I wore warrior rings on my left hand, for in battle they served to protect the fingers, but I put none on my right for the iron rings made gripping a sword or spear more difficult. I strapped leather greaves on my forearms. My helmet was of iron, a simple bowl shape lined with cloth-padded leather, but at the back of it there was a thick flap of hog leather to protect my neck, and earlier in the spring I had paid a smith at Caer Sws to rivet two cheek pieces onto its flanks. The helmet was surmounted by an iron knob from which hung a wolf-tail taken in the deep woods of Benoic. I belted Hywelbane at my waist, pushed my left hand through the leather loops of my shield and hefted my war spear. The spear was taller than a man, its shaft thick as Ceinwyn’s wrist, and at its head was a long, heavy, leaf-shaped blade. The blade was razor sharp, and the steel’s butt ends were rounded smooth so that the blade could not be trapped in an enemy’s belly or armour. I wore no cloak for the day was too hot. Cavan, dressed in his armour, came to me and knelt. ‘If I fight well, Lord,’ he asked, ‘can I paint a fifth point on my shield?’
‘I expect men to fight well,’ I said, ‘so why should I reward them for doing what is expected of them?’
‘Then if I bring you a trophy, Lord?’ he suggested. ‘A chieftain’s axe? Gold?’
‘Bring me a Saxon chief, Cavan,’ I said, ‘and you can paint a hundred points on your star.’
‘Five will suffice, Lord,’ he said.
The morning passed slowly. Those of us in metal armour sweated heavily in the heat. From beyond the northern stream, where the Saxons were shrouded by trees, it must have looked as if our encampment was asleep, or else peopled by sick, unmoving men, but that illusion did not serve to bring the Saxons through the trees. The sun climbed higher. Our scouts, the lightly armed horsemen who rode with only a sheaf of throwing spears as weapons, trotted out of the camp. They would have no place in a battle between shield-walls and so they took their nervous horses south towards the Thames. They could come back quickly enough, though if disaster struck they were under orders to ride westwards and take a warning of our defeat to distant Dumnonia. Arthur’s own horsemen donned their heavy armour of leather and iron, and then, with straps that they draped about their horses’ withers, they hung the clumsy leather shields that protected their horses’ breasts.
Arthur, hidden with his horsemen inside the half-built hall, was wearing his famous scale armour that was a Roman suit made of thousands of small iron plates sewn onto a leather jerkin so that the scales overlapped like fish scales. There were silver plates among the iron so that the suit seemed to shimmer as he moved. He wore a white cloak and Excalibur, in its magical cross-hatched scabbard that protected its wearer from harm, hung at his left hip, while his servant Hygwydd held his long spear, his silver-grey helmet with its plume of goose feathers and his round shield with its mirror-like coating of silver. In peace Arthur liked to dress modestly, but in war he was flamboyant. He liked to think his reputation was made by honest government, but the dazzling armour and polished shield betrayed that he knew the real source of his fame.
Culhwch had once ridden with Arthur’s heavy horsemen, but now, like me, he led a band of spearmen and at midday he sought me out and dropped beside me in the small shade of my turf shelter. He wore an iron breastplate, a leather jerkin and had greaves of Roman bronze on his bare calves. ‘Bastard isn’t coming.’ he grumbled.
‘Tomorrow, maybe?’ I suggested,
He sniffed disgustedly, then offered me an earnest look. ‘I know what you’re going to say, Derfel, but I’ll ask you just the same, though before you answer I want you to consider something. Who was it who fought beside you in Benoic? Who stood shield to shield with you at Ynys Trebes? Who shared his ale with you and even let you seduce that fisher-girl? Who held your hand at Lugg Vale? It was I. Remember that when you answer me. So what food have you got hidden?’
I smiled. ‘None.’
‘You’re a big Saxon bag of useless guts,’ he said, ‘that’s what you are.’ He looked at Galahad who was resting with my men. ‘Have you got food, Lord Prince?’ he asked.
‘I gave my last crust to Tristan,’ Galahad answered.
‘A Christian act, I suppose?’ Culhwch asked scornfully.
‘I should like to think so,’ Galahad said.
‘No wonder I’m a pagan,’ Culhwch said. ‘I need food. Can’t kill Saxons on an empty belly’ He scowled about my men, but no one offered him anything, for they had nothing to offer. ‘So you’re going to take that bastard Mordred off my hands?’ he asked me when he had abandoned hope of a morsel.
‘That’s what Arthur wants.’
‘It’s what I want,’ he said vigorously. ‘If I had food here, Derfel, I’d give you every last bite in return for that favour. You’re welcome to the snivelling little bastard. Let him make your life a misery instead of mine, but I warn you, you’ll wear your belt out on his rotten skin.’
‘It might not be wise,’ I said cautiously, ‘to whip my future King.’
‘It might not be wise, but it’s pleasurable. Ugly little toad.’ He twisted to look past the shelter. ‘What’s the matter with these Saxons? Don’t they want a battle?’
His answer came almost immediately. Suddenly a horn sounded its deep, mournful call, then we heard the thump of one of the big drums that the Saxons carried to war and we all stirred in time to see Aelle’s army come from the trees beyond the stream. One moment it was an empty landscape of leaves and spring sunshine, and then the enemy was there.
There were hundreds of them. Hundreds of fur-clad, iron-bound men with axes, dogs, spears and shields. Their banners were bull skulls lofted on poles and hung with rags, while their vanguard was a troop of wizards with dung-spiked hair who pranced ahead of the shield wall and hurled their curses at us.
Merlin and the other Druids went down the slope to meet the wizards. They did not walk, but, like all Druids before battle, they hopped on one leg and kept their balance with their staffs while holding their free hands in the air. They stopped a hundred paces from the nearest wizards and returned their curses while the army’s Christian priests stood at the top of the slope and spread their hands and gazed into the sky as they called for their God’s aid.
The rest of us were scrambling into line. Agricola was on the left with his Roman-uniformed troops, the rest of us made up the centre, and Arthur’s horsemen who, for the moment, remained hidden in the crude hall would eventually form our right wing. Arthur pulled on his helmet, struggled onto Llamrei’s back, draped his white cloak over the horse’s rump, then took his heavy spear and shining shield from Hygwydd.
Sagramor, Cuneglas and Agricola led the footmen. For the moment, and only until Arthur’s horsemen appeared, my men had the right-hand end of the line and I saw we were likely to be outflanked as the Saxon line was much wider than ours. They outnumbered us. The bards will tell you there were thousands of the vermin at that battle, but I suspect Aelle had no more than six hundred men. The Saxon King, of course, possessed far more spearmen than those we saw in front of us, though he, like us, had been forced to leave strong garrisons in his border fortresses, but even six hundred spearmen was a large army. And there were just as many followers behind the shield-wall; mostly women and children who would take no part in the battle but who doubtless hoped to pick our corpses clean when the righting was done.
Our Druids laboriously hopped back up the slope. Sweat poured down Merlin’s face into the strapped plaits of his long beard. ‘No magic,’ he told us, ‘their wizards don’t know real magic. You’re safe.’ He pushed between our shields, going to seek Nimue. The Saxons marched slowly towards us. Their wizards spat and screamed, men shouted at their followers to keep the line straight while others shouted insults at us.
Our war horns had begun to blare their challenge and our men now began to sing. At our end of the shield-wall we were singing the great Battle Song of Beli Mawr that is a triumphant howl of slaughter that puts fire into a man’s belly. Two of my men were dancing in front of th
e shield wall, stepping and leaping over their swords and spears that were laid crosswise on the ground. I called them back into the wall because I thought the Saxons would keep marching straight up the shallow hill and thus precipitate a quick bloody clash, but instead they stopped a hundred paces away from us and realigned their shields to make the continuous wall of leather-strengthened timber. They fell silent as their wizards pissed towards us. Their huge dogs barked and jerked at their leashes, the war drums pounded on, and every now and then a horn would make its sad wail, but otherwise the Saxons remained silent except to beat their spear butts against their shields in time to the drums’ heavy beat.
‘First Saxons I’ve seen.’ Tristan had come to my side and was staring at the Saxon army with its thick fur armour, double-bladed axes, dogs and spears.
‘They die easily enough,’ I told him.
‘I don’t like the axes,’ he confessed, touching the iron-sheathed rim of his shield for luck.
‘They’re clumsy things,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘One swing and they’re useless. Catch it plumb on your shield and thrust low with your sword. It always works.’ Or almost always. The Saxon drums suddenly ceased, the enemy line parted in its centre and Aelle himself appeared. He stood and stared at us for a few seconds, spat, then ostentatiously threw down his spear and shield to show that he wanted to talk. He strode towards us, a huge, tall, dark-haired man in a thick black bearskin robe. Two wizards accompanied him and a thin, balding man whom I presumed was his interpreter.
Cuneglas, Meurig, Agricola, Merlin and Sagramor went to meet him. Arthur had decided to stay with his horsemen and, because Cuneglas was the only King on our side of the field, it was right that Cuneglas should speak for us, but he invited the others to accompany him and beckoned me forward as his interpreter. It was thus that I met Aelle for the second time. He was a tall, broad-chested man with a flat, hard face and dark eyes. His beard was full and black, his cheeks were scarred, his nose broken and there were two fingers missing from his right hand. He was dressed in a suit of mail and boots of leather, and he wore an iron helmet on which two bull’s horns had been mounted. There was British gold at his throat and on his wrists. The bearskin robe that covered his armour must have been swelteringly uncomfortable on that hot day, but such a rich pelt could stop a sword blow as well as any iron armour. He glared at me. ‘I remember you, worm,’ he said. ‘A Saxon turncoat.’
I bowed my head briefly. ‘Greetings, Lord King.’
He spat. ‘You think, because you are polite, that your death will be easy?’
‘My death has nothing to do with you, Lord King,’ I said. ‘But I expect to tell my grandchildren of yours.’
He laughed, then cast a mocking glance at the five leaders. ‘Five of you! And only one of me! And where’s Arthur? Voiding his bowels in terror?’
I named our leaders to Aelle, then Cuneglas took up the dialogue that I translated for him. He began, as was customary, by demanding Aelle’s immediate surrender. We would be merciful, Cuneglas said. We would demand Aelle’s life and all his treasury and all his weapons and all his women and all his slaves, but his spearmen could go free, minus their right hands.
Aelle, as was customary, sneered at the demand, revealing a mouth of rotting, discoloured teeth.
‘Does Arthur think,’ he demanded, ‘that because he stays hidden we do not know he is here with his horses? Tell him, worm, that I shall pillow my head on his corpse this night. Tell him his wife will be my whore, and that when I’ve exhausted her she shall be the pleasure of my slaves. And tell that moustached fool,’ he gestured towards Cuneglas, ‘that by nightfall this place will be known as the Grave of Britons. Tell him,’ he went on, ‘that I shall snip off his whiskers and make them a plaything for my daughter’s cats. Tell him I shall carve a drinking cup from his skull and feed his belly to my dogs. And tell that demon,’ he jerked his beard at Sagramor, ‘that today his black soul will go to the terrors of Thor and that it will squirm in the circle of serpents for ever. And as for him,’ he looked at Agricola, ‘I have long wanted his death and the memory of it will amuse me in the long nights to come. And tell that limpid thing,’ he spat towards Meurig, ‘that I shall slice off his balls and make him into my cup-bearer. Tell them all that, worm.’
‘He says no,’ I told Cuneglas.
‘Surely he said more than that?’ Meurig, who was only present because of his rank, insisted pedantically.
‘You don’t want to know,’ Sagramor said tiredly.
‘All knowledge is relevant,’ Meurig protested.
‘What are they saying, worm?’ Aelle demanded of me, ignoring his own interpreter.
‘They are arguing which of them should have the pleasure of killing you, Lord King,’ I said. Aelle spat. ‘Tell Merlin,’ the Saxon King glanced at the Druid, ‘that I offered him no insult.’
‘He knows already, Lord King,’ I said, ‘for he speaks your language.’ The Saxons feared Merlin, and even now did not want to antagonize him. The two Saxon wizards were hissing curses at him, but that was their job and Merlin took no offence. Nor did he appear to take any interest in the conference, but just stared loftily into the distance, though he did bestow a smile on Aelle after the King’s compliment. Aelle stared at me for a few heartbeats. Finally he asked me, ‘What is your tribe?’
‘Dumnonia, Lord King.’
‘Before that, fool! Your birth!’
‘Your people, Lord,’ I said. ‘Aelle’s folk.’
‘Your father?’ he demanded.
‘I never knew him, Lord. My mother was captured by Uther when I was in her belly.’
‘And her name?’
I had to think for a second or two. ‘Erce, Lord King.’ I remembered her name at last. Aelle smiled at the name. ‘A good Saxon name! Erce, the Goddess of the earth and mother of us all. How is your Erce?’
‘I have not seen her, Lord, since I was a child, but I am told she lives.’
He stared broodingly at me. Meurig was squeaking impatiently as he demanded to know what was being said, but he quietened when everyone else ignored him. ‘It is not good,’ Aelle said at last, ‘for a man to ignore his mother. What is your name?’
‘Derfel, Lord King.’
He spat on my mail coat. ‘Then shame on you, Derfel, for ignoring your mother. Would you fight for us today? For your mother’s folk?’
I smiled. ‘No, Lord King, but you do me honour.’
‘May your death be easy, Derfel. But tell this filth,’ he jerked his head at the four armed leaders, ‘that I come to eat their hearts.’ He spat a last time, turned and strode back towards his men.
‘So what did he say?’ Meurig demanded.
‘He spoke to me, Lord Prince,’ I said, ‘of my mother. And he reminded me of my sins.’ God help me, but on that day I liked Aelle.
We won the battle.
Igraine will want me to say more. She wants great heroics, and they were there, but there were also cowards present, and other men who fouled their breeches in their terror yet still kept to the shield-wall. There were men who killed no one, but just defended desperately, and there were men who gave the poets new challenges to find words to express their deeds. It was, in short, a battle. Friends died, Cavan was one, friends were wounded, Culhwch was such, and other friends lived untouched, like Galahad, Tristan and Arthur. I took an axe blow to my left shoulder, and though my mail coat took most of the blade’s force, the wound still took weeks to heal and to this day there is a ragged red scar that aches in cold weather.
What was important was not the battle, but what happened after; but first, because my dear Queen Igraine will insist on my writing of the heroics of her husband’s grandfather, King Cuneglas, I shall tell the tale briefly.
The Saxons attacked us. It took Aelle over an hour to persuade his men to assault our shield-wall and for all that time the dung-spiked wizards screamed at us, the drums beat and skins of ale were passed around the Saxon ranks. Many of our men were drinking mead, for though we
might have exhausted our food, no British army ever seemed to run out of mead. At least half the men in that battle were fuddled by drink, but so men were at every battle for little else serves to give warriors the nerve to attempt that most terrifying of manoeuvres, the straightforward assault on a waiting shield-wall. I stayed sober because I always did, but the temptation to drink was strong. Some Saxons tried to provoke us into an ill-timed charge by coming close to our line and flaunting themselves without shields or helmets, but all they received for their trouble were some ill-aimed spears. A few spears were hurled back at us, but most thudded harmlessly into our shields. Two naked men, turned blood-mad by drink or magic, attacked us, and Culhwch cut down the first and Tristan the second.
We cheered both victories. The Saxons, their tongues loosened by ale, shouted insults back. Aelle’s attack, when it came, went horribly wrong. The Saxons were relying on their war dogs to break our line, but Merlin and Nimue were ready with their own dogs, only ours were not dogs, but bitches, and enough of them were on heat to drive the Saxon beasts wild. Instead of attacking us the big war dogs headed straight for the bitches and there was a flurry of growls, fights, barks and howls, and suddenly there were fornicating dogs everywhere, with other dogs fighting to dislodge the luckier ones, but not one dog bit a Briton and the Saxons, who had been ready to launch their killing charge, were thrown off balance by the failure of their dogs. They hesitated and Aelle, fearing we would charge, roared them forward and so they came at us. But they came raggedly instead of in a disciplined line. Coupling dogs howled as they were trampled underfoot, then the shields clashed with that terrible dull sound that echoes down the long years. It is the sound of battle, the sound of war-horns, men shouting, and then the splintering dull crash of shield on shield, and after the crash the screams began as spear-blades found the gaps between the shields and axes came hurtling down, but it was the Saxons who suffered most that day. The dogs between the shield-walls had broken their careful alignment and wherever that had happened to their advancing shield-wall our spearmen found gaps and pushed into them, while the ranks behind funnelled into the gaps to make shield-armoured wedges that drove ever deeper into the Saxon mass. Cuneglas led one of those wedges and very nearly reached Aelle himself. I did not see Cuneglas in the fight, though the bards sang of his part afterwards and he modestly assured me they did not exaggerate much.
Enemy of God twc-2 Page 21
