War Duke of Britain

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

Steffan tapped his way over to the fire pit. “There is one way you can do it,” he told Emrys.

  “Yes,” Emrys said in agreement. He said nothing more.

  “What way?” Ector asked.

  Emrys didn’t answer him. He moved around the fire to stand opposite where Idris hunched with his free hand toward the flames. “Tomorrow, we face the Saxons who took you when you were a child.”

  Idris’ eyes narrowed. “The south shore. Horsa,” he added, his voice strained.

  “Fight with me,” Emrys told him. “Stand by my side and defeat Horsa.”

  “That is your plan?” Ector asked, sounding alarmed.

  Emrys watched Idris.

  Cai gave a triumphant sound. The lock dropped to the ground. Idris lifted his arm up and rubbed the freed wrist. He met Emrys’ eyes and nodded.

  Chapter Twenty

  Battle of Mercredesburne. 485 C.E.

  The Saxon cohort, led by Horsa, was run to ground three miles inside the borders of the south Saxon Shore, when the sun was at its highest the next day.

  Some said Horsa was tired of running and turned to fight just to finish the matter.

  Others said he had heard rumors of the might of the British host and in his fear made the hasty decision which was his undoing.

  There were even more rumors that the Saxons had been weakened by the knowledge that Uther rode with the host. Uther had recovered, with Merlin’s ministrations, although he needed help to get into his saddle. Once he was upon his horse, though, he remained an upright figure and his voice bellowed across the arrayed host, easily reaching the last foot soldier.

  Lot and the northern kings arrayed themselves on the other side of the host from Galleva. Lot had sent Galleva one hard, long look, then turned his head away.

  Rhiannon watched Lot closely, her heart running hard. He must have seen Idris sitting beside Emrys, yet he had not reacted, which worried her. Lot was a man who would always respond. He was biding his time, which was not a good thing.

  Idris wore armor and a sword which had been hastily found for him late last night.

  “Every last fighter is combing through their possessions, looking for suitable spare weaponry. I hope you have no objections to using a dead man’s armor?” Anwen told him. “You are an impossible size—even Cai’s breast plate won’t fit you.”

  “A fallen warrior of Galleva?” Idris said, taking the sword she held out to him. “I would be honored.” He tested it for balance and nodded. “It will do well,” he decided.

  Nudd thudded his tail. Idris looked down at him. “Fetch Brennus,” he said, his tone flat.

  Nudd gave a short yip, then ran out into the dark trees, crouched low and moving fast.

  “He’s not really going to get your horse, is he?” Cai asked, staring after the now invisible wolf.

  “Brennus will not allow anyone else to ride him but me. And he will fret when everyone prepares for battle and I do not come for him. It is a kindness to bring him with me,” Idris said.

  “I guess we can add horse thievery to our tally,” Ector muttered. “We are fast becoming a band of miscreants.”

  “For the best reasons,” Emrys added. “People should spend more time considering the reason for an act, instead of just the act itself.”

  “Unless the act itself is unforgiveable,” Steffan added.

  “Is there an unforgiveable act?” Emrys asked softly. “If the reason is good enough…”

  Steffan shook his head. “The death of hundreds, to save one. It is wrong, no matter how important the one is to the man committing the act.”

  “Oh, it is too late for such discussions,” Anwen said, pressing her temples.

  Emrys crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful. “It seems to me the definition of right and wrong changes from act to act.”

  “What is right?” Steffan demanded. “There are tribes north of Saxony who sacrifice their children for a good harvest. So did Carthage. A good harvest feeds thousands, so is it wrong, when everyone does it?”

  “It is wrong to us,” Emrys replied.

  Steffan nodded. “Yes.”

  “Right and wrong, then…must be decided ahead of time and the line enforced,” Emrys said slowly. “Or else, everyone will plead that their circumstances justify the act.”

  “Laws,” Steffan added softly.

  Rhiannon watched the interplay, startled. Her father was leading Emrys, making him think. Had he always done this? Did she need to review her entire childhood, now she knew who Emrys was, to understand the hidden motives and actions of those around them?

  She cleared her throat. “Laws, instead of decisions,” she added. “A rule, instead of a knife fight to decide who behaved like a coward in the midst of battle.”

  Cai and Idris both looked at her. Idris’ eyes narrowed.

  Emrys nodded. “A good point,” he said, rubbing his chin.

  “Enough,” Anwen said firmly. “It is late. Those who fight tomorrow must sleep now.”

  The cluster of people around the campfire broke up. Anwen and Steffan and Ector moved into the tent. Cai went over to the warm spot by the fire where he had spread his packs and saddle, to prepare for sleep.

  Idris settled on the log, taking time to make himself comfortable. The light of the low flames illuminated his face.

  “You intend to stay there for the night?” Emrys asked him, his tone curious.

  Idris looked up. “There is somewhere else I should be?”

  “You do not intend to sleep?” Emrys seemed amused.

  “He cannot, for he has nothing to sleep on,” Rhiannon said, putting it together quickly.

  A soft nicker sounded from the dark and the quiet clop of hooves. From the trees, Idris’ black stallion, Brennus, trotted up to the fire. Nudd had a rein clamped in his jaw, leading him.

  Both stopped before Idris. Nudd dropped the rein.

  Emrys shook his head. “Man and beast…” he murmured, his tone admiring.

  Idris patted Nudd’s head and scratched behind his ears, a silent reward.

  Emrys moved up to the horse, smoothed his hand over its bare back, then picked up the reins. “I’ll put him on the line with the others,” he said. He glanced at Rhiannon. “Then we should all sleep, as Anwen insists.”

  As Emrys led the horse away with a soft click of his tongue, Rhiannon moved around the fire to Idris’ side. She took his hand. “Come and sleep with me.”

  Idris glanced at her hand, then at her. He shook his head. “Not tonight. Tomorrow, after the battle, when whatever plan Emrys has in mind has played out, we will settle things, but not now. Not while I am…” He swallowed.

  Still a slave.

  “You didn’t mind, before,” she said softly.

  “I did mind. I was terrified you would learn what I am and turn from me.” His big hand cupped her jaw and his thumb slid over her cheek, leaving a line of fire against her flesh. “I was weak, though. I thought things could never change, that I would always be…this. A slave. Less than nothing in a man’s eyes, and maybe yours. Yet you insisted that to maintain the peace, I should give in. So I did, just for one selfish night.”

  “Do you think I care that you are a slave?” Rhiannon said heatedly.

  “I care.” His jaw flexed. “Now, I do. I would come to you as a man, Rhiannon.”

  “You have hope, now…” she breathed.

  His smile was small and warm. “It is a tiny hope. Yet that little seed is more than I have had since I was six years old, when a Saxon warrior dumped me in a cart with a dozen other screaming boys and told us to shut up or else.”

  She lifted his hand, which she still held. “Then come and share my saddle cloth, instead. Touch me or do not. But you must sleep and you must be warm while you do, and no one else here will share their bed with you. They’re all too big.”

  Reluctantly, Idris let her lead him over to where her packs and gear were set up. She took off her cloak, spread the fur over her saddle and laid down. She glanced at Idris. “
You can use your own cloak.”

  Deliberately, she closed her eyes.

  She listened as Idris shifted on his feet. Then she heard the flap of heavy wool as he took off his borrowed cloak. He stepped over her and settled on the cloth behind her, spreading the cloak over his length.

  The saddle shifted beneath her cheek as he laid his head upon it.

  She smiled to herself.

  More soft footsteps sounded and she cracked one eye open to see Emrys returning from the horse line. His gaze met hers. Rhiannon opened her eyes, daring him to speak about Idris lying behind her.

  Emrys’ gaze dropped away. He went to his own gear and settled for sleep, his back to them.

  Rhiannon closed her eyes. Behind her, she could already hear Idris’ breath had changed to the slow inhalations of sleep.

  When she woke the next morning, his arm was over her middle and her back was firmly against him. The heat under the double layers of cloak was more than the flames from the fire.

  Her mother already stood at the cooking pot, stirring busily.

  It was dawn and the day of battle.

  THE ADVANCED SCOUTS BROUGHT BACK word of the Saxons’ location as Uther’s host prepared to set out. Tristan, the War Duke, and the other senior officers gathered around Uther for a fast discussion and decision in light of this new intelligence.

  Rhiannon made her way around the edges of the large host, heading for the Queen’s Cohort, directly behind Uther’s phalanx. It was easier to skirt around the long way than force her way through hundreds of restless horses and tense fighters to reach them.

  On the far side from Galleva’s position, Rhiannon became wary. She let her gaze linger on the riders on her left, for they were Lothian troops. As she passed, a single rider pushed out between them, his gray snorting and chomping eagerly, his forelegs pawing the air. Gawain wrestled the reins as if the horse was misbehaving and he was merely trying to control the beast.

  “Tell Idris to watch his back,” Gawain murmured to her, as his stallion’s haunches brushed up against Tielo’s shoulders.

  He winked at her as the horse calmed, then pushed back into the middle of the Lothian contingent.

  Rhiannon made herself continue onward. She could not now turn around and return to the Galleva riders. Someone from Lothian would notice. Only, how could she get word to Idris?

  She thought up and discarded a dozen unworkable ideas as she and Tielo fell into line with the Queen’s Cohort. She barely noticed Ilsa’s nod of approval, or Elen’s smile.

  Then it was too late. The horn blew and the host set out.

  After a day of rest, the British troops were ready to fight. An easy morning of riding did not tax them. The day was warm but not too hot and the sky was cloudless. They passed into Saxon territory shortly before noon and began to canter. The tension of being upon enemy lands spread through the host. All the easy comments and jocularity which usually passed among the riders ceased. Swords were loosened. Helmets were fastened and shields threaded over forearms.

  No large war host could travel silently at speed, or even remain in one location without a sound. They knew the Saxons were ahead because of the silence of the surrounding land, and the murmur of many voices and beasts riding on the warm air ahead of them.

  The host picked up speed without a horn call to prompt them, until the entire host galloped, making the ground rumble beneath them.

  A bend in the road and the land opened into a broad river valley where the Saxons waited.

  Uther raised his great sword and gave a cry. It was instantly echoed by everyone. While the Queen’s Cohort split and streamed out to contain the flanks, the main host surged forward and fell upon the Saxons. The great clash sent birds fluttering into the air from the trees on the edge of the valley.

  Desperate or not, Saxons were vicious fighters. The narrow valley contained the hosts in a concentrated mass in the center. It gave the two wings of the Queen’s Cohort little to do but monitor the fighting from their higher positions on the slope.

  Rhiannon sat on Tielo, staying with the Cohort as she had been trained, no matter what the provocation. She sat and watched as cold murder was attempted.

  From their higher elevation, they saw everything below them as if they watched a living map. Even in the few days she had been riding with the host, Rhiannon had learned the names and appearances of many of the leaders and their principal officers. She no longer needed to search for the banner which proclaimed their allegiances.

  When a handful of Lothian warriors broke from the main Lothian contingent and made their way through the fighting, heading for where Uther’s red Pendragon banner fluttered, Rhiannon’s attention was caught. She squeezed the reins, her breath coming faster, as nearly two dozen men nudged aside other Britons and hacked at Saxons enough to clear their path.

  “What is it, Rhiannon?” Elen murmured. “You’re white.”

  “Lothians, heading for the Pendragon banner. See them?” Rhiannon asked.

  Galleva had been placed on Uther’s left-hand side, immediately behind the front line. Even though Uther had not formally acknowledged Emrys, yet, the position of honor was not lost upon anyone. The Lothian men headed directly for them.

  “Whatever are they doing?” Elen murmured.

  “I think…I fear…” Rhiannon couldn’t speak the words. Her throat was too tight.

  Elen gripped her wrist. “Idris…?” she whispered.

  Rhiannon nodded.

  “Lot would not dare. Not right there where everyone can see!”

  “Everyone is occupied with fighting. They could slaughter him and everyone will assume Idris fell to the Saxons. Oh, Elen…” Rhiannon swallowed. “Even if I leave now, I would never reach him in time to warn him.”

  Elen’s fingers tightened. “We must hope that Idris is as great a warrior as everyone proclaims and sees the attack before it is too late.” Her expression tightened. “No matter what happens now, there will be a reckoning, after. Cai was right about Lot, after all.”

  Rhiannon choked back her fear. Her vision developed black, dancing spots, because she dared not blink or look away from the Lothian fighters who approached the Galleva contingent. They would fall upon Idris from behind.

  “Cowards!” Elen hissed.

  The shouting and clash of weapons, the screams of the dying, the whinny of horses, all hid the smaller, heated drama playing in their midst. Something, though, made Gawain give a great shout. He urged his horse to wheel and gallop toward the Galleva banner, his sword waving. Rhiannon saw his mouth move. Did he cry out a warning?

  Heads turned toward him. None of them were the Lothians creeping up on Idris. Nor did Idris break off from slashing at Saxons with his sword, while Nudd rounded them up with snarls and bites.

  Gawain must have judged he wouldn’t reach Idris in time, for he dropped the reins and jumped onto the back of his horse. He balanced for a moment, then leapt high in the air, flying over the heads of Galleva soldiers and their spears. He fell upon the backs of the Lothians, much as they must have planned to leap upon Idris.

  His shout drew attention. Corneus was just ahead of Galleva. Lucan and Bedivere, with his black and red armor distinct among the fighters, both whirled back to tackle the Lothians. They jumped from their horses, their swords up, and rammed their way through swirling bodies.

  Idris, too, spotted the melee behind him. He threw himself from Brennus. Nudd leapt, too.

  Emrys and Cai spun to face the new attack. Riderless horses stomped and bit as they had been trained to do, to support their riders, while fighters struggled in between them.

  The clash and cries drew the attention of the most senior officers around Uther. Heads turned. They had seen.

  A trickle of relief touched Rhiannon. Lot’s actions had been noted by the highest in the land.

  Idris was not out of danger, yet. Most of the Lothians were contained, but the British inattention had been noted by the Saxons. They surged forward to take advantage of the dis
traction, with their chilling screams and their bloody hammers and axes raised.

  “Oh, sweet lord above…!” Elen whispered, horror in her voice.

  Rhiannon held her breath as the British turned back to face the Saxons, regrouping and bracing themselves. For what seemed like eons, the Saxons poured themselves upon the British breach, so close to the High King, trying to crack the host apart and fatally weaken it.

  The British fought back as one, sensing the danger of this moment. Their determination was as strong as the Saxons’.

  A great cry of triumph soared from the Saxons, their raw joy louder than the battle itself.

  “Tristan!” Elen breathed.

  The War Duke, King Tristan, flailed with his sword to keep the Saxons from him, as he clutched at his belly with the other hand. His shield was gone. His light blue tunic turned a rust color from the blood pouring from the great wound he tried to hold together.

  The British gathered around him, holding the Saxons away from him. Tristan slithered from the back of his horse and disappeared from sight. Another jubilant shout sounded from the Saxons.

  Emrys gave a cry as loud as any Saxons’. He threw himself upon the nearest horse—which was Brennus—and urged the stallion through the backs of the British. Emrys waved with his sword. He shouted again. Rhiannon saw his mouth working, but could not hear what he said.

  The British gathered around him, throwing themselves upon horses. Any horse would do. They regrouped and Emrys surged forward, leading them through the thick mass of Saxons who tried to reach the High King now his stalwart War Duke was dead.

  The fighting grew desperate as the hard, unforgiving cores came together.

  “Something will turn this battle one way or another, soon,” Elen whispered, for she had seen more battles than Rhiannon. Rhiannon sensed the hesitation, the pause in the balance of tensions on either side. It could go either way…

  A shout sounded, as two Saxons launched themselves at Emrys, at the head of the group protecting the High King. Emrys threw up his sword to meet their blades. Iron slithered, sparks flew, metal cracked…and the end of Emrys’ sword blade flew up in the air and spun away.