The Eagles Have Flown

by Henry Treece

  On the third day, Festus awoke to find the British encampment quieter than usual. He asked Kei the meaning of this and was told that it must be because there were fewer of the Cymry to make a noise now. Walking through the woods, Festus discovered that the complete company of Medrodus had gone. They had got up quietly in the night, said one horseman, and had ridden away like ghosts.

  Festus ran back to Kei with the news, but the old soldier only pulled up his long lip as though the whole thing were a joke and said, ‘Well, the things that happen at night!’

  Soon after midday, when all were feeling drowsy in the spell of warm weather, a strong party of Saxons crossed the river on broad rafts, which they had dragged down to the water’s edge overnight. They were sighted very soon after they bad started, but although the arrows of the Cymry inflicted terrible slaughter on them, a large number landed and forced their way into the outskirts of the wood. Festus went cold with terror as he saw a great, broad-chested man running straight at him, his red hair flaring out behind him, a bloody axe swinging in his hand. The boy glanced behind him and saw that he could not retreat for there was a high hedge of bramble and briar in his path. He felt a cry for help rising to his lips and stifled it, not wishing to be named a coward among that gallant warband of Cymry.

  There was nothing for it; Festus had to draw his sword, though he did it with a nerveless hand. Yet even as he went foward to meet the warrior, the man stopped, gazed at him with wide-eyed surprise as though he had never seen him before, and fell flat on his face, transfixed by an arrow from behind.

  Festus leaned back against a tree and sobbed with relief. Then the war-horn was howling again and the pitiful remnants of the Saxon attacking force were shambling towards the river, falling headlong one after the other, as the archers found their range.

  That night Artorius relaxed a little and allowed each man a double ration of meat and a jug of mead. Only the archers at the river’s edge were forbidden to celebrate but were promised twice as much as ordinary soldiers for the next day.

  The fourth day broke stormy and dark. It seemed that the fine weather had finished for a spell. Artorius gathered the men together in a great clearing and addressed them, saying that now the Cymry were few in numbers, but that this day they must get over the Dubglas and destroy the enemy, and that should they fail to do so, their campaign would be ended for the reinforcements would never support them after a defeat.

  He then outlined his plan; they were to let the horses fend for themselves in crossing the river, and every man was to take which horse he could find when they reached the other side. The men themselves were to use the rafts which the Saxons had abandoned, but to use them differently. Ten men were to stand, with long shields locked, in a wall at the front of each raft. Behind them would kneel as many men as could benefit from the cover of the shields; and after each raft were to trail as many men, without encumbering armour, as could swim. In this manner, Artorius computed, each raft might take sixty soldiers, and there were seven rafts. Of course, they were to have the usual covering fire from the archers stationed among the reeds on the British side. When this first striking force was across, the remnants of the army could follow in the ordinary manner, he said, without any danger. The Cymry laughed at his words and no one wanted to form that second force when it came to drawing lots.

  Festus found himself in the raft that carried Artorius himself, and the leader smiled at him as they ran aboard under cover of the shields. Only one of the rafts had difficulty in pushing off from the reeds, and it followed some distance behind the others. The men in the leading raft yelled back at the other and shouted abuse at the men aboard for being cowards, though in a friendly way, for that word could start a quarrel to the death among the Cymry,

  When the raft line was half-way over the river, the Saxon archers risked the fire from the British side and found the range of the ungainly craft. The air was filled with a sound like that of a myriad bees in anger and then the Saxon shafts rattled incessantly on the bronze shields at the front of the rafts. Yet they did little damage, for the interlocking bronze was proof against much heavier missiles. However, in each raft a shield-bearer was wounded in feet or legs, and on some rafts arrows which had been sent with a high angle of flight pierced one or two of those who knelt or swam behind.

  Then, when the Saxon archers despaired of killing men, they turned their attention to the horses, and that day many a brave charger floated down the swollen river shot through with arrows.

  ‘Mount immediately on landing!’ shouted Artorius, through cupped hands, the arrow-shafts whirring about him as he stood up for all men to hear his voice. ‘Mount and charge up the slope. Your new cry shall be “Cymry and Holy Cross! ” And may we meet in Heaven!’

  Then the rafts plunged ashore with a last heave from the pole-men, and the shield-walls broke up. Men toppled ashore, almost jumping on each other’s backs to be first in the charge. For a few moments, the shore of the Dubglas was a shambling mass, and then men sorted themselves out, swung into the saddles of the horses who had floundered ashore with them, and began the charge.

  As they did so a gasp of wonder spread through the place, from Celt and Saxon alike, for a great rainbow had suddenly appeared on the British side of the river.

  ‘An omen of victory!’ shouted one of the Cymry. ‘I shall be among the first to taste it!’ He rode up the slope, indeed one of the foremost of that brave company. An arrow picked him off while the shout was still on his lips.

  ‘Among the first in Heaven, my friend,’ said Kei grimly, holding the stirrup of Festus’s horse while he mounted.

  Then the boy looked behind and saw that the remainder of the Cymry were crossing the river unopposed. He began to tell Kei about it when there was the sound of many war-horns, coming from behind the Saxon ranks.

  ‘Save your breath,’ said Kei, now in the saddle himself, his sword in his hand and turning his charger towards the enemy. ‘That is the company of our friend Medrodus we can hear!’

  Festus looked at him in alarm, but Kei smiled and said, ‘No, he’s still on our side it seems! Attacking the enemy from behind. It took him a day and more to make the long detour to get behind them. Come on! Cymry and Holy Cross!’

  Then Festus had to spur hard to keep up with the man, for he rode like a fiend out of Hell rather than a man of God.

  After that, the whole battle dissolved like a nightmare in the boy’s mind. Men came at him, men with pale hair and pale eyes, running with spears and swords, and he slashed to left and right and still rode on. Once a great savage clutched at his reins and Festus struck down at the hand with his sharp sword. He heard the man scream out, then his horse went on unhindered. The boy did not dare turn to see what he had done to the man, who fell to the ground howling.

  Now and again Kei turned from his work of slaughter to see if the boy was safe; and each time he smiled and yelled out the new battle-cry and then rode on, his long two-edged sword dripping now. Bedwyr was wrestling with a flaxen berserker who had leapt on to the horse’s back and was trying to push the Celt from the saddle. Then Festus saw Bedwyr take out his short knife from his belt and, grasping the Saxon by the long plaits, stab him again and again. The man flung up his arms and called on Woden. Bedwyr stood up in the stirrups and flung the body into a knot of his companions who were howling with rage.

  Then, without warning, they came face to face with Medrodus, and for a while he and Artorius stood in the stirrups like brothers, together, hacking a wide swathe about them, shouting

  words of encouragement to each other, and even boasting of the numbers they had killed, counting rhythmically as they moved in and out among the crumbling Saxon host.

  Festus saw this, and in that moment knew that for well or for ill, these two men, so different in appearance, were brothers at heart. He saw that nothing but death could come between them; and that though Medrodus betrayed Artorius a hundred times, the Bear would forgive him, because of that strange streak they held in common
.

  And that, in effect, was the end of the Battle of Dubglas.

  Or rather, the Four Battles of Dubglas, for each day had brought forth a new conflict against the enemy.

  Out of that Saxon host of over two thousand, not more than five hundred survived, and they mostly the older men and the very young ones, who were not in the forefront of the battle.

  Artorius, well satisfied with the day’s triumph, would have let them go in peace, but Medrodus openly said that his force had turned the scales at Dubglas and that he begged leave to claim his reward. Artorius, a little put out, as all could see, bowed his head and with bad grace consented to grant him what he desired.

  ‘A simple thing, Bear,’ he said, smiling darkly and daring to use the old nickname, which no other man now spoke. ‘All I ask is leave to hunt down those who have escaped us here; for which purpose I shall need my own troop and fifty of yours, say all those who lie to the left of my hand as I hold it out thus.’

  Artorius had given his word and could not draw back now, though he would willingly have let those brave men go free. He turned away and began to assemble his forces so as to take a count of losses. With a wave of his hand, he signalled to the fifty chosen by Medrodus that they were dismissed.

  Bedwyr and Festus were among that troop. Kei lay on his dead horse, in the middle of the field, bristling with arrows, a swathe of Saxon dead about him, his great lip pulled back in death, as though he laughed. Festus stayed for a moment by him. ‘Forgive me, Keif he said, ‘for I was so busy on my own affairs, I never saw you fall.’

  4. The Place of the Tumulus

  The escaping Saxons kept together as well as they could, taking the road west, along the river bank. This was not an easy way for the pursuing horsemen, who were now well behind, since they had stayed longer than they should have done, celebrating the great assault of the rafts and gathering together their dead.

  Here and there, among the reeds, they came upon the enemy, sometimes a single old man who could run no further, sometimes a warrior whose wounds had exhausted him and who was tended by a son, or a friend who would not leave him. Medrodus, who rode the foremost of his band, was merciless to them all. With a sad admiration, Festus noted that never once did a man ask for quarter. They died calmly and looking at the sword or javelin that ended their lives. One old veteran, whose arms and face carried the ridged scars of many a battle, asked to be spared for a moment, long enough to get himself a drink of water from the river. The Cymry cheered his courage and would have spared him for it, but Medrodus cut the man down without a word. This did not please his followers, who rode sullenly for a while after that.

  The sun was setting in the west, in the faces of the riders, and some of them began to hope that they would soon be called off from this cruel business. Indeed, many of them openly wished the Saxons good luck in their escape. Medrodus was under no delusions about the temper of his men just then; but he spurred on, his dark face grim, determined to force his will on friend and foe alike.

  Festus began to hate this man more than he had ever done before. Then Bedwyr, riding close to the boy, suddenly pointed and said, ‘Look, the Saxon fools are taking the wrong way. We cannot help riding them down now.’

  The boy looked far ahead and saw that the straggling mass of fugitives had reached the hill where the river rose and, instead of going on, into the wooded country further west, had turned south, taking the old overgrown Roman road which led back, many miles distant, to Anderida Silva. Perhaps in the terror of the chase they had lost their sense of direction; perhaps they wished to gain the shelter of a forest they knew rather than that of a strange woodland; or perhaps they had vague plans of joining up with other forces of Saxons or Jutes at the southern edge of the great forest. But their move was a fatal one, and when Medrodus saw it, he gave a shout of triumph.

  Clapping spurs to his tired horse, he called, ‘Ride now, Cymry, the kill is at hand!’

  Never did hunters ride with less wish to overtake their quarry, yet overtake it they did, on the outskirts of an old and decaying village built by earlier Saxon settlers, in the shadow of a great tumulus that towered, humped and black in the failing light. Festus had watched this high round hill coming nearer and nearer; it had seemed a place of ill omen to him, and now he wondered how those who built the village had dared risk themselves to live with their flaxen families in this place of ghosts.

  The fugitives now tried to form a shield-wall, in their usual way, snatching up anything that might serve as protection, for they had cast away their round wooden bucklers in their flight. Now the Cymry, under the watchful eye of Medrodus, rode hither and thither among the tumbling thatched huts, striking down at men who had nothing better to protect themselves with than boards of oak, or tree-branches, and even old rusty cooking-pots.

  ‘The Battle of Bassas!’ snarled Bedwyr to Festus, sarcastically.

  The boy noticed that he struck with the flat of his sword, making a great show of fighting, but inflicting no wounds. Yet at last it was over, for the enemy could stand no longer, and now knelt or sat or lay, waiting for death, as silent as beasts who know that there will be no mercy.

  Medrodus came up to survey the prisoners, who were bunched in what had once been the village compound or market-place. There was a strange look on his face now, one which Festus liked less than any other. Black Medrawt knew that his own Cymry had no taste for further bloodshed, yet he had sworn to punish these Saxon dogs and dared not go back on his word, if only for his own pride.

  Medrodus called to the Saxons himself, in a loud commanding voice, ‘Let ten among you step forward and offer themselves up for punishment. The rest shall go their own ways.’

  There was a movement everywhere among the defeated Saxons. Of the remaining four hundred, over half offered themselves, anxious it seemed to be finished with the whole affair. Medrodus smiled grimly and rode among them, selecting here and there until he had chosen his ten. They stood together, steadfast, staring ahead, almost incurious concerning their fate. Then Medrodus made the others stand round them in a hollow square, so that they should see the dreadful fate of all who stood against the Cymry.

  Festus hung back and put his hands over his ears, for he feared the cruelty of Medrawt. Even so, he could not help hearing a great groan go up from the crowd, Saxon and Cymry alike. He rode a few paces away, wishing he were anywhere but there, in the Place of the Tumulus. Then he was conscious of someone else beside him. Bedwyr said, ‘That man is a devil. He has killed them. Had he been merciful, these men might have been our friends. Now each will carry poison in his heart. They do not forget, these sea-folk. He should beware!’

  Festus said, ‘Britain will never know happiness while he is alive.’

  Bedwyr slapped the sword at his thigh and whispered, ‘One day, one of the Cymry will forget his oath of allegiance to Black Medrawt, then all may be well again under the Bear.’

  He rode away towards a group of his own men and Festus stared beyond the huts. A figure was moving there, a young man, it seemed, who was slipping away under the shadows cast by the thatch. There was something familiar about the young man and Festus felt drawn towards him in a strange way. He put his horse quietly to the trot and moved in the direction which the figure had taken.

  Beyond the huts, the other turned and looked up at him, afraid, staring. It was Wulf. But he was so terrified that he did not seem to recognise his friend and began to run again. Now Festus knew that the lad would draw the attention of the other Cymry if he ran so openly, and with a great effort, he leaped from his own saddle and in three paces had dragged down his old friend.

  ‘Hush, Wulf,’ he said, putting his hand over the other’s mouth to prevent him from crying out. But still Wulf struggled and Festus was forced to roll him on to his back and kneel on his arms.

  ‘Be still, you fool,’ he whispered. ‘Someone will hear us. I am your friend, Festus, you remember me!’

  Wulf stared back now with the eyes of a frightened hare. Th
en his expression changed and he tried to smile. Festus removed his hand from the other’s mouth.

  ‘I will save you, Wulf,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how, but I swear.’

  Then as the boys smiled in each other’s faces, a dark shadow fell across them and Medrodus sat in his saddle, smiling grimly.

  ‘My friend,’ he said to Festus, ‘you have done well. That treacherous Saxon rogue was escaping, but you have caught him. Such a one deserves death, think you not?’

  Festus swung round and looked into the man’s face. ‘He shall not die while I have a sword to defend him, Black One.’

  Then Medrodus shrugged his shoulders and lowered the slim lance from which fluttered his own pennant. ‘It is all one,’ he said. ‘One thrust and I shall skewer you together, like two frogs on a rush! For it seems that you are no better than your Saxon friend, and I cannot ride again with one who is a confessed traitor.’

  The boys lay petrified, unable to move. Medrodus touched his horse’s flank with the spur and the beast began to move forward.

  Then, behind Medrodus appeared another horseman, moving silently as a ghost. Even as the lance was lowered to make the thrust, the other struck Medrodus across the back of the neck with his sword hilt. The murderer swayed for a moment in the high saddle and then slipped sideways to the ground.

  ‘Run, you pair of idiots,’ said Bedwyr, putting back his sword. ‘When this man comes round he will search high and low for you. Quickly, go to the south, where you may find a boat that will take you away! I will return to the Bear and tell him what has happened. Go, in the Bear’s name I release you from your oath of service, Festus!’

  The boys were on their feet again, gasping with relief. Festus reached up and squeezed the warrior’s mailed hand tightly. Wulf touched his dangling foot in thanks.