Pendragon's Banner

by Helen Hollick

  Arthur himself put Amlawdd out of his misery, pointing, through streaming tears, at a group of small, barely noticeable green-leafed holly trees. Amlawdd looked, looked again, stamped over to the nearest, a smaller bush, and wrenched the thing up by the roots casting it with a yell of fury onto the fire, to the delight of everyone else who laughed even louder.

  XXXIX

  The day after battle. Time to feel the hurting of wounds, the loss of death; to watch the sunrise and appreciate how good it was to be alive. So much to be done on such a day.

  Hueil was held among the meandering rivers and waterways that drained into the estuary, effectively secured among the marsh leas so tightly by the posted Artoriani he could not even pass wind without Arthur knowing about it. Tomorrow, or the day after, they would have to fight again, but on the Pendragon’s terms, when he chose to call the fall of the dice.

  Arthur was making his way to the smith where old Gareth could put an edge on his blade that would slice the wind.

  “Hie, Pendragon!”

  For a moment, Arthur considered pretending he had not seen or heard, hesitated over-long. “Still here, Amlawdd? I received the impression last night you were going back on your sworn oath of loyalty, were to be leaving us this morning.”

  “I declared my oath but that was before your she-vixen tricked me,” Amlawdd growled, a sound to match the creased scowl on his face. Last night, he had held every intention of pulling out. Last night, he had drunk too much barley-ale. What in the gods’ good name was it brewed with? He stopped beside Arthur, rubbed at his temples, easing the throbbing drums pounding in his head. Managed a reluctant grin. “How, by the Bull, do you tolerate that woman as a wife? She’s more devious than a whoreson cattle thief!”

  Laughing, Arthur began walking again in the direction of the smith and, uninvited, Amlawdd kept pace.

  “I made her my wife because I discovered it was the only way to keep an eye on her.”

  “She’s a damn fine woman.”

  Aye, that Gwenhwyfar was. Arthur knew he was lucky to have her, but was blowed if he would admit it to this petty upstart.

  When Amlawdd stepped in his path suddenly, holding his hand out in friendship, Arthur was momentarily surprised. Last night Amlawdd had stormed off in a foul temper, threatening all the reprisals and vengeances possible; Arthur half expected to find him and his men long gone by dawn. Not that they would have got far. The Artoriani had orders to kill anyone moving about these woods without the Pendragon’s personal authorisation. Arthur stared at the outstretched hand, did not take it. Shifted his intent gaze to Amlawdd’s face. Few men could out-stare Arthur’s scrutiny.

  Amlawdd was not one of those few. He shuffled uncomfortably, held the hand obstinately for Arthur to take. “Damn it, man!” he finally exploded. “I am trying to apologise for past mistakes. I’m a bloody fool who thought I knew more, and aye, I admit, thought I was better than you.” He lowered the hand. “Well, I’m not.”

  Himself tall, Arthur had to lift his head to keep his eyes fixed on this man’s. That offered hand had been large, strong, could fell a man in a single blow without the need of axe or cudgel. Did he want Amlawdd’s friendship? Was it genuine? Even if it was not, for a while at least, he needed it. More than he did the opposite.

  Again, misreading Arthur, Amlawdd tried: “My brothers were always the heroic types.” He waved Arthur’s contemptuous snort aside. “All right, so they fought on what you consider the wrong side. The point is, they fought, were soldiers, were capable of planning a raid, a battle.” He shrugged, let the rest of his words tail off. Amlawdd was none of these things, just a medium-ability warrior with a medium interest in war, set within a giant-sized body that gave a wrong impression. He attempted a smile. “It has taken your wife to make me think, Pendragon.”

  Arthur grunted at that. Think? Probably for the first time in his entire life – the family had the thinking capability of a mouldering porridge pot!

  Raising his hands in an almost imploring gesture, Amlawdd met with Arthur’s stone-set, blank expression. “You want the truth from me, Pendragon? I hated my brothers, evil toad-spawned buggers the pair of them. I was against you because everybody expected it of me. It took your damned beautiful wife to make me wonder just who the ‘everybody’ was!”

  Still no response. Jesu, did the bastard want him to beg on his knees! All right, if that is what it took to show he was serious in this…

  “Whoa! Whoa, get up.” Hastily, embarrassed, Arthur stopped the large man in the act of kneeling and thrust his hands under Amlawdd’s elbows, bringing him back to his feet. He had to ask, “What of Rhica, your son?”

  Amlawdd had to answer. He acknowledged Arthur’s direct searching gaze, regarded him straight back with no flicker of eye muscle or twitched concealment of lying. He spoke plain truth. “Rhica was a deceitful, greedy little bastard: I am pleased to be rid of him.”

  Arthur raised an eyebrow. “So what do you want from me, Amlawdd? You’ve lost chance at my wife.”

  The other man laughed, his hands on his broad waist, head back, a genuine, amused-from-the-belly laugh. “Not if you are killed, Pendragon! The day someone slits your throat open I want to be around to comfort the lady in her distress. Next in line, as husband, so to speak!”

  Resuming his intention to seek out the smith, Arthur made way again, this time waving Amlawdd to fall in step. Gwenhwyfar would have a different view of the matter of course – and Amlawdd obviously did not realise that half the entire Artoriani were here for the same reason. He chuckled, stuck out his own hand for Amlawdd to grasp.

  The answering clasp was firm, sincere. “Your Lady aside, Pendragon, I want to go home with an honour, a victory.” Unembarrassed, he added, “Something to crow about.”

  Gripping Amlawdd’s shoulder, Arthur promised, “I think I can do that for you.”

  Satisfied, pleased with himself, Amlawdd took his leave, Arthur watching amused, as the big man swaggered away across the encampment, swelled twice his size with sudden new-found pride.

  At the smith’s field workshop, the boy slave worked the bellows to heat a bent and twisted sword-blade in the fire. Llacheu was squatting before the heat, fascinated. Arthur rumpled the lad’s hair, handed his own sword to the smith, who ran his thumb along the blade, frowning at a slight nick to the edge, and grunted. No one had ever seen the old man smile, not many heard him speak beyond the few words that made up his entire vocabulary.

  He pointed to the blade that needed strengthening, set Arthur’s aside with others. “An hour.”

  XL

  Two hours into full dark. The wind was clamouring harder and another squall of wind-driven rain slammed the side of the tent, battering it as mercilessly as a door ram. Llacheu looked up from his bowl of oatmeal, licked the mess off his fingers, noticed his mother’s frown of disapproval and grinned.

  “It tastes better from fingers.”

  “A spoon would keep you cleaner; ah, boy bach, look at you!” She leant forward, dabbing at a large porridge stain down his tunic, shaking her head, but her eyes were laughing, her son noted.

  Arthur was seated on a stool at the only small table attempting to write beneath the dull light of a pale, flickering lamp. Without glancing up he grunted, “I was unaware that slop could taste any better however it’s eaten.” He pinched his nose between fingers, wrote two final words, laid down his stylus and folded the two halves of the wooden tablet, carefully sealing it with wax and setting the thing aside. “How people survive on the stuff I’ll never understand.”

  Llacheu scooped the last mouthful from his bowl. “The barley-brew that washes it down helps.”

  Arthur laughed. “You have it right there!”

  Finished, Llacheu turned his bowl upside down. “When I am King, I’ll ban porridge.”

  Another gust of wind. The tent shook, the leather creaking and groaning under its ropes. Arthur left his table and as he passed his son ruffled the lad’s hair, saying affably, “Do that, bo
y, and you’ll be sentencing many a poor family to their deaths.” He stretched, feeling the relief of aching shoulder muscles. He gave Gwenhwyfar a quick kiss as he passed her. “What I would give for a dish of roasted beef!”

  Her eyes bright, she countered with, “Young lamb, seasoned with herbs.”

  Llacheu added, “The crisp edge of pork.” Said together, their laughter rising, “Anything but porridge.”

  A sudden shouting from outside stilled Arthur’s chuckling. Now what? The two dogs leapt up barking and he cursed them into silence, walked towards the entrance flap, was beaten there by Llacheu. The boy peered out, ducked back, his face and hair wet from rain, eyes alight with excitement. “A tent’s near on torn loose!”

  Arthur did not share the lad’s excitement. He cursed again, more explicitly, and snatching up his cloak left the bright comfort of the tent. Signalling the dogs, Llacheu followed. Rain came in great spurts, driven needle-sharp by the gusting wind, the noise was terrific, alarming but exhilarating. The trees tossing and swaying, clattering against each other, the wind itself moaning through the branches. Men calling and shouting.

  Several of the Artoriani were struggling to keep hold of the flapping tent that was tossing and leaping, its dangling, flailing ropes reminding Llacheu, watching from a safe distance, of that Greek story about the woman whose hair was formed of writhing snakes. He shuddered, instinctively ducked as with a cracking roar, the strain ripped out another tent peg and the last holding rope whipped loose. It caught a man’s face, cutting through his cheek and lip as efficiently as a dagger blade. The man screamed, clutched at the ripped and torn flesh that gushed blood. Three men held the wild, bucking tent briefly, others, including Arthur, scrabbling to help, but the leather was wet and slippery and their breath already sobbing from the struggle. They let go. The thing billowed up and away, a huge released bird of prey, flapping and twisting, making a desperate bid for freedom. It snagged against the branches of the trees, was caught, dangled, writhing like a fish stabbed through by a spear.

  Llacheu heard his father swear, a particular word he had never heard before. Grinning, the boy stored it in his memory. A good one to use before the other boys at some future date!

  Arthur’s arms were waving, his hands gesturing angrily, his loud, abusive words snatched by the wind. The men whose tent it was stood taking his berating, breath panting from the exertion of trying to save the thing, shoulders heaving, heads drooping. They were certain it had been pegged properly and securely; one tried to explain that someone going to the latrine ditch must have tripped over the ropes. “We felt it jolt, Sir,” he offered, “then the whole thing came loose.” Found the Pendragon did not seem impressed by the lame excuse.

  Llacheu crept away, aware it was not a good idea to stay in his father’s shadow when he was angry with the men. He wondered whether it might be best to return to the comfort of a dry tent, but what matter? He was wet now anyway. By walking low, head bent, back crouched and with his fingers firmly hooked through both dogs’ collars he made his way past the line of tents, the blacksmith’s erected bothy, and out to the horse lines. The Watch-guard, sheltering behind a large old oak, challenged his approach and nodded greeting as Llacheu identified himself.

  The horses were uneasy, standing with their rumps to the rain sharp wind, heads down, ears back. Llacheu released the dogs and went along the line, touching a muzzle here and there, stroking another horse’s neck, a forehead, pulling at an ear. Onager would not be tethered here with the others. He approached his own horse, which whickered a welcome as the boy fondled its head, the lad’s fingers toying with the rain-matted forelock. Beside him, Blaidd growled and Cadarn’s head came up, scenting the blustering wind, pricked ears listening to the rough darkness. Absorbed with his mount Llacheu did not notice.

  Blaidd growled again and a horse squealed further down the line, the ripple of distinct unease spreading rapidly. One horse reared and several stamped, tossed their heads. Ears were back, eyes rolling. A shape, dark, crouched, disappeared into the trees.

  Frightened, Llacheu shouted for the Watch, but the wind tore away his words. The boy ran, caught the man’s tunic sleeve, pointed. “There’s something prowling round the horses!” he gasped, saw the man raise his spear, watched him walk forward, then Llacheu ran on, with the two dogs barking madly. He’d fetch his da!

  Several times the wind almost lifted him off his feet, twice he tripped, sprawling headlong into muddied ground. Arthur had not finished his tongue-lashing of the men. “I’ll not inconvenience others,” he was roaring, “you’ll damn well sleep in the open for your stupidity – rain or no rain!”

  “Da! Da!” Llacheu was pulling at his father’s arm, pointing back at the horse lines. Breathless, told him what he had seen. Alarmed, Arthur was running, men with him, swords drawn, shouting for others to follow, the lost tent quite forgotten. Each had the same thought: Hueil had sent someone to loose the horses, panic them in this wind and drive them away.

  There was nothing. The tethering ropes were all knotted as they should be, the horses had quietened, even the dogs’ hackles had flattened. Nothing behind the trees, up the trees, beneath. Nothing, no one. They searched for half an hour. Arthur doubled the guard and called a halt. Whoever had been creeping around the horses had gone. Then Llacheu saw the print, new made in the soft mud. He had caught it by chance beneath the glimmer of the few wind-flared lanterns. Solemnly he pointed to it. Arthur squatted down, touched the shape with his fingers tracing its size, glancing warily into the darkness beneath the trees. Slowly, he straightened, lifting the boy into his arms as he did so, calling precise orders to the men. “The maker of this is near by, find him and deal with it. No fuss; no noise.” He tried not to sound fearful, masking his unease from the boy, but Llacheu caught the worry all the same.

  “Will we be all right, Da?” He was ten years of age, too old to be carried by his father, but he made no protest as Arthur bore him across the camp in the direction of their tent.

  “You’ll be fine as long as you stay in the tent with your mam.”

  Gwenhwyfar was snuggling into bed. The day had been long, tiring, and she welcomed the end of it. For several nights she had found little or no sleep. Last night they had been late abed, even later sleeping after their shared loving. There seemed a lot of noise and bustle going on outside, presumably to do with the loosened tent. Something brushed against the side of the leather, the wind? Again. One of the dogs. “Llacheu?” she called, wriggling lower beneath the sleeping furs. “Come in now, it’s time for bed!” The tent flap moved, shook. And Gwenhwyfar screamed.

  They heard her from the tents opposite for it went on and on, louder, terrified. Ider was up and running before that first scream swarmed into the next. Sword drawn, with no thought of what might be beyond, he plunged through the tent opening.

  Arthur heard it too. Hefting Llacheu into the nearest tree, shouting at the boy to stay there until told otherwise, he ran, sword in hand, sprinting as if the hounds of the hunt were at his heels. The screaming went on; stopped abruptly.

  Mithras protect her! Arthur pleaded as he ran, his breathing sobbing in his throat. His legs would not move faster, his breath not come quick enough! Rare for a bear to wander so close to men, but when one did it was usually for a reason. They were wounded or hungry. Both. And wounded, hungry bears were dangerous.

  Later, Ider admitted his sword stroke had been nothing but desperation and luck. The bear had its back to the tent flap, was reared up. Ider had no time to think of what to do, or of his own safety; his sword was in his hand; he used it. Fortuna helped him plunge it straight through the bear’s heart, Mithras himself lent the strength to push the blade in up to the hilt. Never mind that the iron buckled, snapped and broke. The bear dropped like a stone, dead. Ider scrabbled over the twitching carcass, clasped Gwenhwyfar to him and held her so tight, so close, his own body shaking as much as hers, his eyes shut tight against that horrible body lying, teeth bared, claws gleaming, inches
from her. Shut tight against what would have happened had he not got here in time.

  Ider became aware that someone else was in the tent. Heavy, gasping breathing, movement. He opened his eyes, met with Arthur standing there, on the other side of the brute, became aware also that he was sitting on Gwenhwyfar’s bed, holding her. Oh Christ Jesu, the Pendragon would hack him to pieces for this! He could not let go of her though, for her arms were about him, her face buried against his shoulder, her body heaving as she cried. Ider licked his dry lips, tried to express the predicament in his eyes.

  Others were crowding the tent opening, peering in, whistling surprise, concern. Curt, Arthur ordered them to remove the bear, for someone to fetch Llacheu out of the tree, and to stop those bloody dogs from barking! They were alone, Arthur, Ider and Gwenhwyfar. Ider took her hands, unwound her grip, moved away from her, his gaze not leaving his King’s.

  The fright was passing; Gwenhwyfar became aware of the uneasy silence, began brushing at her cheeks with the back of her hand. She was trembling but becoming calmer. Something had to be said to break the tension. “Bugger that thing, it bloody scared the life out of me!”

  It was the right thing. Arthur let his sword drop, wiped the sweat from his face, answered her with his face straight, a laugh in his voice.

  “Bull’s balls, Cymraes, I’d suggest bed-furs are more practical to use when dead.” And then he was grinning, allowing the immense relief to show. He came to Ider, took the lad’s hand in his own, pumping the arm up and down. “Well done, Duplicarius, well done.”

  Ider said nothing, his voice struck dumb. Duplicarius? Second-in-command of a turma? Jesu be blessed, promotion! Arthur was walking him towards the tent flap, ducking through with him, calling to the men that they had a new hero to jest at. Said quiet, under his breath for Ider alone to hear, “I thank you, but if ever I catch you in a similar position in my wife’s tent again, you’ll find yourself promoted into the next world. Understand me?”