“It will have to be. Curse this rain – will it never cease?” Arthur kicked at the tree trunk, leapt back in alarm as the thing moved. His attention strayed to the wall and he stood, fascinated, as the cracks, hitherto unnoticed, spread and divided. Water trickled through the brickwork.
A low rumble grew in volume from the far side. Slowly the wall crumpled and water began pouring through. The river, swollen to bursting point by the rain was suddenly gushing into this quiet paved area, sweeping debris, shrubs and men with it.
Arthur and two others grabbed at the dangling ropes, hauling themselves into the branches of the tree, which creaked and swayed, but held.
They watched in disbelief as the flood waters burst through into the villa, ripping timbers and brickwork apart as if they were parchment.
Everywhere was river. There was no wall now, no ordered garden. Trees, dragged up by the roots, clawed grotesquely through its churning waters. A dead sheep swirled by; a cat, yowling, clung arch-backed to what looked like a house-rafter. On the far side of where the wall had once stood, the distant town of Caer Gloui seemed like an island within a boiling turmoil. An apple bobbing in a pond.
Arthur could only guess at the panic down there within those fine buildings.
Then he saw something which made him shout out and attempt to leave his safe perch. Two women, one with a child clutched in her arms, scrambled over the fallen masonry of the villa’s small chapel, floundering through knee-deep water. They reached higher ground, ran for the shelter of the woods.
Arthur shouted, waved his arms, trying desperately to alert his men, who struggled, dazed and confused, among the debris and could not hear his voice above the roaring waters. Swearing all the oaths he knew, he tried again to let himself down into the swirl of muddied water below. He gasped at its coldness and strength. For a wild moment he struggled to retain his balance, gained a footing, thrust forward against the current to higher ground where the men were gathering.
He scrambled out of the flow of flood water, chest heaving, clothing sodden, muscles aching. Too many hurts had battered his body of late. A soldier put a hand under his arm, hauled him up.
Mithras! Arthur looked at the anxious faces crowding round, at six men, beyond where the wall had once been, clinging to the reins of frightened horses. Thank the gods they had left the animals out there to graze, had not taken them into the stables. Other men were thrashing about in the water. Arthur reached out a helping hand to Cei.
When those who had survived were safe, gaining their breath, stunned and wet through, Arthur peered again to where he had last seen the fleeing women.
There was no sign of Winifred, Rowena, or the boy Vitolinus.
Several explicit oaths flurried through Arthur’s mind.
August 455
XXXIII
They sat, cross-legged, nursing sword or bow; or stood leaning on war-ribboned spears. Silent, or whispering. No loud sound. Waiting.
On the far side of the ford, another army waited for the order to move forward. Hengest, slightly apart, stood with several of his thegns, his brother and his son. He stood, legs widespread, fists on hips, surveying the wide river crossing that stretched away before him. A dull sky overhead. The sun well risen behind the thick covering of cloud, promised little warmth this day. It would rain before long.
He sucked his lip, scratched at the red beard covering his chin. Ah, it felt good to stand ready before his men, holding them in check, anticipating that tumultuous roar of release.
Men close to him watched their leader, eager and expectant. Those further down the line glancing often at the White Horse banner, waiting for it to dip to signal the advance.
Hengest was resplendently dressed on this, his day of supreme victory. His helmet was decorated at the apex of the skull with a gold effigy of a boar, the whole thing a milky greenish-grey in the misty half light, the colouring coming from plates of split horn placed between the silvered iron frame. His red cloak, covering chainmail shirt, lifted in the wind.
He shifted his right hand to the hilt of his sword, which hung from a baldric fastened across his chest with an ornate gold and garnet buckle. The pommel felt good in his hand, warm, vibrant and alive.
Behind him, his battle slave caressed two spears taller than himself and with them, a huge iron-studded shield.
When victory came there would be reward for all, slave and warrior alike. Men waited. The Jutes, their fair hair braided on each side of their faces and a tail of hair hanging from the crown, stood with oval shields resting on the ground and short swords at the ready.
One man, dressed as richly as Hengest, stepped forward. He too had a red beard and hair, a stout frame, muscular legs and a warrior’s stern face. They were much alike, these two brothers.
“Is it not time?” he asked.
Hengest nodded once, turned and took shield and spears from the slave. “Ja, my brother, I think it is time!”
They came like a rush of wind sighing across a field of sun ripe barley. Swift, not silent, an indefinable whisper; a soft shush of distant noise. There were so many of them! The front ranks seemed static at first, barely making headway down the hill flanking the river. Bobbing heads, lifted spears, waving standards, all coming on at a steady walk.
Their voices and war horns, tossed by a following wind, reached the waiting Romano-British. No single words, just a composite sound of nearing death.
Arrows from the British bowmen hissed across the water. Their deadly flight would be seen to blacken the sky, were any man fool enough to look upward.
They were close enough now, the Saex, to show individual faces; mouths open in battle cry, eyes wide, blue, green or brown against white. They came relentlessly down the hill to the bank of the river as if impervious to the hail of spears and arrows sent to maim and kill by the British. Where one man fell, another stepped into his place.
The water churned white foam as men began to wade. Mud mixing with blood. Those who fell, dead or still alive, stayed down, trampled underfoot. Men began to fight hand to hand; sword clashing on sword, spears thrusting into soft flesh. Where weapons were dropped or lack of space rendered them useless, they used their hands, teeth and feet. Wrestling, grappling. Battle, and the scream of death.
Seated astride Eira, Arthur waited, taut and furious, watching the carnage at the ford spread below his vantage point of this raised ground.
His men, ranged behind him, stroked their horses’ sweating necks, curbing them back. The tension for rider and beast as tight as a strung bow.
Vortimer was wrong! His plan sound in theory, but in practice monumentally wrong.
Their infantry stood firm at the ford, refusing to give ground, denying Hengest’s Jutes access across the river. But for how long? An hour? Two? Then what? It was not sufficient to hold this crossing, they must push forward, take it in decisive victory and put an end to this thing before it grew into something more. A half wing of Hengest’s Saex broke away, swung along their right-hand bank, moving off at a steady jog trot. Ducking low through scrub, they avoided those few arrows or spears that sailed across the dividing water.
Arthur had been ordered to wait, to hold hard in case the line failed and the enemy managed to break across the Horse Ford. It was the one place wide and firm enough for herded cattle or horses, ridden or driven, to cross. Other places up and down river afforded access to single riders or men on foot, but the Horse Ford was a drovers’ way. An essential crossing to hold, for either side.
Cei pointed with his spear at the disappearing Saxons, said, “If they find a way over downstream and close behind us, we are finished.”
Arthur remained silent: no point in answering the obvious.
“The marshes may hold them back,” Cei added unconvincingly, “but they are canny with the ways of water, and there are paths of firm ground aplenty for men in single file on foot down that way.”
“Vortimer knows,” Arthur hissed. “Do you not think I told him of this when I argued again
st our position? Would he listen? Mithras, what a mess!”
The rain drizzled, puddling underfoot so that in places it was difficult to tell rain-sodden earth from river marsh.
Arthur dared not take the horses too far down river; the ground was too soft, too treacherous. Yet, could he allow a free path for these Saex to creep through?
He signalled a rider forward, spoke briefly, sent him galloping to where Vortimer and his brother, with the infantry reserve, watched the battle below. Within moments the rider returned with a second mounted man, Catigern himself.
“My brother the King does not wish you to leave your position, Pendragon.”
“I don’t give a fart what he wishes! There is a sizeable force wading across the river down there.” Arthur pointed through the murk. “It is an even wager they will negotiate that marshland. If they are not stopped they will come up behind us. How else does your brother,” he paused, lips twisting, “the King, intend to block their path if he will not allow my cavalry to see to it?”
“The ground is not firm for horse. Jesu, we had the selfsame argument yester-eve.” Catigern waved an irate hand towards the battle. “Our men are holding up well, Hengest cannot cross. A bit more of a push and we may be able to thrust them back.”
Patience went. “Well! Well? Bull’s blood, man, another half hour and our men will be done in. Thrust back? Soon they will not be able to stand on their legs! If Vortimer cannot see it is time to bring the cavalry into play and get this thing finished, then he has no right to lead us.”
“Are you challenging my brother?”
It took many deep breaths for Arthur to stop himself bellowing, “Aye!” He managed a controlled, “I want to do something useful with my men, not be left sitting here like brooding hens.”
He gathered the reins, edged Eira forward, smiling at Catigern. “Tell your brother, the King,” again the sneer, “in my opinion it is essential we ride to protect our rear.” The smile went. “If he does not like my opinion, then he can go to his Christian God’s Hell!”
Arthur kicked the stallion into a hand canter, his men following without question.
Catigern cursed, shouted impotent orders to hold position, knowing even if Arthur’s men heard they would not obey. He wheeled, galloped back to his brother where he spoke brief words, and gathering to him the waiting infantry reserves, took them to join the wavering ranks of weary soldiers at the ford.
The day was a disaster. Mid-afternoon, and Hengest pulled his flagging men back. Too weary to follow, the British let them go, knowing this to be a breathing space only, for men to bind their wounds, clean bloodstained weapons and regain their breath – until another day.
Neither side had won: neither side held control of the ford; both had lost many and many a brave warrior.
Hengest took one last look across the rain-sodden plain below him before he entered the shelter of the trees. Beside him his son, Aesc, stood as sober-faced as his father. Four thegns carried a dead man, his red beard bloodied from the wound that had split his face open from temple to jaw. Aesc plodded after them into the woodland.
“I will be back for your stinking Weleas blood!” Hengest shouted, holding the stained blade of his sword before him. “I promise you this, by the name of my dead brother, slain this day at Agealesthrep!”
He followed the bier, his legs and arms as heavy as his heart. There would be another fight, another day, but not yet. Now was the time to bury the dead and to mourn. Now was the time to send for more keels, to grow and gather in strength, ready for that day.
Vortimer and Arthur were arguing. Had they not been so tired they might have come to blows; as it was, their words were bitter enough.
“You disobeyed me, boy!” Vortimer shouted.
“I saved many from certain death,” Arthur yelled back. “The Saex were well-nigh across those marshes – as I said they would be. What was I to do? Sit astride my horse and welcome them forward?” He swept a hand before him, bowed slightly. “Feel free, Saex, come up behind, stab us in the back like you did in Londinium. Let the son be as bloody stupid as the father!”
It was then that Vortimer almost struck the Pendragon. Instead, he shouted, “And how many horses did you lose in that bog? Ten? Twenty? Forty?”
“I lost ten and seven. Compared with losing the whole of the army, a small price to pay.”
Vortimer, stopping himself from thrusting his knuckles into the Pendragon’s teeth, said, “I was about to send the infantry reserve there. Infantry could have handled the situation. Instead, Catigern had to lead them where you ought have gone.”
Arthur exploded into anger. “Infantry could not have moved fast enough – you left things too late. Catigern did right by moving the reserve to the ford.”
“Where cavalry would have performed a better job – and happen would have left my brother alive.”
“Ah, so that’s it?” Arthur thrust his face into Vortimer’s with contempt. “The truth. You hold me responsible for Catigern’s death.”
Cei, ill at ease at this quarrelling, interrupted, holding an arm between his king and Arthur. “No one is to blame for anything. We all know battle decisions have to be made in a hair’s breadth of time. Some go well, others do not. That is war. Many a good man has lost his life this day. Many more are with us to fight again.”
Other officers present stood shuffling and feeling embarrassed, hoping not to get involved; the Pendragon’s temper was too volatile, this new king untried.
Arthur had heard enough. He strode for the open tent flap and ducked through, tossing out as he went, “Unless the cavalry is used to its full potential, Vortimer, I am no longer with you.”
Cei, uncertain, made to call him back. Vortimer, sighing heavily, seated himself. God’s truth, he was tired. He said, “Let him go, Cei; he is in a hot temper, but he will cool. He has more need of us than we of him; he will be back tail tucked a’tween his legs before long.” He managed a weak smile. “Only do not tell him I said so.”
Cei regarded the man. He liked Vortimer and admired him for his dedication to country and duty. Yet Vortimer was no longer a young man. His face, this evening, looked more like a skeleton’s mask than anything human; his hands, Cei noted, were shaking.
The day had gone badly. Had Hengest’s brother not fallen and the wind, consequently, been taken out of Saex sails it might have gone worse. Defeat had been uncomfortably close.
Cei saluted, turned from the tent. He respected Vortimer, acknowledged him as king, but he had been wrong in this. Very wrong. And Arthur right.
Vortimer knew it too, knew it for himself and from the expressions of those officers waiting for orders. It was Arthur they needed, Arthur with his knack of knowing what to do and where to do it – and doing it well. Closing his eyes, Vortimer let his head and shoulders sag. He had a sad, but relieved feeling that he was not going to be king for long.
Cei caught Arthur up, touched his arm. “I was told earlier there is someone you ought to see among the wounded.”
“There are many I ought to see, Cei. My men, those who fought bravely this day; boys, old men who will never fight again. Then I ought to see those few Saex prisoners we took. And the horses.” He put his hand on Cei’s arm. “Not now, Cei, later.”
Cei was insistent. “I was told this thing before Vortimer summoned us. You ought to see this one.”
Arthur shook off Cei’s restraining arm. “I am tired and I am hungry. Has Llwch questioned those prisoners?”
“Aye, they know nothing of Gwenhwyfar.” Cei stepped in front of his cousin, blocking his path. “I say again, you ought to see this man.”
Arthur was not listening. “I have small hope of finding her after all this while. Easier to seek a thread in a hay meadow.”
Cei again, louder, “Will you listen to me!”
“Who is it, then? Why the urgency?”
“Osmail.”
“Osmail? Cunedda’s Osmail? Gwenhwyfar’s eldest brother Osmail?”
“
Aye to all three.”
What in the name of the Bull is he doing here? A sudden thought: “Happen he knows of Gwenhwyfar’s whereabouts! A ransom demand gone to Gwynedd?” As he spoke, Arthur was hurrying to the hospital tent erected on the outskirts of the camp. He ran most of the way.
He thrust back the entrance flap, and stood aside to allow exit for two men removing a corpse. Arthur looked, did not recognise the dead man. A bearer said, “We will have many like this come morning.”
Osmail lay near the back, what remained of his leg swathed in fresh bandaging, already soaked through. He had no colour, save for a tinge of blue around the lips.
Arthur touched him gently. The man roused briefly, managed a weak smile of pleased recognition. His eyes rolled white, then the life spirit sighed from him. Osmail was dead.
Arthur’s head slumped forward. Suddenly he wanted to weep. “Are none of his brothers here?” he asked, cursing that he had not come earlier.
“None,” Cei replied. “I asked a few questions; he joined us yester-eve, rode alone. None knew why. None asked.”
Arthur bent to examine the small pile of belongings beside the dead man. Boots, helmet, bloodied cloak. A leather pouch. In it, a scrap of parchment. Eyebrows raised, Arthur read aloud:
“Branwen. Understand why I did this thing. I must make peace with myself before I can do so with my God and my father’s spirit. You are safe with the Holy Sisters of the Virgin; the gold I left in your keeping will suffice to keep you in comfort. I write this, knowing you will receive it should death be my path on the morrow. I ask you to forgive me, and pray for my departed soul.” Arthur screwed up his eyes at the scrawled writing. “What in damnation is this all about?”
Cei took it, reread it. “No doubt his wife will know.”
“Where did he fight?”
“No idea. Someone pointed him out to me when I was searching for our own wounded, said you would wish to know one of Cunedda’s brood was here.”
The Kingmaking Page 46
