“I know his strategy,” he said. “He means to land somewhere far to the north, unopposed, then march inland and hope to gather support before facing us in battle.”
Duach, now captain of Medraut’s bodyguard, looked troubled. “Not all the sub-kings have rallied to our banner,” he said. “Artorius still has friends in Britannia. The garrison at Viroconium refuses to surrender.”
“They can be no help to him,” Medraut snapped. “The town is surrounded. Nothing can get in or out.”
Viroconium, the fortress-town regarrisoned by Artorius to guard the northern frontier of his kingdom, was under siege by a combined army of Saxons and Britons. The eighty Companions of the garrison were all staunchly loyal to the High King. They threw back any demands to surrender, just as they threw back any assault made on the walls. Discouraged, the besiegers had settled down to starve them out.
There were a few other loyal enclaves, dotted here and there about Britannia. Loyalties died hard, especially among the older generation, who remembered Artorius in his prime and the victories he won against the Saxons. Medraut had expected a few flickers of resistance. They would all be stamped out. Those who came into his peace could have it. Those who did not would die, by rope and blade and fire. It was their choice.
“We go north,” he said decisively, “by forced marches, if necessary. My father always like to move fast on campaign. This time he will be matched for speed. Wherever he chooses to land, he shall find us waiting for him.”
Medraut’s army followed the coast road into Gwynedd. He had men out on the sea in fishing boats to watch the progress of his father’s fleet. King Maelgwn was sent off to Ddinas Emrys, his stronghold, to fetch reinforcements. Nothing was to be left to chance. Amhar was Medraut’s constant shadow. He rode at the new High King’s side as a self-appointed bodyguard, insisted on sleeping outside his tent at night. Medraut suspected his brother was grateful for taking him away from Cerdic. The Bretwalda had agreed to let Amhar go with the army, on condition he wore his slave collar at all times.
“Let him clothe himself like a man,” Cerdic had said. “Let him ride and fight, but never let him forget who he is. My property. My slave. When your work is done, I’ll have him back again. My dogs miss his company.”
His time in the kennels, along with his torture at Saxon hands, had addled Amhar’s wits. He was very much like a dog himself now, a faithful hound, following his master about and snarling at any that came near. Shortly after marching into Gwynedd, Medraut received the news he longed for. Artorius sailed for Pen Llyn, a great peninsula in the northeast of the kingdom, thrusting some thirty miles into the Hibernian Sea. This was one of the remotest parts of Britannia, home to only a few scattered villages and hermitages. Medraut smiled at the report.
“My father is clever. He thinks to sneak into Britannia via the back door, and from there march unopposed into the heart of Gwynedd.”
“We must prevent him landing,” King Maelgwn said hotly. “I swear by all the Saints, Artorius shall only set foot in Gwynedd over my dead body!”
Be careful of your oaths, lord king, thought Medraut. His ally was desperate to wipe out the memory of the humiliations Artorius had inflicted on him. Destroyed his army in battle, levied tribute of gold and slaves, taken hostages, even forced Maelgwn to personally behead the men who slew Cei the Tall.
Medraut and the four kings had stopped to listen to the report of the scout. To the west, the blue band of the sea was visible beyond a rugged shoreline. Foam-flecked rollers boomed and crashed in the distance. Behind him, long lines of spears and brightly painted banners filled the length of the coast road stretching away south.
If he strained his eyes, Medraut fancied he could glimpse the red sails of Artorius’ warships. They would race north as fast as the wind could carry them. He had to be faster.
“On!” he cried, driving in his spurs. “We have a dragon to hunt!”
The cavalry flowed after him, leaving the footmen to toil in their wake. Maelgwn, who knew the country best of all and the shortest route into Pen Llyn, went on ahead with his riders. The coast road swiftly dwindled to a mere track, along which the horsemen thundered in single file while gulls screeched overhead and the sea-winds howled and clawed at them. Medraut was exhilarated by the furious pace, the horse surging under him, the sense of riding to his destiny. Finally, after so many years of waiting, the death-grip with his father had come. His blood tingled at the prospect of facing Artorius across the battlefield, sword in hand. He burned with renewed hatred for the man who had killed his mother, abandoned the old gods for Christ, denied Medraut the power and leadership that were rightfully his.
He will crawl at my feet and beg for death. I will cut him apart, a piece at a time, and offer up his heart’s blood to my mother.
“Red sails! Red sails!”
The cry came tearing down the line. Medraut’s heart hammered against his ribs. He looked out to sea, and spotted them: a dozen blood-red sails in line abreast, streaming towards the coast.
Where would they attempt to land? Medraut could see only sheer cliffs ahead. For another half-hour or so he rode after the white cloaks of Maelgwn’s riders. Suddenly they plunged into a narrow defile between two spurs, then sharply up again to the summit of a bare green rise.
He brought his beast to a halt. She shuddered under him, sweat rolling down her flanks. Below them the rocky headland swept down to a stretch of yellow beach, two or three miles long, lapped by blue seas.
Medraut’s heart sank. These broad flat sands offered a perfect landfall to Artorius’ fleet. The beach was empty so far as the eye could see. There was no natural cover, nowhere he could set up an ambush.
“Well?” demanded Maelgwn. “What is your decision, lord king? Artorius’ ships will soon round the headland. Do we offer battle here, or withdraw?”
Medraut sensed the hostility in the other man’s voice. This was Maelgwn’s turf, and he clearly resented having to defer to another inside the borders of his own kingdom.
“We fight!” Medraut shouted back at him. “Take your men down to the beach and form a battle-line. You have enough spears to hold Artorius in check until the rest of our army comes up. Move!”
Maelgwn hesitated. The two men locked gazes. Medraut was painfully aware of being alone, surrounded by the King of Gwynedd’s warriors. A word from their master, and they would kill him on the spot, High King or no.
He won the battle of wills. Maelgwn broke, shame-faced, and turned his horse about to follow the narrow path down to the beach. With the odd dark look at Medraut, his riders spurred after him. Medraut was left alone on the windswept heights. He shaded his eyes and watched anxiously as the line of red sails came ever closer. Now it was possible to pick out the men aboard, tiny figures as yet, the flash of sunlight on their armour. His father’s flagship ploughed slightly ahead of the other galleys under full sail, dragon banner fluttering from the mainmast.
Medraut glimpsed the burly figure in golden ringmail stood at the prow.
Artorius. Father.
He swallowed, and looked over his shoulder for the rest of his army. They came up fast, whipped and bullied by their officers, cavalry to the fore, infantry toiling after. Medraut took heart. By the time Artorius’ men had disembarked and rowed ashore in their longboats, his troops would be in place on the beach. Ready to meet the enemy blade to blade, spear to spear. Medraut had another weapon in store. He glanced over the heads of his infantry, at the carts rattling and bouncing over the track in their wake.
I should feel guilty at their contents. Any normal man of conscience would. But I am no normal man. I am driven by fate. What I do, I do for the good of the kingdom.
Medraut clung to his belief in fate. He had no choice. Without it, what was he? A traitor, murderer and kinslayer. He had slaughtered his brother with his own hands, raised rebellion against his father, broken his sacred oath of fealty to the High King. Murdered the last Seer of Britannia, merely to protect himself. Joined with h
is ancestral enemies and helped them to slay his own folk and destroy Caerleon.
Without fate, Medraut knew he was damned. Perhaps he was already. The verdict of battle would decide. His soldiers were rushed onto the beach, where they formed up into battle-lines. Most of the horsemen dismounted to join the infantry in the shield wall, with only a small mounted reserve held to the rear. King Maelgwn and his white cloaks formed a square in the centre of the host. Medraut stayed on the ridge above the beach and oversaw the noise and bustle. With him were a handful of trusted officers, and Amhar.
Medraut had given his brother a tunic, breeches and shirt of ringmail. The giant had picked out an axe for himself, a monstrous double-headed weapon that could chop a man clean in two. He stood brooding on the edge of the clifftop, eyes fixed on the rapidly approaching ships.
A group of slaves trudged up from the wagons. Six carried a wooden crucifix, twice their height. Two others carried a dead weight wrapped inside a woollen blanket. They wore scarves over their faces against the dreadful rotten stench that rose from their burden. Medraut ignored the smell.
“Over there,” he ordered the slaves, pointing at the edge of the cliff.
Dull-eyed and obedient, like so many cattle, they obediently carried the crucifix over to the spot and laid it down flat.
By now the galleys had weighed anchor and stood out to sea, some quarter of a mile beyond the beach. Medraut saw the longboats lowered into the water, rope ladders thrown over the side for Artorius and his warriors to climb down.
“They are so few,” Duach said excitedly, “less than half our number. Does Artorius want to die?”
Medraut said nothing. The first longboats, sleek, tapered vessels, rowed swiftly towards the beach, packed with men. Most were Companions, always distinctive in their red cloaks. Artorius himself was easy to pick out. He stood at the prow of the lead boat in his golden armour and white cloak fringed with purple. For the first time Medraut was afraid. His father bore Caledfwlch, the famous sword of the Caesars, and his shield was painted with an image of the Virgin Mary. The same shield he had carried at Mount Badon. A ripple of dread ran through the host gathered below. Medraut sensed it, witnessed the massed ranks of spears waver slightly. Like the trees of a forest, bowed under the first onset of a storm. Artorius was coming.
“Quickly!” he rasped at the slaves. “Nail her up! Show them their precious queen!”
Cowed by the lash of his voice, the slaves laid down their burden on top of the crucifix and peeled back the blanket. Medraut clapped a hand over his nose and mouth against the stench, twice as bad as before. His officers did the same. Duach went green, while one man leaned over his saddle to vomit. The blanket covered the putrid corpse of Gwenhwyfar, one-time Queen of Britannia. Amhar, her own son, had stabbed her to death on the royal dais at Caerleon. Medraut brought the body north to display to his enemies. Cerdic, who had no interest in the fate of Gwenhwyfar’s corpse, was grimly amused by the idea.
The slaves quickly fastened her wrists to the crossbar with lengths of twine and then heaved the crucifix upright. Gwenhwyfar dangled, long silvery hair streaming in the wind, an obscene parody of Christ’s torment on the cross.
At first Medraut’s tactic seemed to work. He saw men in the longboats point at the grisly trophy, heard their cries of disbelief. There was no obvious reaction from Artorius. He stood perfectly still while his boat ploughed towards the shore. When it reached the shallows he suddenly came to life and leaped into the waters. His men tumbled after him. Bedwyr was hard on his heels, followed by the huge form of Peredur, holding aloft the dragon standard. Shouts and war-yells erupted from the men on the beach. Those in the centre, the white cloaks of Gwynedd, surged forward.
“Wait!” yelled Medraut. “Hold your position, you fools!”
They couldn’t hear him, and King Maelgwn made no effort to restrain his men. Instead his tall figure, shimmering in polished ringmail, strode ahead of them. He broke into a run. His spearmen followed. Medraut could only watch in angry despair. The plan was for the enemy to be allowed to reach land, where they could be outflanked and overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers. Instead Maelgwn lost his head and took his men forward in a wild, hopelessly undisciplined rush.
The other kings held their spears back, leaving Maelgwn to face Artorius alone. A chaotic battle erupted in the shallows. The Companions gathered into a wedge, with Artorius at the apex, and drove into the men of Gwynedd. More warriors poured off the longboats, light-armed Scotti among them. These hurled their javelins over the heads of the Companions, to fall like deadly rain among the white cloaks. The sea boiled with the mass of struggling men. Their shouts and screams drowned out the boom of waves, the shrieks of gulls soaring far overhead. Above all waved the dragon banners, the red and the black. Artorius smashed through the Gwyneddian ranks like a wild bull, awesome in his fury, unstoppable in his wrath. Caledfwlch flashed in his hand, surged up and down like a scythe, reaped the souls of men.
Bedwyr was no less deadly, his lethal sword-skill undimmed by the passage of time. Peredur hewed with an axe, rained hammer blows down on linden shields, and split mail and timber and flesh with frightful ease. A red stain spread over the sea as wounded and crippled men bled their lives out in the water.
Despite their numbers, the white cloaks were driven backwards. The black dragon dipped and tumbled. Peredur had chopped down Maelgwn’s standard bearer. He stood over the fallen banner and hacked down every man of Gwynedd who tried to retrieve it. Roaring in triumph, the Companions surged deeper into the broken ranks of the Gwyneddians. Maelgwn himself came face to face with Artorius. They closed together, blades clashing, almost too fast for the eye to follow.
The remainder of Medraut’s host did nothing to help. They stood and watched the slaughter, like dumb beasts, stunned by the sheer ferocity of Artorius’ charge. Medraut had seen enough. He gave his reins a savage wrench and urged his horse down the dirt path to the beach.
“Attack!” he screamed. “Why do you stand and watch? Forward! Into battle!”
Still his allies did not move. Men scattered to make way for Medraut as he thundered across the beach towards Cuneglasus. The King of Rhos, a short, graceless figure, sat on a grey pony under his banner of the tawny hound. He gave Medraut a half-hearted salute, his fleshy face pale under a crested helm.
“What are you doing?” Medraut screamed. “Why do you sit here, watching our friends die? Take your men forward! Fight!”
He jabbed his finger at the battle in the sea, where Artorius’ men had almost won to land. The last warriors of Gwynedd pleaded desperately for aid as they made a last stand on the edge of the beach. Dead men floated in the bloody waters; wounded and crippled were held down and drowned by the Scotti, or had their throats slit with long knives. Cuneglasus gave a little shake of the head. Too ashamed to meet Medraut’s eye, he looked away. It was clear nothing on earth, no threat or insult, would compel the King of Rhos to face Artorius in his wrath. A dying shriek rose above the din of battle. Medraut groaned as he witnessed his father beat down Maelgwn’s guard and carve deep into his neck and chest. Almost split in half, the King of Gwynedd collapsed to his knees, spraying gore. Artorius twisted Caledfwlch free and let his enemy topple over and crash face-down into the surf. Artorius raised the dripping sword high.
“Maelgwn of Gwynedd, dead! Maelgwn of Gwynedd, dead!”
His raw, exultant shout echoed back and forth across the beach. It was taken up by other men; the Companions and their Scotti allies shouted it in triumph, the men of Gwynedd in fear and dismay.
With the king dead, there was no reason to resist any longer. Tattered ranks of white cloaks disintegrated and caved inward. The men of Gwynedd threw down their spears and ran. After them raged the Companions, baying for blood. Cuneglasus wheeled his horse.
“Retreat!” he yelped at his men. They were all too keen to obey. The spearmen broke ranks and streamed away. They fought and jostled each other up the path, too narrow to admit them all, or e
lse dumped their weapons and tried to clamber up the stony bank.
Medraut clutched at Cuneglasus’ sleeve.
“Coward!” he shouted. “You swore an oath to serve me! Fight for me! Does your oath mean nothing? I am the High King!”
Cuneglasus, who was surprisingly strong, dashed his hand away. “I swore the same oath to your father,” he snarled. “So much wasted breath. Let me go or I’ll kill you.”
He galloped away, drawing his sword to lash at his men. “Move aside!” he bawled. “Move aside for your king!”
They leaped out of his path, or were ridden down by Cuneglasus and his mounted bodyguard. The king spurred his horse up the path, careless of who he cut down or trampled in his desire to escape. Medraut could do little to prevent the break-up of his army. Panic, the bane of warriors, spread like fire through his infantry. The men of Rhos were already in full flight, and those of Dyfed and Powys were not slow to follow. To their credit, Aurelius Caninus and Vortipor showed more courage than Cuneglasus. They rode back and forth among their troops, urging them to stand fast. Those who fled were pursued by cavalry, who cut down the fugitives or herded them back into line. King Vortipor, in charge of the mounted reserve, led his warriors in a head-on charge against the Companions. Artorius was ready for them. His men quickly reformed, and the front rank knelt in line abreast on the wet stand. The second stood behind, presenting a double wall of shields and spears. Even at full tilt, the horses refused to plunge into that lethal fence. They swerved aside, whinnying, and several tumbled riders out of the saddle. The momentum of the charge dissipated. Horsemen scattered and rode clear, or crashed together as the rear ranks blundered into the first.
A horn rang out. The shield wall split apart as the Companions surged forward. They speared riders, brought horses down, stabbed fallen warriors to death on the ground with brutal efficiency.
The remaining horsemen scattered and fled in all directions. Vortipor was among those who escaped the massacre. He left his banner of the spotted leopard in the hands of a Companion, who brandished it in triumph. Medraut’s host was in full retreat. The beach offered only two ways out, and these were packed with men and horses, all struggling to get away. Trapped, his panicked troops could only turn and fight, or be slaughtered like rats in a barrel. Chaos reigned. Their shattered ranks were all mixed up together; officers lost touch with their men; banners fell and were trampled underfoot.
Medraut Page 18
