by Sean Poage
“God will surely accept his soul,” Gawain murmured. “And no man could have better company than Gareth at judgement.” The three sat there for a few minutes until Gawain stood.
“I cannot leave him under the open sky tonight,” he said, walking back towards the village square. “And God knows when there’ll be time to bury him otherwise.”
Illtud and Peredur stood and followed. They borrowed a pair of spades from an infantryman’s kit and retrieved Gareth’s body. He was buried beside the little village church, with Illtud performing the rites as best he could recall.
“Farewell, my brother,” Gawain said. “When we return home, I’ll see to your mother’s care and tell all the wealthy widows they’ve missed their chance.”
The following day was windy and cold, with a sudden storm sweeping over and drenching the region. The fighting at the fords was light. Euric appeared to search for a way around the stubborn Britons who clustered at the bridge, taunting the Vesi and dodging the arrows occasionally sent their way. To the south of the bridge, some of Euric’s scouts tried to pick their way through the muck of the wetlands, but the Briton lookouts spotted them and drove them off with their slings.
Arthur moved about tirelessly, speaking to the lookouts, the wounded and the soldiers waiting for the next battle. He praised and encouraged them, showing his famous optimism and cheer. But in the moments away from the troops, Arthur’s disquiet showed, and his eyes often turned north, looking for any sign of his allies.
At midday, Arthur and his guard rode the mile north to Cei’s position. The fighting the day before had been stiff, but not as intense as at the bridge since Euric was not able to send as many men along the narrow path through the western marshes.
Cei and Arthur had just greeted each other like brothers long separated when a messenger rode up, dismounted and took a knee.
“My lord, a host of Vesi cavalry is approaching the third ford along the road from the north!” the young man said, awestruck in the presence of Arthur and Cei.
“I expected as much,” Cei nodded. “Euric has few other options to find our flank.”
“We’re being spread thin,” Arthur said. “But we should be able to hold all three points until Paulus arrives.”
“He should be here by now,” Cei looked northwards.
“Yes,” Arthur grimaced. “Tomorrow at the latest, we estimated. Nothing should keep him longer.”
“I’m less hard-pressed here,” Cei said. “I’ll send my cavalry to the third ford. And some of my spearmen. It’s less than a mile and a half from us. We can manage both crossings.”
“You’re certain?” Arthur asked. “Then I’ll move a pair of cavalry turmae here, to use as you need.”
Returning to the bridge, Arthur continued working through the day but ordered members of his guard to rest in shifts. Relieved before sunset, Gawain fell into an exhausted sleep and seemingly awoke minutes later to Gwadyn nudging his foot with his boot.
“Dawn is imminent,” Gwadyn said, turning away. “As is Euric’s attack.”
The first wave began as the sky began to lighten, but the Britons could hear them assembling and were prepared for the onslaught. Or so they believed. Throughout the day, the Vesi came on with astonishing relentlessness, as if Euric intended to bridge the river with the bodies of the dead. The Britons held, though at times the lines were stretched, pushed back, even broken. When the Vesi managed to breach the Briton shield wall, the cavalry, now remounted, would respond, driving them back until the infantry in reserve could fill the gap.
Past midday, a lull in the fighting allowed Arthur an opportunity to move units about, bringing those most heavily engaged away from the front lines and moving fresher units into place. Shouts heralded the arrival of a messenger looking urgently for Arthur. Gawain turned to see Cyndelic, looking scarcely recovered, leap off his horse and run towards Arthur.
“My lord, Gwynn is in trouble!” he panted. “Euric’s men at the bridge have been reinforced!”
“Cyndelic, you bring nothing but bad news lately,” Arthur sighed. “How many?”
“Several thousands more, led by that villain, Odoacer,” he answered. “Gwynn is hard pressed. He sent me to warn you that he’s not certain he can hold the bridge.”
Arthur stared at the ground, his brow furrowed, fists and jaw clenched until the men began to fidget. He looked up, his darkened eyes turning north, towards the allies who had pledged to join him but still failed to show. Arthur, renowned for his optimism, his self-control, appeared on the verge of exploding, of striking out, screaming to the heavens, or charging into the battle to vent his frustration on the enemy.
“Menw! Find me your swiftest rider,” Arthur barked, stomping off towards his tent. “Cyndelic, find refreshment and then rest. I will have need of you this night.” Bedwyr and the rest of Arthur’s retinue followed him into the tent, while Gawain and the others took up their sentry positions. Hushed words came from the tent for some time before Bedwyr and the others emerged, looking grim, and hurried off.
Arthur himself came out shortly after and called to Henwyneb to prepare to ride to Cei’s location immediately. The Guard assembled and in a few minutes were moving north towards Cei’s site at the second ford.
They rode swiftly, arriving to find chaos at Cei’s position. The bodies of the fallen lay well back from the river, some in rows, others in isolated clumps. The battle was concluding as they arrived, with the Britons’ counterattack having driven the Vesi back across the river. Even Arthur’s arrival was scarcely noted, as the soldiers dealt with their casualties and reorganised. Gawain’s spirits were raised as he saw some of the infantry of his combrogi in the distance, but he could not leave his post to visit them.
Arthur found an officer and demanded to know where Cei was. The startled soldier said he did not know, but would find him immediately and rushed off. Arthur dismounted and stood beneath a solitary tree, his standard planted nearby so that Cei could spot him easily.
After many long minutes, a small group of horsemen cantered up to their location and dismounted. Among the men was Cei’s chief counsellor, Gobrwy, as well as Greidawl, Hyfaidd and Gwyddawg, the leader of Cei’s personal guard. All were still covered in the blood and grime of battle, and despite having driven back an intense attack, they did not carry the mien of victorious men.
“Where is Cei?” Arthur demanded, irritably. “I’m in great haste. Did you not tell him I was here?” Downcast eyes and uncomfortable silence were their response.
“What… What happened?” Arthur paled, his voice lowered. “Where is Cei?”
“He has… fallen, my lord,” Gobrwy haltingly spoke up. “We were pushed far back from the river, the lines broken in several places. The Vesi were spilling through. Cei led the cavalry in several valorous charges that turned the tide and allowed our men to regroup and drive the Vesi back…” Gobrwy’s voice trailed off.
“How did he fall?” Arthur said slowly, quietly.
“His horse was killed, my lord,” Gwyddawg stepped forward, then dropped to one knee in front of his king, his head bowed. “On a charge into the enemy flank. He… he fell in front of me, and… I was not able to turn away in time.”
The depth of Gwyddawg’s sorrow, so clear to everyone there, made no impression on Arthur, who stood for a moment, wide-eyed, mouth agape, staring at the man before him. The continued frustration of his stratagems, the seeming abandonment by his allies and now, the loss of his oldest friend, crashed in upon Arthur. His hands shot out, grabbed the soldier by the armholes of his cuirass, lifted him like a child and spun him around, slamming him into the tree. Gwyddawg was stunned, his feet flailing, unable to touch the ground.
“And yet you live?” Arthur screamed, bashing the man against the tree again then punching into his face and driving his forearm against Gwyddawg’s throat. “He dies by your hand? You, who swore to shield his li
fe at the cost of your own?”
Gawain and most of the others looked on in dismayed astonishment, but Gobrwy, Greidawl and Hyfaidd leapt to their king’s side. They tried to restrain his powerful arms and calm Arthur’s murderous rage. They pleaded with him to release Gwyddawg, to realise that it was the cruel fortune of war, not the fault of Gwyddawg. They were tossed aside until Menw and Henwyneb joined the effort, and Menw called out that Cei’s body was there.
As Gwyddawg’s face purpled, Arthur, looking into the poor man’s bulging eyes, regained his senses and suddenly released him. Gwyddawg dropped in a gasping heap, and Arthur stared, shaking. He turned to Menw, who, clearly fearing for his life, pointed a shaking finger towards a group of men bearing a litter with a body upon it.
Arthur took measured steps towards the litter, which they gently set down before backing away. Arthur knelt over Cei’s crushed body, caressing his red hair and whispering a long prayer over him.
Arthur stood, glancing around the group, embarrassed at his outburst. He stepped over to Gwyddawg and lifted him, leant him against the tree and looked at the swelling bruise on the man’s jaw, the blood on his lips. Unable to find words, Arthur nodded a silent confession of his guilt, to which Gwyddawg bowed his head. Arthur then turned and remounted his horse. Gawain and the rest of the guard scurried to their horses as Arthur galloped south towards his own battlefield.
Back at the ford, another battle was beginning, but Bedwyr noted the arrival of Arthur and trotted over to him.
“Cei has fallen,” said Arthur, his jaw tight. Bedwyr’s eyes closed a moment, his mouth disappearing behind his beard, his head drooping. “Have you made the preparations?” Arthur asked.
“Yes,” Bedwyr answered. “The wounded are being sent out now, and wood is being gathered. We will be ready.”
“Very good,” Arthur nodded. “I need you to take over Cei’s legion and prepare them for the withdrawal. Make sure the men at the third ford are ready as well. Do you need anything?”
“Only God’s blessing,” Bedwyr said dourly.
“Let us pray He, at least, has not forsaken us,” Arthur replied, grasping his hand. As they parted, Bedwyr called together his staff to inform the subordinate leaders that he was going to assist Cei and that they would be falling under Arthur’s direct command for now. Morale is all that held the Briton lines, and news of Cei’s death would shake it.
And morale was desperately needed as the late afternoon fighting became more brutal and the Vesi more unrelenting. The smell of urine, vomit, excrement, blood and death hung like a fog over the river and covered every man. The infantry, bearing the brunt of the fighting, slogged through a seemingly endless cycle of exertion, horror, relief and preparation for the next assault. They crashed into the enemy, pushing, slipping in the churned mud and gore, stabbing, hacking, screaming in triumph or pain. The cavalry waited for breaks in the line, swooping in to stem the tide or to reinforce thinning points, often dismounting to join their brethren in the shield wall.
Arthur, on his horse, stalked the lines like a wolf at the edge of a campfire, his guard trailing him warily. If a slight opening showed itself, he would launch into the fray with terrifying speed. His guard blew horns to warn their fellow Britons to get out of the way and tried to keep up with Arthur, alarmed at the risks he was taking. But Arthur fought with a fury that put the legends to shame. When one of his horses was killed beneath him, a cry of dismay went up from the Britons and a shout of joy from the Vesi, until Arthur emerged into view again, on foot and ahead of his guard, beating down enemy warriors with his shield as well as his sword.
In the brief moments that Gawain was not too busy to reflect, he found himself unnerved by the sudden change in the atmosphere from optimism to foreboding and the darkening of Arthur’s demeanour. The news that Arthur planned a withdrawal was even more surprising. The country to the east was more open and dry than the road from Argentomo, and it would be difficult to defend their flanks. But with no sign of Paulus’s arrival, staying would come down to attrition and, with Gwynn unable to hold the bridge, eventual envelopment.
The sun set on a grim scene. As the Vesi retreated from their final assault of the day, the Britons wearily collected themselves and prepared for a night of rest. News from their leaders that they would be withdrawing within hours was met with a mixture of shock, anger, resignation and relief. Most of the wounded had been evacuated, and the dead laid reverently in a mass grave. Gawain found a few minutes to go to Gareth’s grave and sat there as long as he could.
The infantry would set out a few hours before dawn. The cavalry, with the option to leave quickly on horseback, would remain behind, tending the fires and making it appear that the Britons were still in camp. Just before dawn, they would quietly follow their fellows and act as the rearguard. This would give the infantry enough time to put some distance between themselves and the Vesi. The best-case scenario suggested they could all reach Biturigas on the evening of the third day.
Before settling in for a few hours of rest, the soldiers made ready, packing what they could carry, using the few remaining spare horses to transport food and abandoning the tents and everything else.
Sound travels well at night, so the guards attempted to cover the noise of the work by singing and laughing loudly as if celebrating their continued defiance, heckling the Vesi with familiar songs in Latin. For a while, they even provoked a competing bout of insulting songs crossing the river, some of which evoked laughter in their targets and in an odd sense, a sort of camaraderie between the enemy camps.
When the preparations were done, the Britons’ songs died out, followed by those of the Vesi. The crackling of the watchfires, the burbling of the river and the wind in the trees was the only sound. Despite exhaustion, few slept well, mulling over what was to come. Moving thousands of men in the dark was difficult at the best of times, without the threat of attack.
Arthur walked about, encouraging the men, reminding them that discipline and perseverance would see them home. For the members of the cavalry, he especially impressed upon their sense of honour and the cohesion of their corps.
“I am blessed to be among you. No finer soldiers exist under God’s heaven,” Arthur said with deep emotion. “If our situations were reversed, we would see nothing but the tails of Euric’s horses as they abandoned their infantry to death and enslavement. But I know that none among you would break faith with his fellows, no matter their tribe. Hardship and tenacity have forged us into brothers, into countrymen. Let us not find our way home to our kin, ashamed to show our faces for what we might have done. Instead, let us conquer or perform such deeds that even defeat renders our names immortal!”
At the appointed hour, the infantry formed up and moved out. Despite their best efforts to remain quiet, a few thousand armed men on the move will catch the attention of anyone listening. Fate continued to torment the Britons, as yelling and the clanging of metal indicated that the Vesi suspected the Britons were attempting an escape and were preparing to pursue.
Arthur stepped out of his tent and stood beside Henwyneb, both peering intently towards the west.
“Prepare the men to fight,” Arthur said to Henwyneb, “And send news to Bedwyr.”
The Britons sat upon their horses in the darkness beyond the watch fires, inspired to a grim resolve by the words and example of their king. Gawain was anxious for the short lead the infantry had to get away. He and his fellows would do all they could to give them time.
The attack took longer to come than Gawain expected. When the Vesi finally appeared, dripping wet and blinking uncertainly into the glare of the fires, they moved forward tentatively, uncertain if any Britons were still near. The first enemy soldiers stepped past the bonfires, signalling the Britons to charge. Arthur, at the centre, formed the tip of a shallow wedge. The Britons did not shout their war cry, counting on the sudden onslaught, with no warning other than the pounding of h
ooves, to cause a panic among the Vesi.
It had the intended effect, allowing the Britons to drive through their ranks and begin a slaughter that turned the Vesi attack into a rout. Arthur called his eager men back as the Vesi fled in terror, leaping into the river or crowding to cross the bridge. It would take some time for Euric to reorganise his men to cross the river again, giving the Briton infantry more time to escape. But Arthur could no longer hold the crossing.
So began a waking nightmare of desperate battles, long marches and sleepless nights. Arthur and the cavalry soon caught up with the infantry trudging eastward through the fields. There would be no disguising the path of their retreat, so as the pursuing Vesi gained ground it fell to the cavalry to hold them back.
The afternoon of the first day, Bedwyr and his portion of the cavalry linked up with Arthur. It was a heartening moment among such bleak circumstances, as the two long-time friends embraced.
“We may yet extricate ourselves from this,” Arthur smiled wryly. “Our greatest difficulty will come from Euric’s cavalry when he is able to bring them to bear.”
“Gwyddawg is working to delay that as long as possible,” Bedwyr nodded, his smile turning down.
“How is that?” Arthur asked, concerned.
“He and his men took it upon themselves to hold the third ford,” Bedwyr said. “They aim to make amends for the death of Cei and regain their honour.”
“We must recall them,” Arthur shook his head. “It was my honour that was mislaid when I struck him unjustly. Allowing him to throw his life away would be as if I had taken it myself.”
Even nightfall brought no relief from attacks. Arthur tried to gain distance by marching into the night. In the unfamiliar territory, exhausted and fearful, it was difficult to keep to the proper course. In an unfortunate event, two columns of Britons crossed paths and, in the confusion, each thought the other was Euric’s men. A score died before the mistake was discovered, and it cemented the growing belief that God had withdrawn his favour from the Britons.
