by M. K. Hume
Balan squared his shoulders and broke the little bubble of silence that had opened up around his words.
‘As for our own losses, Artor won the victory, but good men went to the shades before their time. Ulf of Caerleon, who was a survivor of Mori Saxonicus, perished with some thirty of our archers, while twenty of our cavalrymen will come home to their families in funeral urns. But I know that our dead would count their sacrifice worth such a stunning victory. After the battle, King Artor spoke to the living and to the wounded in praise of our dead, and he told them that every sacrifice contributes to our survival. As is his custom, coin will be sent to the families of those who were killed or wounded in the battle, for the king will never allow wives and children to starve. Nor will he allow old mothers to wander the roads, starving and homeless. Such is the wisdom and the love that our king gives to us.’
‘The loss of any young man is very sad,’ Wenhaver murmured. ‘But why did the Saxons venture out of Anderida after so many years? They must have realized what the outcome could be. Have they so many men to lose?’
‘We can only guess, my lady. A number of freed slaves have told the High King that the Saxons were convinced that their cavalry would place great pressure on our borders. They believed our warriors would be forced to retreat, and allow them to gain control of more of our land. By all reports, their settlements need more farmland to provide for their growing populations. I don’t wish to frighten the ladies, but the Saxons will come again, because they have no choice.’
Even Modred looked subdued and all the good humour in Wenhaver’s bower fled away.
Battles were subsequently won at Ratae, where Balyn distinguished himself with reckless courage, while Artor’s forces continued to skirmish with the Saxons for all of that unseasonably mild summer. The king’s golden touch hadn’t deserted him. In those combats where he raised Caliburn, the sword of kingship, and where the Red Dragon banner snapped in the summer breezes, Saxons died and the Celts carried the field.
From Ratae to Anderida, the crows and ravens gorged. As always, where Artor rode, death followed, for the king used an arsenal of strategies to bring the Saxons to ruin. In one battle, cavalry and archers harried the Saxons like a swarm of bees, until the enemy was driven to a river and the Celtic foot soldiers pressed forward to leave the Saxons with no place to run.
Later, at a ruined Roman fortress near Ratae, Artor winkled the Saxons out of an impregnable position by poisoning the wells with rotting corpses. While neither Balyn nor Balan approved of such methods, there was no doubt that sick Saxons were easier to defeat and Celtic casualties remained minimal.
As Artor increased pressure on the Saxon invaders, they were forced to beat a strategic retreat back towards the east and the south, and to their respective sanctuaries. The Jutlanders, in contrast, nibbled surreptitiously at the lowlands near the Wall, sinking in roots that would last for a thousand years.
Artor called his captains to Venonae fortress to discuss strategy. The motley group sprawled around his rooms and talked desultorily.
‘The Saxons are like ants,’ Bedwyr growled, his dirty campaign boots resting on a scarred table in Artor’s war room in Venonae. ‘They build a nest and dig in to strengthen it. Then, when they’re ready, they scatter and extend their network, further and further into Celtic lands.’
‘In some ways, it’s even worse than that,’ Gruffydd said, ‘because the Saxons are starting to apply military strategy rather than relying on brute force. Bugger me, but the bastards are even starting to look like us, except that they’re so damned big.’
Artor nodded in agreement. ‘You know we’re just putting off the inevitable. We’ll never dislodge them from our island now that they have such a foothold.’
Galahad looked disgusted, as if sickened by a rancid smell. Gawayne dozed on a hard seat after the long ride to Venonae, while Taliesin examined his hands from his position in the corner of the room.
‘True Celtic hearts can drive the invaders back into the sea, my king,’ Balyn protested naively. ‘All we need are a few more troops and a united faith in the justice of our cause.’
Artor sighed irritably. ‘You’re wrong, Balyn. The Saxons, Angles and Jutlanders are here to stay, so we must be realistic. They’ve lived in Britain for a hundred years or more, so they are Britons now, not invaders. A united enemy attack by them would finish us. Once all our young warriors were slaughtered, they’d annihilate the people. Saxon kin from across the waters constantly reinforce our enemy while we must grow our own warriors. It takes time to turn a babe into a man.’
‘But the barbarians intend to sweep away our gods, our towns . . . our whole way of life,’ Balan whispered with a genuine shadow of fear in his grey eyes. ‘We’re fighting for our survival.’
‘Just so, Balan,’ Artor agreed. ‘And they’ll probably succeed in the end. We’ve been protecting our Celtic way for as long as I can remember. And my greatest wish, as it was for Myrddion, Luka and Llanwith pen Bryn, is that our enemies become more civilized before the days of the final conflict. Perhaps we should cultivate the Picts. We would both be stronger if they joined with us, but the Picts will never forgive us for stealing their lands in the distant past. Perhaps, like them, we will be forced to retreat to the wild places where we will taste the bitter bread of poverty and drink the sour water of defeat. But even then, the Celts need not wither and disappear. On days like this, when my shoulder aches from the old arrow wound taken at Mori Saxonicus, my mind can imagine no future for my people. But tomorrow, if I have no pain, my spirits will rise and I will remember that such sacrifices cannot be in vain. Celtic hearts will live. The question is, where?’
‘How can you continue to fight the Saxons when you doubt our ability to win the war?’ Balyn asked, his face shadowed with unhappiness. He was shaken to the bottom of his soul by Artor’s brutally honest assessment of their future. He had always believed in the invincibility of his father’s people, and he had never considered that the infrequent forays against the Saxons were anything but an exciting opportunity to initiate young Celtic warriors in their first blooding. Never, not even during his blackest moods, had Balyn considered that the will and cleverness of an old warrior, backed by loyal troops who were ready to die to the last man, were all that stood between the Celtic people and slavery.
‘What’s the alternative?’ Artor smiled wearily. ‘I would do almost anything to end the Saxon menace, once and for all, but I don’t believe it is possible. Where would the Saxons go if we drove them out of these isles?’
Balan looked puzzled and held his tongue, but Balyn hazarded a response.
‘Couldn’t they return to their own lands? The Saxons must have come from somewhere.’
‘Aye, they did. But if you travelled across the narrow Saxon Sea, you would understand that other tribes from the north and west are moving inexorably southwards. The Saxon homelands have been overrun by another people who won’t permit the original inhabitants to return, just as the Picts, who once stood where we do, were overrun by invading Celts. We drove them out of their lands into the cold wastes that lie beyond the Wall.’
Balan nodded his head in understanding, but Balyn pursed his lips in denial and his grey eyes were angry and hurt.
‘Balyn, you cannot close your mind to what is real. This is now the Saxons’ homeland. We can either share it with them, or one of us must leave.’
‘Not us!’ Balyn swore. ‘Never the Celts!’
‘I hope you’re right, Balyn.’
At this point, Gawayne roused himself. Any other vassal would have been embarrassed to have dozed off in the king’s presence, but Gawayne simply laughed at himself. Artor did not begrudge him his rest after weeks of physical exertion and vigilance. Gawayne had always been able to shed his cares like a discarded snakeskin.
The Otadini prince had used his father’s warriors to teach the Jutes a stinging lesson at Eburacum, where so much Celtic and Jute blood had been spilt in the past fifty years. The swamps
had run red, instead of green, when the battle lines were drawn. Where once rushes had grown, the bodies of many dead men now lay. The Otadini singers were already composing songs of this vicious battle, where neither side had been prepared to cede victory to the other.
As Gawayne reported to his king, both sides had fought to a weary standstill, for their armies were almost evenly matched. Both sides were desperate, and both were fighting for survival, so the conflict was a dour, bitter affair.
‘Eventually, the Jutes withdrew and granted us the field,’ Gawayne told Artor grimly. ‘They’ve retreated back inside their borders and won’t be able to advance again for several years. Their losses were particularly heavy, for you know these huge, hairy barbarians hate to surrender.’
‘I’d be careful what you say about Jutes within Odin’s hearing,’ Artor warned with a wide grin. His temper had frayed easily at the beginning of the campaign but although his eyes were hollow with weariness, his smile now came easily and his mood seemed lighter and more optimistic, for all that he preached disaster to the twins.
Perhaps he’s just happy to be away from the court, Gawayne thought, and no one can blame him for that!
‘The Jutes brought me bars of red gold in carts drawn by milk-white oxen to purchase the bodies of their dead. They were noble adversaries, so I accepted their payment, just as we’ve done in the past. I’ve travelled with their gold for many miles to pay it to your steward. I’ve also taken a one-tenth share for the kin of our dead, which has been sent back to my father and the Otadini tribe. I trust this arrangement is acceptable to you?’
‘Aye, Gawayne. You act with commendable common sense and dispatch in matters of warfare.’
Gawayne grinned and accepted a mug of ale from Odin.
Artor no longer saw Gawayne often, for his nephew had avoided Cadbury for years, having discovered, to his cost, that the queen was a ruthless hunter and he was easy prey. He was never able to resist her charms, even as she aged, and his answer to this weakness was to hide from the seductive siren call of his paramour.
‘We’ll let the Saxons retreat in good order and without undue harassment,’ Artor ordered. ‘Meanwhile, all the tribes must contribute to the fund needed to refurbish our defensive positions, except for the Otadini, as Gawayne has brought the Jute tribute with him. This instruction is especially binding on the Brigante tribe and they lie under threat of being cast out of the Union of Kings if they refuse to comply.’
Artor glanced at each of his leaders in turn, holding their eyes until they nodded in agreement.
‘Modred’s warriors will be responsible for the defences of Verterae and Lavatrae. I’ll explain his duties to him in simple language that even he should understand. However, because I have little trust in my kinsman, his forces shall be merged with warriors from your tribe, Gawayne. You are in overall command of the north, so you must make those difficult bastards serve their king. You may use your fabled charm.’
‘My charm only ever worked on women, Artor, but this task will give me a great deal of satisfaction. Shite, I’ll enjoy extracting cooperation from those Brigante bastards!’
‘You’ll need to appoint a damn good second-in-command to assist you to fulfil all of your extra responsibilities. Numerous unannounced visits and inspections of your forces will be needed to ensure that all is well in the region.’
‘I’ll install my brother, Geraint, as my deputy. He’s competent and overdue for promotion. I can trust him to carry out your orders.’
‘I don’t remember your brother, although the name seems familiar. Have I met Geraint?’
‘Yes, my lord. But he was a spotty youngster when you last saw him. He’s thirty-nine now, and was born only a year before Gaheris. He’s very quiet, but he’s a talented leader of men, even if I say so myself. His sons are almost fully grown, so he can devote his time exclusively to your interests.’
The reminder of Gawayne’s youngest brother, Gaheris, was a wrench. Artor had always felt responsible for his nephew’s death, twenty years earlier, at the hands of Glamdring Ironfist. Gaheris had taken Artor’s place at an arranged meeting with the Saxon leader to offer an honourable truce. The murder of the envoys and their personal guard had resulted in Artor’s last major confrontation with the Saxons at the battles of Mori Saxonicus and Caer Fyrddin.
‘If he’s half the man that Gaheris was, Geraint will be a welcome addition to the ranks of my captains,’ Artor said.
‘Aye, lord. He’s an able fighter and his men love him. I trust him with my life.’
‘As for Ratae and Venonae, the Ordovice and the Cornovii are already committed to defending their own lands.’ Artor turned to Bedwyr. ‘You, Bedwyr, will assume command of this united force.’
‘Me?’ Bedwyr yelped. ‘I’m not a king to be given command of an army. A promotion like this would insult my neighbours and my own liege lord.’
Bedwyr’s shock said much about the self-effacement of the Cornovii warrior. Now in his middle years, Bedwyr’s reddish hair and flushed complexion had faded, but the marks of the slave collar that had once encircled his throat were still vivid. Scars across his face and evidence of a broken nose spoke of years of danger and pain.
‘I’ve spoken to the kings of the Cornovii and the Silures and I have written to my kinsman, King Bran of the Ordovice,’ Artor said. ‘They’ve agreed to abide by my decision. Who else knows the mountains and the forests as well as you do? And, more importantly, I have absolute trust in your judgement.’
Bedwyr bowed his head.
‘I shall bestow on you the title of King of Arden. You’ll have no tribe to follow you, except for those men who come to you voluntarily. I cannot risk the alliance by gifting more men to you than you already have.’
‘I’ll obey you to the death, my lord. The title means nothing to me, but my family will be proud, and for that I thank you. The only boon I ask is that you permit my wife to remain at Cadbury under your protection, for she’s dear to me.’
‘You may be assured that Lady Elayne will always be safe in Cadbury.’ Artor turned to Balyn and Balan. ‘As for command of the south, this will be divided between you two. You will be charged with the defence of Venta Belgarum and the ports. It will be your task to prevent Anderida from spreading its poisonous influences any further. Although you’ll be far from your home and you’ve no love for the south, I trust you both to act as I would. Balyn, you have natural authority and considerable fighting skills, so you’ll assume tactical command. Balan, you are a born strategist with your cool brain, and will assume strategic command.’
Balan dropped to his knees and bowed so low that Artor was embarrassed. Balyn was a little slower to respond, for his mind was fixed on the compliments that had been given to his brother, rather than to himself. He felt a twinge of jealousy stab through his vitals.
‘What are my duties, my lord?’ Galahad asked. He had acquitted himself well on the battlefield and wondered why he was having to wait for Artor to give him a role that was commensurate with his ability and his birth.
Gawayne winced as he saw Artor’s eyebrows twitch. At this rate, his son’s lack of manners would have him banished from the king’s presence.
‘You’ll base yourself at Salinae Minor and will control all those lands that surround it. Gronw hasn’t finished trying to destroy me, so you are charged with finding the Cup. I’ve heard word from Gruffydd that the Black Warrior still has influence in the district around the island, and that trouble will soon be developing from the hamlets near Salinae Minor. The villagers believe a rumour that there is a sacred relic in Gronw’s care that can save the west. Unfortunately, the rumours also infer that I’m not worthy to hold Lucius’s Cup.’
‘Why did you choose me for this task, my lord?’ Galahad asked, proving to his father yet again that the boy saw the world entirely through his own feelings and self-image.
‘You have a nose for wickedness, Galahad, and you possess Christian righteousness that is coupled with a strong righ
t arm. I trust you not to give up until you complete the task I have set you.’
Galahad still managed to look offended but before he could voice a complaint, Gawayne punched him hard on the arm.
Artor began to pace the room, needing to match actions with the orders he had issued. So much rested on these men, all of whom were flawed in some way. Then the High King shrugged for, as Targo had often said, he must do the best he could with what he had.
‘I’ll be riding to most of the major settlements in the west to spread a message of hope and reconciliation. This Saxon summer has cost us very little, but if we are to prevail, we must remain alert.’
‘I understand, my king,’ Galahad replied. ‘You fear the blows that can come from inside our borders. For my part, I’ll carry out my duties with diligence.’
Then Artor addressed the whole group once again.
‘You may go, my friends, for we have planned our work for the coming autumn and winter. Go with grace and the favour of the gods.’
Once his captains had departed, Artor allowed his squared shoulders to slump and he sank into his chair like the old man he had become.
Taliesin moved out of his corner.
‘You’re tired, my lord.’
Artor sighed. ‘I wonder when I became such a manipulative creature, one who plays on men’s faiths as easily as you pluck on your harp strings, Taliesin. Necessity, it seems, makes monsters of all men.’
‘I understand how the love of your subjects burdens you, for you fear that you’ll be forced to betray them for the sake of the kingdom. But if you asked every warrior in Venonae how they felt about dying for your cause, they’d answer that such a death would be the will of the gods - and not your fault.’
‘I am glad your mother sent you to me. And I’m grateful that you’re content to follow me across the country so that I have someone to complain at when I feel sorry for myself, which is far too often. Tired men make mistakes.’
