wise Emrys knew best what to do. Rhys then delivered Arthur's last command. 'You are to conduct the Vandali to the north, where they will take possession of lands surrendered by the rebel lords. Any Britons living in these realms will be cast out and their settlements made forfeit by their lords' treason.'

Thus they departed, leaving us to establish the peace Arthur had won. We divided the warhost; Bedwyr, Cai, and I conducted the new Vandal chieftain, Mercia, and his tribes to the lands Arthur had granted them in the north. Cador and the rest of the Cymbrogi – the name is Arthur's choice, it means companions of the heart – turned their attention to overseeing the departure from these shores of the traitors and their followers whose lands had fallen forfeit.

Burdened by weight of numbers, and fatigued with all the fighting we had endured, we made our way north very slowly, leading the Vandal host, searching out water along the way. Far easier said than done, I fear; with each passing day the drought deepened, causing hardship from one end of the land to the other. It broke my heart to see holding after holding deserted -many had fled to Armorica – but worse still were the burned-out strongholds, those which plague had ravaged and destroyed.

If the sight of so much suffering made us heart-heavy, the thought of displacing honest British folk from their homelands brought us to despair. Oh, it is a hard, hard thing to tell a man his home must be surrendered and all his life's labour has come to naught because his rogue of a lord has broken faith with the High King. Stab that man in the heart; it is kinder in the end, I swear it.

I loathed the task set before me, and prayed for a way to evade what must be done. Day after day, as we moved the Vandal host northward, I prayed to God for a miracle.

Behold! My prayer was answered, not with a miracle, but with a resolution almost as good. One night, the sixth or seventh since leaving our encampment near the battlefield at Caer Gloiu, Mercia and his priest approached Bedwyr's tent. Bedwyr had brought Arthur's camp chair and tent as the sole, scant consolation of a miserable journey. We were enjoying a moment's rest after another arduous day.

'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 Rogatti, 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.'