The Kingmaking

by Helen Hollick

  Arthur had not been slow either to judge the mood of his men. He noted how in subtle ways they paid homage to Gwenhwyfar, saw too they watched over her. The men were like loyal hounds, fiercely protective, and Arthur knew full well there were few men in camp, dozing the light sleep of the alert soldier, who would not willingly lay down their life for him and his lady.

  Watching her in the dim light cast by the remaining lamp he was suddenly anxious. She was safe while his men were able to provide a guard, but what of the morrow? What if the years of his planning and scheming should not come to fruition? Who would defend her against Hengest if he and his men lay dead on the battlefield? Was it fair of him to ask these men not only to die for their leader, but for his reckless wife also?

  The questions echoed in the night. He did sleep, a restless, haunted sleep where his horsemen thundered across a dark plain, to drown in a river of blood. And a woman stood alone on a windswept hill, a small child huddled at her side while the war drums and horns of the enemy ringed her round, coming ever closer.

  XLVIII

  Arthur was already up and dressing when Gwenhwyfar stirred and opened her eyes.

  “Is it time?” she asked, rubbing bleary sleep from her.

  “Aye. ‘Tis a few hours before dawn rises. We should have plenty of time. With Fortuna on our side we shall catch the whore-sons shitting with their bracae round their ankles!”

  Meriaun called out, peered hesitant through the tent flap. Arthur beckoned him in, Cei following at his heels. The two men briefly nodded to Gwenhwyfar, who gathered a blanket close for modesty. Arthur winked at her, receiving a brilliant smile in return. “Is all well?” he asked Cei.

  “Rhys returned half of an hour since. He said the Saex were sleeping like babes.”

  “Then let us hope, like children, they sleep sound.”

  Outside the tent there was movement. Men rising, hastening to the makeshift latrine ditch to relieve themselves or eating a frugal breakfast. A distant shuffle from horses being lightly watered and fed. There was an air of solemnity, not the usual bustle and excitement of troops preparing for what could be their last day in this world. It was the manner of death after failure which instilled an influence of mute unease, not the fear of an approaching battle. That, and the awareness this battle was different. It would mark the beginning, or the end, of Arthur’s bid to become Britain’s Supreme Leader, their unequivocal king.

  Gwenhwyfar dressed quickly once the three men had gone. She began to braid her hair but her fingers shook. Until this moment, she had not regretted the decision to leave Enid behind at Durobrivae with the boy. She told herself not to be foolish, to stay calm and not worry – her husband would survive. Sensible advice, which she did not take. Abandoning the braids, she left her hair loose, ducked from the tent.

  The air was fresh, washed clean by the rain that had fallen earlier in the night. It had ceased an hour since, leaving the sky vaulted bright with speckled stars. Her boots scuffed the clinging wetness from the grass as she walked to where the men were assembling, beyond the rows of leather tents.

  They parted before her. She heard murmurings as she passed, allowed the glint of a smile to break. She guessed how she must look in this dim, flickering torchlight. She had chosen a simple dress of soft green wool, embroidered at neck, hem and cuff, and a darker cloak. She wore few jewels: Arthur’s ruby ring on her marriage finger and a gold torque around her neck. Her hair, cascading in rippling copper waves over her shoulders and down her back, provided all the finery she needed.

  Arthur watched her approach, felt his stomach knot with wanting at the sight of her. A cheer, muted in awareness of possible danger, swelled as he held out his hand to her and brought her to him in an embrace. No soldier watching would deny he would give anything to be in Arthur’s position, to feel that lithe, beautiful body against his own; but then, no soldier would ever allow another to take advantage of their lady.

  Grinning, Arthur leapt atop a small hillock that raised him about four feet higher than his men. He helped Gwenhwyfar up to stand beside him, his arm encircling her waist.

  “You are putting on weight, my lass,” he said cheerfully as they waited for their audience to settle.

  Gwenhwyfar made some flippant answer, turned the subject back to the waiting men. Her heart steadied as Arthur began to talk.

  By the Mother! If he should suspect she was carrying a child he would be furious. It had taken all her cunning, all her wits, to accompany him to Durobrivae, let alone this far. As it was, she knew she would have to face his anger when he learnt she had deliberately flouted danger in such a condition. It would make not the slightest difference she was but a few months gone and that the babe was threatened with no more danger than the rest of them. Men were so stubbornly protective in these matters.

  Arthur spoke only briefly. He emphasised the necessity for caution, for as little noise as was physically possible.

  “We have men posted; we are as sure as we can be that not one of Hengest’s scouts will take word to him.” He gestured, and an older, experienced soldier dressed in simple tunic and bracae, but wearing a magnificent wolfskin cloak, stepped forward. He carried something in his hand. “Mabon brought a trophy back with him when he came in a short while since.”

  The man called Mabon, who had fought with Uthr and now served the son, lifted the thing he held. None had doubted Arthur had spoken the truth, but the sight of an enemy scout’s head, still dripping fresh blood, well proved the point.

  Eira was brought up, stamping and snorting, a light excited sweat darkening his arched neck. Arthur swung easily into the saddle and nudged the horse forward, thought again. He reined the animal back, leant from the saddle and scooped Gwenhwyfar up to his level. She laughed, grabbing hold of Eira’s long mane for support. Arthur kissed her and swung her back down to firm ground.

  She cried, “Take care, my Lord! Bring me back a trophy!”

  “I will. Hengest.”

  XLIX

  The faint stir of dawn was flaring over a flat, dark sea as Arthur’s men spread out in wide formation behind him. Through the previous months they had trained together; tedious hours of endless drill. Practising, always practising, until Arthur was satisfied they knew the movements like the backs of their own hands; recognised each given command; responded immediately and with deadly accuracy.

  Arthur’s cavalry was a team, a formidable fighting force, their ranks swelled now to nine hundred elite mounted men. The Artoriani. But he needed more. He needed twice nine hundred to maintain his supreme force, and they would come once he had proved his cavalry could be used to mount the main offensive, with local militia infantry as rearguard; archers and reserve. Aye, from the morrow they would come.

  He looked behind him. Rank upon rank of tossing manes, silvered helmets and waving, bright-coloured banners. Red turma, green, blue and yellow. It was unheard of in Britain, this formation. Normally, the cavalry was placed in reserve or on a wing, never in the centre.

  As the sky lightened from slate grey to dusky pink, Arthur ran the tip of his tongue nervously over dry lips. Sa, the last report had been true enough. Hengest was no untried fool. If Arthur had not been expected, the Saxon leader had at least anticipated his arrival. A mile distant, straddled before the massive walls of the disused Roman fortress of Rutupiae like a swarming nest of ants, waited Hengest and his Saex army.

  Arthur looked towards Meriaun, who commanded the left wing. Meriaun swung his sword in the air, the blade flashing in the strengthening light. Then he looked to the other wing, the right, usually the most important. Often the commander took this wing Men were trained to fight with weapons in the right hand, leaving the left, the shield side, as the defensive one, a fact exploited in battle by pressure from this right wing. Cei held the command.

  There was a loud crash as Cei’s men brought spears or swords across their shields in a staccato burst of sound. Echoing their example, this declaration for Arthur, came the clash of arms from Meriaun’
s wing, and from the centre under Arthur. For this day, for this battle, the centre was all important and the Pendragon would have it for his own.

  Arthur’s grin was a broad beam of triumphant pleasure. The sun was rising, and it was to be a glorious day!

  Slowly, so slowly that at first it seemed they barely moved, Arthur led his men forward.

  Hengest had chosen the ground and had the advantage. He had the wind behind him, and his back to the dazzling glare of the rising sun. The Saex were advancing too, a mass of swaying bodies, bobbing heads and fluttering banners. The steady thump, thump of spear or sword beating against shields in a regular rhythm. The singsong voice of the war chant whipped forward by the salt scented wind from the sea. Individual calls lost, the sound as one, a wordless moan from a baying beast.

  Behind him, Arthur’s own men sat their mounts silently, saving their breath for when it would be needed. Disciplined, steady, covering the ground between the two armies at a held walk. He could hear the ripple of hooves swathing through the fetlock high grass; hear the toss and jangle of horses’ bridles, the creak of leather and the metallic clink of weapons. It was an eerie sensation, this voiceless progress. Arthur turned, half expecting to see a ghost army ranged behind him, mist figures silent in the rising dawn. He gasped, realised Hengest had made his first mistake.

  The sun had risen higher. Its glow lit the sky with a brilliant glare, a blazing flood of gold pouring down upon the morning, the rays striking like bursting flames upon British spear tips and silvered helmets, gold cloak pins, bronze buckles of baldrics and belts and harness. Every metal object on man and horse reflected the sudden burst of brilliant light, emitting a corona of radiance around the entire mass of Arthur’s men. To him, at their head, the spectacle was breathtaking, as if the hand of the soldiers’ god, Mithras, was cupping them. How then must it look to Hengest?

  Arthur bellowed at the signallers, “I want enough noise to awaken the dead!” It was not as he had originally ordered. Remain silent until we are closer, he had said, but he had also warned that orders could change rapidly. This was where the drill came in. Obey my orders. Each man listened to the signal notes of the curled bronze trumpets. The instruments blared the command, and were obeyed.

  The blast of responding shouts was tumultuous. Arthur yelled a second order, shrewdly gauging the closing distance between the two armies. The bowmen had been expecting it, and at the first sequence of notes from the horns their bows were lifted, aimed and loosed. A thousand, thousand arrows flew, the scream of their flight shrilling through the air. Arthur’s army rode steadily on, their yells increasing, their arrows falling like a stormy rain of death.

  The Saex army wavered, staggered. From a ranked, silent mass, the army before them suddenly took on an ethereal appearance. One minute shaded, a seething, hustled group of darkness, split only by the dim colours of banners and the occasional glint of weapons. The next, a blazing radiance of light with a bestial howl that spat deadly tipped venom. Man after man at the fore of the vast Saex army fell as arrows from the British bowmen found their mark. Hengest saw the doubt, the uncertainty and fear, cursed and swore at his men, bullying, threatening, trying desperately to reinstall lost courage.

  Arthur seized his chance. His hand flew up. Bowmen, their arrows spent, dropped back, the space they left instantly occupied by the waiting cavalry.

  Like a burst dam, the Saex swarmed forward, daunted by the army ahead but more afeared of their own leader’s wrath. With courage renewed they hurtled towards the British. Arthur’s two wings increased speed to a jogtrot outpacing the centre, who held back at a steady walk.

  The Saex launched their spears, the weapons humming through the air, many finding their mark. Artoriani launched their own volley with the pilum, much favoured by the legionaries of Rome, a well balanced spear with heavy shaft and light iron tip. Some inflicted wounds, but most thudded, seemingly harmless, into Saex shields. The thin, soft neck of the thing bent and caught, so it became impossible to remove and throw back, rendering a shield useless by its dragging weight.

  The second volley of spears from the British bit home. Heavier weapons this time, with more intention of maiming. The paced jog increased to a hand canter, one horse’s shoulder against another, shields held before the rider, swords ready. When one fell another from behind lengthened pace and took his place. No gaps, no stragglers. Within these last few yards of the enemy Cei and Meriaun took the right and left wing into the charge. Full gallop, plunging into the soft mass of men, shouting the war cry. The wings of both armies came together. Fighting was at close quarters now, mounted men against foot, the discipline of tight formation against the Saex fighting individually, each man for himself.

  Hengest’s Saex were thrown off balance by this onrush from the two British wings coming in on them from each side. Their centre was left exposed, helpless to aid comrades in desperate situations at the sides, aware Arthur’s centre had yet to attack.

  Already uncertain and apprehensive, the Saex found themselves suddenly faced with a new, overwhelming onrush of trampling hooves and slashing swords as Arthur yelled the order to move forward, his men responding instant into a gallop.

  The urge to drop their weapons and run spread rapidly among the faltering Saex. Some, at the rear, hearing the confusion and panic, did run, pushing their way back through the men behind. Within moments, they realised with horror that the British wings, pressing from each side, had driven their own wings inward to tangle with the centre, crippling rear movement and thrusting the Saex forward deeper into Arthur’s charge. As space to manoeuvre decreased, their faltering became fear, and the fear became panic.

  It was the horses which were so terrifying. Great beasts with bared teeth and trampling hooves. Hengest’s men tried their best to fight the riders of these creatures, slashing with short swords and jabbing with spears, but the situation was desperate, hopeless. For each horse or rider that fell another took his place, and another.

  Arthur, after the first thrill of exhilaration from the charge, settled to a steady blow-by-blow thrust. The Saex swarmed, many falling and becoming trampled by shod hooves. Faces – nameless, bearded faces with flaxen hair braided and tailed – rose and fell before him. Arthur felt something stab at his thigh, a glancing blow from one of the Saex’s short swords, which did no damage through the thickness of his padded bracae. He swung Eira round, the horse rising on to his hind legs, thrashing with his forefeet. His nearside hoof struck bone, split a skull wide. The unfortunate man clutched his head as blood spurted, then fell dead. Eira, unsteadied, slipped, righted himself in a flurry of thrashing legs, but not before one of Hengest’s personal guard saw and took advantage.

  The man was big, built like an ox, with muscled biceps, sturdy torso and thick, bulging thighs. He lunged at Arthur with his shield, the heavy bronze boss slamming into the Pendragon’s shoulder. Arthur could not dodge the blow; his left arm suddenly felt numb and his useless fingers dropped his own shield. He reeled and, as Eira scrambled upright, lost his balance and tumbled from the saddle. He squirmed, landed somehow on his feet, facing this formidable giant.

  It was as if there was no one else on the battlefield, just himself and this one, massive built Saex. They circled, eyeing each other, assessing the other’s worth, taking note of build and balance, of height and sword reach.

  Arthur was at a disadvantage through the loss of his shield, but then he was the lighter man, the less blown. And his men were winning, there was no doubt of that. His gaze flickered to the man’s sword, no ordinary thing, a weapon of unequalled craftsmanship. The Saex revered their weapons, believing them to possess magical powers. For all their barbarism, Arthur admired their craftsmanship.

  The numbness was easing from his shoulder, leaving a dull ache, but he had the use of his fingers again. He shuffled his torso, balancing his weight evenly, light on the balls of his feet. With both hands he gripped his own sword – a well-forged thing with a gilded hilt of bronze and silver, but not c
omparable with that of his opponent. Arthur suddenly desired that sword. Was going to have it.

  The Pendragon’s lips parted in a slow smile, widened into a fearsome look of determination. What was it he had said about prizes being won? This was one prize he would enjoy gaining! He watched the Saxon’s eyes, narrow slits of brilliant blue, scowling from beneath the headpiece of the warrior’s silver-etched helmet. Two men, well matched.

  As the Saex lunged, Arthur parried with his own sword. Sparks spat from the clash of iron. He followed through with a forceful thrust and they exchanged blows, neither giving ground, neither doing damage.

  First blood to the Saex. His sword cut to the side in a feint which Arthur turned, but the Saxon’s weapon was superior. It slid the length of the British blade, the honed edge slicing into the padding of the sleeve that covered Arthur’s lower arm. The fabric ripped, dark blood welling with the frayed material, staining the white linen. The Saxon plunged forward, taking the advantage.

  The ground beneath their feet was slippery from the night’s rain, and grass churned now into mud, reddening with spilt blood. Arthur swore, attacked with renewed fervour. As he struck forward, the Saxon whirled aside and Arthur spun with him, but his foot tangled with someone fighting behind, sending him tumbling to his knees.

  The Saxon lifted his sword high, ready, triumphant, to smash down with the death blow. Arthur squirmed, brought his sword point up, ramming it awkwardly, praying it would make contact with flesh not mail.

  With a bellow, the Saxon brought his sword down, the blade thudding into the soil a hair’s breadth from Arthur’s helmet, the great man toppling forward with it. Arthur kicked out, deflecting the body from falling across his own as it fell face forward, the weight driving the Pendragon’s thrust sword deeper through the abdomen.