‘So we regroup and lick our wounds; that’s if we ever see the end of this day!’ shouted Augustus. ‘Because how much longer these men can stand steady is anybody’s—‘
The Saxon wall began to break. Scores of exhausted men had taken to a stumbling run down the hill.
‘MEN, HOLD YOUR GROUND!’ Augustus’ order went along the line. The shield stood firm.
Cunedda and a body of archers had arrived and sent arrows over the heads of the retreating men, protecting them from any chase, but Dominic and his archers were still able to take many of the infantry down—their powerful bows outranging those of the Votadini.
Augustus parted his shield from the wall. He fell backwards to his rear, arms draped slackly over his knees and head hanging loosely as he gasped his utter exhaustion into the bloody ground. Now released from the intensity of battle, the entire line of shields did the same. Most of the survivors had taken wounds, but all had stood to the end. Flint sat panting beside Augustus. Now the surge of battle-energy had gone, both felt drained to the point of collapse.
Several minutes passed before Augustus could even lift his head. ‘I hear horses,’ he said weakly. ‘Arthur and his knights, no doubt.’
Flint wearily gained his feet. Augustus took his proffered hand and dragged himself upwards. Down the hill a way, like a tumble of seaweed beached by a high tide, was the line of the dead and dying. Some of Arthur’s knights searched through the sorry pile, pulling out injured Britons and slaying enemy survivors.
Arthur arrived. He was quickly off his horse. He embraced Flint then went to Augustus. Hugging him close, he kissed his bearded cheek. ‘Magnificent, magnificent,’ he enthused. ‘Now please, to my tent. We need to talk tactics.’ He looked along the line of exhausted men. ‘They fought like demons,’ he said. ‘I must speak to them before anything else.’
Having spent the entire battle crouched and flinching behind his shield, Raedwald had survived the day. His seax—pristine and secure in its horizontal sheath—remained unused. Screamed at from behind because of his dormancy, Raedwald had remained frozen, knowing his haranguers would eventually perish and fall silent. Many pushed against him and fought above his head whilst urging him to use his blade, but Raedwald merely winced and waited as the alarming bangs, scrapes and jabs upon his shield shook him to his very core. The day passed long and hellish for him, and when it drew towards its end, he was one of the first men to run from the shieldwall.
He hid in a ditch and escaped the attention of the tacticians who were either killing the deserters or coercing them back to the shields. When Saxon archers arrived, Raedwald had a lucky break. One of the men took a British arrow through his face and fell dead nearby. Raedwald considered his options: taking the archer’s place would put him back into the conflict, yet attempting to return to Aquae Sulis unnoticed was unlikely, and would give Hrodgar the excuse he looked for to slay him. Therefore, reluctantly, he took the dead archer’s weapon and followed behind the main body of bowmen. His deception worked and he survived the arrow fight, which proved to be short-lived in the failing light.
Back in Aquae Sulis, he hid in an abandoned workers hut next to the west wall of the city. The battle was over for him, Raedwald was certain of that now. As long as he kept away from Hrodgar and the others—and that had to be easy to do in the confusion—he would be safe. Now he had more reason than ever to kill Hrodgar. The man had humiliated him, laughed at him, and pushed him into the line of scum at the shields. He would deal with him then ride with the victors into the western lands and have his share of women and plunder. There he could become a respected man—a warrior who had fought like a devil-possessed in the taking of the city of Aquae Sulis.
Arthur’s generals stood around the long, wooden trestle. Lamps of olive oil lit his tent, giving it a dancing orange glow. Flint, Augustus, Dominic and Tomas stood at one side of the table; Withred, Arthur, Gherwan, Hereferth and Smala at the other.
Flint’s appraisal ended with the news that Arthur had lost one third of his men.
‘What are our numbers now?’ Arthur hardly dared to ask.
‘Sixteen hundred for the shields, seven hundred knights, and one hundred and sixty mounted archers,’ Flint replied.
Arthur did a count in his head. ‘That’s two and a half thousand or thereabouts. And their fatalities?’
‘At a rough count—one thousand. That still leaves them with five thousand—many who are fresh and unused. Not counting cavalry, they probably have around three and a half thousand men for the shieldwall. They never go less than four deep behind the shields, so tomorrow they’ll come at us eight hundred wide, as today.’
Arthur tone was ironic. ‘So we started the day outnumbered two to one, and finished it the same,’ he said. He turned to his tactician, Gherwan. ‘Any ideas how we are going to cope with them tomorrow with two and a half thousand exhausted men—less of course those who will desert tonight?’
‘Thought of nothing else, lord,’ said Gherwan. He went to the table and arranged a line of goblets, eight wide, upon it. Opposing them, he placed another line of eight. This is what happened today,’ he said. ‘They dictated the length of the line and we had to form an equal number eight hundred wide to meet them.’ He raised his head, his expression grave as he looked from man to man. ‘If the same happens tomorrow we are finished, do not doubt that.’
Arthur nodded, knowing the truth already. ‘Our line will be too thin—just two men deep—it will quickly collapse against fresh men, hill or no hill. What’s your recommendation then Gherwan?’
‘This lord.’ Gherwan turned his attention back to the cups. From one line he took four cups, so that eight opposed four. ’We compress our line to four-hundred-men-wide. It means the men can stand four deep behind the shields, rather than two deep. Four files all pushing at once should be more than enough to halt them on this hill.’
‘But now they have an overlap two-hundred-men-wide on each flank. Surely their extra men will engulf and surround us.’
Gherwan nodded his partial agreement but pressed on. ‘True … it’s far from ideal, but we can only fight with what we’ve got.’ He pointed to the extra, overlapping cups. ‘These must be disrupted by our cavalry. Spears or no spears, we must go at the shields on each flank, get them to break from the line—delay them at least.’
‘And be attacked by their cavalry while we do so,’ said Arthur. He sighed and not for the first time inwardly cursed Ffodor for his disloyalty. He looked to Dominic. ‘You have one hundred and sixty archers, do you think you can protect us while we attack their flank.’
‘That or die trying,’ said Dominic.
‘And you, Gus … Flint. Can you get your men to even stand again tomorrow?’
‘When I’ve finished talking to them they’ll be ready,’ said Augustus. ‘And that’s what I’ll do now. I’ll see my wife then go to them.’
When Augustus left the tent, Arthur turned to Gherwan. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘we will go with your plan, but now it’s time to discuss the finer details.’
Stools were drawn to the table as the assembly sat with bread and cheese and goblets of wine, and readied themselves to talk until dawn.
Pwyll found Arlyn (his friend since training at Brythonfort) at the food wagon. When the battle had commenced they had stood but six men apart in the line, but they soon lost sight of each other in the ensuing chaos. At the day’s end they had assumed each other dead. Clumsily now, they embraced, then joined a group of lounging men beside one of the huge fires dotting the crest of Badon Hill.
‘Augustus saved me,’ said Pwyll.’ Just as he did in the wine shop weeks ago. Pulled me away just as I was about to drop.’
‘He’s a great man,’ said Arlyn. ‘Even gives Arthur a run for his money.’
‘Yes he is. How did you fare today?
‘Managed to stab a few and threw up a few times. Oh’—he pulled his tunic back from his shoulder—‘and I took this … but it could have been worse.’
&nb
sp; Pwyll peered at the open gash across the meat of Arlyn’s shoulder. ‘Need to get that seen to,’ he said. ‘It’ll make a nice scar to show to your grandchildren.’
‘I don’t think any of us will see our—‘
A spontaneous cheer went up as Augustus arrived at the camp. He looked down at Pwyll and laughed with delight upon seeing him still alive. After giving him a bear hug which lifted him from his feet, he placed him down, then stooped, as if a pony, inviting Pwyll to jump on to his back. Bashfully, Pwyll complied, and Augustus turned to the others with Pwyll riding high upon him. ‘This is how we go tomorrow,’ he boomed. ‘The shitting cavalry didn’t move today so we must form our own for the morning!’ With that, he ran in a comical gallop into the darkness and out of sight, the roar of mirth drifting into the night sky.
Within earshot, Modlen and Nila had just served broth to some of the men. Despite their fatigue, they could not help but smile as Augustus romped off with Pwyll.
‘Are you aware of how special your husband is?’ asked Nila.
‘Fully,’ smiled Modlen. ‘And I nearly lost him last year, thanks to the sister of that hound’—she nodded towards Titon who slept at her feet beneath the counter—‘but Gus survived, as he will survive all of this.’
Nila studied the dog. ‘Poor thing’s been tied up there all day … shook like a leaf in a breeze as soon as the battle started.’
‘The noise was incredible,’ said Modlen as she stirred the cauldron of stew before her. ‘Even here, half a mile from the fighting, the ground shook.’ A smile that barely lifted the corners of her mouth came to her face as she gave Nila an impish look. ‘Talking of incredible men, how did yours fare today?’
‘Survived, as if you need to ask,’ said Nila, reciprocating the look and smile. ‘He came to me before, and we talked a while, but then he had to go and talk tactics with Arthur.’
‘Does Flint know what’s happened between you two?’
‘Not yet. The situation worries Dom, though. Worries him to think Flint will see him as stepping into Bran’s shoes.’
‘And you?’
‘I told him there’s no point even thinking about the consequences. Tomorrow may be the last day for us all.’
‘Not for us if Arthur has anything to do with it. He wants us out and away at first light. Gus, for his part, positively insists I leave, not that I need any persuasion—our orphans wait at Brythonfort.’
‘Art, Ula, Cate and now little Cara,’ said Nila. ‘They are a joy and brighten up my day when I see them.’ Sadness fell upon her. ‘They help me deal with the loss of my precious boy, Aiden, and the absence of Maewyn, they do.’
‘Cara can come to you when we get back,’ said Modlen, taking Nila’s hands in hers. ‘She’s a sweet little thing and hasn’t bonded with us yet. Gus mentioned how unfair it was to take the little dear when you have lost so much.’
The very notion made Nila smile. ‘Yes … it would be wonderful to care for and love such a dear child.’ They were silent a moment as they thought of the children awaiting them at Brythonfort. Before long, reality rushed at Nila like a wild stampede. She dropped her head, her eyes troubled. ‘But why do we even discuss this when tomorrow may bring the destruction of everything we value.’
‘Because if we don’t talk of normal things when surrounded with this horror we will go mad, Nila—absolutely mad.’
THE BATTLE — DAY THREE
A raggedy, low mist lingered in the Afon valley. Horrified to find that hell rather than the plough was before them that day, Arthur’s men awoke to a grey dawn. Coughing and hawking resounded along the ridge as stiff bodies rose reluctantly from beds of clay and struggled into armour. A sinister tension—almost a silence—infused the air as men picked up shields and checked assorted weaponry.
Behind the hill, many defecated, some vomited, all were in fear. The sound of horses had them turn as Arthur and his entire cavalry rode up to the summit.
As the first horn-blast rose forebodingly from the valley, Arthur peered into the mist below. An outbreak of barking followed. ‘They start early, Withred,’ he said. ‘Damn this mist. Of all mornings we could do without it.’
Withred turned in his saddle as shouts of ‘Muster!’ and ‘Make the wall!’ broke out behind him. ‘At least we still have most of the men with us,’ he said.
‘How many ran into the night?’
‘Fifty or so, Flint reckons.’
‘We chose well it seems. Mars knows, I would be hard pushed to go back into that wall after the horrors of yesterday. It’s a wonder they—‘
An undulating, high-pitched shriek came from the valley. All became still. Men shivered as cold horror seeped through them. Horses shifted and snorted cold air from dilated nostrils. Moments later, an answering whoop sounded—eerie and nerve-jangling in the dank air of the mist. Now the valley erupted with yelps, squeals and howls.
‘Druids,’ growled Withred. ‘First the death riders and now walking ghouls. Just what the men need—wild-haired skeletons spitting their venom at them.’
‘They’ll be Guertepir’s,’ said Arthur. ‘He still believes in the old ways; not for him the uncompromising deities of Rome.’
‘Nor the sweet nature of Nerthus or the nailed God, Jesus.’
‘Pray he doesn’t adopt them; he would soon have them as bile-spitting demons.’
Gherwan joined them. ‘The men are four hundred wide and four deep as advised,’ he said. ‘The desertions didn’t hit as hard as I feared.’ He looked downwards towards Aquae Sulis. ‘The mist breaks. See—they are but a half mile away.’
Below them, the miasma swirled, occasionally shifting to reveal the opaque forms of men.
‘Their shieldwall is formed already from what I can see,’ said Withred as he did a rough count. He shot a brief glance of admiration to Gherwan. ‘And eight hundred wide or thereabouts as you anticipated.’
‘Then we can approach the day as planned,’ said Gherwan.
Hereferth and Smala trotted out of the mist and back up the hill. ‘Thought we’d take a closer look!’ shouted Hereferth. ‘We Angles like to know what we’re dealing with, don’t we Withred?’
‘As long as we don’t get our heads knocked off when doing so,’ chided Withred.
Hereferth gave a humourless little chuckle. ’That, I think might happen. Many of their shields bear the sign of the juniper—Cunedda’s emblem. There were few junipers yesterday, so these must be fresh and rested men.’
Guertepir sat bestride his heavy horse. With him were Cunedda and two of the Saxon chiefs. The shieldwall was before them and had started to advance. At its flanks, the cavalry lurked, led by Abloyc on the right and the gold-adorned Cenhelm on the left.
Further ahead still, beyond the shieldwall and spread out in a line as they walked into the mists, were Guertepir’s caterwauling Druids. Central to the line was Muirecán wearing his ankle length, white habit. His face as ever lay hidden in the shadow of his cowl. From the hood, his dark shock of hair flew wild in the stiff breeze.
Like some parody of a Christian brotherhood, the other druids, all doppelgangers of Muirecán, chanted their incantations as they headed fearlessly upwards across the killing ground. But these gave out no enchanting madrigals to the Lord Jesus. Instead, they emitted an awful, strident cacophony of hate. No crosses did they carry. In the place of such holy relics, they held before them the body parts—heads, torsos, feet and hands—of those taken from the field of combat. Muirecán’s trophy, though, was small … almost weightless. Thrust out before him, held by its ankles, was the infant Girard’s headless corpse—the cadaver’s torso adorned with an intricate rune. Muirecán’s screeching ululation intensified to an ear-splitting level as the rest of his acolytes took up the chant.
‘Woden service me roughly from behind!’ Hrodgar winced as he listened to the clamor. ‘They’re enough to make Grendel itself run away and shit in a ditch.’
‘It’ll soften the Britons up before the fight,’ said Guertepir as he h
eeled his horse forward to keep up with the advancing shieldwall.
‘Hope it has more luck than the death riders,’ said Wigstan. ‘We expected some of the British to run from them, but most stood firm yesterday.’
‘The druids will cast their magic, that’s the important thing,’ said Guertepir. ‘Their spells and the bodies they carry speak to the lords of the earth itself. They will bring us good fortune this day.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Hrodgar with some scepticism, ‘but before the sun sets the outcome of this battle needs to be decided. This can not go on to another day. Today their knights must feel the cold iron of Saxon fury.’
Cunedda, pale-faced and grim, made to ride to Abloyc. ‘My best men front the shieldwall this morning so the fight should be brief and decisive,’ he said. ‘A scout tells me the British line is narrow, unable to meet us along our entire width, so this will be over quickly.’ He gave Hrodgar a disparaging glance as he wheeled his horse away. ‘Yes, they will fall to Saxon and Votadini tenacity this day.’
‘And don’t forget the Hibernian contribution to all of this,’ said Guertepir. ‘A sight to behold it will be. The engagement of our full resources at last. And just wait until we throw our winning dice, the bastards won’t know what’s hit them.’
Augustus, as the day before, stalked along the front of the line, shouting instruction and encouragement to the men. His humour was dark and ironic, causing many to smile and titter. ‘Listen to them, they must have sent their scolding wives to berate us!’ he shouted in response to the approaching wall of noise coming from the druids. ‘Not ones to fondle under the sheets, though. These Hibernian mares are ugly enough to soften even my dick.’
A ripple of nervous laughter broke out from those in earshot, but many had started to stare beyond Augustus as the mist in the valley had thinned to a mere milky haze. Augustus turned to look down the hill. The look of confident bonhomie he had displayed to his men fell immediately from his face. As big and threatening as the day before was Guertepir’s shieldwall. The druids, who walked before it, had halted. A line of arrows, sent by Dominic and his crew, stuck from the ground at their feet, indicating the limit of their safe advance. Now, unable to intimidate at close quarters, the druids shook the body parts before them and screamed out their incantations with a renewed fury.
Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) Page 79
