Twelve days later they fought their first and only true battle of the progress. In the early hours of the morning, as they were camped below the crest of a steep scarp of the hills, it started to rain heavily. Since they lay in the open, rolled in their blankets without cover, Arturo gave the order to break camp and move. Every campaigner amongst them knew that the misery of rain soaking through blankets and clothes is abated if it can be met marching rather than lying on wet ground.
The companions formed into their two troops and moved off while the baggage train followed them more slowly with the half-troop of reserve horse in their rear to prevent surprise attack from behind. As the morning wore on, the ground became soaked and soft and slowed up the movement of the two baggage-carts and the rear guard screen of cavalry. Little by little the leading troops gradually drew out ahead. Two troopers rode wide on each flank of the column as scouts, their cloak hoods drawn about their heads against the still driving rain. At midmorning as they rode along the crest of a broad upland sheep run, the two leading troops dropped, down into a great dip in the land and disappeared from the sight of the following reserve troop and baggage column.
At this, moment, from the bushes well to the left flank, there arose a party of fifty or sixty Saxons, who came running hard, howling and shouting and brandishing their weapons, to drive a wedge between the head of the baggage train and the forward two troops of horse now lost to sight. Then, too, from the right flank more Saxons ran from their hiding places and raced to the rear of the train to form a barrier between it and the following guard troopers.
Long before Cuneda, the rear guard commander, could reach for his horn and call the alarm the two parties of Saxons had swept around and amongst the baggage carts, killing all those who had not escaped at the sight of their coming. As the first notes of Cuneda’s horn wailed the alarm the Saxons formed a circle about the carts and stood firm in three ranks to defend their position and their plunder.
That morning as Arturo, the alarm horn sounding in his ears, forced the White One hard back up the slope to the down top and saw the Saxon force surrounding his baggage carts, he learned a lesson he was never to forget. Hard rain makes a man seek, even on the move, what comfort he can. His scouts had ridden with their cloaks cowling their heads, their eyes part-blinkered, their minds on their discomfort rather than on the country around them. The situation before him now was none that had ever been faced in mock attack at the Villa of the Three Nymphs. He acted from impulse and instinct without time even for a prayer to the gods to be with him.
He shouted a command to Lancelo at his side and as his horn began to sound, he drove the White One forward into a gallop with the troops of Gelliga and Durstan following him in a combined wedge-shaped formation.
Pasco, who had been riding his pony with the leading troops, came back up the slope onto the level ground in time to see the tight wedge of flying horses, great scuds of turf flung up behind them by their pounding hooves, burst into the ring of massed Saxons, the swords of the companions swinging and flashing in the rain.
But the Saxons, shouting insults, held their ranks as the cavalry swirled round them on either side, the horses neighing with excitement and others squealing with pain as they were cut down or hamstrung, leaving their riders to fight on foot. Around the baggage carts men and horses circled like a great whirlpool. Watching, Pasco realized—for he had travelled far and seen much in his time—that these were no cutthroat, outcast, plunder-hungry men such as harried the valley of the Tamesis. They stood and fought like warriors and there was one among them, towering head and shoulders above the rest, who wore an iron-banded leather helmet and a short white sheepskin cloak that fell to his waist and was caught by a sword belt with a silver clasp, who was clearly the leader. These men were Hengist’s men from the settled Saxon lands to the east, seasoned men who would stand their ground so long as the faintest flicker of victory burned for them.
Lancelo’s horn blew and the two troops drew back and re-formed, and then the horn blew again to send in the rear guard troop under Cuneda. Arturo watched Cuneda’s attack break against the Saxon ring, swirl about it and pass by, and then, his anger passing and his brain clearing, he realized that cavalry could only do so much against men who stood and fought and kept their ranks.
Durstan’s troop followed Cuneda’s to the attack. As it went in, Arturo dismounted, followed by Gelliga, Borio and all their men, to attack on foot. The cavalry swung left and right of the Saxon ring to harry its flanks and the dismounted companions flung themselves against its front. Leading them was Arturo, sword swinging, his buckler held low to prevent the swift Saxon thrust to the groin, cutting and hacking his way into the ring of men, forcing his way toward their leader in the sheepskin cloak. The Saxon chief, seeing him come, recognizing he must be the leader of the companions, pressed forward through his men to meet him. They met with a great clash of sword and scramasax, Arturo silent while the Saxon shouted taunts and insults at him. In the few moments before the lust of battle claimed him Arturo called silently to the gods to be with him, and then all thought deserted him as he became one with the flash and hiss of his sweeping, jabbing sword.
Pasco, watching them fighting face to face in the confused and bloody throng of men, saw the swing and thrust of cavalry sword and scramasax flash above the sea of heads and straining bodies, lost them, saw them again while the air rang with the fierce shouting of men and the screams of those who fell. Then suddenly, the white-fleeced cloak was gone. A great shout went up from the companions and, like the concerted movement of a raiding flock of crows taking wing in alarm from a field of young corn, the Saxons broke and ran. Pasco, who had seen battle against Saxons many times, knew their mind and their temper. With hope of victory they would fight and stand and die, but when hope or strong leadership went, they would turn and run. Only if they were hopelessly surrounded would they bunch and face their enemy and fight to the end, taking their wounds from the front and going gladly to their death to claim a warrior’s welcome from Woden.
As the Saxons ran, the cavalry re-formed and harried them along the down top until Lancelo’s horn blew the recall. Pasco, riding up on his pony into the carnage and destruction that surrounded the baggage train, found Arturo standing over the dying Saxon chief.
Blood running over his white fleece cloak from a great sword thrust in his chest, he lay with his eyes closed. But after a few moments he slowly opened his eyes, looked up at Arturo and said something in his own language. Then his head dropped to one side as life passed from him.
Arturo, leaning on his sword, said to Pasco, “You know their tongue?”
Pasco nodded. “Yes, my son. He said that now in Hengist’s hall the name of Arturo of the White Horse will no longer make men laugh in scorn.”
Arturo, after a moment’s pause, said solemnly, “May his gods honour him, as this day we humbly honour ours for the victory they have given us.”
That evening they camped beside a muddy, slow-flowing stream and Arturo, after eating, sat by himself on the bankside in a brooding mood which kept his companions from him.
The day that was passing had taught him many things and amongst them those which he knew he should have long marked from his own understanding. Ten of his troopers had been killed, and six of the baggage train, among them Timo the dumb one. Six wounded horses had had to be destroyed. If his name were not now to be held in scorn in Hengist’s hall there was much about his own conceit of himself which gave him self-scorn. The gods, though they had kept his side, had given him lessons which he would never forget. Chief among these was that cavalry by itself was useless against men who would bravely stand and fight on foot. He had to have such men, men who would march and fight afoot, to come behind the cavalry and hold the ground or pour through the breaches made by his horse. He knew now that he had fed too long on his dreams. From this day the hard work began. He had made his, progress and the name of Arturo had spread and was spreading. Behind the word now he had to work and bu
ild and shape the reality of a great command.
11. Dawn Meeting
For more than a month Arturo and his company moved westward and wherever there was town, hamlet, settlement or village to be found they would stop and Arturo would draw up his companions and address the people. The news of the manner and purpose of his coming running ahead of him, there was now no fear of him so that on the high downs when they rested for a night the cattle and sheep minders would come from their runs to see and hear him, and in the wooded valleys he drew the lonely charcoal burners and swineherders wonderingly from the trees into the clearings. Now, when he called for men to join him, there were those few who stayed after their fellows had left. He went south down the river valley to the outskirts of Venta, which, although a shadow of its former self, was more prosperous and inhabited than most towns, and although the gates were closed against him there were those who came over the walls secretly by night to hear and see him. He moved like a man in a dream and spoke like one possessed and there were many of his companions who were hard pressed to keep patience and face with him. But others, like Durstan, Gelliga, Lancelo, Garwain and Borio, who knew his mind and purpose and read them right, knew, too, that Arturo meant to raise his own army and own no master but himself. When the day came to league himself with Gerontius and Ambrosius it would be as equal and with his own troops.
From Venta they turned northwest and at the end of that days march Felos rode into camp. He found Arturo grooming the White One after feeding and watering her for he would let no one serve her but himself.
Arturo said, “Greetings, good Felos. You have been so long gone that I had thought never to see you again.”
Felos, smiling, shook his head. “I would have been with you sooner, my captain. But your lady Daria kept me many weeks at her side.”
“She is well?”
“She is, my lord, and full of deep content.”
“Then why should she keep you so long and deny me the happiness of this news?”
Felos grinned. “Because she would be certain that I might bring you the happiest news you could have.”
Arturo, stroking the neck of the White One with his hand, knowing that for days on end his mind had held no place for Felos or Daria, said, “What news could I have greater than to know she is well?”
“That of which she would be doubly certain before my return. She bids me tell you that she carries your child and all is well with her.”
Arturo’s hand dropped from the White One’s neck and his face stiffened with the quick spasm of his inner joy and pride. Then, with an impulsive movement, he reached into the pouch of his sword belt and drew from it the silver buckle which he had taken from his first true Saxon foe and gave it to Felos, saying, “Such a great gift as you give me with your news deserves a return. Take this in token of my joy. And now go attend to your horse first and then yourself.”
Felos moved off happily, and smiled to himself at his master’s last words … your horse first and then yourself.
When he was gone Arturo stood alone in thought for some time, and there was a mixture of emotion in him which tinged his joy with shame. His love for Daria was deep and true, but it was of a different nature from his love of his country and his desire to see it become great again. But now Daria carried his child.… Aie, more than that, his son it must be if the gods were truly with him; and as though they were and would have him know it there came to him the bright conviction that without delay he must ride to their place and give them his thanks; and more than that, to show no disrespect to the god of Pasco, in whose name he had been baptized, he would take from the place of the gods a gift for the child from this other god to bear home with him.
Impatient now, he called for Durstan and said, “I saddle and ride this night to the Circle of the Gods for there is a thing I must do to set my mind at peace.”
“Alone?”
“Alone, yes. Our company moves that way tomorrow and I shall be waiting for you. Give me no talk against it for my mind is set. Felos will give you the news he brought me and from that you shall, since our thoughts keep pace together, know my reasoning.”
For a moment or two Durstan hesitated, but the look on Arturo’s face told him there would be no shifting him. He said, “There is a moon tonight and you ride through peaceful country. Go, and the gods watch over you.”
“They will—for I go to give them all thanks.”
Losing no time, Arturo saddled the White One, armed himself and rode out of camp. The night was still and balmy and the full moon was passing to its last quarter. He rode north away from Venta to the high ground and then swung westward. But well behind him, trailing on his left flank, another marked and followed him, a man on a dark horse, heavily draped in a cloak which had grown ragged and torn and hid the sword he carried. Behind him was slung a bow and a sheaf of arrows hung at his side. The man’s face, under its unkempt growth of beard, was drawn and haggard, but there was a dark gleam in his eyes which seen close would have told his joy. Many a time had Inbar in the past been on the point of turning from his hunt, but now he was joyful that hunger and thirst and hard lying and the perils of following the companions had not drawn him from his quest. Why Arturo should leave camp and ride into the night alone he did not know or care. One desire only burned in him and he waited now only for the meeting of time and place to give him the reward and the reformation which his manhood demanded.
Toward dawn, with a light ground mist rising knee-high over the land, Arturo came from a belt of trees out onto open ground and saw ahead of him on the sheep-bitten slopes of the down the great circle of henge stones silhouetted blackly against the westward-dying moon. As he had ridden through the night his thoughts had been full of Dana and the coming child, and of Daria and his days with her. Sparse though they had been, each one now seemed like a wondrous jewel inlaid with precious stones and enamelled with flaming colours. The gods had marked him for greatness to serve his country and he would make her by the grace of the gods a queen for all men, as she was now queen for him.
He rode into the great circle of stones and, slipping from the White One’s back, took his knife from his belt and walked toward the fallen slab where long before he had hidden for safekeeping the silver chalice which had once held the blood of Pasco’s god. As he moved away the White One lowered her head and began to graze on the sweet downland grass and herbs.
Kneeling, Arturo dug into the turf and quickly unearthed the chalice. He brushed it free of soil with his hands and the moonlight touched it so that it gleamed dully. At this moment Inbar, on foot, his horse left tethered to a thorn bush out of sight, stepped noiselessly from behind one of the tall stones. In his hands he held the drawn bow and the goose-feather-flighted arrow, armed with its sharp iron tip. There would be no honour in this killing, and he needed none since honour had been long lost to him. To his right the White One raised her head from cropping and looked at him. The sun, yet to show itself over the edge of the eastern land, already paled the sky with light and touched the underbellies of the low morning clouds with red and gold wash. The kneeling figure of Arturo was clear against the growing light, and already overhead a lone lark sang and the meadow pippits looped their way in morning flight-across the juniper-tufted down-land.
As Arturo slowly began to rise to his feet, the White One whinnied gently and uneasily. Arturo, knowing her moods and manners, swung round, suddenly alive with an instinct of coming danger. The arrow, meant to take him below the left shoulder blade, sped true across the stone-encircled grass, the hiss of its feathered flight one long, low note against the morning quiet, and the deadly point sank deep into his body below his right ribs. He cried aloud with the sudden shock of pain and staggered backward, the silver chalice dropping from his hands. He would have fallen but the great stone behind him held him up and through the mist of pain which briefly dimmed his eyes he saw Inbar racing toward him with his sword drawn.
They fought then, without shield or buckler, sword-armed, and
no words passing between them while the blood ran dark over the linen shirt under Arturo’s open tunic. The sparks leapt blue and gold from the clash of their swords and the White One, disturbed and frightened, raced round the great inner circle and whinnied high. In a moment of withdrawal Arturo reached down with his left hand to the hampering shaft of the arrow lodged in his side and snapped it short. His hand came back, dark as ebony with the spurt of his own blood, and he prayed to the gods, if it were his destiny to die, to give him lifeblood enough and strength to kill Inbar before he fell himself.
And the gods were good to him and gave him this boon. He fought with the blood-veil fast clouding his eyes and, fighting, he remembered how his father had faced and fought this man, and of the dishonour which had been planned for his mother. They fought without words in the growing light of the burgeoning morning. The grass about them was trampled and scarred and bloodstained and, when the moment came that his sword slashed across the neck of his foe and Inbar fell with his death cry bubbling from his blood-filled throat like the wailing cry of an upland curlew, all reality passed from him. He fell to the ground and passed from violence into the calm of a dream of fair days and love’s delights. He walked with Daria in the river pasture and plucked for her the scent-heavy meadowsweet plumes. He rode the forest paths with her lodged between his arms, riding before him on the White One, her dark hair in the wind making a moving lattice before his eyes and the sweet warmth of her woman’s body filling his nostrils with a headier perfume than any that could come from the flowering summer blooms. With time out of joint, he walked with her through the villa courtyard to the fountain of the nymphs and she held in her arms the manchild which was his, and the child, seeing the splashing waters fling a veil of drifting, jewelled spray to trap the sunlight in rainbow colours, stretched out his hands to take them and crowed with delight; and with the sound of his son’s voice in his ears and the sight of Daria’s red lips parted to touch the child’s warm cheek with a kiss, lips redder than the breast of any spring-fired robin’s, he drifted further into the dark shades of oblivion.
The Circle of the Gods Page 19
