Such was life – one problem exchanged for another. Before them lay uncertain territory, the first swelling hills of Brychan’s borders over to their right. He was a man who blew with the wind. He could be friendly, but was just as capable of falling into an unexpected rage. Add to that, he had no liking for Arthur; he might take pleasure in stealing his horses.
Not far ahead lay the Usk valley, and from there it was downhill to Caer Leon and Arthur. Easy riding, except for these outlying hills of Brychan’s.
Gwenhwyfar, riding loose-limbed relaxed on her mare, ran her hand through the hair falling down her back. She had not bound it, not caring to take time over neatness. It was clean, washed early that morning in the cool waters of a stream – who cared for women’s braiding? Not she!
She burst suddenly into song, a jaunty tune with a marching rhythm. Her nephew Meriaun, riding close behind, joined in, his rich baritone blending well with her light soprano. Men began to add their voices – and their own, soldiers’ words.
The weather was still holding, and they had not far to go. By tomorrow nightfall Gwenhwyfar would be with Arthur. The day was good. The sun shone, and all was well.
Three worries had been constant. The first was wolves, for though it was mid-summer these hills and valleys were their hunting grounds. Their mournful cries could be heard at night, echoing among the hills. Men turned uneasily in their blankets, one ear cocked for a wolf-bark that sounded over-near. Their rank scent sometimes blew downwind, stirring horses into restless unease. Wolves were always a beast to be minded.
Raiders, too, prowled as skulking packs. Sea-wolves – human kin to the grey-coated kind – were no danger this far inland, but Brychan had come as a raider and settled, claiming land for his own, swallowing more and more, like a voracious cuckoo in a sparrow’s nest. And there could be others – these Watchers? Many a man resented Gwynedd’s influence and power. Others disliked the Pendragon, remembering Uthr his father. Any petty chief could be tempted, when the gift dangled promisingly enough. The third worry, the threat of bad weather.
The last two, of course, came together.
By late afternoon, clouds lumbered in from the west, a great bulk of grey hanging above the hills like a gathering army. Distant grumbles of thunder warned of a storm, and the air fell sickly hot and sullen, lying heavy on sweating man and beast. Horses flicked their ears uneasily, sensing the change, bunching together, a few kicking or snapping.
Scouts returned with word of a sheltered valley ahead; it was agreed to make early camp, sit the storm out. It was a risk to stay so close to Brychan’s land, but risks had to be weighed.
They reached the valley as the first stinging raindrops beat against flesh and hide. The horses eased to a halt, tucked their tails and turned sodden rumps into the wind. One or two younger beasts jumped nervously as the thunder rolled across a black sky but, eager for grazing, they settled soon enough.
Tents were hastily erected. Small hope of a fire this night.
Gwenhwyfar saw Llacheu and his nurse, Enid, into the dryness of their quarters, paused before ducking out beneath the flap. She said, with a proud smile, “My son has travelled well.”
“Aye, he likes horseback,” Enid replied.
Gwenhwyfar laughed. “The next night he cuts a tooth and keeps us awake, happen we should cuddle him close on the back of a horse to ease him to sleep!”
Smiling, Gwenhwyfar pulled her cloak tight around her and ducked out into the squalling rain. Head lowered, she ran towards the commanding officer’s tent. They would all be eager to complete the evening’s discussion of progress and the morrow’s plans.
The second watch of the night. Gwenhwyfar rode among the grazing horses, sitting easy in the saddle but alert. She did not need to ride watch, but she enjoyed it, insisted she took her turn. Even in such foul weather.
Head bent against the rain, Gwenhwyfar saw a rider slither from his horse. She cursed aloud and turned the chestnut she rode – Caradog had been drunk over-often this trip! More than his share of the strong barley beer the pack ponies carried had passed down his throat. The decurion had lashed him twice already with thong and tongue. There would not be a third time.
With a caustic remark ready, Gwenhwyfar cantered over to his prone body, expecting him to rise unsteadily, grinning foolishly at her approach, some quick excuse on his tongue.
An arrow lay buried in his chest, the shaft still quivering.
Swinging her horse aside, Gwenhwyfar shouted a warning, her voice snatched by the wind. Another arrow! She heard its hiss, felt the jolt as it thudded into the soft muscles of her left bicep. Felt no pain.
She thought fast. Ramming her heels into the horse’s ribs, she galloped forward, barging into a group of grazing animals. They tossed their heads, snorting, as she pulled the chestnut round on his hocks and brought him to a slithering halt. Here, amid the cover of other horses, she drew her sword. Raising the blade high, she swung it above her head, screaming the war cry of Gwynedd.
Other men of the watch had already seen and heard the danger; three of their number lay dead. The alarm sounded in camp. Men began to tumble from their tents, cursing, sleep instantly gone, weapons drawn, eager for action.
Those mounted swung into a gallop, streaking to meet the enemy, spears poised, ready to throw at a sighted target.
Gwenhwyfar, galloping hard, shouted for them to pull up, wait for others before attacking. Useless to fight at half-strength in a higgle-piggle of disorder. An officer joined her, an older, experienced soldier. His face contorted with rage, he brought the flat of his sword blade slamming down on the back of any man he could reach, yelling and yelling at them to turn back, wait for the command.
There was no choice – blood was up. Gwenhwyfar rode with them.
Visibility was poor. Rain came in gusting squalls blown by a veering wind. Lightning illuminated the valley, sending dark waiting figures hunched beneath cloaks scurrying into cover. A few let a hail of arrows fly, their hurried aim falling short, blown aside.
Arthur’s men, mostly young lads, untried, newly trained, had seen them. Twenty, thirty men? Brychan’s? Or had the Watchers at last gathered strength and emerged from hiding? Time enough to discover names and faces later; there was a more urgent need at this moment – staying alive.
The infant Artoriani moved forward, the mounted men well ahead, leaving those on foot to run fast, make their way best they could. Some were still clad only in under-tunics, dragging on leather fighting gear as they ran.
On the hillside, the attackers rose to meet them with an ululation of expected victory. By their dress and weaponry they were Hibernian settlers – Brychan’s men. They closed, riders flinging themselves from horseback to fight sword to sword, shield to shield, unable to fight mounted on rain-sodden sloping ground in the dark.
Gwenhwyfar was among the men, furious at their lack of discipline, their ‘strike first think later’ impulsiveness. Little she could do about it now, but later… She came up with the decurion. His eyes bulged, and he was snarling like a wounded dog-wolf. He shouted something to her, and though she did not catch the words she guessed their meaning. What had become of the rigorous training; the day-by-day monotony of drill, drill and more drill? She exchanged blows with one of Brychan’s men, striking one-handed with her sword, ripping its blade through his thigh, dodging herself to avoid a similar thrust. Cursed at the stupidity of these raw young men.
A weird dance was stepped in the darkness, men fighting hand to hand, killing or falling wounded beneath lashing rain and rolling thunder. Another man came before Gwenhwyfar, his face leering, lit up ghostly pale by a lightning flash. His foot slipped, the sole of his boot slithering over wet grass. She took advantage, driving her blade up, through his belly. She had to push his body from her sword with her foot, swearing as fluently as any soldier when the blade sucked out, spewing steaming intestines over her feet.
Turning aside, her breath coming in gasps, Gwenhwyfar glanced quickly with another flash
of lightning at the horses grazing in the valley below. Only a few, younger colts mostly, were fidgeting, ears flicking, legs stamping. They had been trained with infinite care for Arthur. She snorted – so had the men, but they had so easily forgotten. Just as well the horses had not! The roar and clash of fighting and the scent of blood ought to come as natural to them as a cock’s crow and the smell of dung. Patience had paid off; those hours of mock battles, the quiet calming of nervous horses as cattle were slaughtered before them, the nauseating stench of offal strewn around the paddocks. Gwenhwyfar had time for a quick smile. Her Da had known a thing or two about the training of horses.
The tents away to the left caught her eye. Figures were running, illuminated momentarily, sharp and white against the blackness. Damned fools! Stupid, stupid idiots! They had all turned out, running fit to burst into the attack; not one man left to guard the camp!
A thought hit her like an axe through her skull. She screamed as she ran, slithering on the wet grass of the slope. “Llacheu!”
The horses had remained where they had been left – another insistence of Cunedda’s training. A man must be able to count on his horse to stand when he dismounted, intentionally or otherwise, for an unseated cavalryman could lose his life while blundering around the battlefield in search of his mount.
Slipping for some way on her backside, Gwenhwyfar scrambled to her feet, ran to the nearest horse, seized the reins and vaulted into the saddle. Barely settled, she hauled his head round and raced to her son.
Thunder cracked overhead, smothering Enid’s terrified screams as a man dragged her by the hair away from the tent. He was admiring his prize, did not see the single blow that severed his head in a neat stroke, sending it rolling grotesquely down the incline, thick lips still grinning.
Gwenhwyfar pounded on past, her sword red with the man’s blood. Enid, released, flung her skirt over her head and crouched shrieking. Gwenhwyfar swung her horse round and came back, heeling him forward, hooves flinging up great clumps of sodden, muddied turf, to meet a second man.
Realising his danger the man dropped his bundle of loot and grabbed at Enid, holding her before him as a shield. He stood ready, half crouched, sword raised, lips parted, watching as Gwenhwyfar galloped closer, his mind registering with amusement it was a woman riding at him.
In Hibernia, the home he had left many years since to settle this new territory with Brychan, some women were known to fight as fearsomely as men. He was surprised at this woman, though. The British men were soft-bellied; the women, Roman spawn, pampered creatures fit only for bedding.
Not this one, it seemed!
Gwenhwyfar’s sword whistled down. He thrust it aside with his own; let Enid go with a kick to her buttocks that sent her sprawling on her face, and followed through by reaching up and grabbing Gwenhwyfar’s arm, pulling her from the horse.
She rolled, half winded, her hand clasped white-knuckled around the pommel of her weapon. She had forgotten the arrow embedded in her arm. The shaft broke with the fall, but she did not feel the jolt or the sudden spurt of blood.
He saw it though, a dark stain spreading against her tunic. Saw also she was slight, rather on the thin side, not muscled and hardened like the fighting women of his homeland. He grinned. Soft and flabby with fat, or bone-thin wraiths, these British women were nothing more than a husband’s lap-pet.
Gwenhwyfar was doubly enraged from the attack and the disobedience of the men, and now this. The strength of a mother protecting her young possessed her. Who dared confront the lioness with cubs nearby? No one in his right mind – but then this man was unaware of the child in the tent. And Gwenhwyfar was unaware of his unknowing.
He taunted her with his sword tip, making mock thrusts, circling around, playing, noticing other things by now. Interesting things, like her pretty face and the promising figure half hidden beneath her leather jerkin. Shapely hips and thighs, a narrow waist. He decided not to kill her but to take her for his own.
Gwenhwyfar saw the intention clear in his eyes. His beard-shadowed chin, square jaw and leer of anticipation reminded her, with a shudder of fear, of another man. Melwas.
They circled, the woman crouching low, her sword ready, body light and balanced, her eyes locked to his; the man amused, eager, willing to play this little game, sure of his superiority.
He moved quickly, spinning as he leapt so that he lunged to the right but attacking to the left towards her wounded arm – and realised his mistake. She had seen it, seen his feint in the flicker of his eyes.
The eyes, her father had taught her. Watch the eyes, they move to where the blade means to pass.
Overconfidence fled from him as his sword, neatly caught by hers, arched through empty air to embed itself in the turf some yards away. He backed off, laughing, masking astonishment, angry at himself for being fooled so easily. A dagger flashed into his hand as he lunged again. Light on her feet, Gwenhwyfar skipped aside, but he had expected her reaction this time. Darting forward, he knocked her off balance with his foot, sending her staggering almost to her knees. She recovered quickly, but not quickly enough.
Seizing her right wrist, his grip intentionally painful, he dragged her arm up and back, forcing her to drop her weapon. He shook her arm, the pain ripping along muscles, sending the sword falling into the mud. Triumphant, he held her firm, pulled her body to him.
Gwenhwyfar made herself go limp, struggling against an inner voice of panic telling her to fight and kick, to get away. She breathed slowly, deeply, repeating the rules of defence in her mind: Think. Plan. Fight him and he will fight you. Take him off guard; relax. Play dead.
He laughed again, triumphant, mouth open showing broken teeth. He grasped Gwenhwyfar’s copper-gold hair. Forcing her head back, he bent to kiss her.
She gagged at the rank stench of his unwashed body. He said something in his own tongue, which Gwenhwyfar did not understand but could guess at the meaning. As his mouth closed over hers, her fingers encircled the head of the dagger sheathed at her waist.
His chuckle of pleasure was cut short in a vomiting gurgle, blood and froth issuing from his mouth. He staggered, clutching at the weapon driven deep into his lungs, staring bulge-eyed. Gwenhwyfar stood panting, her teeth bared and her eyes narrow slits. The she-wolf and her kill.
A third man had watched from the shelter of the tent opening, his laughter as his companion had bent to kiss the woman fading into open-mouthed astonishment as the man had sunk to his knees and slowly toppled to lie flat-faced and still in the mud.
Furious, he ran at Gwenhwyfar, shouting, an axe raised above his head. Gwenhwyfar whirled to him, aware too late she had no weapons. She lunged for her sword, lying where it had fallen, knew she would not reach it.
Something stopped him. He stumbled a few paces, fell forward, his body inert, blood gushing from his split skull. Enid stood behind him, too afraid to scream. A mallet used to drive the wooden tent-pegs home dangled from her hand, a dark patch, with pieces of clinging white bone and matted hair, staining its solid square head.
Gwenhwyfar snarled, a wild, primitive noise. She had her sword now, used it to hack and chop at the man she had fought, slashing at his face, hands and vitals. Blood was on her clothes and skin, had gutted into the mud, forming a black, stinking pool.
Hands clawed at her, pulling her away. She thrust them aside, striking out with her sword when they refused to leave her be, its blade whistling through the air. Someone swore and let go, then came again, trying to hold her, shouting her name.
“Gwenhwyfar! Gwenhwyfar, leave it! Leave it, he is dead! It’s over!”
A voice, a man she knew. His words sank in as she heard what he was saying. Feebly, trembling, she again pushed his hands aside, but her strength had evaporated, leaving behind a sagging weariness.
“Llacheu?” she asked, the need to cry suddenly overwhelming.
They knelt on the ground, the man holding her, his arms strong, so comforting and gentle. She shut her eyes, rested her forehead on
his chest.
He looked enquiringly at Enid, who was hovering, uncertain, fingers twisting the folds of her skirt.
“He is safe,” she gasped, still breathless and shaking. “I bundled him, still sleeping, beneath clothing. They were not here long enough to find him.”
“Hear that? He is unharmed.”
Gwenhwyfar nodded, gulped hot tears.
“Blood of the Bull, Gwenhwyfar!” Arthur roared suddenly, his hands on her shoulders shaking her, his brows creasing into deep furrows of fury. “If you ever, ever put yourself or my son in such danger again, by Mithras I’ll… I’ll…” He hauled her forward and held her to him, cradling her head; finished lamely, “I know not what I would do.”
She was sobbing. “Meriaun said you would be cross with me for coming without your sending.” She spoke through chattering teeth, her voice muffled against his chest.
“Cross!” Arthur held her away from him, his hands again on her shoulders. She looked down, afraid to meet his blazing eyes. “Cross? I am bloody livid!” He shook her with each word, then he was clasping her to him again, rocking her back and forth, smothering her face with kisses, stroking her rain-drenched hair.
“The Bull, Cymraes, but I am also proud of you!” He was laughing, and crying too. Trembling from fear, relief and pleasure. “Damned proud of you, you foolish, irresponsible, beautiful, beautiful woman!”
XLV
She had not wanted to sleep. Her wound, tended and dressed and a bitter-tasting liquid persuaded down her throat, coupled with being tucked warm beneath dry blankets, let drowsiness creep in unbidden. She could hear shouted orders, the bustle of more tents being erected and the neighing of horses. She snuggled deeper, content. Slept.
The Kingmaking Page 54
