Medraut

by David Pilling

  “They are ceorls,” she said, “mere peasants. The dregs of Cerdic’s host. He sends his worst men against us.”

  Llacheu nodded. “Yes. He is content to throw away their lives, like grain from a sack, so long as they kill a few Britons. When the ceorls ar exhausted, he will throw his real warriors against us.”

  Gwenhwyfar looked west again, and saw the fresh battalions drawn up in reserve behind their siege engines. The midday sun glinted off their crested helms and coats of iron mail, axes and swords and painted shields. These were Cerdic’s huscarls, his warrior elite; Saxon chieftains and their thegns, drawn from all over the Lost Lands of Lloegyr. They were in high spirits, gulping down horns of yellow mead, chanting and singing and working themselves up into a fever. Behind them she glimpsed the V-shaped standard of the Bretwalda himself. The snarling black wolf’s head, crudely daubed on a banner of flayed skin, made her shiver. Cerdic himself could not be seen, lost behind the massed ranks of his thegns.

  “There must be a thousand of them,” Gwenhwyfar murmured. “The Yellow Plague decimated our people, yet did little to wipe out these vermin.”

  “They will all die soon enough,” said Llacheu, “when our friends arrive. Never fear, my lady. We only need to hold them for a few more hours.”

  Gwenhwyfar strained her eyes to look for Medraut. Would he dare to steal his father’s dragon banner, and display it among the Saxon host?

  There was no sign of him.

  The traitor hides, as well he might. Is he ashamed, or just frightened? Let me see him die. Let me watch Llyr cut the life from his body. Let me present the traitor’s head to my husband.

  At midday, the engines resumed their bombardment. Once again, the defenders of the western wall took cover from the shower of rocks, darts the size of javelins and flaming barrels of tar. Saxon bowmen and slingers loped forward in skirmish order to exchange missiles with the British archers. The parapet shuddered under Gwenhwyfar’s feet as stones lobbed from Saxon catapults crashed against the gates.

  Llacheu left his post and darted down the stair.

  “Maelwys!” Gwenhwyfar heard him shout. “Now’s your time! Ride out and drive off their bowmen!”

  Maelwys signalled at his trumpeter. Moments later the double gates yawned open and he led his mounted reserve out at the gallop. They charged the Saxon skirmishers, broke them up and drove the fugitives into headlong flight. More Saxon corpses were left scattered across the reeking field, while the wretched survivors fled back to their own lines.

  Llacheu nodded in satisfaction.

  “Sound the recall,” he ordered. The trumpets sang again, and the cavalry swung about and rode back through the gates, which closed behind them.

  Gwenhwyfar’s heart lifted. The Companions had behaved with all their customary discipline, slaughtered over two score of the enemy, and lost not a single man. The gates held firm under the barrage, though splintered in places. Cerdic showed no sign of launching another assault. Caerleon would not fall. Not today.

  The bombardment didn’t slacken until late afternoon. Gwenhwyfar busied herself helping the wounded. Memories of the fighting in Powys when she was young flooded back; she helped to carry stretchers, splint and bandage shattered limbs, staunch the flow of blood. Tried to ease the suffering of wounded soldiers, or gently usher those who could not be saved into the next world. This was far worse than Powys. There was no refuge near the western wall from the rain of missiles, so she ordered the wounded to be carried deeper into the city. Gwenhwyfar oversaw the loading of maimed bodies onto wagons. A young woman, one arm shorn off by a Saxon axe, stared dully at the queen as she was lifted aboard a cart. The life ebbed from her eyes, even as a priest fought to stem the flow of blood from her dreadful wound.

  Bishop Cadwy limped into view. Gwenhwyfar had not seen him in the fight, but he had certainly done his share. He wore a shirt of iron plates over his grey surplice, an old Roman legionary helmet with a neck guard and dangling cheek-pieces. The shirt was battered and stained with blood, and a glancing blow had left a dent in the helmet. For a weapon, he carried his staff of office, weighty enough to crack skulls and break limbs.

  More blood oozed from a knife cut on the bishop’s face. “My lady,” he said, “I am glad to see you unhurt.”

  “Many were not so fortunate,” she replied. They stood in embarrassed silence for a moment. Gwenhwyfar’s suspicion and resentment of Cadwy were distant memories now, burned away in the fires of war. She respected the man’s courage, even pitied him a little. “

  You should have been a soldier,” she ventured, “like your father. Artorius was wrong to force you into the church.”

  Cadwy gave a weary smile, and dabbed at his bleeding face. “Perhaps. I may not have lived as a soldier, but could yet die as one. This is the end, my lady.”

  “Nonsense,” she said hotly, and was interrupted by a flurry of distant horns.

  She turned to listen. The horns wailed again, a glorious and uplifting sound, echoing back and forth across the hills to the north.

  Cadwy’s eyes shone with hope.

  “It cannot be Artorius,” he said, “not so soon.”

  “The kings have come,” breathed Gwenhwyfar, “Maelgwn of Gwynedd and the rest. They answered Llacheu’s call for aid!”

  She raced away, followed by her bodyguard. They made their way to the northern gates of the city, where Llacheu and his officers were assembled. The regent welcomed her with one of his boyish grins.

  “Did I not say they would come?” he cried, almost laughing. “See, my lady, our salvation is at hand!”

  She eagerly looked to the north, where the fertile plain, watered by a tributary of the Wysg, bordered a range of low hills. Those hills were now thickly clustered with horsemen, troops of riders in bright mail, sunlight glinting from their helms and spears. Gwenhwyfar cried out for joy when she recognised the devices on their standards; the dragon of Gwynedd; the lioness of Dumnonia; the spotted leopard of Dyfed; the lions of Powys; the tawny hound of Rhos. Hope surged through her. The kings of Britannia had come. All would be well.

  13.

  “Your friends are here,” said Cerdic, “your fellow traitors.”

  Medraut smiled weakly. They stood at the rear of the Saxon host, where the Bretwalda had planted his wolf standard. From here Medraut had watched the assault on Caerleon. His heart sank when Cerdic’s warriors were repeatedly thrown back with heavy loss. The Saxon king appeared to care little. He ordered the bombardment to resume and sat in silence, gulping down endless horns of mead, as the city gates were slowly battered to splinters.

  He hardly ever let Medraut out of his sight. Unlike Amhar, the British prince wore no slave-collar, but he was still a helpless captive. Cerdic had dragged him along when the Saxons overran the Great Dyke, burnt the forts and put the loyal garrisons to the sword. When Medraut begged leave to ride to Mons Ambrius and summon his followers, Cerdic had refused.

  “You stay with me, little king,” he rumbled, “where I can see you. Your men can sit on their hands at Caerleon until I have need of them.”

  Medraut had no choice but to obey. While the smoke of burning forts rose into the sky, Cerdic sent fast riders to summon his chieftains from all over Lloegyr. Hundreds of fresh troops marched up the road from Londinium, the great army he had spent twenty years training for this moment. The downfall of Artorius. Revenge for Mount Badon.

  His horsemen arrived first, spearmen on ponies. The Saxons preferred to fight on foot, but Cerdic realised the importance of soldiers who could move fast across the network of old Roman highways. The infantry were not far behind, over three thousand spears, raising a great cloud of dust as they force-marched west, whipped on by mounted officers. Behind them rumbled the baggage train, dozens of carts loaded with supplies and siege equipment. This was no Saxon horde or raiding party, but an army of conquest.

  Cerdic wasted no time. From the Dyke, he pushed west at the head of his advance troop, burning all in his path. His army drove dee
p into British territory, completely unopposed, and the way lay open to Caerleon. Now Medraut watched in silent terror as squadrons of mailed horsemen came riding from the north. He recognised the banners of the sub-kings of Britannia, Maelgwn of Gwynedd and the rest. His belief in fate, the Prophecy of Myrddin, was broken. With it went his belief and confidence in himself, his destiny.

  He had promised Cerdic that the British kings would turn against Artorius. A hollow, foolish promise. Medraut had made no effort to contact Maelgwn or any of the other kings. There was no time. He cursed his allies in Hibernia. They had risen too soon without waiting for his signal, forcing Medraut to act before he was ready.

  Cerdic seemed completely unperturbed by the appearance of the British squadrons to the north. He quaffed another flow of golden mead, wiped the spillage from his beard, and belched heartily.

  The British horsemen rode straight at the flank of the Saxon host. They shifted into a canter, split into five divisions, each led by their king. The ground quaked under the tread of racing hoofs.

  Medraut sucked in a deep breath, determined not to show any fear. There was no use in running anyway. Cerdic had given him an escort of two massive royal huscarls who shadowed his every move. The moment he tried to escape, Medraut knew they would cut him down. He went cold at the thought of their axes chopping into his flesh.

  “Well,” said Cerdic, “we had best welcome our friends, had we not?”

  The Bretwalda heaved his bulk out of the chair and set off, somewhat unsteadily, in the direction of the horsemen. With him went a Saxon priest, a lean, cadaverous figure who wore a bronze amulet of Woden on a chain about his scrawny neck. The troop of royal huscarls jogged after their master and closed around him. Medraut’s guards shoved him in the back and made him trail after Cerdic. He exchanged glances with Amhar, still naked save for his breech-clout, dragged along by the chain on his collar. To look into Amhar’s eyes was to glimpse the plains of Hell.

  At least Cerdic has allowed me a measure of dignity, thought Medraut. Perhaps there is hope yet.

  The flank battalions of Cerdic’s host had closed up in the face of the British cavalry, presenting with an impenetrable barrier of shields and levelled spears. Medraut braced himself, waiting for the impact. He expected the Britons to hurl their javelins at the Saxon infantry and then wheel away. Not even mailed horsemen could hope to break a shield wall in a head-on charge. If Saxon discipline held, there was no way the cavalry could get in amongst them and break up their formation.

  There was no clash of arms. Instead the first company of horsemen, led by Maelgwn of Gwynedd, slowed to a halt. Maelgwn himself, a magnificent figure in his white cloak and gauntlets and polished silver mail, raised a hand in greeting.

  “Hail, Cerdic,” he cried, “dread King of Lloegyr!”

  Medraut gaped in astonishment as Maelgwn’s fellow kings rode forward in turn and repeated the cry. He recognised them all; Vortipor of Dyfed, Aurelius Conan of northern Powys, Cuneglasus of Rhos, Constans of Dumnonia. Young men, full of pride and ambition, who frequently came to Caerleon and sat at the Round Table. Now they had broken their oaths of loyalty to Artorius and joined with the ancestral enemy of their race. Cerdic, who didn’t bother to greet the kings in return, looked over his shoulder to wink at Medraut.

  “See, little king,” he growled, “the board was already set, long before you came to me. These fine men betrayed your father months ago. They offered me gold, tribute, land, all I could desire, if I helped them destroy Artorius.”

  Medraut found a morsel of courage. “Then why keep me alive?” he demanded. “If all the kings of Britannia are on your side, you have no need of me.”

  He straightened, hands by his side, a soldier at attention. “I am ready to die.”

  Cerdic snorted. The priest at his side sniggered, and even some of the huscarls started to laugh. While Medraut coloured in embarrassment, the Bretwalda lumbered over to him and thumped one heavy paw on his shoulder.

  “No need of you?” he said with a crooked grin. “Poor boy, you underrate yourself. Once Artorius is dead, I will need a man of his blood to sit on the throne. His eldest son Llacheu is no good. Too loyal, and I plan to kill him anyway. Cadwy is a priest of your feeble religion. That leaves you.”

  He glanced scornfully at Amhar. “There’s the ape, of course. Yet we cannot have a tongueless ape for High King, can we? No, you shall sit on the throne of your fathers, little king. Swear faith to me and rule over the Britons as my faithful dog. My slave.”

  The pressure on Medraut’s shoulder increased Cerdic was as strong as the bear he resembled, and Medraut could do little to prevent his knees buckling under the strain.

  “You will swear the oath now,” Cerdic added, “while we are all gathered here.”

  Medraut was forced to kneel. He offered no resistance. The flicker of courage had died within him.

  “Open your ranks!” Cerdic shouted at his huscarls. “Let the good people of Caerleon see their prince swear loyalty to the Bretwalda!”

  His warriors obediently shuffled aside to form a gap. Medraut dared not look west, at the city he had once sworn to defend. None of the turncoat British kings lifted a finger or spoke a word in his defence. Medraut could sense their contempt. When – if – he became High King, these men would have little respect for him. How long before they tried to overthrow him in turn?

  Perhaps this is what Cerdic wants. Another civil war, in which the last of the Britons tear each other apart and leave him in sole possession of the island. God help me! I have worked to bring this about!

  “Promise to be my man in all things,” boomed Cerdic. “Swear on your nailed god, on your honour as a prince of royal blood, on pain of the slow death of your body. You are mine to command in all things.”

  “I promise,” said Medraut in a hollow voice. “I promise on Christ, on my honour, on pain of death.”

  Cerdic gave him a pat. “Good. Now we can finish our work here.”

  Medraut rose, burning with shame, as the Bretwalda roared orders in the Saxon tongue. The horns sang, drums thundered. His men scrambled to obey. Within moments the Saxon battle-lines were drawn up ready for another assault on Caerleon. This time Cerdic placed his best troops in front, the mailed huscarls and thegns, with the remaining ceorls herded into the flanks.

  King Maelgwn rode forward to speak with the Bretwalda. “Alas,” Medraut heard him say, “our cavalry can do little good against strong gates and high walls.”

  “Then get off your horses,” Cerdic replied brusquely. “Fight like men, for once, on your own two feet.”

  Maelgwn went red. “We are horse-warriors, lord king. Kings and nobles of Britannia, raised to fight in the saddle.”

  Cerdic fingered the hilt of his seax. His guards crowded closer. “And you will die in the saddle,” he hissed softly, “unless you do as I say.”

  There was no defying his will. Maelgwn turned back and ordered his mounted spearmen to dismount. At first some refused, even in the face of their master’s furious threats. Faced with a choice of desertion or punishment, they finally climbed down from their horses and joined the ranks of the Saxon vanguard. Maelgwn’s allies, Vortipor and the rest, followed suit. A handful of their men turned their horses and quit the field, unwilling to compromise their pride by fighting on foot like common infantry. Medraut watched them go with a touch of envy.

  At least they have their honour intact.

  He decided to try and do one decent thing. “Lord king,” he pleaded, “unchain my brother, Amhar. Give him a sword and armour, and let him fight in the assault. He is a fine warrior, if nothing else.”

  Amhar heard him, and straightened from his cringing stoop. He looked like a man again, or something like it, rather than a beaten animal. The Saxon whips and knives had not cut all the dignity out of him.

  “Very well,” Cerdic replied dismissively, “the ape can have a spear. His collar stays. It won’t be removed until he dies.”

  He barked at one of h
is warriors, who handed Amhar a spear. The big man snatched it with both hands and held on tight, as though gripping a lifeline. The final assault began. Cerdic’s engines could make little impression on the old Roman walls of Caerleon, which Artorius had kept in good repair. Instead they switched to pounding the gates and the wooden roofs of the towers, while the largest catapults hurling flaming missiles over the walls into the city. Meanwhile his skirmishers went forward again and loosed a hail of darts and stones at the battlements, forcing the defenders to keep their heads down.

  At last Cerdic ordered the barrage to cease. “Now!” he shouted to his men. “One more effort, my children, and the city is ours! The enemy are broken. They cannot withstand us. On, and take your share of the plunder!”

  Drums beat, horns wailed, and the Saxon host swept forward in a howling mass. They charged over the bodies of their slain, careless of the storm of arrows and javelins raining down on their heads. Many fell to join the dead already strewn about the plain. Hungry for blood and gripped by battle-fever, their comrades drove on. The scaling ladders, thrown aside when their last assault failed, were snatched up and thrown against the wall. With them charged the British traitors led by King Maelgwn, his white cloak easy to pick out among the hundreds of bodies.

  Medraut watched helplessly, pulse racing, as Cerdic’s mailed warriors swarmed up the battlements. Close fighting raged along the rampart as the Britons struggled desperately to push them back. Men were pitched off the wall, had their skulls crushed by stones dropped from above, were engulfed in streams of boiling oil. This time the Saxons would not be denied. For every one of their warriors who fell, more sprang up to take his place. Their cruel axes rose and fell, swords glinting, spears ravenous for slaughter. Cerdic laughed at the bloodshed. He spread his arms wide, flung his head back and started to recite a battle-song. The huscarls roared and clashed their shields in approval.