It was all luck, of course. She was aiming for the broader target of his chest, since he’d dropped his shield to gawp. She got him in the eye.
She kneed her horse, heeling him over to follow in Peder’s wake, taking control of the reins again. A shout of rage followed her from the Saxon lines.
She didn’t look back.
They gathered again at their first position, and only then did she wheel her horse to see the results of the attack.
“Well, they are not charging yet,” Peder observed.
“Aye. But they aren’t happy.”
In truth, that was an understatement. The Saxons were outraged. Gwen smirked as she made out some of what they were saying. “They are calling us dogs without honor,” she said. Peder laughed.
“They’re welcome to chase us,” he suggested. Gwen’s smile turned into a smirk. The scouts were not mutton-headed bull-men whose idea of “honor” overrode the need to win battles. They couldn’t be. All of them were small and wiry, and to stand and bash at one of those Saxon boars would have been suicide, and from the time they had gotten their full growth, it was very clear that they would never be the sort of fighters that won champions’ battles and got songs written about them. While this turned some away from the warrior’s path, this lot had become pragmatic. Let other men worry about gaining honor and glory. They would become clever and invaluable. And if no one sang about them, well, the war chiefs knew their value, and they were well rewarded with gifts and loot.
“Well, the cursed Saxons can throw whatever names about they care to. We might get a song out of this from our side,” Gwen observed.
But Peder was already setting his horse for another part of the line, and a moment later, the second run began.
It took four before the Saxons’ temper broke. Gwen was never again lucky enough to take her man down, but she forced the leaders to duck behind shields like nervous maidens, and that infuriated them. Finally one of Gwen’s targets had enough. His face purple with anger, he waved his sword over his head and charged after her, roaring.
That was her signal to send her tiring horse not for the side, but uphill, straight for the Square.
The front line of the Square opened up to let her and the men behind her through, then closed behind them. She pulled up her horse to a trot and joined Peder, waiting for the rest. She didn’t look back; the clash of arms and the shouts and screams from the front of the Square said everything that needed to be said.
With every nerve afire now with excitement, once the rest were gathered up, she made a chopping motion with her hand and pointed to either side of the Square. They split into two groups, one led by her, and one by Peder, trotting off to either side, first to scout for any hidden reinforcements, then to harry the Saxon flanks and rear.
They already knew the likeliest places to look, and on horseback, even in the snow, Gwen and her group moved swiftly across the landscape, finding nothing. She could see from their faces that they were as impatient to return to the battle as she was. It was with relief that she sent her horse homing for the noise in the middle distance. As they pushed over the last hill, the smoke from a dozen fires rose blackly to their left. Gwen laughed when she saw it. Peder’s men had fired the Saxon camp. Victorious or defeated, there would be nothing for them to come back to. No food, no shelter, no carts, no oxen or mules to pull them.
Not the time to think about it, however. They were coming up fast on stragglers, either left behind or fleeing the battle. Gwen drew her Roman sword, a fine piece of steel that she’d put a good edge on. Reins in her left, blade in her right, she charged down on the man in her path.
The Roman sword was meant for thrusting, but she used it to slash instead, cutting viciously at the man’s face as he looked up at her in shock. He gurgled out a kind of scream, there was blood, and then she was on to the next, her heart pounding, shrieking herself, afire with excitement, full of sick nausea, driven with a cold anger and a hatred of these men who had dared try to invade her land, enthrall her people.
She slashed at men in her path until the edge of her blade grew dull and she used it like a club. At one point there was a spear sticking up out of the bloody snow in front of her; she snatched it up in passing and ran it through the next man to be in her path. It was only when her horse stumbled with weariness that she reined in her emotions and nudged the poor fellow over to the side, off the field, and under the trees where her servant, Gavin, waited, with their remounts, hidden. She was the first in.
She dismounted, handed the gelding’s reins to Gavin, and mounted the mare, noting absently that her sword arm was blood-soaked.
That was when the nausea hit her like a club.
She doubled over in the saddle. It was always like this. When battle fever wore off, sickness would overwhelm her for a moment. Her stomach knotted, cramped, and heaved; she swallowed bile that burned in her throat and fought it down. Gavin handed her a water-skin; she took it and gulped down several mouthfuls, pushing them past the lump of sickness in her gullet. Then it passed; she straightened and handed the skin back to Gavin as one of the others rode in, spattered from head to toe with blood and mud.
When they were all gathered—all, which anxiety had been part of her sickness, worry for them—she led them at a trot for a good place to get a quick reconnoiter.
The battle had degenerated into knots of combat. One was centered around Urien; one around Lancelin. These were not Gwen’s concern, although she wasted a moment admiring Lancelin’s fighting. He was ahorse—all of Arthur’s chosen Companions were horsemen and fought mounted—and though there were a dozen men around him trying to pull him down, he and his stallion fought like a single lethal entity.
Mentally she scolded herself for losing even a moment and turned to her men. There was still no way of knowing how this battle would turn, “Scout again,” she ordered. “Then it’s bow work.”
They nodded. Once again the group divided, and they pounded off to make sure there were no reinforcements coming in.
The Saxons had committed everything. Gwen led her group as far as was reasonable and then scattered them. They came back to her to report—nothing. If there were reinforcements, provided that Urien won this battle, it would be too late for them to do anything.
They galloped back to the battle lines. They were all riding mares; less speed, but more stamina.
They saw the deserters before they heard the battle. As one they pulled out their bows and strung them.
Shooting from the back of a running horse was hard. Shooting from the back of a standing horse wasn’t.
It was over.
That is, it was over for most of the army.
There was loot to be had, of course, and here the mounted had an advantage over those on foot, although those on foot would be where the chieftains and war chiefs had fallen, in the thick of the battle. Still, not all of those chieftains had fought to the last, and Gwen’s scouts had taken down enough of them that all of her men wore weary, satisfied smiles as they packed their takings on their horses.
And once they’d all mustered back at camp, eaten some food, and made at least an attempt at cleaning themselves and their gear, Urien called them to inspection, sent out the least exhausted to patrol, and ordered the rest to their beds. Neither Urien nor Lancelin were taking chances.
Gwen herself reported to the commanders with tally sticks of everything (well, mostly, you couldn’t prevent the men from cheating a little) her scouts had taken. In theory, half of that should have gone to Urien and her father. In practice, there had been so much that Urien simply waved the tallies off. “Your men fought bravely and deserve what they took.” In the corner of the tent, Lancelin was winding a bandage around his wrist—not because he had been struck but because, unbelievably, he had sprained it, he had cut down so many of the enemy.
Some stragglers might have escaped, but Gwen didn’t think there were many of them. The snow had hampered escape and had made it easy to see escapees. And for tho
se who had gotten away, without food, without shelter, with no real knowledge of the land, possibly injured . . . the night was going to be very cruel. And if a storm came, which it very well might . . .
So far as the Saxons were concerned, their army would have vanished utterly into the winter.
Lancelin looked up and caught her eyes. “I think enough messages got back to the Saxon leaders of the dread White Spirit that they will probably blame this defeat on her,” he said, with a wry smile.
She blinked at him in surprise. “I wasn’t even thinking of that,” she replied.
“I was.” He finished winding the bandage and tucked the end in, then flexed his hand experimentally.
She flushed. “I’m sorry to have spoiled your victory for you then.”
“No, you aren’t.” His smile remained.
“I’m not what?”
“Sorry.” He stood up. “And you shouldn’t be. That was very clever. I will advise the High King to make use of what you began.”
Urien laughed. “Your High King’s new queen cannot be half as clever as our princess,” he said with unconcealed satisfaction.
“Not in the same way, nor at the same things, no.” Lancelin lost his smile. “Queen Gwenhwyfar turns her mind to a different path than the princess.”
And it is one you don’t approve of, Gwen thought with some surprise. That was when she wondered if she should warn Lancelin about Medraut. She had sworn to tell no one but . . .
The moment passed. He bowed to her and left. She spoke a little more with Urien about the disposition of her men, but weariness had begun to fog her thinking, and it showed. The war chief sent her off with a laugh.
Still, it nagged at her. Someone should know about Medraut. Was there any way she could tell Lancelin without actually saying anything?
She decided to wait until morning. Sometimes things came clearer in the night.
In the morning nothing was clearer, but by midafternoon the last patrol reported that there was still no sign of any reinforcements. And ravens, both two-legged and winged, had come to scavenge on the bodies.
When pickings on a battlefield were lean, the winners generally stripped the bodies of the dead bare before burning them. But from all appearances, either the Saxon war chiefs had anticipated trouble from their men because of the difficulty of a winter campaign and had come laden with many gifts to keep them contented, or they had been forced to send back to their holdings for rich gifts in order to retain them after Gwen began her “haunting.” In any case, the bodies beginning to freeze in the churned-up bloody snow were still mostly, or at least partly, clothed, though good fur cloaks, fine shirts and trews had gone into packs and on backs.
Out of nowhere, the last of the battlefield gleaners had arrived; the local villagers and hunters who had hidden during the battle and hoped that the conquerors were not the Saxons. Urien sent out men to meet each little group as it arrived and struck a bargain. Now they were cleaning up the battlefield, stripping the corpses of the least rags, piling them up for burning. This, of course, would disappoint the ravens, who were gorging themselves and berating the humans for stealing their food from under their beaks. If it had not been that they were Saxons, the bodies would have been given at least a modicum of dignity. It had not been so long ago that the tribes here, the little kingdoms had been constantly skirmishing with one another, for the death of Uther, the High King’s father, had had them all vying for ascendancy.
“I pity them,” said Lancelin, as he walked up to stand beside her. “I do. It seems so unfair, to have followed their chieftains so far in the dead of winter, on the promise of land and more, to end like this.”
She shrugged. “I don’t think about it. I think about our people, who had to hide in the forest, who would have suffered greatly had the Saxons gotten this far, who did nothing to deserve an army come to make them thralls. If they did not think about ending like this, these Saxons, then they were fools. And if they did and came anyway, then they were doubly fools.” She turned to look at him, a strand of hair blowing across her eyes until she moved it impatiently out of the way. “They will not come here again, I think, or at least not for a long time. And since they know that the High King himself is not here, they will know that it does not require the High King’s presence on the field of battle to be defeated.”
“True enough,” Lancelin replied. They had all managed to clean themselves of the filth of battle by now, and she noticed that his hair had a touch of gold in it. A little Saxon blood? That might account for the pity. “That is a good thing, but I do not think it will keep them quiet for long. They are growing desperate. Arthur is pressing them hard.”
“Was, you mean.” She shrugged. “He has a new bride. That will keep him home a season or two. The Saxons said as much around their fires. They may be less desperate if they are left alone. I think the queen is like to wish to keep him at her side, and he is like to stay there until he has himself an heir again, at least.”
Lancelin made a sour face. “And the new bride may keep me from court for longer than that. She does not like me, nor does she like my faith. I cannot say I care for her, nor hers.”
Gwen did not ask why there should be dislike, and he did not offer. She only replied, “The High King, I have heard, is accustomed to keeping his Companions close. A man might abide by the crochets of a lady for a time, but he grows impatient for his old comrades. I do not think that any woman will change that for long.”
Again, he made a wry face. “Perhaps. This one also has the Christ priests hiding behind her skirts. Thus, it is difficult to predict. Arthur wishes these men to support him; their followers grow more numerous with every year.”
She wanted to ask why, but she refrained. Instead, she shrugged, because this gave her an opening to drop some hints about Medraut without actually telling what she had pledged to stay silent about. “Then Prince Medraut will find himself unwelcome, I think. He is the son of a sorceress, and the Druids are more welcome at Lot’s court than the Christ-men. The High King may find himself poised between pleasing the queen’s priests and pleasing the prince, and I think that he will choose in her favor in that.”
“I had heard the prince had come and gone before my arrival.” Lancelin eyed her with speculation. “Why did he not remain to fight?”
A hundred answers danced on the tip of her tongue; she chose the most polite. “Business more urgent sent him to the court.” She explained about the murder of Anna Morgause by her own sons. Lancelin stared at her in horrified fascination.
“I know Gwalchmai well. His temper has often been his bane, but this . . . it seems impossible. Is this widely known?” he asked after a moment.
“I think not,” was her reply. “I think Medraut intends to tell the King only that she is dead and not at whose hands. After all, the ones who murdered her are Arthur’s Companions. This would put him in a difficult position.”
Lancelin looked pained. “He should always choose justice over . . .” “Convenience?” she suggested. “Friendship? Expediency?” She snorted. “And I think King Lot would not be pleased to have his sons haled up to answer for their mother’s murder, since he has not pursued this himself.”
“Walk with me, warrior?” Lancelin replied, looking about for a moment to see if there was anyone near.
Warrior? And not lady . . . There was a brief tinge of regret in her, that he had named her the former and not the latter. This was not the first time that a young man had regarded her so. It seemed that she could be one or the other . . . but not both. Like women’s magic, the more she took up the sword, the farther she went from the path her sisters had taken. The twinge went deeper for a moment, almost a stab of pain, as if something had been cut from her. Then she squared her shoulders and accepted it. So be it. This must have been the same choice Braith had made, and it was not a bad one. And at least he treated her as the seasoned warrior she was and not as the stripling she resembled. She was listened to with attention and respect by
the war chiefs. Her ruse in this latest campaign had brought her praise. It was very likely that when her father went to the Summer Country and Cataruna’s husband took the throne, she would be his favored war chief and advisor. She did not want a throne, but she did want respect. And freedom.
Perhaps giving up the notion of a lover, and womanly things, was not so great a thing to sacrifice for freedom.
“Surely, Companion,” she replied, and the two of them walked slowly away from the charnel field, facing away from the piles of naked bodies and the feasting ravens, moving slowly and obliquely in the direction of the camp.
“You seem more familiar than most with Lot of Orkney and his brood.”
She nodded, being careful where she stepped, both literally and metaphorically. “My youngest sister went to foster with Anna Morgause when my mother died. That was about the time of the birth of the High King’s sons.”
She turned her head slightly and saw him make a calculation. “There is often a handfasting in such cases,” he said cautiously.
“And there is in this one.” She said nothing more. He was intelligent. She would see how intelligent.
“Ah.” He waited some time for her to elaborate, and when she did not, he nodded thoughtfully. “You are fond of her, this sister?”
“There is no love between us,” she said, the words coming from her mouth before she could stop them. Curse it. Ah, well. I shall never make a courtier.
He nodded again. “In that case . . . I would be in your debt if you can tell me what you can of the Orkney brood. For while I hold Gwalchmai my friend, and there is no sweeter-natured man than Gwynfor, I have never met Medraut, Gwalchafed is as hot-tempered as Gwalchmai with none of his brother’s virtues, and as for Agrwn, the less said the better.”
Gwen pondered this for a moment. “Well,” she said carefully, “I had very little to do with any of the brothers but Medraut. He is crafty, cunning, and exceedingly intelligent. He can convincingly feign whatever he thinks will bring him the most advantage. He is much like his mother in that he will use any craft or guile to get what he wants. And there is only one person I have ever seen him exert himself to benefit.”
Gwenhwyfar Page 21
