Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  The trees were no more than fifty yards distant now, only fifty yards, and the ground was beginning to rise sharply. They were clearing the feet-cloying, mud-sucking pull of the marsh – yet it could have been one hundred and fifty, one thousand and fifty. Fifty yards, fifty yards too far!

  Like a child ineffectually swiping with a wooden toy, Bedwyr menacingly waved his sword at one of the enemy approaching too near, his accompanying snarl producing some little effect, although it was Mabon, striking out using the King’s own great sword, that drove him back.

  Illtud came forward, stumbling, as tired and bloodied as the others. He could barely walk himself, yet he bent, took hold of the Pendragon, helped Bedwyr carry the muddied and bloodied body. It had been Illtud who had seen Arthur fall, Illtud who had screamed for help, had, in a flood of anguish and fear grabbed at the King’s sword and thrust it into the guts of the man who had felled the Pendragon. Illtud who had then pulled his beloved King’s body clear of the fighting with the aid of these last few standing men; Illtud who had thought, in that last moment, to clutch up the ragged, stained, Dragon Banner. He wore it, tied ignobly around his waist, where it draped like a battered beggar’s cloak. The sword he had passed to Mabon. For all his greater age, he was the better swordsman.

  Fifty yards. Fifty yards of firmer ground, but it was the solid ground of an incline, an incline that would be as nothing to fresh, alert men, but this small group trying their best to take their King from the field of battle was nearing the limit of endurance. They had been more, for they had rallied to Illtud’s cry for help, but their numbers had been cut down, falling to the axe or sword or exhaustion. If you fell it was unlikely you would get up again… Fifty yards. Their one hope that Euric’s men were also spent, as weary, as bloodied and drained. Doggedly they pursued, but few were coming nearer now, only the occasional one who found some small reserve of strength, and the British were proving a match with their cussed perseverance. For the British were determined that Euric would not have the body of the Pendragon.

  Bedwyr, gasping for an ounce of extra, unfound strength, forced himself up the hill of rough, tussocked grass. He caught Illtud’s grim expression, a young officer who had served well these past three years within the Artoriani. Sweat beaded through the smattering of blood and marsh-mud; mouth open, a face masked with pain and distress. His own, Bedwyr knew, must mirror the same grim image. He looked down, closed his eyes not wanting to see the awfulness of what had been Arthur, his beloved cousin, his Lord and King. The matted hair, grey skin, bruised and bloodied. The last thing they could do for him, the last loyal thing; give him a peaceful burial. Christ Jesu alone knew what Euric would do to a defeated king’s body… and he might not be dead. There was a small, desperate hope that Arthur was yet alive, though the pallor and stillness shrieked otherwise, and if those terrible wounds had not slain him then surely this inglorious hauling and dragging to a place of safety would finish what the enemy had initiated. “Christ Jesu,” Bedwyr prayed again, “let him still live, let this not be all in vain!”

  “Amen,” gasped Illtud, staring stoically ahead. Bedwyr had been unaware that he had spoken aloud. Happen he had not, happen Illtud had been mouthing the same despairing prayer.

  Swallowing vomit that threatened to rise, Bedwyr turned his thoughts to concentrating on tackling this incline. One step, another, and another. Once they reached the protective safety of those trees, and night came… another step. One foot, the other foot.

  Behind, littered across this northern end of the stretching marshes, lay the dead and dying, men and horses. The horses. The Artoriani’s fine horses, all gone, dead, butchered. The only way that infantry might succeed over cavalry: be rid of the horses.

  Forty yards. Small groups still fought, desperate and exhausted, their blows slow and clumsy, unable to let go, to end this thing, the madness too strong, too powerful to release them into sanity, save through the ultimate finality. Darkness would bring an ending, but few British would crawl from the mess of that battlefield, the place of slaughter. Up on the slight incline, the small group moved closer, each supporting the other, Bedwyr, Illtud, old Mabon. Two Decurions and several unranked Artoriani. Save for those few who might live long enough to be protected by the hand of darkness, all that was left of the Artoriani.

  Thirty yards.

  Bedwyr glanced ahead, caught his wheezing breath with a groan of disbelief, of wretched despair. Saxons, well-armed, tall, fair-haired Saxons, ten and five of them; running, war-cry screaming, axes swinging above their heads, coming from the shadow of the trees, from where it was thought to be safe. Despairing, the British closed ranks, Mabon coming to the fore, his legs planted, sword raised. They would all die, here, now, rather than let the enemy take their King. But it was Euric’s men who fled, who faltered, dropped their weapons and ran with cries of alarm, scuttling for the marsh and the comforting shield of their comrades.

  Euric had lied yestereve as he talked to his army of this fight. Their superior numbers, he had told them, would bring an easy victory. By the mid of the day, he had boasted, they would be roasting meat and drinking fine wine in celebration. He had said nothing of the British discipline, the British strength and courage. Said nothing of the terror of those horses. If they had not managed to reach the advantageous ground of the marshes in dignified retreat; if they had not felt so acutely the cowardliness of turning and running...Ah, but Arthur would never know that Euric had not planned the running away as strategy, that it was pure chance – and fear – that had taken his men backwards towards those treacherous marshes. Euric was not a man who studied strategy or cunning. He was no great warrior, no great leader, but he had the luck of the devil, and he had more, many more, men.

  Incredibly, the Saxons divided, raced past the braced, upright huddle of the British and swept down the incline like hounds chasing a scatter of rats, and two women were coming, running, kirtles hitched to the knees. One Bedwyr recognised, knew. He closed his eyes, willed the strength to stay in his knees, but they buckled, he fell forward. Illtud too, he saw, was kneeling, and a few of the others.

  Mathild, tears streaming her face, put her hand under his arm, urged him to his feet. “We must go, my lord, my small guard will not hold them for long.” She kept her eyes from the one lying on the ground, from the man who had lain and loved with her. The other woman, though, had gone to him, her tears also falling, her black hair tumbling forward to hide the paleness of her skin. Bedwyr had never seen her before, knew not who she was, but obviously she knew Arthur, for she spoke his name, took the coldness of his hand into hers. Wept for him.

  The Saxons were coming back, trotting up the hill. The Saxons whom Arthur had freed, the men who had been taken into slavery by the Gauls, given back their dignity and courage, given weapons and armour in return for their sworn oath to protect Mathild of the Elbe and return her to her own kind.

  “Come,” Mathild ordered, “They may yet be after us again. Let us be gone.” She was capable, firm-minded. Not one of the men thought to do aught else but obey. Two of her Saxons lifted the Pendragon and those last few yards, that distance that had seemed so great before, was covered in a matter of moments.

  It was over. The killing was over. Now the result was about to begin.

  II

  They marched for two hours, the British exhausted, passing through the threshold of pain, following without question where the Saxons led. It was dark beneath the canopy of trees, but they had reached a wide, slow-flowing, shallow river and turned along the path that ran parallel with its course. The Indre, Mathild told them, it would take them to safer territory. They did not question her, for they cared little for anything beyond the immediate necessity to place one foot before the other.

  The other woman walked beside the two Saxons who carried between them the Pendragon. She had spoken three words only, “I am Morgaine”, but this meant nothing to Bedwyr or his companions. Only Mabon thought he had once heard the name, but with mind fogged and so utterl
y tired he had no strength to pursue the thought of questioning further. She walked in silence, in her arms a boy, of little more than three years of age, his thumb stuffed in his mouth, his wide, frightened eyes staring and staring at the man they said was dead. Arthur would have known her, for her son was his son, she it was who had once had the title of Lady, who had lived serving the Goddess by the Lake of Yns Witrin. But that was a while and a while ago. She was only Morgaine now. Morgaine the Healer. And Arthur was dead.

  Mathild spoke briefly to Bedwyr, though his body was too tired and his mind too dazed to listen with care. “I came back to watch,” she explained, “though Arthur’s orders were that I was to go, put as many miles of safety as possible between us.” She glanced ahead, at the Saxons carrying, as reverently as if they were carrying a god, her beloved Lord. “I could not go without seeing this thing finished. Not after the sharing of so much, with one so…“ Her words faltered, choked. “So kind to me.” She mastered the tears, for Bedwyr’s sake as well as her own. Were one to break, they would all crumble. This forced pace, the matter-of-fact passing of information was nothing but a shield, a wall to shelter behind. Keep the anguish and despair caged, tight-reined. Once out, it would run like wildfire fanned before a summer wind. “I wish now,” she said candidly, “I had not come back, yet if I had not… ” She did not finish. No point in saying that which Bedwyr would know for himself.

  “She was there, among the trees. We met by chance.” Mathild indicated Morgaine, but said no more. They had shared but few words, the two women, while watching with growing horror the killing below that incline, spread before them out along the edge of the marsh. But those few words were enough; enough to convey that they watched for the same man, enough to cling together for support and comfort when they saw the Dragon Banner cut down. knowing that one of those men dying nearby was the man they both loved.

  “We will stop soon,” she announced, “when my men think it safe to do so.” She trusted these men, men who, before they were taken into the indignity of slavery had been acclaimed warriors, skilled soldiers, who had fought beneath the command of the Saxon leader, Odovacer, two of them beneath her own husband. Arthur had been no fool when he accepted such slaves into his army. Had been no fool when he had given them their freedom, weapons and armour, demanding nothing in return save their sworn oath of loyalty to Mathild, Lady of the Elbe. An oath not truly required, for they were her people, her blood.

  “Get her home,” he had ordered that last evening. “Whatever the gods bring for me against Euric, get the lady home to her land along the Elbe.”

  “Soon,” she said again, “we will halt. And do what has to be done.”

  III

  They walked until it was too dark to see where they put their feet. The farm-steading was a lowly place, a barn, a few dung-stinking cattle pens, a round, wattle-built dwelling. The man of the steading had come out at their arrival, looking them over suspiciously, nose wrinkled, axe solid in his hand. Reluctantly, he agreed to allow them to build a fire, rest a while. He would not let them inside his house-place, a snarl and his back turning as he stumped away from them, his decided answer on Mathild’s polite asking.

  “Please,” she begged, running after him, “at least grant shelter for our wounded.”

  “You be nothing to do with me or my kin, neither you nor they soldiers. Your fight t’ain’t naught to do wi’ me. Use my field to rest in, but be you gone by mornin’.”

  The door to the house-place had been open, and as he shambled through into the dim-lit interior, Mathild had an impression of children watching, and a woman gathering them inside as her man entered. The door was shut firm, the poor, ragged family on one side, the last remnants of Arthur’s once-proud Artoriani on the other.

  The fire they had built was small, but enough to heat a few, rough-made oatcakes. Barely enough for tired men, but better than an empty belly. The flames gave only dim light. Morgaine saw as best she could to Arthur, cleaning away some of the grime and blood, tending him with the love she had felt for him since the days of early childhood, when he had been the first, the only other being to smile with warmth at her. Her boy was curled asleep with a cloak wrapped snug around him, his back firm against the solidity of a tree.

  Only Mathild heard the other woman’s low intake of breath, followed by a quick, flurried movement. Alerted, she observed Morgaine a moment, saw her hands lay still over the place where the heart should beat, saw her fingers move to where the rhythm of blood should pulse within the neck. Watched as Morgaine put her cheek to Arthur’s blue-tinged lips.

  Unhurried, Mathild licked oat crumbs from her fingers, stood, wandered towards Morgaine as if to offer assistance. No one followed her, not even with their eyes. The British were too tired, heads drooping, most already sleeping where they sat. The Saxons, the few who were not sent to scout behind for signs of being followed, too busy with the sharing of the only wine skin.

  Mathild squatted opposite Morgaine, boldly put her own fingers to the naked skin of Arthur’s chest, felt nothing. Searched for the beat in his neck and put her cheek to his lips, as Morgaine had. Sat back on her heels, each woman looking direct, challenging, into the eyes of the other.

  Morgaine looked away first, her eyes flicking, briefly, to Arthur’s sunken face, before going back again to Mathild.

  “He lives,” she said, “but it will not be for long, for in this darkness I know not what damage has been done. I cannot heal what I cannot see.”

  “A few hours and it will be light.”

  Morgaine shrugged, said nothing. A few hours? It might be too late in a few hours. Yet he had clung to life thus far, somehow, and if only by the most slender, fragile of threads.

  Running, boots scuffling fast. The Saxons around the fire were on their feet, weapons drawn, and for all their tiredness, the British were not far behind them.

  The women stood, Morgaine moving swiftly to her sleeping boy. The relief showing clear when their own kind came into the small clearing, the Saxons sent behind as scouts. The relief lingering momentarily only, for the news was bad.

  “We are being followed. Thirty, mayhap forty men.”

  A few flurried questions. Were they sure? Was that possible, in the dark? How far behind were they? Immaterial questions, for already Mabon was kicking earth and turf over the fire, already they were gathering cloaks tighter, collecting possessions and weapons, preparing to move out.

  With a despair Bedwyr thought could become no deeper, he looked at the body of Arthur. Morgaine had lain him out, had half-covered him with the banner, his Dragon Banner. “Have we time,” he enquired, “to bury him?”

  The Saxons looked from one to another. They had not, but they could not leave the Pendragon, nor could they make much speed with taking him.

  “I will see to him,” Morgaine said. “I will hide with him and my son in the darkness until they have gone by, then I will see to his grave.”

  Bedwyr, the Decurions and Illtud were all for protesting, but Mabon silenced them with a rough growl. ‘Tis sense. We can do no more for him. ‘Tis our duty now to head our eyes for Britain, take word of this bad day home.” He shook his head. An unwelcome but necessary duty.

  Still they were for protesting, but it was useless argument. They each, in turn, bade their farewells to their King, Illtud taking the bloodied and torn banner. Arthur’s Dragon Banner. Mabon had given Bedwyr the great sword, which Arthur had taken in battle from a Saxon, and as he stood by the man he had once called Lord, Bedwyr held that sword before him. “I will take this,” he said, “but I would with all my heart that there was one worthy to use it as you have used it.” He swung away, trudged after the others, already beyond the clearing.

  Mathild went with them and kept her counsel. She saw no reason to tell them Arthur was not, yet, quite dead. For if she did, they would insist on staying or carrying him again. And either option, she guessed, would bring his end. And theirs.

  She hoped only the one thing. That, should th
e gods grant him their favour, and if by some great miracle he should survive, she hoped that someday, if it were not possible for him to do so himself, the woman, Morgaine, would send word of it.

  October 469

  IV

  Gwenhwyfar was playing with Archfedd. She was a happy child, full of giggles and smiles; enjoyed, as much as her mother, this shared, especial moment before she was taken to her bed. Beyond the solid walls of the chamber the wind howled around the height of Caer Cadan. Occasionally, the hearth-fire and braziers would flicker as a tendril of the outside rage found its way through a gap or crack, then the colourful tapestries that graced the walls would lift also, flap weakly. Neither mother nor child noticed. They were safe and warm, cocooned in this, their place, their home.

  The door opened, not unexpected, allowing in a rush of cold air, a gust of power that ruffled everything within. Gwenhwyfar did not look up or round, for her back was to the door, but Archfedd pulled her favourite wooden doll closer, her eyes widening, mouth shaping into a silent “Oh.”

  The door was shut, thudding closed, shutting out the anger of the night. Feet shuffled, the damp smell of rain on woollen cloaks, hair and skin. A cough. The unmistakable presence of men.

  Gwenhwyfar swivelled around, Archfedd’s other doll in her hand, not worrying to rise, expecting the newcomer to be Ider, or another officer. Her face paled, eyebrows furrowed. Slowly, she stood up, the doll falling, forgotten, to lie face down among the scattered floor rushes. Her eyes told her what she saw, but her mind was numb, silent and dark. No one spoke; there came only the sound of the wind and the vivid crackle of logs burning in the fire.

  There were three men. Three men, wind-tousled and rain-wet, two of whom Gwenhwyfar would never have expected to enter her private chamber unannounced. Her gaze roved from one to the other – questions poised, stuck like a bone in her throat – rested on the third man, tall, square-chinned, dark-haired and eyed. Dark, sad, tired, red-rimmed eyes.