Then, finally, to the south on the opposite side of the stream, British forces appeared on the summit of the downs.
Gawain had arrived.
A shock of relief went through him, but he could give in to that as little as he could give in to concern for Ruan. The battle was far from over.
A shift seemed to go through Cerdic's army as they too noticed the reinforcements charging down the incline to the south and fording the stream.
Drystan's unit took advantage of the distraction to continue their onslaught of the enemy forces trying to push Owain's troops back up the hill. He and his men couldn't cut off Cerdic's right flank completely — they weren't enough — but with their maneuver they caught several dozen mounted warriors between them and the troops under Owain's command. The barbarians and traitors were at a disadvantage, and Owain's cavalry began to move forward again. Slowly, the horned and flanged helmets of the Saxons grew fewer, and when Drystan and Owain's forces met, they left a field of blood and bodies behind.
Together, they fought back Cerdic's right flank, pushing his troops into the valley, where they were surrounded on three sides. As the sun began to descend towards the horizon, the tide of the battle turned, and Arthur's army closed in on what was left of Cerdic's.
Just as Drystan was hoping they would soon be able to take the traitor, Cerdic's army turned tail and began to flee west along the valley, following the path of the stream. Drystan and his cavalry unit began to pursue the enemy, cutting them down while they ran. And then they heard the battle horn — not to charge, but to regroup.
They pulled up their mounts, confused. Drystan and Owain looked at each other, and Drystan could see his own disbelief mirrored in the eyes of Arthur's nephew. Only slowly did the battle frenzy leave him and reason return, and he remembered why they couldn't slaughter Cerdic's forces as they ran, why they couldn't take the traitor and make him pay; pay for the many friends and foes lying on the field this fine day in May, men who would never again kiss a woman's lips or smell the scent of freshly baked bread.
They still had another battle to fight.
Drystan and his men picked their way through the dead and dying to where Arthur's commanders gathered in the middle of the battlefield. The peaceful valley of the morning was gone, the vivid green of the spring grass trampled to brown, bloody muck and covered with the bodies of men and horses. The groans of the wounded filled the air, and the stench of blood stung in his nostrils.
He looked around and counted those who were still with them. Ruan was not among them. Or Julius. Or Tuthal.
His heart tightened in his chest, and he turned forward, to the Dux Bellorum, his commander and his cousin.
"We will go to Aquae Sulis first," Arthur was saying as they joined him. "See if Gaheris needs assistance holding the city. From there we can continue west to Lansdown to assist Pasgen and Manawyd in holding back the Saxons, if necessary."
The men gathered around Arthur nodded, apparently as numb as Drystan felt. He was glad to see Cador across from him, his face streaked with blood and mud and his eyes hollow.
Alive.
"What of the wounded?" Owain asked.
Arthur sighed, as if that were too much to ask of him, here, now. He looked around at his men and his eyes lit on Cador. "Could you see to it, Cousin, until we send medical assistance from Aquae Sulis? I will have to put your cavalry under the command of someone else. The archers can assist you, but we need every mounted fighting arm we have."
Cador stared at him a moment before answering, as if Arthur's words were in a foreign language. "Yes, I can try to sort to living from the dead," he said finally.
Drystan was glad Cador would not be dragged into the fighting again, even if his young cousin was not. The task was a gruesome one.
"Good," Arthur said and turned to the rest of them. "Men, we ride."
Aquae Sulis was only about two miles west and south. Pasgen's seat lay nestled in the bend of the river, the tiles of the roofs brightly red above the thick city walls in the late afternoon sun, apparently peaceful. But the sounds coming from the west were those of battle. Drystan could not see the fighting, but from the surrounding hills, the situation of Aquae Sulis would have looked very different.
As they neared the Corinium gate, the portcullis was raised, and they cantered into the city, hooves ringing on cobblestones.
Gaheris met them, on horseback as well, searching their ranks for his brother's face. When his eyes lit on Gawain, he looked relieved, but his expression remained grim.
He drew up next to Arthur. "I have sent as many men as I can afford to assist the troops under Pasgen and Manawyd, but we need to keep at least a minimal defense here in the city."
"Good work," Arthur said, and Drystan saw Gaheris's expression clear slightly. "Any doctors or healers you have need to be sent to the valley below Caer Baddon and Banner Hill to care for our wounded. Cador is there."
Gaheris nodded. "It will be done."
"And what of the battle?" Arthur asked, stroking Llamrei's gray neck absently.
"The forces of Pasgen and Manawyd are being pushed back closer and closer to the city. They are sorely outnumbered."
Arthur consulted with Gaheris briefly as to the position of the armies and decided to ride north from the Corinium gate and up the hill, following the ridge to join the battle from a more advantageous position.
As they galloped up the slope, the sounds of the battle became louder and more distinct, catching in the hills north and south of the river. They turned west, and below them to their left lay a field of seething men and horses. Behind it, the sun was nearing the horizon.
Drystan felt as if he had never known any other life than fighting and killing. Hours they had fought against Cerdic's forces, and it still was not over. They had won — and now their reward was to fight yet again.
Someone in the Saxon troops must have noticed their appearance in the hills to the north; from their vantage point, they could see a shift taking place in the enemy forces, a new line forming at the foot of the downs — a line of deadly Saxon spears that could kill a cavalry charge.
Arthur called a halt. "We cannot ride down into that line," he called out over the noise of the battle. "Too many of us lost our lances against Cerdic. Even though they are foot soldiers, they will stick us like pigs for roasting. Our advantage against them is speed and mobility; we must use that. We will charge, but when I give the signal, we peel off to the left to join Pasgen's army, and launch our attack past where the line has been formed. Understood?"
They answered him with a roar, and Arthur wheeled back around to face the battlefield. "Britannia patria!"
Drystan heard himself echo the battle cry, together with hundreds of other voices. "Britannia patria!"
They gave their mounts their heads and thundered down the hill toward the waiting line of Saxons with their deadly spears pointed straight up to catch the British mounts in the chest. As they bore down on the enemy, Drystan could distinguish individual faces beneath helmets both flanged and scaled.
Then the call went out and Arthur's arm up, and they veered off to the left, leaving the waiting Saxons gaping after them.
The line of Saxons let out a cry of rage and began to pursue them. Arthur needed no more encouragement to change his strategy yet again. He pulled his mare around to the right, and the mounted men behind him followed, as with one mind. With a united roar, they met the Saxons head-on, but now the foot soldiers were struggling up the incline, their weapons no longer ready to spear them as they charged.
Drystan saw a mass of surging shields and enemy faces as they hit with the force of wave against rock, spears and swords clashing, shields splintering, bones breaking under the heavy hooves of their mounts. The Saxons crumpled back, the wave to their stone, falling and retreating as Arthur's cavalry fought through the first line. Once again, Drystan felt the battle fever on him, his sword arm swinging almost without thought.
They had taken out many Saxons from the
left flank with their charge, but it wasn't enough, and the battle continued as the shadows grew longer, both sides weakened but neither defeated. As the darkness spread, the hills around them threw their shadows over the battlefield, turning orange and then pink and then purple in a brilliant sunset. Drystan began to wonder how he would be able to tell friend from foe.
Then slowly their opponents began to slip off into the shadows of night, fading into the dark like an anticlimax.
There was no one left to fight anymore.
"Have we won?" Kurvenal gasped beside him.
"I doubt it," Drystan said.
As the sounds of battle died down, the clash of steel coming only occasionally, the battle cries and the splintering of wooden shields only a ringing of memory, the screams of the wounded and dying were loud on the darkening field. Somewhere nearby, a soldier was crying out for his mother, alternating between the Latin and the British tongue.
Drystan and Kurvenal turned their mounts and carefully made toward a spot where the British forces were gathering. Wounded men begged for help as they passed, but Drystan knew there was little help he could offer. They needed litters and light.
"I've sent to Aquae Sulis," Arthur was saying as they joined him, his voice weary. "Until they arrive, you must try to find those of the wounded who can be brought out on horseback. No more than one per man. And bring torches when you return. Those who find none who can ride, wait here for the litters."
Drystan picked his way through to the soldier who was screaming for his mother, but the injured man was trapped beneath a dead horse, his lower body crushed. Not even the litters would be able to help this one. Drystan waited with him until his screams subsided.
It was a long night. Torches in hand, they picked through the bodies, trying to find those still alive. Judging by the bobbing of lights a few hundred yards away, it appeared the Saxons had melted back onto the battlefield and were doing the same thing.
Drystan wondered where the battle would continue — it wouldn't be here. No one could fight on this field before the dead were buried, or they would be tripping over carcasses to reach their enemy.
They made camp down the valley close to Aquae Sulis, sleeping on the ground rolled in their cloaks, cold and exhausted. They woke the next morning to the blare of horns warning them of the enemy approach.
It was not pretty. Another full day they fought, between the walls of Aquae Sulis and the hills north of the Abona, until darkness fell again and both sides crawled back to their camps, neither a victor.
When the second day's injured had been brought into Aquae Sulis where they could be cared for, Arthur met with the commanding officers in Pasgen's town house within the safety of the city walls.
"We need to create an advantage for ourselves," Arthur said, pacing.
Bedwyr shook his head. "How?"
Next to Drystan, Cador sat unmoving, not even watching his cousin and hero. His hero worship had died on the battlefield, days ago now.
"They have more men, but we have horses, and we have fortifications. How can we use that?"
"We already did, Arthur," Cai said. "Now we simply have to beat what is left of them back."
"No, we have to use it again," Arthur said and stopped pacing. Drystan repressed a smile — their commander had come to a decision. "We could make it look as if we have retreated behind the walls of the city, but instead, we will return to Caer Baddon under the cover of night. If they believe us inside, the Saxons will surely attempt to lay siege to Aquae Sulis. And then we attack from the hill-fort."
Pasgen rose. "You want to use my seat as bait?"
Arthur turned to him. "If we do not, it will no longer be your seat," he said brutally. "With each day of battle, the front moves closer to the walls of Aquae Sulis. Tomorrow, it will be here, with or without subterfuge."
"I can send to my brother," Pasgen said. "He will provide more troops."
Arthur glanced at Manawyd, who led the troops from Powys. Manawyd shrugged. "Perhaps he would, but would they get here in time?"
"I will send a messenger to my father tonight," Owain said. "He is the closest. But we still must go with Arthur's plan."
Pasgen crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Good. But I will take my own troops into the city for its defense. It must look as if we are here, after all, enough soldiers stationed on the walls to be realistic."
"Half your troops," Arthur said.
"Done."
Drystan was so tired he was only glad he would be sleeping in a tent on a pallet again.
* * * *
Apparently, the cover of night had not hidden them enough. By dawn, the Saxons were deployed at the base of Caer Baddon, as well as around the walls of Aquae Sulis. They were trapped.
Once again, Drystan joined Arthur on the ramparts of Caer Baddon, but the sun was rising rather than setting this time, and it seemed as if more than a mere three weeks had passed.
Drystan pulled his cloak tighter against the chill. Morning mist rose up in the valley below, giving the scene an eerie quality. "Our strategy didn't work," he said, gazing down at the amassed enemy forces.
Arthur shook his head. "On the contrary, Cousin. This is almost better — the Saxons have divided their forces."
"So have we."
"But we are the ones behind walls and ramparts."
Drystan glanced at his cousin, wondering at his optimism after two full days of fighting, after two long nights of trying to bring the injured and dying from the battlefield by torchlight. But there it was, Arthur was smiling. Just a slight turning up of the corners of his mouth, admittedly, but Arthur had never been one for grins that spread all the way across his face.
Looking at Arthur, a smile began to tug up the corners of his own mouth. "We are behind ramparts," Drystan repeated. Yes, Arthur was right. For the time being, there would not be as much dying. There was something to be said for that.
"And from here we can weaken the enemy while we get our own strength back." Drystan followed Arthur's gaze to where the Saxons were beginning to build ladders from tree branches. "But now we must begin."
The horns were sounded and archers took up position on the earthwork ramparts above the deep ditches. At the first rain of arrows, the Saxons moved out of range. Even then, Arthur was not discouraged, and his optimism seemed to work its way down through the ranks to the rest of the men. A small group of cavalry led by Cai left the protection of the hill-fort to harry the enemy, killing a dozen with their unexpected attack before galloping for the protection of the ramparts, enraged Saxons in pursuit. The archers killed another dozen before the Saxons gave up the chase and retreated back out of range.
The small success had them all cheering, and the morale went up another notch.
Drystan and his men were assigned water duty; at regular intervals along the ramparts, they dug fire pits, started the fires blazing, and put large cauldrons of water on to boil. It suited him just fine after the last two days. Watching water boil was a nice change from watching friends cut down by Saxon spears. He sat on an overturned log next to one of the fires, his hands dangling between his knees, staring at the flickering flames, the ever-changing mosaic of orange and red and white and blue, and tried to empty his mind. The emptiness felt good; his thoughts were as exhausted as his muscles.
Cador pushed over a log and sat down next to him. "Just imagine, Drys, I don't have a favorite battle."
Drystan chuckled. He could still remember when Cador put the question to Arthur so many years ago, an enthusiastic boy on the brink of manhood, his cheeks smooth, his eyes bright. "Strange, that."
"What keeps you going, Cousin? What do you think of?"
Drystan sighed. He could hardly tell Cador what he thought of — Yseult's white-blond hair and moon-bright eyes, her strength and intelligence. Almost he could wish he had her next to him in battle, but then he would have to worry about someday seeing her too struck down. "What do I think of? A meal of duck stuffed with walnuts and orange sauce. A fire
in the hearth and a goblet of wine fitting into the palm of my hand. A bath."
Cador laughed. "I think of my mother and my sister, how someday I will be able to help them run things, when this is over." He was quiet for a moment, and then he rushed ahead. "Can I tell you something? Sometimes — sometimes I think of your step-mother, Yseult of Eriu."
Drystan stared at him, unable to answer.
"I know it's wrong," Cador continued, his words tumbling over each other. "But she's not happy, is she?"
How very odd that Cador confessed to him what Drystan could not. He shook his head. "No, I don't think she's happy."
Luckily, the horn saved him from this strange conversation, followed by the call, "Cauldrons to the ramparts!"
Drystan rose at the order, and he and Cador grabbed the huge pot on either side with gloved hands.
"Here!" Aircol called out as they approached. At the bottom of the defensive ditch, Saxons were just pushing up one of their makeshift ladders. Together, the three of them tipped the boiling water over the side, scalding at least four of the enemy. A man wearing a metal helmet tore it off his head, screaming, the skin of his face and arms turning blistering red as they watched.
The Saxons were having no success getting their ladders up, but near the gate where defenses were of wood as well as earthwork and stone, flaming arrows had found their mark, and Arthur's men were trying to put out the fire. Nearby, a rock wall in the earthworks provided some handhold, and two or three Saxons had made it over the side without being picked off by archers or brained by rocks and boulders.
And one of them was fighting hand-to-hand with Kurvenal.
Drystan ran, sword drawn, jumping over stones and buckets and dodging bodies. Just before he could come to Kurvenal's assistance, he saw him slip in a puddle. The Saxon's sword plunged into his friend's side.
"Kurvi!"
Drystan's cry echoed in his own ears, followed by a long, drawn-out bellow of rage.
The Saxon barely had time to turn around. Their swords clashed, sending shuddering, stinging pain down Drystan's arm.
Drystan fought like a madman, aware of nothing more than the necessity of murder. His opponent wore a short war cap with only a guard for the nose which left much of his neck bare. Drystan concentrated on that, thrusting his blade through the other man's defenses and nearly severing his head from his body.
Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur Page 41
