King Arthur: The Bloody Cup: Book Three

by M. K. Hume

  When Artor rode away to conduct his campaign against the Saxons, it was with a feeling of release, for he had put Modred on notice and was, finally, free of the stink of the court. That the Brigante king had seen him with Lady Elayne was unfortunate, but she had demonstrated that she was well-chaperoned at all times. Artor smiled reflectively as he remembered Elayne’s ripostes to Modred’s sly threats.

  After the months of uncertainty, after the plots and counter-plots and all the talk of Bloody Cups and even bloodier rebellion, the business of sanctioned killing, with its clear boundaries, was a welcome change. In warfare, roles were defined and the sides were fixed. Of course, there was always the possibility of a trusted friend changing allegiance but, compared with the convolutions of politics, the position of friend or foe was straightforward.

  The Governor of Portus Adurni had dispatched a courier to Cadbury with an urgent message for the High King. Lying at the end of Magnis Portus, some eighty miles away from Cadbury, the harbour town’s populace was quick to respond whenever the Saxons of Anderida began to stir. Clausentum and Portus Adurni guarded the roads that led to Venta Belgarum and the coast, so when their spies told them that the Saxons had left their coastal citadel by both land and sea, they called for help.

  The battle of Anderida had been fought when Artor was very young and too inexperienced to realize how heavily the odds weighed against the success of his attack on the well-defended fortress. Now, the king was returning to the beginning, except that the Saxons of Anderida were coming to him. In this respect, the world had changed; the Saxons were no longer content to dig into their fortresses and defy Artor to drive them out. They, too, felt the movement of Fortuna’s wheel and knew instinctively that their time would soon be at hand.

  This Saxon summer could be his last, Artor knew, but it still called to him with the old excitement, in spite of the ache in his old bones as he rode. While he lived, Anderida and all the other strongholds of his eastern enemies would not attack his borders with impunity.

  The Saxons were pouring out of Anderida, out of Durobrivae and out of Lindum. In response, Artor moved his Cadbury forces to Venta Belgarum. The defenders of Ratae, Lavatrae, Venonae and Verterae were also on the move and had been placed on full alert. The force led by Artor consisted of cavalry and archers only, for the Saxons from Anderida had always been reluctant horsemen.

  As Artor watched his campaign tent rise at his bivouac, Wenhaver enjoyed the summer months lazing in her bower, embroidering and gossiping. Her ladies were obliged to join her, as were any young lordlings left at the tor who took her fancy. Modred was a special favourite, for he was adept at framing elaborate and wicked jokes at the king’s expense, to the chagrin of the twins, Elayne and the silent servants who proffered wine and sweet, oaten cakes drenched in honey.

  Fortunately for Modred’s safe existence, Artor decided that the twins should be blooded and sent a message ordering them to join him. Their energy would be useful and they would have the opportunity to prove their courage and strategic skills. The Saxons had ventured into the lowlands and forests of Anderida Silva, where they would be difficult to dislodge without significant loss of life. Wild courage and cool heads were necessary, an excellent description of Anna’s sons.

  Modred felt certain that Wenhaver cared little whether her husband survived this providential campaign. But Modred underestimated Wenhaver’s self-interest.

  The queen’s mirror spoke the unvarnished truth, and Wenhaver was finally forced to listen. She realized she was irrevocably middle-aged and barren, and her sole great achievement during her life had occurred when she became High Queen of the west. Should Artor perish, no new suitor would claim her as the spoils of war, and she would be forced to dwindle, a legendary beauty fallen into ugly decline. Should such a disaster occur, Wenhaver would soon be forgotten in the poverty that lay in wait for unwanted, sterile old women.

  No, Artor must live, and heaven help those Celtic nobles who attempted to come between her and the throne of the High King. She marshalled her not inconsiderable influence as queen to stand behind Artor as the just and legitimate ruler of the west. In her solitary bed, she vowed silently to endure celibacy, if it would keep her beleaguered husband upon his throne. She rode through Cadbury and comforted the wives of Artor’s warriors, and would have ridden further if the land had been safe. In addition, she sent messages to the Union of Kings, reminding them of ancient debts, and ensured that recalcitrant rulers provided their share of the levy in men and money that would fund Artor’s campaign. To his surprise, even Modred was shamed into capitulation.

  Languid and idle, Wenhaver was considered by most of the court to be as useless as a lapdog. Her yellow hair was curled and perfumed, her exquisitely clean hands were rouged on the palms and her feet were as soft as those of a small child. But those who thought she was negligible were wrong. As queen of the west, she played her part.

  Artor had sent Balan to patrol the lowlands of Anderida Silva and the forests to the north of Noviomagus and Anderida, where Artor played a Saxon game by digging in along a low ridge line with his cavalry hidden in the rear. With fresh enthusiasm, he set up his bowmen behind the defensive lines with their wicked log spikes, so perfect for impaling horses that were charging uphill. While the use of cavalry had been adopted by the Saxons, it was still a rather alien concept to them and Artor was trusting that the barbarians would not realize the crushing disadvantages of the battleground that he had chosen for them.

  In his campaign tent, Artor revealed his battle plan to his captains. Daring and simple, Artor intended to engineer a ruse that gave the Saxons a tempting target, one that would trap and destroy them.

  Balan had looked at Artor with rapt admiration as he assessed the gamble that the High King was about to take with such nonchalance.

  ‘Saxons are new to the kind of discipline that is needed for effective cavalry charges’, he explained to Balan. ‘Unfortunately for them, raw courage isn’t enough for success. As the warriors of Anderida have never used cavalry as their main strategic thrust, they’ll be at a disadvantage. I’m sure they’ll charge straight at us and will expect to overrun us - much as we tended to dominate them in the past.’

  ‘But what if they don’t charge?’ Balan asked. ‘A strategic stand-off could be disastrous for our forces.’

  ‘In that event, my archers will decimate them where they stand. If they decide to resume the attack, the bowmen will fall back, regroup and let our cavalry mop up those Saxons who manage to reach the top of the hill.’

  In the morning, Balan’s troop was sent out to locate the bulk of the Saxon forces and then ride back to the Celtic positions at full gallop, as if in alarm. Artor was gambling that the Saxons would pursue Balan’s horsemen and blunder into the High King’s trap. But, to ensure that they would actually charge his defensive position, Artor would take to the field himself, dressed in full battle armour and carrying his shield and helmet. His panoply would proclaim to the Saxons that the High King had come to Anderida Silva to teach his enemies a lesson in person. Artor hoped that the Saxons would rise to the bait.

  Back in Cadbury, the court knew that the king was involved in a risky endeavour. Wenhaver was surprised to discover that she was actually on edge. When she learned from her couriers that Balan was returning to Cadbury in haste, she paled a little under her cosmetics, for it indicated that the battle for Anderida Silva must already be over. After a few tears, Wenhaver soon rallied and gathered her women around her for support.

  Balan, or Silence, as Wenhaver’s cronies had dubbed him, came to the queen’s shady rose garden in a hasty response to her urgent summons. His stern face shone with boyish enthusiasm and, although he carried a light wound on one brown thigh, he was bubbling with excitement.

  ‘If I read your face correctly, you come with good news, Lord Balan.’ She smiled at the young man. ‘Give us your tidings from the field. Tell us everything, and don’t spare our female sensibilities.’ Wenhaver waved a rosebud und
er her nose to cover the scent of strong, masculine sweat.

  ‘Forgive me for coming into your presence without first making myself presentable, my lady. It is my duty to ensure that you are the very first to know that the High King has smashed the Saxons in the forests and has sent them scurrying back towards Anderida. You would hardly credit how brilliant was the strategy used by our lord to secure victory. He had the courage to draw the Saxons into his trap by fighting afoot - yes, afoot - while carrying a shield that was clearly marked with his dragon symbol.’

  To an audience that was hushed and awestruck, Balan began the tale of the rout of the Saxons at Anderida Silva.

  The young man had led his small troop into the still forest of oak, hazel, alder and beech trees. Uncannily, the woods were silent and no birds sang in the deep indigo shadows of the foliage. In open glades, the summer sun barred the horsemen with stripes of gold and bronze, while the hock-high grasses muffled the passage of the troop.

  Balan forced himself to remain calm in the face of his rising excitement and nervousness. Irrelevantly, he wondered how his brother was coping with his duties as he rode with Pelles Minor and Bedwyr and the forces patrolling the mountains around Ratae. Balan felt a moment’s envy for the experiences that his brother was enjoying with two of the great commanders of the west. Balan’s modesty was such that he hadn’t realized the importance of the task given to him by the High King, for he was the necessary decoy who would bring the Saxons to Artor’s maw.

  An experienced cavalryman riding on the point raised one hand to catch Balan’s attention, so the younger man ordered the troop to a halt with a hissed command. Something stirred several hundred yards through the trees. Balan could hear the telltale sound of metal plates grinding against each other, the slap of leather on flesh and the jingle of bits and reins.

  Horsemen were approaching fast without any attempt at concealment.

  Balan’s troop waited deep in the shadowy thickets, as still as centaurs, their senses probing towards the sound of incoming riders. Then, with much cursing and crashing in the underbrush, a group of Saxons burst into a small clearing ahead and pulled their horses to a shuddering halt.

  ‘Ready?’ Balan hissed to his men. ‘Then let’s go!’

  The Celts were away at a brisk gallop. Fortunately, their mounts were skilled in this brutal, dangerous world of rabbit holes, fallen trees and low branches. The Saxons milled in confusion for a panicky moment and then set off in pursuit, with several warriors whooping in excitement until a shouted command ordered them into silence. Deftly, the Celts avoided the raw enthusiasm of the slightly larger Saxon troop and led their pursuers towards a large clearing.

  There, concealed in the trees, a small detachment of archers waited in ambush. As soon as the enemy riders appeared, a hail of arrows rained down on them. Balan’s men mopped up the wounded and dragged their slack bodies into a narrow, malodorous ditch that ran down to a streamlet, while the archers retrieved their arrows and the captured horses. Over the next week, the pile of bodies grew steadily as Balan played a rather nasty game of cat and mouse in ambushes where the mice died, every time.

  Just when Balan began to believe that his own small troop would destroy the entire Saxon army, one contingent at a time, the Celts rode through a lighter area of woodland and discovered the main body of the Saxon invaders in bivouac.

  The Saxon force consisted of some two hundred cavalry, plus foot soldiers and supporting troops. The cavalry was well supplied with horses, at least two per rider, and Balan was impressed at the organization displayed by the Saxon campaign, and the meticulous, surreptitious planning that had ensured that horses were purchased in large numbers, without alerting the Celtic spies. At long last, the Saxons were learning how to do battle against the Celts.

  Balan paused for breath, leaving his listeners to lean forward intently. Wenhaver clapped her perfumed hands in excitement, before handing him her rose as a sign of favour.

  ‘I can hardly believe Artor’s boundless luck when he conducts his campaigns,’ Modred murmured. ‘So you found the Saxon cavalry by accident, did you?’

  Balan was still for a moment while he absorbed the implications of Modred’s mockery. Then he looked at Modred with such icy contempt that Modred’s eyes dropped. For a moment, the young man’s likeness to Artor, his kinsman, was written clear in his stony face. Even Wenhaver shivered.

  ‘You are safely domiciled here, lord, not because of luck but because of the military prowess of the High King. You are hardly in a position to speak so dismissively of a week-long campaign in which you played no part whatsoever.’

  ‘I meant no offence, noble Balan,’ Modred apologized easily.

  Balan ignored a needle of irritation.

  ‘Tell us what happened next, Balan,’ Wenhaver said eagerly. ‘I’m agog to discover what you did when you found all those Saxon warriors.’

  ‘Well, my lady,’ Balan responded, ‘like any sensible Celt who’s outnumbered by at least twenty to one - we ran!’

  The Saxons saw Balan’s troop almost immediately so pursuit was swift. Balan ordered one of his warriors to ride like the wind to Artor’s trap in order to warn the king of their imminent arrival. Meanwhile, the rest of his troop would delay the arrival of the Saxon force until Artor’s men were in position.

  ‘We’ll keep the Saxons off your back, Euen, but don’t spare your horse,’ Balan ordered.

  For over an hour, the Celts led the forward detachment of the Saxons through the oak thickets, careless of the branches that tore at leather jerkins or slashed across unprotected faces. Then, when they were almost trapped by the wings of the Saxon advance, Balan led his men, shrieking and yelling tribal challenges, through a narrow gap in the Saxon front and off towards a wooded hill. The horses were almost done as Balan’s men began the climb. In the distance, the main body of the enemy trotted through the tree cover in a more cautious pursuit. Balan hoped they would follow their advance party into the attack area but, if they held back, Balan was sure that Artor would have devised a solution. With complete faith in his king, the young man rode like a crazy savage, screaming defiance as the troop attempted to remain ahead of the pursuing Saxons.

  The chasers sensed an advantage and drove their equally weary horses after the Celts. One warrior charged at Balan’s mount and, drawing level, slashed wildly at Balan’s back with his sword. Without checking his mount, Balan bent low over its neck and avoided the deadly sword thrust while drawing his own blade. Then, with daring worthy of Artor himself, he checked his horse for a moment so that the Saxon warrior began to draw past him. With deadly precision, Balan buried his sword in the Saxon’s back.

  So great was the forward momentum of the galloping horses, that Balan’s sword was ripped out of his hands. The Saxon swept past him on his wild-eyed horse, pinned upright by Balan’s weapon. With a whoop of triumph, Balan swept on, driving his exhausted horse up the steep slope.

  Suddenly a concealed pit, one of Artor’s traps, yawned at his horse’s feet and Balan only just managed to swerve his beast in time. The rest of his troop continued up towards the crown of the hill without mishap. Behind them, Saxon cavalry disappeared into collapsing screens of sapling, leaves and dry grasses - and the screaming began. Balan wanted to block his ears to shut out the dreadful sounds of impaled horses and dying men. Then Artor appeared, on foot, in full armour of a striking, blood-red colour. Around the High King was a line of warriors and bowmen, their eyes set and grim.

  ‘Even before I had dismounted and begged a blade from a Celtic bowman, the Saxons were upon us,’ Balan stated matter-of-factly, ‘and our arrows were mowing down the forward cavalry.’

  ‘How very fortuitous,’ Modred said blandly, his smile just a little too wide.

  ‘Your sneering does you no credit!’ Balan snapped.

  ‘Really, Modred,’ Wenhaver reproved him, ‘you should show some respect towards our warriors. Balan is correct when he says that we sit safely in Cadbury because of the wars fought b
y my husband.’ Her rosebud smile was as warm as ever as she tapped him lightly with the silver stick of her fan, but the disdain that coated her words took Modred by surprise.

  ‘Please continue, Balan,’ Wenhaver ordered and pointedly turned her back on Modred. ‘I shudder with fears for the safety of my husband.’

  Now both men looked puzzled. Neither was accustomed to hearing the queen voice words of concern for the High King’s welfare. Both men wondered fleetingly what new game Wenhaver was playing.

  ‘King Artor annihilated the main Saxon force when he enticed a direct frontal attack. By keeping our cavalry concealed at the rear, they were convinced we were vulnerable. I suppose they believed that they were using our own tactics against us, and that we were at their mercy. But the pits and traps set by Artor surprised the first wave of attackers, while Artor’s foot soldiers held the line. Once the Saxons were committed to making their attack, our cavalry was unleashed from their hiding places to chop the Saxons into bloody strips of meat.’

  Wenhaver’s courtiers clapped joyously and a wine cup was pressed into Balan’s hands.

  ‘Let us drink to Artor. Long may he reign as King of the Britons,’ Balan shouted. He raised his wine cup into the air and the assembled company repeated the toast. Even Modred exhibited patriotic zeal.

  ‘What were our losses, Lord Balan?’ Lady Elayne asked quietly, and the faces of Wenhaver’s women fell. Women understand that even victories are costly.

  ‘The Saxons all perished, Lady Elayne, and there will be much weeping in Anderida in the weeks to come. We burned their bodies so their widows would see the smoke above the forest and know the Celtic answer to their attack on us. Those few Saxons who fled were hunted down.’