I still will not speak with you of love, Kurvenal, so please do not try to trick me into it. I am glad to hear you are in little danger of having to fight — for now.
Your Brangwyn
Kurvenal to Brangwyn, greetings.
It is always a great joy to receive a letter from you, even if you close with scolding. I will endeavor to avoid speaking of love to you, if that is what you wish, although my heart is full. At weapons practice, at the games and the races we hold when the weather permits, at the mock battles on horseback, it is your dark hair and bright eyes I think of, you I turn to for comfort, even if it is only in thought. You are my peace in a world of war, the comfortable home I long to find.
It looks to be a mild spring, and Arthur has us already training to slip behind Saxon lines and make them regret that they ever underestimated the resistance of the British.
Your Kurvenal
Brangwyn to Kurvenal, greetings.
I received your last missive late, as we traveled to Isca for Kustennin's first birthday. It was not an ideal visit — Marcus and Yseult barely speak, and although his mistress Trephina was given a house outside of the villa for the space of our stay, the servants in Isca feel loyalty to her and not Yseult and made our lives difficult. There, they have no cause to love Yseult as they do in Lansyen and Dyn Tagell. She cured ills that were brought her while we were there, and those who profited from her knowledge were grateful, but we only remained a ten-day.
You may wonder why Marcus does not participate in the defense of Britain himself, as do many regional kings. It is his opinion that he has done his duty by sending troops to Arthur, and "this time" he is going to see to it that Isca is defended.
It is good to be back in Lansyen. Marcus is proud of his little boy, his "Constantine," but he does not love him. He is a possession, as is everything else.
Your Brangwyn
Kurvenal to Brangwyn, greetings.
Believe me, Brangwyn, nothing selfish that Marcus does could surprise me.
I noticed with chagrin that you ignored the fine words of my last letter. And I spent so much time on them, writing them into my wax tablet first before committing them to the wooden sheet where they cannot be rubbed out again. I suppose I deserve it — you told me not to speak of love and longing and loyalty, and I find over and over again that I cannot fulfill your request.
Would you rather hear of war? There is much to tell. Given the mild March weather, the Saxons have begun to move west along the Tamesis. We engage their forces regularly and have been able to push them back to Londinium each time, but without more support from the regional kings farther from the area of battle, our resistance will soon be broken.
I am grateful that you at least remain safe.
Your Kurvenal
Brangwyn to Kurvenal, greetings.
I beg you, do not scare me so. Resistance broken? What will become of the rest of Britain if that comes true? I have spoken with Yseult of this, and we have decided to start our own campaign to enlist more help for Arthur. Soon we will return to Dyn Tagell. On the way, we will visit the local kings. Yseult has already sent to Ginevra; we hope her father Gwythyr can be persuaded to lead new forces to Verulamium.
Kurvenal, if you can be happy with my loyalty, you already have that — as long as you never harm anyone else I love.
Forgive the shortness of this note; we must pack for the journey. I hope the roads are not too muddy still.
Your Brangwyn
* * * *
Kurvenal sat on his pallet in the room he shared with Drystan near the forum of Verulamium and stared at the thin sheets of wood in her charmingly unsure hand. Anyone else I love. Perhaps it did not mean what he hoped he meant, but he could cling to that, couldn't he? They had just returned from a six-day campaign against Saxons troops on the road to Pontes, trying to keep them from conquering the next town east of Calleva — and much too close to the center of British power. He was tired and dirty and sweating and needed to seek a healer about a myriad of wounds on his arms and legs, luckily none of them serious.
Didn't he deserve to imagine that those four words meant more than she might have intended?
Chapter 24
Did not Manawyd bring back
A pierced shield from Tryvrwyd? . . .
They fell a hundred at a time
Before Bodwyr . . .
On the shores of Tryvrwyd.
The Black Book of Carmarthen
Reinforcements from Dumnonia led by Gwythyr arrived in Verulamium in June. Drystan had told Arthur that Yseult intended to try to organize more Dumnonian support, but given the general's wide-eyed expression as the troops neared the town on the road from the southwest, he had not believed it.
Or had not believed it could be so much. The troops at Gwythyr's back were probably three hundred strong, all of them mounted.
In front of the Calleva gate, Gwythyr dismounted and removed his helmet, shaking out his graying blond hair. "Queen Yseult has taken Ginevra to live in Dyn Tagell where she will be safer and has promised to see to the defense of Celliwig."
Arthur nodded shortly, trying not to show his surprise. "She is a good queen, and loyal."
Everyone within hearing knew what he didn't say — more loyal than her husband, although she was Erainn and he was British.
"They are as yet untrained in warfare on horseback," Gwythyr said. "But they will learn if you teach them."
"We will."
With the help of the newly trained Dumnonian cavalry, they were able to take back Pontes on the road to Calleva, which they had lost in May.
But when the signal fires came from the west in the dog days of August, the fighting men of Arthur's forces knew that even with three new centuries, it would not be enough.
* * * *
Between the tents of the camp on the banks of the Tribruit River, the smell of wood smoke mixed with the smell of meat and carrots and wild onions, a hearty evening stew for men who had ridden hard for three days. Corinium was behind them and Glevum in front of them — where the enemy camped on the banks of the Sabrina River.
A Saxon enemy, not Erainn, although attacking from the west. The messenger sent by Arthur's half-brother Madoc in the wake of the fire signals had met them on the road to Corinium and given them the details. Saxon ships led by Hengist's sons Octha and Aesc had sailed all the way around the Dumnonian peninsula to launch attacks along the Sabrina, laying siege to Glevum in the heart of British territory, while their father Hengist continued to attack along the border of Ceint, moving forward towards Verulamium and Calleva — in the direction where his sons were attacking in the west.
If they were successful, they would cut the British kingdoms in half.
Drystan strummed idly on the strings of his harp, and although he played no song and sang no tune, men began to gather around him as they waited for the meal to finish cooking. Here or there they sharpened a knife or polished a short sword or mended a damaged saddlebag.
It was clear to Drystan that the warriors found the gentle series of notes soothing, and he continued to play. They all deserved to be soothed now. Londinium had already fallen; they could not allow Corinium too to fall, the second largest city of Britain. But how were they to push back this new wave of Saxons when they had two fronts on which to fight? Arthur had left the majority of his men to defend the western border, led by Gwythyr, Oneon, and Natanleod, and ably assisted by Cador.
The only way to succeed would be if the regional kings in the heart of Britain who had always regarded themselves as so safe depleted their own defenses and provided more men for Arthur's forces. According to Madoc, who ruled the kingdom of Ergyng from his seat in Corinium, the Saxons attacking the settlements along the Sabrina river were nearly three thousand strong.
Arthur strode into the clearing between the tents, and Drystan's fingers stilled.
"Very fine, Cousin," Arthur said, getting himself a bowl of stew and sitting down on a log in the middle of the men. "You should play
more often."
Drystan nodded. "I should. But not now."
"How right you are. Serve up, everyone, we have things to discuss."
Soon all were settled with bowls around him, including Arthur's most important companions. Arthur swallowed the piece of mutton he had been chewing and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. "Men, it must be obvious to all of us that even with over five hundred horse we can do little against an army of three thousand. We need reinforcements. Madoc will join us with what he can, but he must leave sufficient forces in Corinium." Arthur didn't say it, but they all knew — in case they failed to hold the Saxons back.
Arthur looked around at the tired group of soldiers and his gaze rested on Gareth, barely old enough to be traveling with them. "Gareth, I would have you go to your uncle Honorius in Caer Gwent and beg as much assistance as he can spare from his own defenses. Drystan, you accompany him and continue on to Caer Leon and Demetia. Take as many men and ships as Caradog can afford to give up from the defense of Caer Leon and beg what you can from Triffyn and Aircol."
Drystan and Gareth looked at each other and nodded agreement.
Arthur dug out a piece of meat from his stew with a slice of bread and turned to Manawyd. "You are of Vortigern's line."
Manawyd swallowed down most of the stew in his mouth. "Yes," he said through what was left.
"I would like you to go north to Viroconium, to King Britu of Powys. I know Britu and Pasgen have been reluctant in the past to contribute much to the standing army of Britain while the man who murdered their grandfather is High King, but you must impress upon Britu that if Glevum and Corinium fall, Viroconium is at threat, lying as it does on the Sabrina River."
Manawyd nodded. "Britu and I were fostered together. I think he will listen to me."
"Very good. And as to Pasgen —" Arthur's gaze scanned the warriors pushing the last pieces of meat out of their bowls and lit on Gormant, said to be another of Uthyr's bastards. "Gormant, you have more diplomacy than most. I would have you go to Aquae Sulis and use your talent to persuade the king of Glastenning how important it is that he send us whatever troops he can spare. After Corinium, Aquae Sulis may well be the next goal of Octha and Aesc."
"I will do my best, Arthur."
Bedwyr rose to get himself another bowl of stew. "And what do we do here in the meantime?"
"We harry their camps, steal their supplies, ambush their scouting parties — anything we can to make it less likely that their siege of Glevum will be successful."
"Madoc will not be happy," Gormant said. "His son Owain sits behind the walls of Glevum."
"My nephew Owain sits behind the walls of Glevum. We will do what we can. But we cannot break the siege with so few men."
From what Drystan had heard, Madoc would be happy to have his uncle Ambrosius declared dead, since Madoc was one of the most likely candidates for High King. But with Owain defending the fortress of Glevum, Madoc would be forced to take sides with the bastard Arthur — who would never see anyone else High King of Britain until he had proof of Ambrosius's death.
"And what of Cerdic?" Cai asked, putting his bowl aside and folding his arms in front of his wide chest.
"Cerdic." Arthur was quiet for a moment. "The Count of the Saxon Shore still has not answered the summons we sent from Verulamium. A messenger alone could have caught up with us on the road to Corinium, but none did. Nor was there any message by homing pigeon waiting when we arrived."
Arthur did not elaborate, but when Drystan looked around at the faces of the companions, he saw in the grim expressions of the other men that their general had made his point — he wasn't sure if Cerdic was still to be trusted.
* * * *
Not only did Drystan receive two centuries from King Triffyn of Demetia, Prince Aircol declared his intention to lead the reinforcements himself. But by the time Drystan and his small company had accompanied Gareth to Caer Gwent, organized the additional cavalry to be sent from Caer Leon to Corinium, and made the remaining journey by ship to the Demetian port of Moridinum, over two weeks had gone by. Precious time was passing.
Luckily, a homing pigeon arrived in Moridinum the same day as Drystan, Kurvenal, and their men with word that Owain was still holding Glevum. Aircol's fleet was well organized, and they would be able to set sail within a day.
Together, Aircol and Drystan sought out the pigeon loft with the caretaker. "We will send word to Corinium that we are coming with four galleys and two hundred men. We can only hope that from there, word gets to Arthur."
"And Glevum?" Drystan asked. "If a pigeon can get through, they could develop a plan for our arrival and we could at least try to save the women and children."
As they climbed the stairs, the sound of cooing became louder. "How?" Aircol asked.
"The fortress of Glevum is situated on the confluence of the Sabrina and the Tribruit rivers. If we can get at least one ship to the banks near one of the gates, you could take any refugees we can save to the next town. Your warships are small enough to pull ashore?"
Aircol nodded.
The caretaker pushed open the door to the pigeon loft and began cooing himself. Drystan and Aircol looked at each other, eyebrows raised.
"A good plan," Aircol said, his voice pitched louder over the noise of the birds. "I hope Arthur will find a way to let us know whether it will work."
The two pigeons were sent on their way, and the four small galleys set out for Glevum the next day.
Sailing up the Sabrina estuary, Drystan was stunned at the extent of the destruction. Blackened remnants of wooden houses were all that was left of many smaller settlements along the coast, and the port of Abona at the mouth of the Abona River was a burned-out ruin. Drystan wondered if his cousin Labiane was alright; her husband's hill-fort was only a dozen miles inland from Abona. But while the destruction was great, it seemed as if the Saxons had concentrated on doing damage with as little effort as possible, which meant they would not take the time to sail up the Abona. Labiane was most likely safe.
Shortly before they came to The Snake, where the Sabrina River narrowed to almost a third of its size, they saw a sign from Arthur: a signal fire on the finger of land which changed the water's course.
Aircol and Drystan clasped hands and embraced. Their message had gotten through; the plan would be carried out.
"I need one of your best archers and something to write on," Drystan said. He scribbled a message on a thin strip of wood and tied it to an arrow.
"Aim for the banks near the signal fire," he said to the archer as he returned the arrow.
It hit the shore almost exactly where Drystan had indicated, and the warriors on all four ships cheered.
The soldier who tended the signal fire ran forward to get it, took a moment to wave at them, then turned and sprinted to his horse.
"Now we can only hope our timing works to our advantage," Kurvenal muttered. Drystan nodded. If they rowed up to the shores of the fortress of Glevum with no distraction from Arthur's cavalry as cover, they were doomed.
They could hear the sounds of battle before they could see it, a dull roar of hoofbeats and screams and clanging weapons. As the scene of the battle came into view, Drystan clenched his hands on the railing of the ship.
The Saxons covered the incline above the banks of the river, an immense sea of boiled leather and metal, helmets and swords glinting in the early September sun. At the top of the incline, Arthur's cavalry spread out in a long line, moving, swirling, swords flashing and shields glinting. They had the advantage of speed and mobility, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Drystan was only glad to see that they were holding their advantageous position above the foot soldiers. But of course the Saxons recognized Arthur's strength as well and were attacking the horses. As they watched, Drystan thought he saw Bedwyr go down.
And then the Saxons sighted their ships.
There was a brief moment when it seemed as if half the battlefield became still. Then Drystan heard something yelled
in the guttural Saxon tongue and a number of men closest to the river rushed for the longboats pulled up on the shore.
"Closer to shore!" Drystan called. "Archers ready!"
The Saxons began to push their boats into the river, wading in water too deep for speed but not deep enough yet to clamber in and take up the oars.
"Shoot!" Drystan yelled.
Arrows rained on the enemy warriors, and dozens fell, coloring the river red with their blood. But the Saxons were so many, another wave followed. Their own archers on shore began to cover for them now that they realized what was going on.
"Ram them!" Drystan called over to the sister ship captained by Ruan. "Pass the word!"
The longboats were trying to head them off, keep them from nearing the fortress, but Drystan suspected the Saxons had never had to fight a Roman-style galley before. Against the first boat at least, they would have the element of surprise.
"Speed, men!" Drystan shouted, and the helmsman increased the pace of the oarsmen.
They bore down on the nearest longboat, and Drystan saw looks of amazement beneath horned helmets. Then the bronze reinforced ram tore into the side of the Saxon vessel, splitting wooden planks and plowing Saxons into the water. The air was full of the sound of breaking wood and the screams of warriors who could not get their heavy armor off in time to keep from sinking to the bottom of the river.
The next longboat ahead suddenly changed direction and headed back for shore. Behind them, Drystan could hear that at least one other galley had also found its mark.
"Archers!" Drystan bellowed. The archers took up their position next to the oarsmen and did their best to pick off the Saxons in the longboat heading back to the banks of the river. When they were out of range, Drystan called for the archers to hold and for the oarsmen to increase the speed of the vessel. Already a detail of Saxons headed along the shore for the fortress, probably hoping to stop them if they tried to land.
Then the western gate of the fortress of Glevum burst open, and whatever was left of the British defense poured out, perhaps three hundred strong, to halt the advance of the Saxons on the banks.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 37
