“Am I to end here then, Lord, so despicably? Is this to be my punishment for the sin of pride?” He bowed his head, had to accept the Lord’s will but, Christ in his mercy, that acceptance was so hard to achieve!
A light, chill rain began to drizzle, not enough to bring the water they so needed; would even a good rainfall be enough? Not now, it was too late. Everything was too late. All he ought to have done, those he ought to have listened to, heeded.
The sounds came as if the wind were rising, swaying through the trees, a nondescript shush of sound, gathering momentum, swelling, growing as the daylight drifted unnoticed at first from darkness into pale dawn. Movement: a soft uprush of shadows darting, light flickering, voices, low and unnoticed. Ambrosius watched, gazing intently at the camp spread in a pocked melee against the night-dark land. He frowned, concentrated his sight into one area. What was that? What? Lord God in all His greatness!
Ambrosius leapt down the stairway, running, his heaving belly quite forgotten. The guard, weary, several wounded, turned, puzzled, to watch him, whispering between themselves. He was shouting, raising the fortress, calling for the officers. Men came running, many half-dressed, scrabbling into boots and tunics, buckling on armour and helmets, carrying spears, swords, bleary-eyed from sleep. Were they under attack? From what quarter? Where?
Excited, speech gabbling from his panting breath, Ambrosius could only point, indicate beyond the walls. Cadwy was there, limp-hobbling, shoving his way through the confused crowd.
“Father, what is it? What is happening?” He set his hands to the older man’s shoulders, almost shook him in his urgency to know what was wrong, anxiously surveyed the men already running into positions of defence along the rampart walkways. There came no sound from beyond, none of the usual baying and howling of attack, no torrent of abuse, hurl of flame-lit arrow or wind-swishing spear. If they were under attack, where was the noise, the bestial clamour for blood? He made out one or two words from his wheezing, coughing father, heard them but did not understand.
“Attack?” he repeated. “The Saex are under attack?” He sounded as if he were addressing his young son, querying some infant’s imaginative story. “Attack?” he said again.
Ambrosius, wiping at the spittle on his chin, nodded vigorously, waved his son to go see for himself.
Cadwy needed no second urging. Ragnall had come from their chamber, her hair loose, unbound, a thick cloak tossed around her night apparel, the darkness shrouding the disfigurement of her face that so few people, save for strangers, noticed now. She called for a cloak to cover Ambrosius, placed her arm around him, led him to the warmth of within-doors. The man was shivering, his teeth chattering, eyes bright with what could well be a new fever setting in. Delirium? She glanced at her husband, but he was already away, his crutch moving wildly as he thrust his way to the stairway and the ramparts, officers and men crowding with him.
The cheer boomed through even the thick, oak-solid walls of the Hall. An exultant ululation of rejoicing, of freedom, of new-given life. Ambrosius smiled, swallowed another of the spoonfuls of warm broth Ragnall was offering him. “The Saex,” he said, eyes twinkling, finger raised, “are all in panic. Someone scatters them with blade and fire.”
“Who?” Ragnall asked, as the cheering of Badon’s small population, gathering to see what was happening below in the darkness, swelled in voice and joy. “Who comes?”
“Geraint?” Ambrosius ventured. “It could be Geraint.”
Ragnall was squatting on her heels before him, the bowl in her hand, the spoon forgotten, dripping broth. She met her father-by-law’s excited eyes, matched them with her own eagerness. “Or Arthur,” she ventured, in almost a whisper as if to say the name aloud would chase this avenging spirit away. “Could it be Arthur?”
Ambrosius touched her hand with one finger. “I hope so, child, in the name of our God, I do hope so!”
The horses came in at the gallop, bringing the corpses of the watch, some still kicking the last of their life-thread as they were dragged like meat skewered on the spit. Some riders wielded sword or club, others carried fat-spitting torches that were tossed inside the openings of tents. The hearth-fires, and the sleepers curled beside them were deliberately trampled. Difficult for a warhorse, trained not to tread on a body lying on the ground, but obey they did, for Arthur’s horses had always been as disciplined as the men when it came to battle. Fire too, held no fear for these brave-hearted creatures, nothing could stop one of the Artoriani warhorses, save for its rider’s hand on the rein or a spear clear through the heart or jugular.
The screams, the panic flared and grew along with that rising blaze of fire. Unprepared, swilled with wine and mead, sated from the comfort of a warm whore and the belief the fortress would be theirs come the morrow, the English barely fought back. Those camped nearer the rampart walls stood greater chance for the alert had given them time to arm themselves, to form rank, fight back. Aelle stood within his shield ring of thegns, bellowing orders, calling to his sons who fought their way to join him. What had happened to Aesc of the Cantii he knew not, nor had he time to ponder long on the matter; he was fighting for his very life, or already gone to join the gods. Either way, there was little, at this moment, Aelle, Bretwalda, High King of All Saxons, could do about it.
Dawn brewed, reluctant to face the dull, persistent drizzle the bleaching light casting over what had been not two hours before, a besieging camp-place. The coming of light showed tents ripped or fallen, many smouldering, with bodies scattered around. Men huddled, weeping, dying. Blood; dismembered limbs. The horror of carnage.
It was not over. The cavalry, the riders, were beating the Saxons back, but the English had made formation now, a solid wedge, impregnable, determined to survive. It was the Pendragon, the British could see that now, from the vantage-point of the high ramparts, they could see the Dragon Banner as it dipped and swayed. Several times, men would point and shout, “There! There he is, on that brute of a chestnut!”
“Arthur. Arthur has returned to save us!”
When he was certain with his own eyes it was indeed the Pendragon, Cadwy had the gates ready to be thrown open. He formed the men, those still able to fight – and God’s praise, there were many of them. Some bandaged, some limping, one with his face half-torn and hacked from an unlucky stopped arrow, another without a hand, one without an eye, serious, hard-borne woundings – but still they came to form up into line, still they wanted to be a part of this glorious thing that was happening. It was, surely, to be a battle that would be sung about to the children of their children’s children, and they did not want their sons telling that their father had done nothing save nurse a bloodied wound in the Hall of Badon while the Pendragon rode to victory outside.
The gates swung open and the men marched out, clamouring the battle-cry to add their weight to Arthur’s men, Arthur’s three hundred men who had, in that one, astounding, triumphant charge, slaughtered more than nine hundred of the English.
LXXVII
Aelle and four, five hundred of his men stood firm, their wedge formation as solid as the trunk of a mature oak, back-pacing steadily, foot by foot, giving ground to the Artoriani but not giving men or lives. Then there a came a disturbance from the rear, men were pouring from the fortress, cheering, spears and swords raised, come to join their comrades – but met by Aesc of the Cantii instead!
Somehow, later, he said by the protection of Woden himself, Aesc had fought his way clear of the British, managed to scramble around, attempted to link with Aelle. They saw the fortress gates open, unprotected, and changed direction and tactic as easily as a hawk pulls from a dive. Aesc drove hard for the fortress, fought like a man crazed to win his way in, and almost managed it.
The fighting at the gates was furious, bloody, and soon over; but Arthur had to call some of his men away, ride hard to intercept and deal with it and once his own formation was distorted, it gave chance for Aelle to break and run.
The Saxons headed for t
he easy path of the road, intending to head to the Via Ermin, then swing east for the relative safety of Vicus, that they called Wickham, the Roman settlement.
Arthur cursed as he felled a fair-haired brute coming at him open-mouthed, screaming abuse and baying for blood. A bay horse was beside him, rearing, blood gushed from the man’s crushed skull as he came down, Gwenhwyfar’s sword finishing what the hooves had not completed. She had kept close to Arthur throughout, her horse Onager’s shadow, fighting alongside him, blow for blow; his Cymraes as he affectionately called her, a tribeswoman of the British. Her father had taught her how to fight, how to use sword and shield or spear, her father and her brothers, some of whom were now dead and passed to the Otherworld, the Kingdom of God’s heaven.
That slow ride through the darkness, and then the waiting for all the muffles and rags to be removed – how Arthur’s heart had pounded, how his stomach had churned with the vomit of fear! This was to be a battle. No skirmish, no pandering bickering. Close on two thousand Saxons were laying siege to the fortress of Badon. He had a few less than the three hundred, given the dead and wounded and those left behind to patrol Vicus.
Gwenhwyfar must have known his thoughts, must have held some sharing of his apprehension, for she had spoken, her voice no more than a whisper in the concealing darkness. “They may be many more than us, but we have the night and surprise as our allies. And we have the horses.” Aye, the horses. Unless they made firm, rock-steady formation, few infantry could survive against well-ridden, well-managed horses.
Almost, just as he had been about to give the arm signal to move forward, Arthur had nearly turned, nearly ridden away. The fear had risen up within him, choking his breathing, clutching his throat, screwing his belly into a heated knot of twisting pain. He had pulled the rein, urged with his heel, had swung Onager’s head, but he had turned in Gwenhwyfar’s direction and she had saluted him, touching the hilt of her sword against her forehead. She could not be seen clearly in the darkness, but he had known how she looked.
Her cloak was green plaid, the different greens of the natural world woven together in the traditional patterns: light, spring green against the darker, mature colour of summer, the mellow of autumn and the sleeping green of winter. Green to heighten her eyes, show the copper-gold of her hair. At her throat, she wore the golden torque of her royal rank, and on her left hand, his ring, the ring he had given her as a marriage gift. Nothing else adorned her leather tunic, save for the gleaming bronze of buckles and the silvered pommel of her sword. Her reassuring smile and her apparent calm had stopped him from fleeing, had rekindled the courage that had began to warm in him at Vicus. He had raised his arm, and they had moved forward. From walk into jog-trot, pushing immediate into a canter – and the release into gallop.
Aesc, they did not kill. They did not treat him kindly, but he was spared death. At least for now, until the Pendragon could decide what punishment to mete him.
Aelle, the Bretwalda, was running, although he would not go far. The road to Vicus was closed to him, he could only head into the woods, where the dogs would sniff him out, or along the Way, where the horses would ride over him.
It was to last throughout the day before it was ended, a day of harrying and following, of moving in, encircling, attempting to thrust into the wedge that Aelle’s men formed whenever the horses came too close, a day from before dawn to after sunset of determination, sweat and exhausting energy. A day that had followed two of fast riding and another fight a few miles down, along the road.
There was another skirmish beneath the place where the white horse galloped in her endless race against the wind. Fatigued, despairing, unable to go much further, Aelle ordered his men to make a stand. They would fight, kill as many of these British as they could before meeting Woden themselves. It would be a brave death, an honourable death for his fine men.
Many died at that place, more of the English than the mounted, elated British, but it was a fight of honour, and the men were buried with their weapons in one grave to mark the respect that each side felt for the other.
When Arthur and his Queen returned to Badon, with Aelle led like a dog by a chain around his neck, stripped naked, with leather thongs twisting tight into his wrists, Ambrosius greeted them beyond the gates cleared of the dead, the dying and the wounded. Nothing could be done to clear or hide the ground that was churned and scraped. The blood still puddled in the ruts, spattered against the stonework of the arch, the solid wood of the gate. The smell lingered too, the smell of blood and death and grieving.
Ambrosius stood, head erect, proud. Arthur rode Onager forward, dismounted, went to greet his uncle, unsure what to expect, uncertain what to say. Ambrosius talked for him.
“It is with regret I cannot return your kingdom to you as it was when you left it, but I can at least let my heart rest that it is indeed returned to you, and not delivered up to a Saxon.”
“I thank you, Uncle, for taking care of my people and my land while I have been gone.” Arthur reached forward his hand in offering of peace. Grateful, with relief, Ambrosius took it. He had expected a sword to bring his justified end, a torrent of curses and reprimands; had not expected this, Arthur’s forgiveness.
As they shook hands in greeting, Arthur noticed something glint at his feet. He frowned, bent, picked up a brooch, saucer-shaped with a mask of eyes and mouth indented on it. The Saxon brooch of rebellion.
He looked at it a moment then leant forward and pinned it to Ambrosius’s shoulder. “Wear it,” he said, “to remind you always of this day, and,” Arthur quietly indicated the graves being dug on the slope below the ramparts, “and of who was lost.” He sighed. He was tired, every muscle in his body ached, every nerve-ending was screeching to be eased or scratched or bathed. He itched, he stank, his belly needed filling, his bladder emptying.
Gwenhwyfar came up beside him. Ambrosius caught his breath at sight of her, as begrimed, as bloodied as her husband. He stammered a greeting, added, speaking of Arthur, “You found him then?”
Gwenhwyfar nodded.
Ambrosius allowed a small, weary smile. “I am glad. Perhaps now I can see to the running of my monastery and my school. My work is with the Kingdom of God, I think, not the Kingdom of man.” With his eye he sought dismissal. Arthur gave it.
“Go in peace, nephew,” Ambrosius said, making the sign of the cross. “Go in the peace of God.”
“Peace?” Arthur echoed. “How long will peace last? There is another Saxon we may yet need to face.”
Ambrosius’s eyebrows lifted.
“Cerdic,” Arthur answered. “My son, Cerdic.”
“Ah,” Ambrosius mused. “Cerdic.”
The burying was begun. The Saxons they took to the byre that would burn and send souls to Woden, the British they lay in Christian graves, clustered beneath the ramparts of Badon.
In one of them lay Cadwy, who had tried to fight so valiantly to keep the Saxons from entering his fortress, the fortress he had held in bravery and honour in the name of Gwenhwyfar, wife to the Pendragon.
Part Three
The Remnant
March 476
I
The ship’s prow nosed into the reeds, carried forward by the heavy roll of the incoming tide, the flurry of movement rippling through the stems, whispering, as if unseen fingers were stroking a harp’s finely tuned strings. A moorhen paddled away from the wooden keel that loomed dark and high, her scolding at this sudden intrusion vociferous in the empty stillness of the early morning.
Cerdic was the first to leap ashore. He plunged into the knee-high water, thrust his way to the firmness of land, head back, arms wide, exultant, triumphant. He had brought his ships across the sea to this isolated British inlet that was his mother’s held land, would soon be his own. Four other keels jostled their formidable way into the reeds, disgorging men who hauled at the mooring ropes, their voices loud against the quiet of the murmuring breeze and the flurry of anxious birdcalls. The women and their children came aft
er them, hesitant and uncertain in this unknown place that was, from now forward, to be their home.
Drawing his Saex, the short sword of the Saxons, from its sheath, Cerdic held the weapon before him, its blade glinting in the bright sun of this, the first day of the Roman month of Mars. The month dedicated to their god of war. More significant to Cerdic and those first few men wading up out of the reed-lapping, incoming tide, this was their own special day of the calendar week. Woden’s day. Cerdic held the weapon by the polished wood of the rounded pommel, held it high above his head, and called upon his god, his creator, his ancestor, to grant his blessing and favour.
“Woden!” he cried. “Hear me, hear your son, Cerdic!” The men and women, jostling their children before them or holding the younger ones in their arms, straddling their hips, gathered behind their lord, almost two hundred people in all. Some of the men also drew their swords, others held high their spears or shields. The boy was brought forward to stand beside his father. He would see his sixth birthing-day this year, too young to be at the forefront, assisting with the business of the gods, but this was to be their land now, and one day Cynric would be their leader.
He must be here for this, their coming, the names of father and son linked together in the tales that would be woven around this day.
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