Trumpets screamed at Stirling's back.
Ancelotis and Cutha kicked their horses into a thundering gallop. The central spine whipped past, a blurred red snake in Stirling's peripheral vision. They crouched low behind shields, lances held like battering rams. Closer... closer still...
The shock of concussion nearly unseated Stirling.
He came several inches out of the saddle, both arms almost numb. Without stirrups, he'd have landed flat on the ground. Cutha's lance had struck his shield a glancing blow, failing to bite solidly into the wood. His own spear had smashed into Cutha's shield with such force the collision slammed the young Saxon nearly a foot backwards. Lacking stirrups, Cutha toppled right off his horse's backside, dragging Ancelotis' spear with him. With its point deeply embedded in Cutha's shield, the long shaft dragged at his arm, hindering him as Cutha staggered to his feet on the arena floor.
Stirling's surge of confidence was short-lived, however. Even as the Briton crowd roared approval, delighted at the Saxon's early downfall, Cutha tossed the encumbered shield aside, scrambled to recapture his horse, and vaulted back into the saddle. The man detailed to assist him raced forward with a second shield, then put booted foot on the other one and yanked out Ancelotis' spear, handing it up to Cutha. Ancelotis snarled under his breath, but his own man, Gilroy, had already reached his side, handing up two Roman-style pila to add to the one he still carried. The javelinlike weapon was not as useful for cavalry work as the long, heavy lance, but Stirling was quite happy to postpone hand-to-hand fighting as long as possible, given the state of sixth-century medical care.
They made a second thunderous charge.
Ancelotis leaned low over his horse's flying mane, one pilum in his right hand, the other two resting in the socket on the saddle that had held the lance now in Cutha's grip. They were still several meters apart when Ancelotis hurled the first pilum. Stirling was about to shout you bloody idiot!—and other, less civilized epithets—when Cutha's shield jerked abruptly down. The pilum's long, soft-iron neck had bent downward, dragging at the shield just as heavily as the lance had. Distracted, Cutha's lance point wobbled slightly off course—and completely prevented him from seeing Ancelotis' next move.
Using knees and thighs, the Scots king urged his charger slightly to the right, in a shallow swing out of range of the unsteady lance point, which passed harmlessly by Ancelotis' shoulder. The clean miss upset Cutha's balance, braced as he was for the shock of collision. The lance was considerably longer than the pilum, which meant that Cutha's missed blow, due to arrive at Ancelotis' shield at least a full horse's length before the two horses drew even, left plenty of time for the Scots king to hurl both his second and third pila into the Saxon's shield, dragging Cutha even further off balance.
The Saxon prince sprawled in the dust a second time.
His lance shaft snapped under the impact.
The Britons in the stands went wild.
With both lances—Cutha's own and Ancelotis'—shattered and two shields damaged, Cutha was left on foot with one remaining shield, his sword, and a fighting axe. Ancelotis turned his mount and thundered down the track in a long, outward swing toward the stands while Cutha was still on the ground, staggering and trying to reach his horse. Ancelotis then swept across in a sharp one-eighty-degree turn and urged his massive war-horse to jump the central spine. The stallion's quarters bunched, then they were airborne, momentum and the animal's powerful muscles driving them straight across the sandstone barrier and—not coincidentally—straight into Cutha's still riderless mount.
The Saxon horse screamed in alarm and shied violently to one side, thus preventing collision by a matter of centimeters. Cutha, in the act of vaulting into the saddle from the other side, went down with a smashing blow from his own horse's shoulder. He rolled frantically out from under thrashing hooves, blistering the air with Saxon curses. The Scots king brought his charger around in a spinning turn worthy of an American cowhand, drawing his sword in the same instant. They plunged toward Cutha's already-shaken mount. Ancelotis shouted a blood-curdling string of Briton curses and swung his sword in a circle around his head. Cutha's poor horse gave another scream and kicked at his infuriated owner in sheer terror, then bolted and ran, leaving the enraged Saxon prince on foot and spitting curses of his own. The glare he turned on Ancelotis made Stirling's blood freeze.
The Saxon drew sword and war axe, gripping the latter in his shield hand. Cutha's assistant was frantically dragging iron points out of Cutha's shield, lunging and tossing the shield to the Saxon prince like a frisbee. Cutha clutched his axe in his teeth and caught the shield in a movement that would've broken Stirling's wrist, if he'd tried it. Lightning split the sky as Cutha thrust his axe into his belt and banged the flat of his sword against his shield, an invitation to mayhem. Thunder rolled across the arena, slapping up against the sandstone walls and reverberating back into Stirling's face, an avalanche of sound, with him buried at the bottom.
Ancelotis charged before the last echoing peals had died away. He swung mightily at Cutha's shield. Cutha dodged the blow, leaving Ancelotis out of position. The Saxon whirled around, faster on his feet than the Briton king's war-horse, which was already trying to pivot and strike. Out of position, neither Stirling nor Ancelotis saw it coming. One moment, the Briton king was turning his charger with knees and thighs—and the next, Cutha was underfoot, hooking the edge of his shield under Ancelotis' leg and wrenching upward.
The Scots king lost his stirrup, his balance, and his horse.
The bloody horse's back was taller than Stirling was.
It was a long, long way to the ground.
The landing jarred him so badly, Stirling couldn't draw breath for several critical seconds. Ancelotis' sword went flying from a numbed elbow, the abused joint having been driven into the ground with terrific force. The only thing that saved him from Cutha's sword at his throat was Ancelotis' Briton-bred war-horse. Trained for battle, the massive horse screamed a warning at the Saxon, biting and rearing threateningly, hooves the size of dinner plates lashing out like pile drivers.
Cutha was forced to scramble backwards, unable to get past those hooves and teeth without a lance or even a javelin and unable to maneuver fast enough to strike with his sword. The Saxon retreated, which gave Ancelotis time to drag himself to his feet. He hunted for his sword, couldn't see it anywhere in the sand, wondered with a chill if Cutha had snatched it up, then spotted it. The weapon had clattered onto the raised sandstone of the central spine.
Spitting curses, Ancelotis faced down the Saxon, who retained shield, sword, and axe, while Ancelotis was shieldless and weaponless. A frisson of real fear skittered through Ancelotis' gut, an eerie and unpleasant echo of the lightning overhead, which seethed like volcanic vents amongst the clouds. When Stirling looked into Cutha's eyes, he saw death leering back at him. Breathing heavily but grinning in supreme confidence now, Cutha charged, forcing Ancelotis backward, toward the sandstone barrier. He ducked the swing of Cutha's sword and scrambled away from the central spine, which lay at his back like a sandstone trap. Ancelotis danced out into the open, where he had more room to maneuver, and faced the Saxon again.
Cutha's second charge was a feint that lured Ancelotis off guard, but only for an instant; the Scots king was as agile as a wildcat, turning and skidding to get his feet under him again while avoiding the lethal reach of the Saxon's sword. A bone-deep ache stung one shoulder from a nasty blow from the edge of Cutha's shield. When Cutha drove straight toward him again, sword point thrusting straight for his throat and the killing blow, Ancelotis hesitated for a fraction of a second—
—and Stirling's close-combat reflexes took over.
He dove forward in a snap-roll that took Cutha completely by surprise and carried Stirling under the Saxon's swing. On the way past, he swept Cutha's ankles out from under him, knocking him flat even as Stirling came to his feet again. The Saxon, astonished by the move, rolled over and surged upwards, face flushing an angry red
. Stirling not only sidestepped Cutha's off-balance blow, he applied just the slightest amount of leverage to that outstretched arm.
The aikido move, practiced hundreds of times in SAS training sessions, sent the Saxon airborne, careening out of control toward the arena's wall. Cutha lost his sword in the process and the edge of his shield dug into the sand, flipping him onto his back, like a stunned beetle. Ancelotis crushed the Saxon's shield wrist under one foot, scooped the sword up from the dirt, laid the point at Cutha's throat, and said softly, "It looks as though you must yield or die, Saxon."
Completing the Saxon's ignominious defeat, the sky chose that moment to crack wide open. Icy rain drenched them to the skin. Mud spattered Cutha's face where he sprawled under Ancelotis' foot. The defeated prince snarled at him, a truly hideous curse, but made no effort to rise. The Briton crowd had gone wild, rivaling the thunder with their roars of delight. Cutha's humiliation inspired a veritable hailstorm of coins, headgear, colorful snippets of plaid, even muddy shoes, which rained down onto the arena track.
Stirling slipped Cutha's war axe from his belt, then stepped back, allowing Cutha to rise. He smiled tightly. "I believe I'll keep this"—he hefted the axe—"for remembrance. You're welcome to your sword and shields. I've no use for weapons of inferior quality." He tossed the sword aside, where it landed in the mud with a splat.
Cutha's already crimson face went deadly purple. The veins in his neck stood out in stark relief, pulsing with the man's fury. "Filthy cur!" the Saxon snarled as he came to his feet. "Insult me with your open hand, will you? By Woden's spear, you will regret this day!"
"I seriously doubt it," Stirling replied with a lazy drawl.
Only then did Stirling belatedly notice Ancelotis' shock at the swiftness and arcane mystery of Cutha's defeat, when Ancelotis had actually expected to be spitted on the end of Cutha's sword. Clearly, nobody in the sixth century had ever seen the relatively simple close-combat and martial-arts moves he'd just used. How did you do that, man? Ancelotis demanded in childlike delight. You must teach me more of this fighting style, Stirling of Caer-Iudeu!
Stirling groaned, realizing too late just how seriously he'd screwed up—again. If Brenna McEgan sat somewhere in that howling crowd of ecstatic, rain-drenched spectators—and he couldn't imagine that she wasn't—then he'd just given himself away in the stupidest, most boneheaded public display of twenty-first-century origins imaginable. Of course, it had seemed rather more important at the time to avoid having Cutha's sword jabbed through his intimate anatomy... .
Perhaps there would be a silver lining to this mess? The only one he could remotely imagine was that Cedric Banning might come forward, giving Stirling an ally. All in all, it had been a bloody stupid thing to do, an attitude which puzzled Ancelotis no end. Cutha gave him a stiff, formal bow and stalked away, limping visibly. He collected his horse, leading it out of the arena by way of the starting gates. He plucked his sword from the mud on his way.
Stirling was left wondering what to do next, so Ancelotis retrieved his own sword, thrust the Saxon's beautifully inlaid war axe through his belt, then rounded up his charger and mounted, moving somewhat stiffly, as bruises were already making themselves felt in a variety of places. Climbing the rain-slick steps to the royal pavilion required careful concentration to avoid falling flat and bouncing all the way down. The awning had kept the worst of the rain off, although Ganhumara wore a sullen look that boded ill for the laundress or fuller given the task of repairing rain damage to the silk he could see layered beneath her flame-colored wool.
Ancelotis bowed formally to his fellow kings and queens. The Dux Bellorum was grinning fit to crack his face and Medraut's glance mirrored hero worship. Gwalchmai's eyes shone like lanterns as he danced in place, ignoring the icy downpour as he celebrated his uncle's victory. Little Walgabedius, confused and too young to understand, nevertheless looked excited as he gazed up at his uncle. Even the young king of Strathclyde wore a stunned and reverent expression. Emrys Myrddin, however, gave him a long, slow frown and Morgana's gaze was as icy as the rain pouring down his back.
She said coldly, "Congratulations on your victory, Ancelotis. It will doubtless speed Cutha on his way to planning vengeance, when we can ill afford invasion. Wear your crown with pride—it may be the last victory we win against the Saxons!"
Lips compressed in white fury, she crowned him with the traditional wreath, which was made of oak leaves. The moment the victor's wreath touched his wet hair, a fresh roar rose from the celebrating crowd who could not, happily for most of them, hear what she'd said. Artorius gave him a wink that said, She'll get over it, man, and it was worth the risk to see that lout put in his place!
Unsure which reaction was the correct—or safest—one, Stirling simply bowed, refused the traditional money pouch, tossing the coins into the ecstatic crowd instead, and descended the steps to mount his horse. He made one victory lap around the arena, accompanied by the tumult of celebration, then exited through the stone starting boxes. He had only one desire, now that the bout was behind him. Stirling wanted that very long, very hot soak in the deepest Roman bath available.
Ancelotis agreed wholeheartedly.
Chapter Ten
Brenna was thoroughly chilled by the time she and Morgana made their way from the rain-swept sandstone arena back to the fortress where Morgana and the other visiting royalty of Britain had been staying. The largest building inside Caerleul's fortress walls, the great hall possessed no fewer than twenty rooms along its outer corridors, where high-ranking guests could be accommodated for lengthy visits. "Medraut," she said, turning to her nephew, "take the boys into the baths and warm them up, they're half frozen from that rain."
Still grinning, Medraut hooked a gesture at the boys, who ran excitedly at his heels, yipping in their delight at the Saxon prince's defeat. Morgana watched silently, heart aching, for her sons simply didn't understand, yet, the price the Britons would doubtless pay for Cutha's comeuppance. Brenna McEgan said firmly, Take a hot bath yourself, Morgana. We'll both feel better for it. So they made a hasty trip to the baths and within half an hour, warmed up by the steaming water of the calderium—which had grown crowded as more women returned from the arena, chilled and in need of the heated water—Morgana dressed her sons in their best and sent them on with Medraut, then donned the finest linen chemise and woolen gown from her trunk, a rich crimson with a long, trailing skirt, neckline and sleeves edged with ermine fur and caught at the waist with a golden-link girdle. Brenna delighted in the feel of the long, heavy skirts and luxurious fur trim, guiltily pleased there would be no crazed Green environmentalists lurking anywhere about to toss paint across the dead animal skins. She slipped on heavy gold jewelry and warm, fur-lined shoes and caught her hair back with carved ivory combs, then swept out into the main hall, where the kings and queens of Britain were gathering.
Emrys Myrddin and Artorius were there already and young King Clinoch of Strathclyde stood near the central hearth, where a blazing fire warmed the room. Morgana's sons raced to her side, eyes wide at the glittering array of Britain's gathered royal houses. A fine drift of mist occasionally fell through the opening immediately above, where the rainstorm had finally abated outside, dwindling away to an occasional drift of dampness. A cover had been tilted over the opening, anyway, channeling the rain away from the open roof while allowing the smoke to escape. A few windblown droplets hissed against the coals every now and again. The light slanting through the opening in the ceiling fell at a long oblique as the sun westered down the lower quarter of the sky overhead.
Clinoch was trying valiantly to look nonchalant and succeeded only in underscoring his youth and inexperience as he swallowed nervously and warmed his hands like a cold child. Morgana noticed Gwalchmai staring at the young king of Strathclyde, eyes dark and pensive, and squeezed her son's hand. The boy leaned against her leg, sighing and holding tight to her fingers. Voices hushed in worried tones washed across the room, while a group of minstrels gathering i
n one corner produced harps and flutes and began to play softly, dulling the worst edge of tension in the room. Lailoken was among them, glancing boldly into Morgana's eyes and smiling at their planned assignation on the road to Caer-Gretna at this council's end.
Twelve massive tables had been drawn into a rough circle surrounding the central hearth, an arrangement Emrys Myrddin was overseeing, directing servants to place the tables end to end with cushioned benches for the royal gathering. Other servants were laying out cups and wine flasks and pitchers filled with mead, while still others hung an immense oxhide against one wall, onto which had been drawn the outlines of every kingdom in Britain.
Brenna stared in fascination at the familiar coastline, drawn with surprising accuracy, and gazed intently at the unfamiliar shapes and names of the kingdoms, a few of which she could decipher as later English regions. Several bore names which had survived right into the twenty-first century as "counties" in modern Wales, even the spellings having been retained intact through the centuries. Brenna had actually visited Powys as a girl, on holiday with her mother, a wonderful walking tour of the region. Areas overrun by Saxons had been colored a lurid red. Brenna was still studying the map when Emrys Myrddin, who must have been paying close attention to arrivals, or perhaps to a Roman-style water clock in one corner, murmured something to Artorius, who nodded and rang a bronze bell for attention.
"The High Council is now commenced!" Artorius called out strongly. "Kings and Queens, Princes and Princesses of the Britons, take your places at the Tables of Council."
Morgana stepped to her place in the general shuffle and sorting out, leading her sons with her. An expectant hush fell across the room as a priest raised one hand in a benediction, his dark robes and simple wooden cross marking him as a member of the ancient Briton Church. "Our Father, we pray Thy guidance for this great council of kings, that Britain may defend herself and defend Thy faith against the incursions of the pagan hordes. Amen."
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