Medraut

by David Pilling

  Yes, thought Gwenhwyfar, my husband will tear him in pieces. Justice and the law demand it.

  She shuddered at the thought of Medraut’s fate. Not only his. The thought struck her that Amhar had probably joined with the traitor. One day soon, Gwenhwyfar might have to watch the execution of her only child. To her shame, she cared little. Amhar should never have been born.

  He is better off dead. Then my shame can be buried with him.

  The next two days passed in a blur of military preparations and false alarms. Everyone inside Caerleon was on a knife-edge, and the banners of the Saxon host expected to appear on the skyline at any moment. Llacheu, to his credit, organised the defence of the city with swift efficiency; non-combatants, women and children and old men, those too weak or sick to fight, were herded inside the compound of the palace. Horsemen were sent out to bring in people from outlying farms and villas, and their livestock with them. Every scrap of food was vital. Caerleon was well-stocked for a siege, and quartermasters appointed to oversee the distribution of supplies.

  “We have enough food and water to hold out for months,” Llacheu confidently informed his council. “Cerdic doesn’t have the luxury of time. He must either storm the city or withdraw.”

  The regent swept his hand over a map of Caerleon’s defences.

  “If he chooses to a direct assault, we shall be ready for him. His men will die like flies, and then our reinforcements can sweep away the remains. The Bretwalda has made a fatal mistake. It will be his last.”

  Gwenhwyfar took heart from the conviction in his voice. Llacheu cut a fine figure in his purple cloak and silver ring-mail, sword dangling by his hip. The soldiers and citizenry cheered when he strode through the streets, followed by a troop of Companions. In the absence of Artorius, he was their hope. Their symbol.

  As was the Queen. Gwenhwyfar was determined to fight, and ordered Llyr to find her some gear from the palace armoury. He returned with a light cavalry helmet, small enough to fit her head, a padded leather infantry tunic, a round shield, dagger and javelin.

  The battered old soldier looked embarrassed.

  “This was the best I could do, lady,” he said apologetically. “Much of the gear was too heavy and cumbersome for one of your build. I implore you, stay in your quarters and let others do the fighting. None will think any the less of you.”

  Gwenhwyfar smiled at his agonised expression.

  “I last handled a blade in Powys,” she said, “fighting to defend my people against a treacherous kinsman.”

  She ran her thumb along the edge of the dagger. “Little changes, does it? In the end, we come full circle.”

  Once she had armed, Gwenhwyfar went down to the outer courtyard, where crowds of beggars, old people and children were crammed together. They cheered at the sight of her, though more than a few looked astonished to see the Queen armed. She turned to the captain of the palace guard.

  “There isn’t enough space for all these people out here. Open the doors and let them into the palace. Let them sleep where they may. See they are all fed and watered and kept warm.”

  The officer exchanged dubious glances with Llyr, but saluted.

  “As you wish, lady,” he muttered.

  While her orders were carried out, Gwenhwyfar climbed the steps of a gatehouse tower to watch the sunset. The sun, a red ball of flame, was sinking in the west. Gwenhwyfar folded her arms and strained her eyes to peer into the far horizon. Llacheu had ordered all the houses and farmsteads scattered about the field outside Caerleon to be burnt, so the enemy would be denied cover and shelter. His orders were carried out, and now pillars of black smoke from the charred outbuildings twisted gently into the sky. The fields lay bare and deserted, stripped of life. Somewhere to the west, beyond this desolation, was the enemy.

  In her mind’s eye Gwenhwyfar pictured the Saxon host, the marching rows of spears, the black banners, the blowing of horns and pounding of drums. She imagined Cerdic, the Bretwalda himself, the great enemy she had never clapped eyes on. They said he was a red giant, huge and pitiless and grasping, a monster of a man.

  “At his side rides Medraut,” she whispered. “Why has he done it? Why has he betrayed us?”

  “I could not say, lady,” replied Llyr, though she could detect the anger in his voice. Men like Llyr, who had spent their lives in service to Britannia, despised treachery.

  “I should have known him better,” said Gwenhwyfar.

  In truth, she had never paid much attention to Medraut. She couldn’t recall a single conversation with him. Artorius thought highly of his youngest son as a soldier, and he always seemed quiet and dutiful, performing every task assigned to him without complaint. All the while, as he smiled and bowed and followed orders, he had plotted the destruction of Caerleon.

  “The hearts of men are often closed, lady,” said Llyr, “yet traitors never prosper. I pray for the opportunity to drive my spear into Medraut’s heart.”

  The queen spent the night huddled in a blanket in the guardroom. She had no desire to sleep in the comfort of her private chambers, which were given up to the poor of Caerleon. She was woken by the sound of church bells, the usual dawn chorus, summoning all to prayer. This time they were mingled with drums and trumpets. Llyr was already on his feet. The washed-out light of dawn filtered through a slit window and fell across his face, grey of pallor and grimly set.

  “They are here,” he said. Gwenhwyfar picked up her spear and hurried outside.

  The voices of watchmen rang through the city, every warrior stood to arms. The queen and her escort had to pick their way over barriers, overturned benches and tables, piled high to form defensive breastworks. If the walls were lost, the defenders of Caerleon would fall back to these makeshift defences. She recalled Llacheu’s last words to his council.

  “Every step the Saxons take inside the city will be paid for in blood. We will make barricades of our dead, if necessary. Caerleon is the beating heart of our country. It must not fall. Will not fall.”

  The western ramparts were packed with fighting men, civilians as well as soldiers. There were women among them, armed with bows and javelins and baskets of stones. Wagons stood nearby, stocked with bundles of spare arrows. Drawn up under the shadow of the main gate was a company of horsemen. Llacheu’s best men, hard-bitten veterans of many wars. Their captain was Maelwys, known as Maelwys of the Axe after his lethal skill with a hatchet. Bald as an egg, his face a lump of scar tissue, he grinned horribly and saluted Gwenhwyfar as she strode past.

  She returned the salute and climbed the stone steps to the parapet over the gate. Llacheu was here, splendid in his purple cloak and silver armour, along with a troop of spearmen. The spearmen respectfully shuffled aside to make way for the Queen. The regent wasted no time in greetings.

  “There,” he said, pointing to the west. Gwenhwyfar looked, and saw the horizon lit up with flame.

  * * *

  Distant fires flickered along the line of hills. The Saxons were burning everything along their line of march. Houses and byres, watchtowers and outposts. Gwenhwyfar’s nightmares were made flesh. Now she could hear the rumble of enemy drums, the bawling of their horns, the steady tramp-tramp of the marching host. Thousands of rough male voices lifted in some barbaric hymn to slaughter and destruction. The echo of it drifted down the empty highway, a promise of horror to come. A shudder passed through her.

  The light was still dim, and in her fear Gwenhwyfar imagined the companies of Saxon warriors. A vile growth of fungus spreading over the westward plains, remorseless as the plague and even more deadly. The mist lay in heavy grey wreaths. Gwenhwyfar’s heart lurched when she saw the first of the Saxon banners, tattered black standards thrusting out of the murk. By now the roll of drums was almost deafening, coupled by the squall of horns, the deep roar of their battle-song:

  “Bord-weall clufon,

  heowon heathu-linde

  with lathra gehwone

  Hettend crungon,

  Faege feollon!
/>
  faege to gefeohte

  Bord-weall clufon!”

  These guttural alien phrases meant nothing to Gwenhwyfar’s ears. They were just a direful noise, the rabid howling of so many hungry wolves.

  The defenders on the wall watched in grim silence as the Saxon host spread across the wasted fields. One iron battalion after another, slingers and spears. Finally the best troops, thegns and huscarls in burnished mail, armed with the dreaded Saxon battle-axe. All the while they sang, and the skies echoed to the hellish droning of horns.

  “They have learnt discipline,” remarked Llacheu. “See how each company is divided into units of fifty or a hundred, an officer in charge of each. Cerdic rules his host with an iron hand.”

  There was no immediate assault. Instead the Saxons brought up companies of men with picks and trowels, who set about digging trenches. They were out of bowshot, and the defenders could do nothing to stop them. This labour went on for hours, while the mist lifted and the sun rose steadily into a blue August sky.

  Gwenhwyfar’s nerves eased a little. “Let them waste time digging holes,” Llacheu said confidently. “Cerdic should have attacked at once. He is letting his opportunity slip. Every second that passes, our reinforcements draw nearer.”

  The soldiers on the parapet were cheered by these words. To further boost spirits, Llacheu ordered wine and biscuit to be shared out among the defenders. Gwenhwyfar swallowed her wine in one gulp and relished the warm glow in her belly. She chewed the morsel of dry biscuit, idly wondering if Cerdic meant to dig tunnels into Caerleon. The absurd thought made her laugh.

  “There is a sound I have not heard often enough in recent times, my lady,” said Llyr with a grin.

  Gwenhwyfar gave him a cool smile. More laughter rippled along the wall as the wine took effect, accompanied by singing and the lilt of a pipe. Llacheu remained sober. He leaned on the rampart, eyes narrowed as he watched the movements of the Saxon host.

  “Christ in Heaven,” Gwenhwyfar heard him mutter. The laughter and song died away as the full horror of Cerdic’s intentions dawned. His men dragged up mantlets, great shields of timber to protect his archers. Behind them rumbled a line of ox-drawn wagons, mounted with engines of war. Catapults and ballistae to hurl stones, darts and flaming missiles at the walls. The oxen were unharnessed and led off, and the crews set about loading their machines.

  “Take cover!” roared Llacheu.

  The order went down the line, repeated by his officers. Warriors crouched behind their shields, ready for the storm to come. Llyr plucked at Gwenhwyfar’s sleeve.

  “We must get off the wall, lady,” he urged, “before the missiles start to fly.”

  The queen ignored him. She watched in horrified fascination as the loading arms of the catapults were winched back. There was no fear in her now, just detached interest. With yells and the creak of ropes, the machines lobbed their missiles into the sky. They soared high over the battlements and crashed down into the city, nets packed with stones and broken bricks, casks of burning tar, great bolts large enough to skewer a man. Most fell into the empty streets, where they shattered or exploded, harming none. A few smashed through the roofs of shops and houses.

  Fires broke out Teams of boys carrying pails of water from the river hurried to douse the flames. Once again Gwenhwyfar admired Llacheu’s foresight. He had expected a barrage, and organised fire-crews in advance. Llyr brandished his spear at the Saxon host.

  “Poor shooting, you handless grunters,” he yelled. “None of you could hit a cow’s backside at five paces!”

  The men beside him chuckled. Gwenhwyfar flinched when another hail of missiles followed. Llyr stepped in front of her and raised his shield to protect them both. Something crashed against it and almost knocked them off their feet. A man to their left yelled in pain and clapped a hand to his neck. The head of a spear, broken off from the shaft, was stuck fast in his flesh. He whimpered, tried to pull out the dart, slipped and tumbled backwards off the walkway. The defenders cried out in horror and disgust. A terrible stench of rotting flesh rose into the air. Gwenhwyfar dared to peer over the rim of her bodyguard’s shield. She almost vomited at sight of the object that had thumped against it. A severed arm, cut off below the elbow, fingers white and slack, nails broken.

  Caerleon was showered with broken weapons and body parts, heads and limbs and torsos. These were the remains of the loyal garrisons at Mons Ambrius and the Great Dyke. Betrayed, slaughtered and carved up like dead animals, hurled into the city to shatter morale.

  Many of the dead were known to the people of Caerleon; kinsmen, fathers, sons, husbands. People cried out in despair, wept over their loved ones. Officers moved among the grief-stricken civilians, urging them to hold firm even as gruesome missiles fell among them, splattered against the walls, rebounded off the breastwork of shields.

  “Now may God send Cerdic to the deepest hole in Hell!” raged Llacheu. “If this goes on, he will break us without a blow struck!”

  The hail of offal and broken weapons suddenly ended. Gwenhwyfar had scarcely breathed a sigh of relief when the Saxon horns rang out again. More stones, darts and flammable materials were flung at the city, and this time the crews had found their range. Men were swept off the walls, impaled or swatted by flying rocks. Others crouched in terror behind the battlements. Then the sky darkened, as though with a sudden eclipse. Thousands of arrows were loosed high into the sky to fall like deadly rain. Gwenhwyfar and Llyr knelt under their shield, wincing as shafts skidded and thudded off the leather covering.

  More horns, followed by a swift rattle of drums. The arrows ceased. A great shout rose from the enemy host, flowed up and down the long ranks of their battalions. Gwenhwyfar rose in time to witness the Saxons break ranks and charge. Countless warriors, an endless teeming horde, ran at full pelt to the western wall. They screamed as they ran, yelled and brandished their spears and axes, or halted to use their slings and cast javelins. Among them loped teams of men with scaling ladders.

  “Loose!” bawled Llacheu, his voice almost drowned in the chaos. “Bring them down! Shoot the men with ladders – the ladders!”

  Gwenhwyfar stepped back to make room for the archers on the parapet. They drew and shot, drew and shot, quickly expending their quivers.

  “Come, lady,” Llyr yelled in her ear, “let’s make ourselves useful and fetch more arrows.”

  They hurried down the stair to the street, where Llacheu’s quartermasters were handing out fresh supplies of arrows. Gwenhwyfar seized a bundle and ran back to her post, taking the steps two at a time. She reached the parapet to find Llacheu and his spearmen struggling to hold back the Saxons. Two archers were down, one with his head split open, the other bleeding to death from a slashed throat. The enemy had climbed the walls with terrifying speed and now threatened to overwhelm the thin line of defenders. A tattooed giant, strong as an ox, knocked down three men with a sweep of his axe and clambered over the battlements. More Saxons swarmed in his wake, bellowing war-cries.

  Gwenhwyfar dropped her arrows and cast her light throwing spear at the giant. He caught it on his shield, laughing, and swung his axe at Llacheu. The regent dodged a blow that would have carved him in two and kicked the hulking Saxon in the groin. His opponent grunted and doubled over. As he fell, a British spearman skewered the back of his neck. Llacheu stepped over the dying Saxon to hack at his comrades.

  “Drive them!” he yelled at his men. “Not a single one of these vermin shall set foot inside Caerleon! Kill them, put them down!”

  His men rallied and charged the outnumbered Saxons, who stood their ground. Packed together above the gate, they cut and stabbed, clawed and bit each other like wild beasts. With no room to use his long sword, Llacheu switched to his dagger. A Saxon leaped at his throat and tried to strangle him. Llacheu rammed his blade into the man’s guts and tossed him over the battlements.

  Gwenhwyfar unlooped the hatchet at her belt. She was about to throw herself into the fight when Llyr stepped in fron
t of her.

  “That’s close enough, my lady,” he growled.

  She tried to shake him off, but two of his men pinned her arms.

  “Let me go!” she shouted, struggling in vain against their iron grip. “I want to fight!”

  “You have done quite enough,” Llyr said firmly. “I am oath-sworn to keep you alive. I don’t break my oaths.”

  His warriors held the Queen fast, ignoring her wild threats and curses, while the battle for Caerleon raged all down the length of the western wall. Fuelled by hate and desperation, the people of the city threw back the Saxons, hurled their bodies over the wall and cast down their ladders. Yet the enemy was as remorseless as the tide, and withdrew only to gather strength before rushing forward again.

  Eight times Cerdic threw his men against the wall, and eight times they failed. Finally, about midday, the Saxons gave up and retreated to lick their wounds. They left the fields immediately below the city wall strewn with their dead and dying, broken bodies and ladders. The wounded tried to crawl away, or were lifted up by their comrades. The Britons had suffered as well. Gwenhwyfar struggled not to weep at the casualties, the ruined bodies carried down from the wall and borne away on stretchers. Men and women both, many still breathing, mangled and bleeding from the most hideous wounds. An unbearable charnel house stench hung over the city.

  Llacheu leaned on his sword. He wiped his streaming face with the back of his gauntlet and turned to Gwenhwyfar.

  “My lady,” he panted, “may I have a word?”

  The queen’s guards released her. She gave them an evil look and approached Llacheu. He also reeked of death. His fine silver armour was smeared with blood and entrails.

  “The Saxons will come again,” he said in a low voice, “and again, until Cerdic breaks our will to fight. Or we break his. Look at the men he has lost. What do you notice about them?”

  She looked at the bodies strewn before the gatehouse and tipped off the walkways, the broken and dying Saxon warriors. Scarcely any had a coat of mail between them, or even a helmet of iron or leather. Most were clad in woollen smocks and coats of toughened deer hide. For weapons, they bore shields and spears and the dreaded seax, while a few of the strongest carried war-axes. None, so far as the queen could see, had swords.