“Artorius!”
With a last burst of strength, he hurled the shield at the nearest warrior. The iron boss cracked the man’s head open. He jerked backwards and sprawled on the ground, brains trickling down his front.
Cei’s last war-cry echoed around the fort. He staggered and fell on his face, dead.
2.
Even in his fifties, Artorius remained the warlord without peer. In deepest midwinter, he took his army north from Caerleon, into the mountainous heart of Gwynedd. The Companions were with him in force, two hundred mounted warriors supported by five hundred auxiliaries.
One sleet-driven dawn, with the wind howling down the slopes of Eryri, Artorius fell upon the warriors of Gwynedd as they lay asleep in their beds. Tents were trampled and overturned, the raw air alive with the screams of dying men and the neighs of terrified horses. The slaughter was great, since Artorius was in vengeful mood. Over eighty men were slain, the rest scattered and fled in their nightshirts into the woods. Artorius, who had no time to waste in pursuit, let them go. Several captives were taken. One of these was dragged before him. A young man, painfully young, his eyes wide with terror as he was forced to kneel before the stocky, war-battered figure of the High King of free Britannia.
“No need to shit yourself, lad,” Artorius barked. “I won’t eat you. Yet.”
He grinned at the coarse laughter from his warriors. The lad closed his eyes for a moment and chewed his lip until it bled. His slender body quivering like a leaf in the wind. How must I look? Artorius wondered. He could guess. A lifetime of war, hardship and the exercise of power had left its mark on him. Whenever Artorius cared to look at his reflection – which was not often – in the polished bronze mirror of his wife’s bedchamber in Caerleon, the monster that stared back at him seemed scarcely credible: balding, stout and burly, like an old bull, bandy-legged from decades of riding up and down Britannia, his heavy features disfigured by ancient scars.
Artorius lived in constant pain, the legacy of old wounds. The sinews of his sword-arm were overstretched, and there was a kink in his back that refused to straighten; sprains and muscle tears, fractured bones, a mouthful of broken or missing teeth. He walked with a pronounced limp, though still cut an impressive figure on horseback.
Warriors are not meant to grow old. Where are all my friends? Dust, most of them. Replaced by younger men. Only I, and a handful of my old Companions, are left to linger…
He shook away these sad thoughts. They had afflicted him more often of late. An irritating and potentially fatal distraction for a man who could not afford to loosen his grip on power.
“Where is Maelgwn?” Artorius demanded in his best parade-ground bellow. “Speak!”
The kneeling youth jumped, and his eyes snapped open. “His host marches north of here, lord king,” he whimpered. “Nine or ten miles. We…we were his vanguard.”
There was a smell of piss in the air. A dark stain spread down the inner thighs of his braccae. Artorius ignored the stench. “How many spears in his host?” he demanded.
“Eight…eight or nine hundred, lord king,” came the reply.
The High King swore. Maelgwn, King of Gwynedd, was new to the crown, having inherited it just nine months previously from his father, Cadwallon Lawhir. Artorius regretted few deaths more than that of Cadwallon, a staunch friend and ally. While he was alive, Artorius had never feared the loyalty of Gwynedd, the northern bulwark of his kingdom.
Maelgwn was a different matter. He was of the younger generation who knew little of the struggle their fathers had endured, and cared even less. The High King’s victories over the Saxons and their ilk, the Picts and the Scotti, were mere stories now. Tales to entertain children and greybeards around the hearth in winter. Young princelings such as Maelgwn were sick of hearing such tales. Of being unfavourably compared with their fathers. What great victories had they ever won? What slaughters inflicted, treasures taken, widows and orphans made? None, unless you counted the petty bickering between rival kings. Britannia, under the iron rule of Artorius, was at peace.
Yet men grow tired of peace.
“As we feared,” said Bedwyr. “Gwynedd has raised war against us.”
Artorius glanced bleakly at the other man, Bedwyr the One-Handed, his oldest living friend. Now Cei and Gwalchmei were gone, along with so many others, he clung to Bedwyr. A dried-up, humourless old cripple he might be, but Bedwyr’s loyalty was beyond question. He was also a comforting reminder of former days, when the world was young and anything seemed possible.
“All to defend a murderer,” said Artorius. “For the sake of Gwyddawf fab Menestyr and his fellow killers, King Maelgwn risks plunging Britannia into civil war.”
“The whole affair must have been pre-planned,” replied Bedwyr. “First, Cei’s death. Then Maelgwn’s refusal to hand over the men who slew him. Thus Maelgwn hoped to lure you north, onto his own turf. Gwyddawg and Maelgwn are allies.”
Artorius nodded. The sequence of treachery Bedwyr described stank to high heaven, but it made sense. The young and ambitious King of Gwynedd meant to destroy the High King, the old stag, and snatch his crown. The old stag was not ready to die. Not yet. Like the Saxons before him, Maelgwn had underestimated his enemy’s speed and determination.
“On,” snapped Artorius. “We’ll seek the young wolf in his den and smoke him out. I have some questions for Maelgwn of Gwynedd.”
Bedwyr jerked his thumb at the shivering youth. “What of this one?” he asked.
Artorius, hand already on his bridle, fought against the urge to be cruel. It was easy to play the tyrant. To spill blood. In these latter days, with his own strength failing and treachery everywhere, Artorius more often than not failed to resist the urge.
“Release the little fool,” he rasped after a long moment. “Cut his bonds and let him run back to his mother.”
This was done, and the boy scampered away to the woods, casting fearful glances over his shoulder. Artorius mounted his favourite black horse, Llamrei – the third of that name – and heeled her into a gallop. Before him went a party of scouts, lightly armed local lads on fast ponies, bribed with silver to spy out the land ahead.
The Companions thundered north, their red cloaks stark against the icy winter landscape. At their head went the dragon banner, pink tongue flickering in the breeze, long wind-sock tail strung out behind the fearsome head. The grim figure of Artorius, hunched over in the saddle, unmistakable in his golden ring-mail and white cloak fringed with purple, galloped several paces ahead of his men. They had not ridden three miles along the old Roman road before spearheads flashed and banners rose silhouetted against the gaunt winter sky.
Artorius quickly took in the ground flanking the road. The old king, Cadwallon, had cut back the trees on either side to the length of a bow-shot, as Artorius instructed. This was to keep the roads in good order and diminish the threat of bandits. The cleared woodland left plenty of flat, open ground, with space enough for cavalry to charge.
“Bedwyr,” he cried “take fifty men to the left of the road. Medraut, you have the right. When I attack, take them in flank.”
Artorius watched the two cavalry wings peel away from the main column and gallop north. Medraut’s troop was swiftest, led by their captain. Prince Medraut cut a magnificent figure in the brightly polished scale armour he had brought back from the East, grey wolf’s tail streaming from the top of his helm. An expert horseman, he streaked ahead of his men on a creamy white gelding, sword in hand. To the left, Bedwyr advanced at a slightly less furious pace, his mutilated left arm protected by a round shield. Artorius clapped in his spurs and urged Llamrei straight at the Gwynedd spears. As so often, he counted on the advantage of surprise to break the enemy’s nerve. If Maelgwn’s warriors had the courage and discipline to hold firm, or fan across the road to form a wall of shields, his assault would fail. No horse would charge directly onto a line of spear-points. The mere sight of the dragon banner had broken many a shield wall before now. It did so
again.
As the Companions surged forward, the column of warriors on the road stopped dead. The rear ranks, not knowing what lay ahead, piled into those in front. Chaos followed, a tangle of shouting and confused men. Artorius saw one officer in a white tunic, a red plume flowing from his helm, bravely step forward and shout at his men to form line.
“Shields!” the officer’s hoarse voice rose above the thunder of hoofs. “Form up, you fools! Double line, double l—”
A javelin, hurled by one of the Companions, pierced his breast. He stared in horror at it, bright blood staining his tunic. Mouth working soundlessly, he fell onto his back. Artorius held Caledfwlch aloft and screamed a war-shout.
“Gwenhwyfar!”
He cut right and left, forcing Llamrei through the yawning gap in the enemy line. Caledfwlch scythed deep, chopped down two men like ripe barley stalks. Their leather helmets offered little protection against hard steel and a sharp edge. The Companions surged through the gap Artorius had opened, war-yells keening in their throats, hacking and riding men down at will. Then Bedwyr and Medraut hit the flanks of the rapidly crumbling spear-troop. Men were scattered like autumn leaves, spears tumbled, bodies broken, banners trampled down. Attacked on three sides, the warriors of Gwynedd fled. Some of the youngest Companions, wild spirits who had never fought in a real battle before, broke ranks and went after the fugitives. Artorius cursed their lack of discipline.
“Sound the recall!” he shouted at Cilydd, his trumpeter.
Cilydd blew the high note, summoning the red-cloaked horsemen back to their duty. Most ignored it. Consumed with bloodlust, they chased their prey into the forest and disappeared from view. Artorius would have to punish them later. Beyond the slaughter, a little way up the road, he glimpsed the banner of Gwynedd; a red lion rearing against a yellow field. Under it was a knot of horsemen, figures in ring-mail and white cloaks. Among them was their king, Maelgwn, his face hidden under a crested helm. The young man dithered, unsure whether to attack or retreat, even as his army crumbled to dust before him.
“Take him!” Artorius shouted. “Take the king! I want him alive!”
Medraut was first to react. He charged directly at Maelgwn, followed by six Companions. A handful of devoted Gwynedd spearmen, loyal until death, flung themselves between the horsemen and their target. Medraut slew three personally, sword flashing as he dexterously twisted in the saddle, hacking down one man and then the next. The rest were butchered with just one Companion lost.
Artorius watched his son in quiet approval, mixed with a tinge of fear and envy. Medraut was still young, not yet thirty, and one of the best captains in his father’s army. He was a model soldier: brave, intelligent, instinctive, quick-thinking, reliable and popular, with a gift for the common touch. He could mix easily among ordinary troopers, drinking and dicing the night away, as well as rub shoulders with kings and lords in the Round Hall at Caerleon. Everyone liked him, which made Artorius nervous.
The boy is outshining me, he thought. How long before my Companions look to him for leadership? Before he is seen as their future, and I am consigned to the past?
Disgusted by his own jealousy, Artorius thrust these ignoble thoughts aside. He watched, sharing in the laughter and cheers of his warriors, as Medraut chased the King of Gwynedd like a fox after a hen.
Dismayed by the slaughter of his followers, Maelgwn had turned tail and fled, closely followed by his bodyguard. The High King chased his quarry for several miles along the old Roman road. Eventually Maelgwn turned aside onto a more recent path, hacked out of the forests leading deep into thickly wooded hillsides. The way was twisted and dangerously narrow in places, but Artorius allowed no respite. He pressed Llamrei hard, relying on the beast’s instincts and his own horsemanship. Low-hanging branches whipped past. The ground was uneven, strewn with unexpected potholes and other dangers. Artorius avoided them all.
Others were not so lucky. One of Maelgwn’s bodyguards came to grief when his horse rolled a foreleg over a loose stone. She staggered and pitched him out of the saddle. Artorius thundered past. Moments later, a high-pitched scream erupted behind him. He smiled grimly. One of his Companions had put an end to the wretch.
I want the shepherd, not his sheep.
His spirits rose further when the pursuit reached the banks of a fast-flowing stream, white waters crashing over slippery black rocks. Beyond the northern bank rose a steep slope covered in bare trees. At the summit was a ditch and a timber stockade of roughly hewn round logs. Dirty grey smoke from supper fires rose lazily into the pale winter sky, and the thatched roofs of roundhouses could be seen over the sharpened teeth of the stockade.
Artorius drew Llamrei to a halt at the edge of the river. The exhausted beast, her glossy blank flanks shuddering with exertion, gratefully dipped her muzzle into the water. While she drank, her rider shaded his eyes and carefully studied the fort above.
There was no need to continue the pursuit. Maelgwn and his guards had already crashed across the river and were halfway up the track to the gates. Artorius spotted guards crowd the wooden rampart, archers and slingers, and overheard their fearful cries drift down the slope.
“The king – the king has returned! Open the gates!”Artorius fished out the leather gourd from his belt, unstoppered it and took a long, slow drink of watered wine. His men spread out behind him, drawn up into companies by their officers. Bedwyr trotted forward to his side.
“Ddinas Emrys,” the one-handed warrior remarked, squinting up at the fort. “Vortigern’s old stronghold. I thought Ambrosius had burned it to the ground, with the old king and his Saxon concubine inside. So the bards claim.”
Artorius wiped his lips. “My father did burn it,” he said. “He told me the story when I was young. Vortigern holed up here with the last of his hall-troop, just as Maelgwn has now. Ambrosius gave him a chance to surrender. Vortigern threw the offer back in his face.”
He was silent for a moment, remembering the distant past. The man he called his father, Ambrosius Aurelianus, once governed Britannia as Magister Militum. Ambrosius had discovered Artorius – Artúir, as he was then – languishing as a slave in the far north. He saw potential in the boy, liberated him, and finally adopted him in the old Roman manner.
“They say I am a hard man,” Artorius murmured. “I hear them. My subjects. Whispering in my palace, grumbling in the streets and market corners. They complain of my taxes and levies, complain I force too many of their sons to serve in my army, complain I am a black-hearted tyrant, no better than any Saxon warlord. The mob has a short memory. I am a child compared to Ambrosius in a rage. He bombarded this place with flaming missiles from his siege-weapons until there was nothing left but ash and cinders. Vortigern’s concubine – what was the wench’s name?
“Rowena,” Bedwyr answered promptly.
“That’s it. Flaxen-haired Rowena, Hengist’s witch of a daughter. Ambrosius heard her screams. She and Vortigern took refuge in the hall and died there, together, when the roof collapsed on them. Yet the hall took a long time to burn. He told me he could have saved her. Sent men in to get her out. Instead he sat on his horse, watched the flames rise into the sky, and listened to her scream.”
“Why?” asked Bedwyr. “I only remember Ambrosius in his later years. He seemed a kindly old man.”
“Because Vortigern was a fool and a traitor who brought our land to the edge of ruin,” Artorius answered firmly. “My father had no mercy for him or his Saxon whore. Just as I will have none on Maelgwn if he makes a fight of it. Let him remember the doom of Vortigern, and choose the wiser course.”
Shortly afterwards Artorius sent forward messengers under a flag of truce to demand Maelgwn surrendered the fortress, along with himself and those who had conspired to murder Cei. Artorius had been drawn north by the terrible news of the slaying of his old friend, and the rumours of treason and conspiracy that followed. Now he meant to take his revenge and deal justice at the same time. His envoys were received with courtesy, a good
sign. They returned unscathed, and not long afterwards Artorius spied movement on the ridge. Bedwyr and Medraut shouted their companies into line of battle as a column of horsemen emerged from the gateway, familiar figures in white cloaks followed by mounted spearmen with heavy round shields.
Bedwyr counted heads. “Forty-three,” he said, “and no infantry. Unless he has more fighters hidden away up there, we must have destroyed the core of his war-band.”
Artorius nodded in agreement. Maelgwn’s teeth were drawn. Now it only remained to judge him.
There was also a handful of men on foot, trudging behind the Gwynedd riders. These were no warriors. Not any more. They had been stripped of weapons and armour, and the horsemen at the rear dragged them via long ropes tied to their wrists. Artorius could guess their identity. Maelgwn hoped to buy the High King’s mercy by offering up his former friends on a platter.
The King of Gwynedd rode at the head of the procession. His banner of the red dragon had waved proudly earlier. Now it drooped miserably, a thoroughly cowed beast, while its master was a picture of shame. Maelgwn rode bareheaded, his helm tucked underarm, and kept his eyes fixed on the path. Artorius despised him. Such a man – tall, lithe and darkly handsome, a king to his boots – should not let one defeat cast his spirit into the dirt.
Look me in the eye, weasel! Show me a spark of defiance. Give me a reason to respect you.
“Well, Maelgwn,” he said when the king halted a spear’s length before him. “What have you to say?”
Maelgwn drew in a deep breath and raised his head to meet Artorius’ severe gaze. Fear danced in his mild blue eyes. He swallowed, working up the courage to speak.
“Pardon, lord king,” he mumbled.
Artorius let him sweat.
“You ask my pardon,” he said eventually, “yet give me no reason. Why should I forgive one who breaks his oath of fealty, raises war against his own people, conspires with murderers to slay my friend?”
Medraut Page 2
