Born of the Sun

by Joan Wolf

  On the morning of January 2 the West Saxon army moved out of Dynas. Ceawlin and Crida, with their eorls beside them, rode at the head of the marching men. Over each band of thanes and marching ceorls floated the banner of the eorl whom they served. At the head of the whole, carried by a thane on a great bay stallion, floated Ceawlin's banner of the white horse. By late afternoon they had traveled the twelve miles to the field of Deorham. There was as yet no sign of the Brit-Welsh, so the West Saxons lit cookfires and settled down to wait.

  It was cold, but Ceawlin had seen to it that food was plentiful. The men were in good spirits, and after the dinners were eaten, Alric, sitting close to the fire to keep his fingers warm, began to play. At a little distance from the harper, around another fire, sat Ceawlin and his eorls.

  "My scouts say they are camped but five miles north of here," Ceawlin said. "We will rouse before light and take up battle positions. I do not desire to be surprised by a dawn attack."

  Grunts of assent came from all around.

  "The battle commands will be as follows," said Ceawlin, and there was sudden, absolute silence. "I will hold my own hall thanes and the Atrebates as a reserve. When I see which way the battle is going, where the enemy is strongest, then will I commit the extra men to the field."

  All nodded; no one spoke. This was a tactic Ceawlin had used before and it had always proved successful. It enabled the king to place his undoubtedly awesome powers where they were most needed.

  "Penda," Ceawlin said into the silence, "you will have the center." This was no surprise, but still Penda smiled with pleasure.

  "Yes, my lord," he said.

  "Bertred, you will take the left."

  Again, no surprise. Nods of acceptance.

  "Crida," said Ceawlin, "you will have the right." Crida's face lit like a candle; the rest of the eorls frowned.

  "Ceawlin...." It was Ine speaking. "Is that wise? Crida is brave as a lion, no one doubts that. But he is inexperienced."

  "He is prince of Wessex," said Ceawlin. "He will command the right."

  Silence. Then Wuffa said practically, "Where do you want me to be, Ceawlin?"

  "With Bertred, on the left. Ine, you will lend your support to Penda in the center. The men from Wokham and Gildham will fight under Crida on the right."

  Nods all around. "Very well," said Ceawlin. He lifted his cup of beer. "May Woden take them," he said. His son and his eorls pledged likewise, "May Woden take them!" They drank, and then the eorls went off to see to their men.

  * * * *

  They woke to snow. Not heavy, but steady. Thanes and ceorls unwrapped themselves from their cloaks, ate the hot porridge served up by Ceawlin's cooks, and took their places in the line of battle. They waited for an hour, stamping their feet to keep warm, cloaks draped over heads and shoulders, their banners flying bravely in the drifting whiteness.

  Then, from the far side of the snow-filled field, came the noise of marching men. The Brit-Welsh, following the call of their princes and their blood, had come to fight.

  The two armies facing each other this snowy morning numbered slightly more than two thousand men, the largest force assembled for battle in Britain since Arthur's victory at Badon a century before. And this coming battle on Deorham field was fully as crucial to Coinmail and his followers as Badon had been to their forebears. To lose was to divide the Welsh from the British in Dumnonia; to lose was to leave Dumnonia vulnerable to Saxon invasion; to lose was in all probability to say farewell to what remained of Celtic Britain.

  The Brit-Welsh battle horns blew. Ceawlin's battle leaders, on foot like the rest of their men, shouted the order for readiness. Crida stood under his personal banner, felt the snow stinging cold on his face, and listened to the singing of the blood in his veins. There were two lines of archers before him, and as the line of the Brit-Welsh began to move forward, Ceawlin's archers fired once and then again before melting back into the ranks to allow the sword-wielding thanes to move to the fore. Incredibly, over all the noise of men and horns, Crida heard his father's voice. He lifted his sword and ran forward, his men beside and behind him.

  The two armies came together with a crash.

  It seemed to Crida, as the white world began to turn red with blood, that the two enemies were evenly matched. Both lines of battle were holding their own; neither side seemed able to push the other one back. He did not know who was commanding the wing opposing him, as the whole of the Brit-Welsh force was fighting under the banner of the red dragon which had been Arthur's emblem when he reigned as king.

  He felt a blade glance off the chain mail on his shoulder and turned to return a blow that proved more deadly. Then one of his thanes was beside him. Crida set his teeth and began to press forward with all the force and skill that were in him. "Come on!" he shouted to his men. "Push them back!"

  Ceawlin watched the battle from the saddle of his stallion. It was difficult to see in the snow, and it was a minute before he recognized that the deadlock was beginning to break a little on the right. Crida was pressing forward. The evenly matched battle line was showing its first crack. He had to move now, before the Brit-Welsh could recover.

  "Gereint!" Ceawlin called. "A hundred men to reinforce Crida on the right! Now!" Then, as the Atrebates ran forward eagerly, "My hall thanes, to the center with me."

  "And me, Father?" said Ceowulf eagerly.

  "Listen, my son ..." Ceawlin dismounted and threw his reins to a groom. He had not intended to give Ceowulf any command, had intended actually to keep him out of the fight if possible, but now ... "If you see our center and right beginning to overwhelm them, and if I am still in the midst of the fight, take the rest of the Atrebates and join Bertred on the left."

  He had a brief glimpse of glowing blue eyes and very white teeth and then he was gone, racing forward at the head of his thanes, to hurl himself into the battle. The ceorls at the rear moved aside to let him through; then he was well forward, his own thanes solidly beside and behind him. He caught a glimpse of Penda through the snow and knew where his front line was. Penda was always at the front. Crida was well before him.

  "Follow me!" he shouted, and began to hew his way through the ranks of the Brit-Welsh, clearing a path for his men to follow. The fighting was so close that the snow fell on the men and not the ground. The Celts fell back before Ceawlin's ferocious assault, and Penda, seeing this, pressed forward with renewed vigor.

  Coinmail, who was commanding the center, shouted to rally his men. The snow began to fall harder, limiting vision to a paltry few feet. It was then that the men who knew they were in the middle of Coinmail's line saw the great banner of the white horse driving toward them. It was merely a wing of men, Ceawlin and his hall thanes who had thrust their way into the heart of Coinmail's army, but the Brit-Welsh, who could not see, thought that their whole front line had been broken. They panicked and turned to run. The men behind them, who could not see either, followed suit.

  Ceowulf also was blinded by the snow, but he heard the change in sound coming from the field. He did not see his father returning, and, desperate not to miss the battle, he finally commanded the remaining Atrebates to follow him and charged in to reinforce Bertred on the left.

  Coinmail, seeing his men begin to drop their weapons and run from the field, worked desperately hard to shore up the front of his line. He was pushing his way toward the hated banner that waved over Ceawlin when a sword blow landed on his head. His helmet saved him. Stupid Saxons, he thought, they didn't wear helmets. He had cleaved a respectable number of blond heads in this battle, but the one blond head he most desperately wanted had eluded him. He had not seen Ceawlin in the battle at first, but he was here now. Here, and deep inside Coinmail's lines. If he did nothing else in his life, Coinmail was going to kill the West Saxon king.

  His helmet had been loosened by the previous sword blow, and when the second blow landed on it, it slipped forward over his brow. Coinmail's head came up as he tried to see from under the leather blinder, an
d for a moment his neck was cleanly exposed. The moment was brief but fatal. One of Ceawlin's hall thanes cut his throat.

  The Dobunni, who had been following Coinmail, halted when they saw their prince fall. Then a great victory shout came from the left; the voices were Saxon.

  "We are beaten!" The cry went up and down the ranks of Brit-Welsh. More and more Celts, confused by loss of leadership, blinded by snow, followed their instincts and ran from the death they were sure was before them.

  As the enemy began to disappear into the snow, Ceawlin sent orders to his commanders not to pursue. With ruthless efficiency the princes and eorls pulled back their rampaging men, who, hot with the blood lust of victory, were ready to hunt down and fell any Celt they could get within the reach of their swords.

  * * * *

  "Their princes are all dead," Ceawlin said to Penda later when the eorl demanded why the victory had not been followed up. "They are no danger without leadership: the Welsh will simply flee back to their valleys, and the Dobunni I wish to make my people. I have sworn to be as good a lord to them as ever I have been to the Atrebates."

  Ceawlin and his eorls and his sons were gathered together under the roof of a hastily rigged tent near the battlefield. On Deorham field itself the wounded were being separated from the dead, with the former being treated and the latter laid aside for burial. The question Ceawlin was answering belonged to Penda, but the king's eyes were on Gereint.

  "Do we march next for Glevum?" Crida spoke the question into the accepting silence that had fallen after Ceawlin's last words.

  "First we enter Aquae Sulis," Ceawlin replied. "If the city is anything like Silchester was under the Britons, it will be half-empty and crumbling. I will formally claim it for Wessex and hold an assembly for the people to reassure them." His eyes turned to Bertred. "Bertred, you I designate as my governor. Romsey is the manor closest to Aquae Sulis, and the city will need leadership if it is to become a useful part of the kingdom."

  Bertred looked pleased. "Thank you, my lord. I shall not fail you."

  "You never have," said Ceawlin, his matter-of-fact voice robbing the moment of any uncomfortable emotion.

  "Then shall we go to Glevum?" asked Crida.

  "Then Corinium," said Ceawlin.

  "You are claiming all the lands of the Dobunni?" It was Gereint's voice this time.

  "Yes." Ceawlin's eyes were level. "All the lands from Kent to the Sabrina Sea," he said. "The cities of Aquae Sulis, Corinium, and Glevum will become West Saxon chesters. And I promise you, Gereint, that under me they will prosper."

  Gereint sighed and with a flicker of humor in the corners of his mouth said, "I don't doubt it."

  "Who will govern in Corinium?" asked Inc.

  "Ceowulf, with you to advise him," Ceawlin answered promptly. "I shall give you lands in the neighborhood of the city, Ine, to settle on whom in your family you will."

  Ine smiled. He had a large number of sons and wished to keep his own manor of Odinham intact for the eldest. "I shall be pleased to accept such a charge," he said.

  Ceowulf was scarlet but his face was perfectly serious as he answered formally, "I thank you, my father, for such a trust."

  "You are a son to be proud of, Ceowulf," Ceawlin said with equal formality. "A fine and a brave warrior. In Corinium, which I shall rename Cirencester, you will learn how to be a lord."

  Then he turned to his eldest. His heart swelled with pride as he regarded the boy. It was Crida who had given him the opening he had needed to win, and both of them knew it. "To you, Crida, my son, I give the thanks of my heart," he said. "To you I shall leave a kingdom unequaled in England for size and for power."

  "My father," said Crida, and though his face was almost stern, his eyes glowed. "Your thanks and your love are all that I desire."

  For a brief moment Ceawlin closed his hand on Crida's forearm; then he threw his head up and said briskly, "Once we are finished here, the ceorls are to be sent home. Each eorl may take twenty thanes for his following. Then we march for Aquae Sulis, the new West Saxon chester of Bath."

  * * * *

  Niniane knew what had happened as soon as the British survivors of Deorham began to stream into Glevum. As ever, Ceawlin had triumphed. He always did. She wondered why she lived in such fear and trembling every time he went to war.

  With Coinmail, Farinmail, and Condidan dead, the threat of panic hung in the air of Glevum. Frightened men told terrible tales of Saxon ferocity in battle. The Welsh did not tarry in Glevum but streamed west with all haste, crossing into the relative safety of Wales. Coinmail's men, who had fled instinctively to the place of their starting out, did not know what to do.

  It was Niniane who took charge. Eithne was too frightened at the magnitude of the defeat to know what to do. Coinmail's ten-year-old son, who had inherited his father's spirit, was fierce in wanting to make a stand against the Saxons, but he was too young to get a hearing from the rest of the Dobunni chiefs.

  "The king is a man of mercy," Niniane told Eithne and the tribe's leading men who had survived the Battle of Deorham. "He is like a lion in battle, but after, he is a man of mercy. You have naught to fear from him."

  They said nothing, but looked distinctly dubious.

  "Did he hunt you down as you left the field?" Niniane asked.

  "No," came the reluctant reply. Then, "It was snowing so hard, it was difficult to see."

  Niniane shrugged. "He could have sent his men after you like hounds after a fox, but he did not. He let you go. He does not wish to destroy the Dobunni; he wishes to be your lord and your king."

  "Never will I bow my head to a Saxon!" It was Coinmail's son, Col. Niniane turned to the boy. He was all his mother to look at, golden curls, clear blue eyes. Niniane's son Sigurd looked more like her brother than this boy did. But that relentless voice—that was unmistakably Coinmail.

  "You will bow your head to this Saxon," she said, unaware that her own voice held exactly the same note as her nephew's. "Your father began this conflict. It was he who challenged Bevan's right to marry his daughter where he would. Ceawlin had no choice but to act as he did."

  "Ceawlin should never have allowed his eorl to marry his son into Dumnonia." It was one of the chief men of the Dobunni speaking now, a man of perhaps forty-five, who stood high in the councils of the tribe.

  "It was Bevan who proposed the marriage." Niniane's small, delicate face was almost forbiddingly stern. "What would any of you have done should Bertred have offered Romsey to one of your sons?" There was silence. "Exactly," she said after a minute. "And would you not have expected your prince to uphold your rights as well?"

  "There is some truth in what you say, my lady," another man reluctantly agreed. "The fault was Bevan's in that he made the offer in the first place."

  "The fault was Coinmail's for demanding that he forswear the betrothal," Niniane snapped. Her small, tip-tilted nose was looking alarmingly imperious. "Coinmail has schemed for years to raise an army to fight Ceawlin," she told the circle of somber-faced men. "If you are not blind or deaf, you know that. Well, he got his wish and he died for it. Thanks to his plots, the Dobunni are about to become West Saxons. Which, let me tell you, my lords, is your good fortune. The Atrebates did not fight for you, they fought for Ceawlin. Not because they fear him, but because they love him."

  "The Atrebates are slaves and cowards," said Col.

  He was his father all over again. She would not have it, would not let it all begin again. "If you want to live, Col," his aunt said to him, her voice very, very quiet, "never let me hear you say such words again." The boy, who was not a coward, went suddenly pale. There was no doubt in any man's mind who heard her that Niniane meant every word she spoke.

  Eithne, who had been silent for the whole time, put a hand on her son's arm. "Col is upset," she said. "He did not mean it."

  Niniane ignored them. "This is what we will do," she said to the rest of the men. They all took a step closer, the better to hear.

  * *
*

  Chapter 44

  The countryside of the Dobunni was bleak white with winter, but Crida thought that the rolling hills would be glorious in the spring and summer. Good land. Rich land. A great deal of empty land. A fine acquisition for Wessex.

  Glevum itself was distinctly unimpressive. Bath had been magnificent even in decay, and Cirencester had also once been a fine city, the tribal capital of the Dobunni. But Glevum was very small, with few Roman buildings of any distinction. It had come into significance only in the last hundred years, mainly because it was the farthest west of all the Dobunni towns and thus the safest from Saxon invasion.

  The Roman houses were interspersed with wooden structures, none of which approached the sophisticated architecture of Winchester. There was not a soul in sight under the broad gray sky. Crida glanced out the side of his eyes to his father, who was riding beside him at the head of their men. They were moving up the main street of the deserted town, and as his son watched, Ceawlin's eyes suddenly narrowed. Crida instantly looked back to the road and saw that a line of men had appeared on the front step of the large wooden building some three hundred feet before them. They were Britons. Ceawlin continued to walk his horse forward, his eyes on the men. When they had advanced another hundred feet, one of the Britons came forward to stand in the road. Ceawlin raised a hand to halt his thanes, then went forward himself, alone.

  "Owain," Crida heard his father say with what sounded like real pleasure in his easy yet unmistakably authoritative voice. "Greetings." Ceawlin spoke in British.

  "My lord king," the man replied. His face was reserved. "We bid you welcome to Glevum and we cry your mercy."

  Ceawlin swung off his horse. "Of course you have my mercy. I will speak with your chiefs about it." Then he grinned, approached the smaller man, and lightly put a hand on his shoulder. "It is good to see you, old friend," the king said. "Gereint and Ferris are with me too."

  The man's rigid face wavered, then cracked into a tentative return smile. Crida, watching, thought dispassionately that no small part of his father's success came from knowing how to woo a man with smile and touch. The stiff Dobunni leader was actually laughing as he led Ceawlin forward to meet the men who were assembled to submit to their new lord. Ceawlin accepted the bows with smiling ease, talked for perhaps three minutes, then turned to signal Crida forward.