by M. K. Hume
CHAPTER VIII
A TWILIGHT TESTING
He maketh wars to cease in all the
World: he breaketh the bow, and
knappeth the spear in sunder. And
burneth the chariots in the fire.
Be still then, and know that I am God:
I will be exalted among the heathen,
And I will be exalted in the earth.
Psalms 46:9
From his position on a hilltop to the north of Ratae, Arthur could see both the Fosse Way and the northern road that came from Londinium. On the fallow fields below, two small armies had met at noon and both sides were now exhausted and desperate as dusk began to settle over the hills to the west.
‘I should be down there with Ector, Bran and Bedwyr,’ Arthur growled at Germanus. ‘I’m old enough and tall enough to fight those shaggy Jutes. How can I be blooded if I never take part in a battle?’
Arthur’s face was set in lines of discontent as he stared down at the desperate conflict, so evenly matched that only the Christian God could distinguish friend from foe. At least the plain to the east of old Margidunum was free of the thick marshland and clinging, murderous mud that clogged the ground near old Caussenae, which had recently been put to the sword by the Jute invaders who had burrowed into the landscape like ticks, and would be as difficult to dislodge. The combined tribal invasion into enemy territory had been planned by Bran and Ector as a means of dissuading the Jute thanes from carrying out their regular forays towards Ratae. As Bran explained to Bedwyr, only a concerted show of force would pluck the tail feathers of the proud Jute roosters and convince them that the Britons still had teeth to bite.
‘You’re only thirteen, Arthur, even if you are almost as tall as me and have sprouted your first chest hair,’ Germanus answered sharply. ‘Impatient as you are to become a man, try thinking beyond your own desires. I’m as unhappy as you are to be stuck here in safety. But I’ve been barred from the battlefield in order to guard your back, so you should show a little gratitude to those noble kinsmen who love you. If Bran and Ector should perish on the field, you will be required to act as regent for Ector’s son Aeddan. A significant weight of trust and responsibility has been placed on your shoulders, so stop whining.’
‘I’m not whining,’ the youth snapped back irritably, because Germanus was accurate in his criticisms. Arthur’s voice sounded petulant, and he knew it held an unbecoming edge of childish complaint. ‘I’m sorry you have to stay up here with me.’
‘I know you are, because you hate it when I point out that you’re in the wrong.’
Arthur swore creatively in Saxon and Jute, tongues he understood well courtesy of Bedwyr’s insistence that he must be able to speak the languages of the enemy with some fluency. Unfortunately, Germanus also had a passing knowledge of both languages and he cuffed his student lightly round the ear to remind him of their relative positions. So Arthur took refuge in the relative safety of silence and continued to survey the carnage below them, his large arms master standing phlegmatically at his shoulder.
The British forces had one major advantage over the Jutes and their Saxon allies: cavalry. On foot, the enemy’s superior height, reach and longer arms could be decisive in close-quarters combat. Further, their lust for personal glory in battle often led them to carry out suicidal charges at their mounted foe, and they would then fight insanely until they were cut down.
The Jute berserker rage was terrifying, especially to young men such as Arthur who had never seen the crazed, mindless bravado of warriors consumed by blood lust. The sight of a half-naked lunatic charging at them, seemingly impervious to arrow wounds or the most hideous injuries, sometimes caused opposing warriors to retreat in superstitious terror. Arthur was able to understand a state of mind that overrode physical pain or human weakness, so he hoped he would not turn tail and run from the attack of a berserker, although he had a nasty feeling that the temptation might be almost irresistible.
He appreciated that cold reason won battles, and that courage was an important ingredient in the performance of a warrior, but he believed that the Roman legions had proved over the centuries that iron discipline could overcome the advantages of greater numbers and better weaponry in almost every battle. Their vassals, the Britons, had learned their lessons well, although many were contrary to the natural inclinations of the native-born tribal warriors. Ultimately, the British cavalry and foot soldiers adopted Roman techniques because their military tactics worked.
Inevitably, both Father Lorcan and Germanus had discovered that their pupil was the natural son of King Artor, who had used native cavalry to smash the Saxons again and again. Neither man was particularly surprised. While Bedwyr was a man of many talents, the youthful Arthur was an exceptional student – too exceptional to be Bedwyr’s son. At thirteen, he stood over six foot in height and possessed the muscular strength of a frame that had never been restricted by the awkwardness of most striplings. He read and spoke Latin like a native, was fluent in the northern languages, and devoured every scroll that came into his possession. His desire to understand the secrets of science, geography and history seemed insatiable. He was an exemplary student, usually calm, good natured and even tempered. Both Germanus and Lorcan agreed they would be hard put to it to find a better pupil.
But Arthur was far from perfect. During the last five years, his sense of dislocation had grown. He knew he could not claim any status through his sire, because any such assertion would bring shame to his mother. On the other hand, he needed to win acclaim in his own right if he was to fill the void that existed in his heart. His kinsmen were living legends, and he hungered to prove that he was a true scion of a great family. At the very least, he desperately wanted to win a name that would rival Bedwyr’s, for all men knew that the Arden Knife was one of King Artor’s bravest advisers.
And so his enforced inactivity on this bare hilltop above the battlefield almost drove him crazy with thwarted ambition. Germanus had explained the tactics employed by the Britons as the battle developed, and Arthur’s quick brain had been fascinated by Bran and Ector’s shared manipulation of the Jute warriors’ weakness for personal display and heroism.
But the invaders were not wholly foolish, for cooler heads among them advocated the use of the shield wall, a defence that could only be smashed by concentrated cavalry charges or long and costly encirclements by troops deploying in a wedge formation to force open the protective rings. As Ambrosius, Vortigern, Uther Pendragon and Artor had learned to their chagrin, the shield wall was an effective tactic, especially as a last resort when the battle was at a desperate stage, as it was now. At worst, the wedge of warriors could be sucked into the enemy ranks and cut to pieces.
Arthur looked down at the pockets of vicious hand-to-hand fighting and cursed with impatience. He longed to experiment with some of the techniques explained so vividly by Germanus, tactics that had been inherited from the Romans, as well as those modified strategies that had served Artor, the Dragon King, so well for so long. But here he stood, his sword sheathed and the Dragon Knife unused, while other men fought desperately to ensure his safety. If it had not been childish to stamp his feet and grind his teeth, Arthur would have done both. Sometimes status can be very difficult to bear, he thought, and aimed a vicious underhand slash at a clump of flowering thistles with his knife, beheading them savagely and wishing they were Jutes.
But his studies during the last five years had made him acutely aware that he was still the veriest tyro, for all his young strength and height. Germanus had called him ‘beanpole’ for the past year or so, telling him that he still had inches to grow and muscle to build, and the boy knew that his prime task was to obey his tutors and learn from their expertise. Perhaps Arthur’s best characteristic, from his masters’ point of view, was his glum acceptance of his duty.
Secretly, Germanus worried how the lad would react when he was forced to kill an enemy in the heat of a pitched battle. He had been haunted by night terrors
after the incident at Crookback Farm, but young warriors did not know their full capacity for violence until they were thrust into the chaos of battle and saw the blood of their victims on their weapons and their hands. Some men were racked by guilt, while others felt nothing at all – both undesirable traits for men who must serve on the Field of Mars. Germanus crossed himself surreptitiously, for he had become a Christian since arriving in Arden and the peaceful words of Jesus were at odds with the practical realities of a professional soldier’s life.
‘Who leads the Saxons on the field?’ Arthur asked, intent on the carnage at the end of the shield wall closer to where they stood. The enemy force was obviously tiring and fewer than forty men were still standing behind the huge shields that offered their only protection against Ector’s company of archers. Trained by Pelles Minor at Corinium, these bowmen peppered any careless or weary warrior who lowered his guard by even a fraction.
‘Unfortunately, our spies have not been able to discover the names of their commanders and do not recognise their symbols, and we couldn’t extract any response from the two prisoners we took earlier. As usual, they preferred to die rather than betray their oaths to their thanes.’
‘I admire the fortitude of the northerners,’ Arthur admitted. ‘Their loyalty is absolute, and they’ll not betray their masters regardless of the pain they must endure. They may be savages who destroy our holy places and kill our peasants, but they are also brave men.’
‘Aye, boy. It’s always a mistake to underestimate the enemy or to demonise him. The Saxons are men, like us, with families and children. He wants what I want: a cosy croft and a bit of land where he can keep his horses, sheep and cows – and some pigs. I like pigs.’
Arthur shot an incredulous glance at his tutor. ‘You like pigs?’
‘What’s wrong with pigs? They’re clean, and more intelligent than most men.’ Germanus ignored Arthur’s exaggerated shudder. ‘The Jutes and the Saxons want security, land and somewhere to set down roots. They’ve been chased out of their homelands by other invaders and, by chance, they’ve found the isles of Britain. They won’t retreat, Arthur. This will become their homeland, or they will die here.’ He sighed. ‘As a man who has no homeland, I can tell you that their honour demands they acquire this land. Although they might die in pursuit of their dream, they know that their sons, brothers and kinsmen will inherit what they’ve won.’
‘I understand that too,’ Arthur said. ‘I almost wish I didn’t, because I can see that it’s difficult to kill a man you can sympathise with.’
‘All too true, Arthur. As far as I can judge, the main differences between the Britons and the Saxons are your literacy and the way you use horses in combat. But to return to your question, we don’t know who leads because we can’t read the symbols on their banners. We send men into their settlements as spies, but the Jutes in particular are hard to fool because their colouring is so different from ours. Dark-haired men stand out. We hear a little of their plans, at the cost of many lives, but nowhere near enough for our needs. However, one name I know is that of Thorkeld Snakekiller. If he is in command, I’d expect to see a flag, a pennon or a shield with a dying serpent on it, but either my old eyes are failing or Thorkeld isn’t involved in the current activity. Of course, he could be intelligent enough not to broadcast his position. Even King Artor used a plain shield in battle, because only a fool attracts danger.
‘There is another name I’ve heard whispered in the halls of power, Arthur, and it’s one that I think you’d best remember. Bran believes the Saxons are supporting the Jutes on the orders of Cissa, may his black heart rot and his conniving brain leak out of his ears. It was a sad day when Hengist and Horsa came to these shores, and after them that damned Aelle and his three sons. Aelle is dead, praise be to Jesus, for King Artor slew him when he secured his crown, but Cymen, Wlencing and Cissa have caused trouble for years. We know that Cymen died at Anderida when it was won back by the Saxons, and Wlencing perished at Noviomagus, but Cissa is still depressingly alive, although he’s old now. Our best efforts have been unable to capture him and end his reign in the rich lands of the south.’
Arthur was fascinated by the history of the Saxon invasion of his homeland and picked up the threads of Germanus’s tale as the arms master continued.
‘Cissa was the youngest son, but he received a nasty sword cut during the battle that killed his father. Some men swear that Artor was responsible.’ Germanus was pointing towards Arthur’s genitals.
The younger man winced. ‘And?’
‘Rumour has it he still has his balls and enjoys women with an ardour akin to desperation since he gained his . . . interesting scar. But no child has been born from his unions, so the wound might have caused more damage than was originally thought, praise be to the Lord of Hosts. We have been told that his warriors don’t dare to make jokes about Cissa’s lack of children within the Saxon lands, but his death would be a huge relief to the Britons in the south who spend their lives under constant threat of attack by his minions. Cissa has a long reach and would be capable of uniting the thanes if he could create a lasting dynasty.’ Germanus’s dour face lightened for a moment in a sardonic grin. ‘Let’s hope that blessed sword cut something vital and his women stay barren. The Saxon lords won’t tolerate a High King whose death could plunge their lands into the chaos we experienced when King Artor died.’
He realised what he had said as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He grimaced apologetically, but Arthur was still absorbed in the larger implications of Saxon politics and hadn’t noticed Germanus’s gaffe. The arms master hurried on.
‘Cissa has had the audacity to rebuild Noviomagus using his own name, so the town is now called Cissa’s Ceaster, would you believe. The man will always be a threat to our people, even if he is lacking half his teeth and a son.’
‘Surely one man can’t have so much influence here, so many leagues from Noviomagus?’
Germanus snorted drily. ‘Aelle and his sons founded the Suth Seaxe, the southern Saxons, who rule from the east through to Noviomagus. Their reputations are unrivalled. Aelle was their first bretwalda, the supreme king of the Saxons, and his son, Cissa, has insisted that he is the second, even if he doesn’t have the full backing of the northern Seaxe. I know bretwalda is a heathen word, but it’s rather like our brit gweldig, so he had the gall to declare himself the king of Britain. You can think of him as the king of Saxon Britain, if such a thing exists, but your people still hold most of the western lands south of the Wall. The Saxons listen to Cissa in those lands that are under their control, and he is the brains behind the stealthy thrust towards our fortresses. We’ve underestimated the bastard since Artor killed his father, who had been the greater threat.’
‘So you believe that we’re caught in a stalemate and all King Artor’s efforts came to nothing in the end?’ Arthur growled in the back of his throat as he stared down at the fields below them.
‘Fool of a boy!’ Germanus cuffed his sullen charge across the back of the head. The Friesian knew that Arthur was angered by any implied criticism of his sire, but the arms master was voicing the talk among the common soldiers who saw the peaceful years of Artor’s reign beginning to disintegrate. ‘That remark demonstrates that you’re not yet ready to understand strategy and political infighting. Cissa survives on the gloss of his father’s superb good luck and his own grim determination to keep what his father won. If he should die without an heir, the Suth Seaxe will be swept from importance by civil war between the thanes as they struggle for the throne. Such a war could last for years unless a man of talent emerges.
‘But King Artor didn’t fight them in vain, for the Suth Seaxe will feel the loss of their best warriors during Artor’s wars for many generations to come. Two of Aelle’s sons died fighting Artor, as did their sire. In his wisdom, Artor fought for breathing space against the invaders, rather than make a futile attempt to win an impossible victory outright. Who can stop the wind? But a clever man can use t
hat same wind, as Artor did. Because Cissa has learned from his experience of our way of life, the Britons of Noviomagus were not slaughtered en masse as the Celts of Anderida died in earlier battles. Cissa learned that even victorious Saxons need peasants to till the earth, for they’ll not soil their hands with dirt and menial toil if they can avoid it. They learned because Artor won that precious commodity, time, which has been of some advantage to both sides in this conflict. Your reasoning is simplistic and you want to argue every order you are given, but at least you are beginning to listen to the voice of experience. Like the Saxons who were confronted by King Artor for thirty years, you have started to learn.’
Arthur grimaced. His arguments against blind obedience could be thrashed out with his tutors after the immediate threat to his kinsmen was eliminated by success on the battlefield.
In the conflict that was unfolding below him, the Britons had finally made inroads into the Saxon defences. By adopting the tactical wiles learned from his father and the strategies developed by King Artor, his great-grandfather, Ector had split the combined Saxon and Jute forces into small, ineffective groups, and all that was now required was to mop up the last desperate resistance.
Saxon and Jute forces never surrendered, for retreat brought dishonour to each warrior forever, living or dead. Exhausted men perished when their shields were splintered and their swords were broken. Each man fought for his own survival and struggled with his foes like one possessed. Each life was relinquished with the maximum damage to their British enemies and Arthur felt a grudging admiration for these men of the sword who showed such courage in the face of certain defeat.
Deciding that further losses of his warriors would serve no purpose, Ector issued orders for an orderly retreat from the collapsed shield walls and their bloody survivors. Unwilling but obedient, the British warriors moved back, clearing the field so that the archers could fell the remaining Saxons without danger to their own men. Then the cavalry was released to finish off the killing. Ultimately, it was a hideous and rather inglorious slaughter, but the Britons finally won the field as twilight came in a rush of ruddy cloud.
