The sight of him driving fearlessly into the churning wall of foemen made Gwalcmai gasp. “Is he always so daring?” he asked in astonishment.
“It is his way.”
“I have never seen the like of it. Who can match him?”
I laughed. “No one. He is a bear in battle—a great mad bear. No one matches him for strength or valor.”
Gwalcmai shook his head. “We heard he was a stout battlechief, but this…” He fell silent for want of words.
“Beware,” I warned, “he expects no less of the men who follow him.”
“I will follow him if he will have me,” Gwalcmai vowed solemnly.
I clapped the prince on his shoulder with a gloved hand. “Well, you are indeed a fortunate man, Gwalcmai ap Lot. For today you have the happy chance to prove yourself worthy.”
So saying, I rose and drew on my war helm. I walked back to the picket, mounted my horse, and took up my long spear, then gave the signal to the others who were already mounted and waiting. We advanced to the crest of the hill and poised there, ready to sweep down into the fray.
We did not wait long, for the first ranks of Angli had already seen what Arthur was about and were running up the side of the hill to evade the chaos choking the center of the glen, hoping to surround the Cymry. As yet, no one had crossed the river to come at him from the other side.
I raised my spear to Heaven. “For God and Britain!” I cried, and my cry was answered in kind. And then I was racing down the hillside, my cloak rippling out behind me, the wind singing from my dark-glinting spearhead.
So heedless were the Angli that they did not see us until we were right on top of them. The first ranks of warriors went down before us like wheat ripe to the scythe. The speed and force of our charge carried us well into their quickly scattering swarm.
We reformed the line and galloped up the hillside, turned, and came sweeping down upon them again. The Angli saw what we intended and fled before us, running, stumbling, rolling, picking themselves up and running again. We drove them before us like so many sheep for the slaughter.
They did not even try to fight.
I reined up and gathered the horsemen to me. “Let them go! Let them go! We ride now to support Arthur!” I pointed with my spear down the hillside where the main force labored. The Irish, by dint of numbers alone, had succeeded in halting Arthur’s advance. By cutting in from the side, we could divide the Irish force and keep the Angli penned behind where they could do nothing.
Oh, Arthur had chosen the battle place well. The land worked for us and against the enemy; their greater numbers were no use to them now.
Setting my spear, I wheeled my horse and charged. I heard a wild war whoop beside me and Gwalcmai galloped past, his face alight with the battle glow. I lashed my horse to match his pace, and the ground trembled beneath us. The beat of our steeds’ pounding hooves sounded like a throbbing drum.
Down and down we came, plummeting like eagles, swifter than the wind. The terrified Irish heard the terrible din of our coming and threw their round shields before them—as if this could stop the thunder breaking over their heads.
The clash of our meeting sounded like a thousand anvils being struck at once. Steel flashed. Men screamed. The air shuddered with the shock. I thrust with my spear again and again, opening a wide path before me.
Gwalcmai rode at my right hand, matching me thrust for thrust. Together we drove straight into the heart of the battle where Arthur’s white horse reared and plunged. Any who came before us fell—either to our spears or to the swift and deadly hooves of our battle-trained horses.
I will tell you how it is to fight on horseback, shall I?
You feel the enormous surge of power beneath you and the rhythmic roll of the beast’s flanks as its legs stretch and gather. The strength of the great creature becomes your strength, rising through you and through the shaft of the spear in your hand. With the enormous weight of the animal behind it, that hardened length of ashwood becomes indestructible; the flared iron leaf of the spearhead penetrates anything: wood, leather, bone.
As you begin the charge, the enemy appears as massive and faceless as a wall. As you close, the wall begins to splinter and fall inward upon itself. Then you see individual timbers—men—as they collapse before you. There is a terrible instant when you see their eyes bulge and mouths gape as they go down. And then they are gone and you are free.
The shock of the clash washes over you like a sea wave, swelling, cresting, rolling, and moving on. The sound of the battle is a roar in your ears and a blur before your eyes. You see the glint of metal. You see the point of your spear like a point of light, like a Beltane firebrand, as it thrusts and thrusts.
You smell the thick, salty sweetness of blood.
You are at once greater and more powerful than you can imagine. You expand to fill the whole of this worlds-realm. You are formidable. You are invincible. You are God’s own idea of a warrior, and his hand is beneath you, upholding you. His peace flows from your heart as from a wellspring.
All these things and more I knew as I hurtled like a flaming star to Arthur’s side. The Irish fell before me, and many did not rise again.
“Arthur!” I cried, scattering the last of the foe before me as I fought to his side.
“Good work!” he shouted. The press of battle was thicker here, and the spear was no help. Arthur’s sword was in his hand, and I saw his arm rising and falling in deadly rhythm. I shoved my spear into its holder beneath my leg and drew my sword, unslinging my shield at the same time. Then I settled into the grim business at hand.
All around us the Cymry hacked at the foe, who fell back and back before us. They were giving ground and that was good. Oh, but it was slow going. We pushed on, and it was like wading to shore against an outrushing tide.
And then, all at once, the tide changed and we found ourselves being pulled along with it. I looked out across the glen to see what the cause might be, and I saw Idris and Maglos sweeping down the hillside to meet an Angli counterattack from the other side of the river. The attack was crushed before it could begin.
Seeing their hope extinguished so quickly and efficiently, the Irish abandoned the fight.
“They are retreating!” shouted Arthur. “Follow me!” He raised his sword, and his war cry was lost in the shouts of retreating Irish. I saw his white horse leap ahead, and we gave chase.
We pursued them all the way back to the ford at the Glein. Here the valley widened and flattened, and here the Angli chose to halt their retreat and give battle once more.
We halted a little distance away to view the battle array, and to catch our breath before attacking. The kings gathered around us to hold council. “They think to take us here,” observed Arthur.
“And they may just do it,” remarked Idris. “Look at the length of that line. We cannot equal it—we will be stretched too thin. They can easily surround us.”
I, for one, had had enough of his crabbed lack of faith. “If this be courage, Idris,” I told him, “you show it in a most peculiar way.”
Gwalcmai laughed, and Idris subsided, his mouth pressed into a bloodless line.
“We will strike them in the center…there,” said Arthur, who had been studying the enemy; he pointed to the thickened mass. “The Angli fight like Saecsens, but they are even more afraid of the horses. Therefore, the ala will force them back across the ford and cut the line in two. When this happens, the two ends will be drawn in together to fill the void.”
“They will circle and surround us, Duke Arthur.” It was Maglos this time.
“Yes,” replied Arthur coolly, “and when that happens our footmen will come at them from behind.”
“But we will be trapped,” Bedegran insisted.
“There must be some bait in a trap,” Gwalcmai told him, thus saving me the trouble, “or the rat will not put his nose in.”
“I do not like it,” sniffed Idris. “It is needlessly risky.”
I turned on him. “T
hey fear the horses! Have you not seen how they flee the sight of them? By the time they close on us, our own warriors will be at their backs and they will be the ones surrounded!”
I turned to find Arthur staring at me. “What? You think yourself the only one who knows the head of a spear from its butt?” I demanded.
Arthur turned to the others. “Well? You have heard Bedwyr. He will lead the charge to the center. Bedegran and I will lead the footmen as before. May God go with us.” And he rode off to join the foot soldiers waiting beside the river.
Idris was right: Arthur’s plan was risky. But it made the best possible use of our few horses. By using them to keep the enemy off balance, so to speak, our fewer numbers were not such a disadvantage.
The Angli thought to attack while we were still undecided. And with a tremendous roar they came at us on the run. “Spears ready!” I called, sheathing the sword and retrieving my spear. I threw the reins forward and my horse lumbered into a trot. The ala formed up in wings on either side of me.
Gathering pace, the trot became a run and the run a gallop. Gwalcmai’s voice rose above the thunder of the hooves, and an instant later we were all wailing in that high, eerie war chant of his. I felt the hot blood rising in my veins and the icy calm of the battle frenzy descend over me.
And it was no longer Bedwyr riding headlong toward the onrushing enemy. I was a flame, a burning brand flung into the wind. My heart soared within me with the song of battle. My movements were immaculate, my thoughts bright and sharp as crystal.
The eyes in my head looked out and noted the battle array before me. We were closing…nearer…nearer…
CRACK!!
I was through the line and pulling up hard. A dozen Angli sprawled on the ground around me: some of them dead where they had dropped, others struggling to rise.
I saw one foeman staring stupidly at his shield, which seemed to have become stuck to his chest. He pulled at it and the shield fell away, revealing a slender length of a broken spear jutting out from between his ribs. My own spear had mysteriously lost half its length. I threw it down.
Drawing my sword, I wheeled my horse to survey the carnage. The force of our charge had indeed collapsed the center of the line: the damage fifty horses can do is considerable. What is more, we had not lost a single rider.
But our assault had carried us further into the center than I could have believed possible; we were at the ford, almost in the water. The Angli were not slow to react. Instantly, they closed on us and we were surrounded. Yet, even as they filled the rents we had made in their battleline, I heard Arthur’s hunting horn sounding high and clear.
I gathered the ala to me, and we formed up to fight toward Arthur. The battle had become close. We were pressed on all sides, but the Cymry kept their heads and we moved forward—slowly, and with difficulty, for the Angli, in their desperation, gave ground grudgingly.
Then, when all was committed to Arthur’s plan, the worst thing possible happened: the Picti, so far absent from the fight, suddenly appeared, streaming down from the hillside, coming in behind Arthur. As soon as they were within striking distance they loosed their hateful little arrows.
So there we were, outnumbered and twice surrounded. Of all possible positions for an army there are not many worse.
Arthur did what he could, sending Idris’ troop to deal with the Picti. Naturally, this weakened his own force. Seeing Idris break away, the Angli and Irish responded with almost hysterical fury.
Giving forth a tremendous howl, the barbarians rose up like a great sea wave and Arthur was inundated. I saw him at the head of his troops on his white horse, rising above them, and then he was gone.
“Arthur!” I cried, but my voice was lost in the battle roar. The seething waters of the enemy host closed over the place where he had been.
6
The ala drove into the thick of it. On the strength of steel alone we pushed a way clear—over the thrashing bodies of the foemen. May Heaven forgive me, my mount’s hooves scarcely touched the ground!
We reached the ford. The water ran red; the river foam blushed crimson. Corpses floated, their limbs drifting. Caught on the rocks, the dead gazed with profound blindness into the darkening sky.
Once in the water, the going was easier—but only just. The Angli flung themselves at us with the ferocity of wild beasts. Swinging their axes, stabbing with their long knives, bawling, lunging, grappling.
We hewed at them like standing trees, and they fell. But always there were more and more.
I strained into the welter searching for Arthur. All was a chaos of flailing limbs and flashing weapons. I did not see him.
Now we were within range of the Picti arrows. Though Idris had succeeded in moving them back somewhat, the wicked missiles still struck with deadly accuracy. The warrior to my left was struck in the shoulder, and one arrow glanced off my shield boss.
Grimly we labored on. The leaden sky deepened to the color of fire-blackened iron. The wind gusted, driving the mist along the river. Rain began pelting down. The ground beneath our feet grew slippery. Blood and water mingled, then flowed away. The battle proceeded.
Ever and again I cried out, “Arthur! Arthur!”
In response I heard only the thunder of the fight, loud and sharp, pierced by hot oaths and agonized cries. And under it, the dull, droning rumble of running feet and horses’ hooves…
Horses’ hooves. That could not be what I heard, and yet I know the sound as well as my own heartbeat.
I raised my eyes. Out of the mist I saw a herd of horses racing into the valley, their shapes made ghostly by the rain. Swift as diving eagles, they thundered headlong into the midst of the fight.
Could it be? I looked again and saw the reason for this marvel. At the head of the stampede I saw two figures—one obscured by the mist and rain, but the other I knew: no one sits a saddle like Cai.
The enemy saw the horses at the same instant I did. A heartbeat later they were fleeing across the river. By the hundreds and thousands they fled, trampling over one another as they struggled across the ford.
We hacked at them as they fled, but they were no longer resisting. Stupid with fear, they abandoned themselves to our swords without heed.
The horses were careening closer. I saw Gwalcmai leading a phalanx of warriors to turn the stampede. And above the tumult I heard voices strong and brave, lifted in a Cymry battlesong. It was the Cymbrogi driving the horses before them and singing as they came.
The battle was broken. I halted to catch my breath and watched the immense tide of barbarians flowing away across the Glein and into the hills. Some of the Cymbrogi continued the rout, riding them down as they fled, but the enemy escaped by the score. This I regretted, but I did not have it in me to give chase. I was exhausted.
As they did not require my help, I turned again to the task of finding Arthur. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The mist cleared, and there he was before me.
He was on foot. His horse had been cut from under him, and he had been forced to lead his men on foot. The Bear of Britain saluted me when he saw me, raising his red-streaked sword.
“Hail, Bedwyr!” he called, and promptly sat down on a rock.
I tried to return his salute, but with the weight of the sword in my hand, my arm would no longer move. I slid from the saddle and leaned against my horse. “God love you, Arthur,” I said, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my glove, “I thought you were dead. If Cai had not arrived, we all would be meat for crows.”
Arthur leaned on his sword, gulping air. “Yes, and now we shall have to share the plunder with him, I suppose.”
“Share it! He can have it all. It is as much as my life is worth to see him driving those horses.”
Just then Myrddin appeared. “Here you are.” He examined us closely and, satisfied that we were alive and well, dismounted and slipped to the ground. “What did you think of the mist?”
“A most excellent mist,” declared Arthur. “For
give me if I do not make more of it.” He made to rise, but could not manage the effort, so settled back on the rock with his elbows on his knees.
I shook my head in disbelief at Myrddin’s indifference. “Do you know we were almost massacred here? Those cursed Picti and their arrows very nearly slaughtered the warhost of Britain.”
“That is why I thought of the horses,” explained Myrddin placidly. “The Picti believe horses contain the spirits of the dead and are reluctant to kill them lest they become haunted.”
“Listen to you! Our sword brothers lie dead, and you wag on about mist and horses!”
Myrddin turned to me. “Look around you, Bedwyr the Bold. We have not lost a single man.”
Quick anger flashed up in me. I stared at him. “What! Are you mad?”
“You have but to look,” Myrddin said, throwing wide a hand in invitation.
I turned my eyes to the fallen around us, and…it was true. Lord and Savior, Blessed Jesu be praised! It was true!
Wherever I looked—the river, the glen, the hillsides, the rocks in the water—the dead were Irish and Angli. Not a single Briton could be found among them.
It was a miracle.
* * *
Dark came upon us. By torchlight we worked among the dead, retrieving gold and silver and the special treasure which we had quickly learned to value: the Angli war shirt.
The Angli had learned to make a singular kind of battledress. Forged of thousands of tiny steel rings, the shirts protected the wearer, yet allowed free movement. Mostly, only Angli kings and nobles wore them, for they were highly prized.
I walked over the battleground, rolling corpses to inspect their limbs and clothing. Sometimes the barbarians carry gold coins or gemstones in their mouths, and the jaw must be broken to get them; or they hide them in little leather pouches which have to be pried away. The dead do not mind, I kept telling myself as I cut rings from swollen fingers and stripped battleshirts from stiffening backs.
Searching corpses is a grisly business, but necessary. We sorely needed the plunder and the war shirts. The one to pay for the support of the warband, and to keep men like Idris and Maglos happy; the other for defense against sword cuts and arrows.
Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle Page 21
