by Joan Wolf
* * * *
Ceawlin was even more upset than Gereint had expected. He was so upset that it took a few minutes for him to react to the news that Gereint was also bringing him word of Atrebates support.
He stared at Gereint, his eyes narrowed to mere slits of color. "How many men can you raise, Gereint?"
It was with great pride that Gereint answered, "Nearly two hundred."
Ceawlin's eyes opened wider. "Two hundred!"
"All the men who can carry a sword will come, Ceawlin."
Ceawlin's mouth twisted in a smile that held no humor. "Niniane will be pleased to know she was not kidnapped in vain."
"It was not just Niniane," Gereint replied, "but that was certainly part of it."
There was silence as Ceawlin paced up and down the length of the hearth. They were meeting in the king's hall the day after Gereint had spoken to Crida. After a minute's silence Ceawlin said, "I can raise perhaps seven hundred men without the Atrebates. It should be enough."
Gereint frowned and stared at the restlessly pacing figure of his king. "What do you mean? I have said that we will fight for you."
Ceawlin came to a halt at the far end of the hearth, put his hands behind his back, and stared at Gereint. "I want you to tell Coinmail that you have two hundred men willing to fight for me. Then I want you to tell him that you will stay home if he will return Niniane to Winchester."
Gereint's eyes opened wide. "Ceawlin ... Niniane would not want you to do that. She would say that the best way to get her back would be to best Coinmail in battle. He will not harm her; I am confident of that. Coinmail is not cruel, you know. He does not love Niniane, but killing her or hurting her would have no purpose. He will keep her safe for you."
"It is not that...." Ceawlin turned to put a foot up on the hearth. He bent a little forward so that his hair swung forward, a thick curtain to screen his face. "She is with child, Gereint. That is what is worrying me."
"Niniane has ever been lucky in childbirth, Ceawlin. Six children she has borne you and always come through healthy and strong. What reason to worry now?"
"You cannot escape fate forever," Ceawlin said. "And I have bad feelings about this pregnancy. She does not look well." Then, violently, "Gods! I should never have let her go to Bryn Atha!"
Gereint had never heard such a voice from Ceawlin before. He stared at the king's profile, most of which was still hidden by that silver screen of hair. Then, "Ceawlin, if he thinks you want her back as badly as that, he will never let her go."
Ceawlin's head jerked up. "Think," Gereint said. "It was Crida who asked the crucial question. What is the point in taking Niniane hostage?"
Ceawlin's head moved a little, but he did not reply.
"The last thing Coinmail wants is for you to back out of Cedric's marriage. He will not use Niniane to try to get that concession from you. So ... why?"
"You tell me," Ceawlin said.
"He hates you." Gereint's mouth twisted. "And it is a very personal hatred too. He would deny that, say he is only doing his duty as a Briton, but he hates you, Ceawlin. I think he cannot forgive you for defeating him that time at Beranbyrg; he cannot forgive you for giving him his life. I think he took Niniane because he hoped it would hurt you. If he knows how much he has hurt you, he will never return her."
There was a white line around Ceawlin's mouth. "She is afraid of him," he said.
"She was always afraid for you, not for herself." Gereint searched for words that would help. "In her own way," he finally said, "Niniane is as tough as Coinmail."
Ceawlin's response was a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I know that. If only she were not with child!"
* * * *
Niniane's feelings echoed Ceawlin's. It was nearly sixty miles from Bryn Atha to Glevum, and by the time they arrived in the city Niniane was thoroughly exhausted. Coinmail had actually slowed his pace slightly to accommodate his sister, but it had still been too long and too arduous a journey. She scarcely looked around her as the horses came through the town gate. Glevum, she knew, had never been more than a market town for the Romans, and the quick glimpse she had of a small, unimpressive forum and decayed-looking town hall only confirmed what she had expected to see.
Coinmail's residence was of timber and had been built by his father-by-marriage a decade before. It was rougher-looking than the houses in Winchester, but the hall inside had a glowing hearth and there were outside stairs to the loft, which was used for sleeping. Coinmail's wife took one look at Niniane and immediately put her to bed with a hot drink. The bedstead straw was sweet and the linens fresh and Niniane slept like the dead for ten hours. She woke with a pain in her back.
She said nothing, hoping it was just a muscle ache from the long ride. She rose and dressed in the clothes from her saddlebags that a maid brought to her, and went slowly and carefully down the loft stairs. Coinmail's wife was in the hall below, and when she saw Niniane she ordered a bowl of steaming porridge and insisted that Niniane sit and eat.
Coinmail's wife was named Eithne and she had golden hair and blue eyes and looked kind. Niniane made a great effort to respond to her questions, but with every passing minute the pain in her back was growing worse. She was terrified she was going to lose her baby.
She ate the porridge, thinking it would strengthen her. The pains got strong. Finally she could no longer hide her distress; the air in the hall was chill and damp, but she was sweating and there were marks like bruises under her eyes. When Eithne said, "Are you ill, my sister?" she made herself answer, "I ... I fear I am going to miscarry."
Eithne came to put an arm around her shoulders. "Come back to bed," she said. "I will send for the midwife."
After an hour of fierce contractions, the blood began to flow out of her. The baby, Niniane thought as blood gushed from between her legs, I am losing our baby, Ceawlin.
"Mother of God," she heard Eithne say. "Can you not get it to stop?"
The pain had let up a little, but now instead of being hot she was cold. Very cold. Her skin felt clammy. "Niniane." It was a voice she did not recognize. "How do you feel, Niniane?"
She opened her eyes and saw strange blue eyes. She closed her eyes again. "Bring more cloths," she heard someone say. "We must stop this bleeding."
She was at a very great distance, floating, floating. Her body hurt but it did not seem to have anything to do with her. She felt free. Dimly, as if from very far away, she heard the voices of women.
And then she saw Ceawlin. He was so vividly present to her that she opened her eyes, expecting him to be there. But there were only the women.
I am so tired, she thought. So tired. But if she floated away she might never see Ceawlin again. I must stay awake, she thought, and frowned with the effort of it.
After what seemed to her a long time, someone said, "We must get her into a clean bed." She looked down. There was blood everywhere. Someone was washing her and then the women were trying to get her into a clean sleeping gown. She tried to help. "Don't move," an authoritative feminine voice said. "I will get someone to lift you into the other bed."
A man came in and she was put into a bed with clean, fresh linens. "Thank you," she said, and fell asleep.
She was ill for days. She lay in bed, weak and bloodless, and grieved. Coinmail's wife was very kind, but Niniane longed for Nola. And for Ceawlin. He loved his children so ... he would grieve as much as she. Then, when the midwife told her that she would bear no more, her heart was near to breaking.
She saw nothing of her brother. It was not until she was finally out of bed and able to go down to the hall that she met him again. His gray eyes looked her up and down. "I am glad you are feeling better," he said.
Niniane's face was very still and for a moment her delicate features bore an uncanny likeness to his. "You murdered my baby," she said, her voice cold as death. "I hope Ceawlin drives you and your followers into the sea."
"There is little likelihood of that," Coinmail replied. "I am raising a
lmost the whole of South Wales."
"Ceawlin has never lost a battle, my brother," Niniane returned with relish. "And you have never won one. Consider that. Your men certainly will."
"Get her out of here," Coinmail said to his wife.
"You brought me here, Coinmail." Niniane's eyes were pure smoke. "Your mistake." And she turned with arrogant disdain to walk away with Eithne.
* * * *
Gereint sent a British spy into Glevum to gather what news he could, and it was from this source that Ceawlin learned of Niniane's miscarriage.
"The girl I talked to is one of Eithne's handmaids," the youngster who had been posing as a Dobunni tribesman told Ceawlin. "She said the queen was near to death but that she is growing stronger now."
The relief Ceawlin felt was overwhelming. He was sorry about the baby, but, considering the circumstances, he thought things had turned out for the best. It was over and she was all right. Now he could give his full attention to the war.
The armorers were put into production day and night, forging spears and making arrows. The ceorls would have to be given arms; unlike the thanes, they had none of their own. Ceawlin rode from manor to manor, consulting with his eorls, checking supplies, speaking personally to the thanes and then the ceorls, rallying enthusiasm.
Autumn advanced into winter. News came that the armies of Condidan and Farinmail had marched out of Wales and were camping to the north of Glevum, on the banks of the river Severn. The Welsh chieftains together had raised an incredible eight hundred men.
"Coinmail has raised four hundred more," Ceawlin said to Crida as the two of them sat late one December night by the fire in the king's hall. "The Dobunni and a goodly number from northern Dumnonia. Or so goes the word from my scouts."
"You have near a thousand yourself, Father," Crida said. "And the Britons will be no match for the thanes."
"I want to force this battle now, Crida," Ceawlin said. "Hearts are high. Now is the time to strike."
Crida frowned. "But the weather. Would it not be better to wait for the end of winter?"
"Easier but not better. We have arms enough. The ceorls will not be worrying about planting their fields. Coinmail will not be expecting us to move. The time is now."
Crida's eyes had begun to glow. "Where?"
Ceawlin grinned. "I think we ought to hold Yule at Dynas this year," he said. And Crida laughed.
* * * *
Bevan, prince of Dynas, was appalled when the messenger came from the king stating his intention of holding Yule at the villa. When a messenger came from Bertred the following day inviting the British prince to sojourn with his daughter at Romsey for the month, Bevan accepted with alacrity. He remained at Dynas only long enough to greet Ceawlin and hastily assure him that the villa was at his disposal. Then, to the well-concealed contempt and amusement of the West Saxon king, he took horse for Romsey.
"What a worm the man is," Ceowulf said with incredulity after Bevan had left the room.
"True, but he has served us well," Ceawlin answered. He looked at the two sons who had accompanied him and his hall thanes to Dynas. Ceowulf was inches taller than Crida but he was yet only fourteen. He would never have been allowed to join this expedition if Niniane had been in Winchester. Ceawlin knew that, yet he had not had the heart to deny his son's plea. This would be the greatest confrontation between Briton and Saxon since Badon. How could he refuse the boy a part in it? Ceowulf was a son to be proud of, full of courage and skilled in weaponry. Freed of Niniane's maternal anxiety, Ceawlin had allowed Ceowulf to join the army.
Ceawlin looked at the charcoal brazier glowing in the corner of the Roman room. "Pleasant as it would be to stay here in the warmth," he told his boys, "I'm afraid we must first see to the supplies." Ceawlin had brought wagon loads of food with him for the men whom he expected to be gathering within the week. The king placed little reliance on his army being able to live off the winter-bare countryside of Dynas. "And I want to assign camping places to each of the eorls," he added. "The more organized and comfortable the army is in camp, the better they will fight."
"Yes, sir," said two bright-eyed boys, and with absolutely no sign of reluctance they followed Ceawlin out into the cold.
It was hours later, after the food had been got in out of the weather, after the hall thanes had been bedded down, after the excited princes had fallen into the bed they were to share in one of the villa sleeping rooms; Ceawlin was sitting alone in front of the glowing brazier in Bevan's sleeping room. Outside the window a light snow had begun to fall.
Ceawlin sat comfortably in the silent room, his long legs stretched out before him, a cup of wine in his hand. He was well pleased with the way this campaign was going. Before a month had passed he fully expected to have extended Wessex all the way to the Sabrina Sea.
He sipped the wine, then stood and went to look out the window. It was too dark to see the snow. A little snow would be all right, he thought, but he did not want too much. He did not want to delay this coming battle. All his instincts told him to press for it quickly; Ceawlin always followed his instincts. They had never failed him yet.
Coinmail had played right into his hands, he thought as he gazed out into the unrevealing dark. Niniane had thought the opposite, but it was not true. His wife did not know that Ceawlin had long coveted the rich lands to the west of Wessex. He had coveted them but he had also understood that to conquer them by force would be to incur the enmity of his British subjects. What he would gain by such a move would not offset what he would lose.
Then had come Bevan's marriage offer. At first it had seemed a splendid chance to gain a foothold in Dumnonia by peaceful means. Then had come Coinmail's challenge, and the vision of a far greater gain had loomed before him. Aquae Sulis. Glevum. Corinium. Wessex would be the largest kingdom in England. And for the first time in Saxon history, the Britons of Dumnonia would be cut off from the Britons of Wales. Ceawlin's eyes glittered as he considered the possibilities. He would be the most powerful king in all of England. He would be the Bretwalda, the High King.
He finished his wine and put the cup down on a small table of inlaid walnut. There was no doubt in his mind that the lands of the Dobunni would do better under his rule than they had under Coinmail's. Ceawlin had been a good and a just king to his Atrebates subjects; he would be the same to the Dobunni. The blood of Woden ran strong in his veins. He had been born to be king; to be a great king; to be Bretwalda. It was his fate.
Ceawlin stripped off his tunic and prepared to go to bed.
* * *
Chapter 43
As soon as Ceawlin and his men rode into Dynas, a British scout took horse for Glevum to report to Coinmail. Then, in successive days, as more and more Saxons poured into the villa, the reports to the British prince were updated.
"He has garrisoned Dynas with an army of near seven hundred men," Coinmail told his fellow princes as they met to discuss the situation in Coinmail's hall in Glevum. "It is a direct challenge to us."
"So it is." Farinmail blew his nose vigorously and spoke around the loud honking noise he made.
Coinmail, fastidious Roman that he was, looked faintly disgusted. "He has moved an army into Dumnonia," Farinmail said, wiping his still-dripping nose on his sleeve. "The question is, do we go to him or do we wait for him here?"
"Go to him," said Condidan immediately. "We will lose the confidence of our men if we let it look as if he has intimidated us."
Coinmail's auburn brows were drawn together into a fine straight line. "I would rather not march through this weather. It is looking like snow."
"I would prefer to wait for better weather also," Condidan answered, "but Ceawlin has forced the action. His reputation is too great. If we delay in moving to meet him, it will look as if we are afraid of him. We cannot afford that. We have the greater numbers; if our men keep their hearts high, we will win. If they have doubts, the battle will be lost before ever it is fought."
With deep reluctance Coinmail was for
ced to agree. He hated to admit to Ceawlin's superiority in anything, but the myth of the Saxon's invincibility in battle had spread even into Wales. They could not allow their men to begin to suspect that their leaders were apprehensive of facing the Saxon in battle. They would have to answer Ceawlin's challenge.
On January 1, the day of the New Year, the combined Brit-Welsh force of Coinmail, Farinmail, and Condidan marched out of Glevum and headed south. It was snowing.
* * * *
The sheds and barns of Dynas were filled with men. Ceawlin walked from war band to war band, speaking to the leaders, joking with the men, inspecting arms. Overhead the sky was gray, full of snow yet to fall. The landscape was all gray and brown and white: colorless and bleak. Ceawlin's spirits were high. He had heard just that morning that the Brit-Welsh were coming south.
He did not intend to meet them at Dynas. Dynas was only the challenge. It was too far to the east to serve the purpose he needed. He wanted a victory that would ensure him the city of Aquae Sulis, yet he wanted to be on the road north to Glevum as well. He had decided the day after he arrived in Dynas to stand his ground at Deorham, a small market center six miles north of Aquae Sulis. There was a large field where on market day the wagons were set up; the fight on such a field would be fair and victory should go to the stronger force.
There was little doubt in Ceawlin's mind that he had the stronger force. He was not quite equal in number with the Brit-Welsh, but large numbers of his men were seasoned warriors. Even many of the ceorls had fought before. Face-to-face, man-to-man, he thought he was superior.
The last of his forces to ride in were the Atrebates under Gereint. Two hundred and seventeen of them, ranging in age from fifteen to fifty. Ceawlin's heart swelled with pride to see them. He had protected their lands, fed them in times of famine, stood as a shield between them and their enemies, been their lord. He felt now that their loyalty to him was a sign of his destiny: to be king of both Saxon and Briton. To be Bretwalda.
