Arthur tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied the cup. He looked at Lancelot. “Chariots…” he breathed.
Lancelot nodded. “Yes, yes! Chariots! They have been forgotten, in favor of cavalry, only think of the advantages a dozen chariots would give you.”
Arthur gripped his wrist. “Surprise.”
“It would break the ranks,” Lancelot added. “Sow dismay and sunder the foot soldiers.”
Merlin got to his feet. “Chariots can carry more than the driver,” he added. “Two or three of the strongest fighters, dropped into the enemy’s middle ranks, to break their spirit even before your front lines reached them.”
Cai rolled his eyes. “You want to set us back a few hundred years? I will remain upon my war horse, thank you very much.”
Merlin gripped the staff which went everywhere with him and studied Cai. “Britons marched upon Rome itself, six hundred years ago. They fought and defeated the mightiest army upon the face of the earth, and they did it with chariots.”
Cai’s amusement faded. “They make that much difference?”
“Rome had shields and spears and swords,” Lancelot said. His tone was the deep, quiet one he used when he spoke of his trade. He was steeped in the history of battles and wars. “We had shields and spears and swords…and chariots.”
Cai shook his head. “Rome had chariots, too!”
“They raced chariots,” Merlin said. “It was Britons who thought to use them in war.”
“And we will again,” Arthur said, his tone firm. “Lancelot, find out if there are any smiths and cartwrights who remember the old ways and can build us a dozen chariots.”
“We must train drivers,” Lancelot added, his enthusiasm lighting up his face.
“You can find them and train them, Lancelot,” Arthur told him. “I give you full authority to use whatever resources you need, take whatever men you need, to make this work.”
Lancelot nodded. “It will work. I can feel it in my bones.”
Not for the first time, Idris admired Arthur’s way with people. Only Lancelot had the passion necessary to see such a project through. A man merely following orders would balk at the first sign of resistance or ridicule from the army—and there would be resistance. Cai’s amusement at the antiquated idea of using chariots for war was a faint sample of the doubt which would be voiced, and the opposition Lancelot would face.
It would almost be worth lingering in Arthur’s camp, to see how Lancelot faired. Only…
Idris stirred. “Arthur, if I may?”
Arthur smiled. “Yes, my friend?” He moved around Lancelot, who was turning the goblet once more, absorbing details, and moved over to Idris, giving him his complete attention.
Idris drew a breath, letting himself feel the pride and happiness the simple statement always provoked in him. Friend. He was a man with friends and the mightiest man in the land had been the first.
“Now Lot and his kin have been quelled, and with your permission, I should return to the north.” To home, where Rhiannon waited for him. “I need to monitor Lot and Urien,” Idris added. “I don’t trust them to bend to this defeat easily.”
“They will be more than occupied clearing their lands of Saxons and holding them at bay.” Merlin’s tone was the remote one he used when he called upon facts he had learned with his far-seeing Sight. “They should not trouble you and yours for some years.”
Arthur put his hand on Idris’ arm. “Rhiannon is well?”
“And the babe, too,” Idris said. He let his happiness show. “Rhiannon was angry enough about having to stay behind. If I do not return with news at the first possible moment, she will…” He smiled. “She is your foster sister. You know her as well as I. I will leave her response to such a slight to your imagination.”
Cai chuckled. “Best sprint back, Idris.”
Arthur glanced at Merlin, who nodded.
“We will not need you again this summer,” Arthur told Idris. “Go home and kiss your wife.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Idris turned and left the tent. He and the handful of men he had brought with him—all who could be spared from patrolling in the north and protecting the household—could be ten miles from here before nightfall, if he moved swiftly enough. Behind him, he heard Lancelot speaking about wheels and harnesses, shortened shields and training. It was a fascinating subject. Everything about war was interesting, these days, for it impacted their very survival.
Yet it wasn’t enough to keep him here, when Rhiannon waited for him at home.
AFTER WASHING AND EXCHANGING HER bloody war gear for clean leather, Mair ducked under the tent flap and went in search of wine, her mind calm, her thoughts peaceful. The battle had been won. It was time to celebrate.
Somewhere nearby, there would be a campfire with like-minded warriors sitting around it, with wineskins and cups. A place would be made for her.
“Lady Mair.” The call came from her left.
Mair halted. The man who came toward her was black of hair, with a sharp jaw. He looked familiar. Mair took in his wide shoulders, and the strong wrists. He had washed and changed just as she had. No house markings showed on his clothes or cloak to tell her who he was.
She glanced at his face once more as he stopped before her. He had thick dark brows over deep blue eyes…and then she knew why he seemed familiar to her. “Arawn Uther,” she said. “You have joined Arthur’s army now?”
“My brother sent me, as he could not be spared himself,” Arawn Uther said. “Alun remains in Lesser Britain to hold the eastern borders with Hoel.” He reached inside his over tunic, underneath the cloak. “I have a letter for you, from Alun.”
The mention of a letter should have filled her with delight. Instead, Mair felt a twisting and tightening in her belly. “He did not send it by messenger?”
“Not this letter,” Arawn Uther held the sealed roll toward her.
The slight emphasis made her hesitate as she reached for the roll. “Why this letter? You know what is in it, don’t you?”
Arawn Uther didn’t shift his stance. His expression did not change. Yet Mair could feel the wave of sadness which swept him. His blue eyes glittered. “My mother…Ilsa…” His throat worked.
Mair sighed. “Oh, Arawn… I’m so sorry.”
He nodded. Then he cleared his throat. “My mother’s passing changes things.”
He did not finish the thought. He did not need to. Mair could complete it for herself. It changes things between you and Alun.
Alun had been pressing for a solid arrangement between them for years, via messengers and couriers, and letters such as this one. Now, with his mother’s passing, he would reasonably expect to secure the next generation.
Mair looked at the roll hanging forgotten in Arawn’s hand. She didn’t want to read it. Once she read Alun’s entreaty that she join him in Brocéliande, she would be forced to decide.
Mair gripped Arawn’s arm. “It is not the time to tax our minds with such matters,” she said. “We have clawed victory from this day. I was about to find wine and I insist you come and drink it with me.”
“But…”
She shook her head. “No. You fought today as I did. You now get to enjoy the warrior’s rights. Drink and…perhaps we can find you a willing, warm woman, to take that care from your eyes.”
Arawn rolled his eyes. “Really, Lady Mair—”
“Mair,” she said firmly.
“Rawn,” he replied, just as firmly. He narrowed his eyes and stuffed the letter back inside his tunic. “Where is this wine you speak of?”
Chapter Two
Battle of Maisbeli, Arthur’s Fifth Great Battle. Kingdom of Elmet, southwest of Eboracum. 490 C.E. (Two years later).
When Lowri slumped over her horse’s neck, her hand to her middle and her eyes closed, Mair only had time to react, not think. Saxons slid past them, exactly what the Queen’s Cohort was there to prevent. If the Saxons reached behind them, they would be free to drive a wedge into
the flanks of the army proper, which could be disastrous.
Mair pushed Leolin up alongside Lowri’s mount and fought off the filthy blond men hacking at Lowri’s shield, which Lowri barely kept in place.
“To me!” Mair cried, as the others in the Cohort surged up beside her, driving the Saxons back.
“Lowri!” Mair shook her leader’s shoulder.
“I’m…I’ll live,” Lowri said. Mair barely caught the words, for she whispered them. Her face was white and blood seeped between her clutching fingers, soiling the badge of Calleva on her tunic and the braid of brown hair hanging over her shoulder.
“Go. I have the Cohort!” Mair cried. “Ride off the field! Can you manage?”
Lowri looked as though she wanted to protest. She swallowed instead and nodded, as she raised herself enough to grip the reins.
Mair turned in her saddle. The other twelve women in the wing, including Elaine of Benoic at the back, were defending their flanks, while watching for the next command.
As Lowri backed out of the wing, then turned her horse and moved away from the fighting, Mair pointed her sword to the right of the Cohort. “Wheel and defend. Cut them off!”
The wing turned as one, a live, long body of horses and armed women, to snake around and in front of the Saxons trying to circle around them. This was a familiar pattern. It was the heart of the work they did to protect the vulnerable flanks of the standing army.
There was a lot of flank to protect. Arthur had sent out the general call to arms at the beginning of the summer, prompted by reports of a colossal Saxon war host building behind the borders of the Saxon Shore.
Every lord and petty king in Greater and Lesser Britain had answered the call. Their armies streamed from north, south and west, and across the seas. They had assembled on the great rolling plains south of the old Roman city of Eboracum, to meet the Saxon host spearing north from their eastern shores to divide Britain.
Mair’s wing of the Queen’s Cohort rammed through the head of the Saxon stream, with Mair at the front of the charge. They severed the head, then wheeled to the left, coming about and heading back to the front lines of the British host. As they rode, they swept up the scattering Saxons before they could return to their fellow fighters.
The work went on. Mair knew and understood the patterns and strategies through constant repetition. It was a pleasure to call out the command and see the wing react as she needed them to. She directed them as she would her sword or shield, battering and breaking, protecting the men on the ground as needed.
In spare moments when there was nothing to do but vigilantly patrol, Mair assessed the fighting in the main body. The British front line had not yet broken, although the Saxons sorely tested their strength and determination. Around Arthur’s Pendragon banner, Mair saw Cai chopping and shouting, looking almost happy. Cai, Lancelot, Bedivere and all the other senior commanders formed the iron hard core of the front line, while the armies of the other leaders filled in the rest.
Kernow—King Mark, who usually remained in Cornwall to protect the southern shores—was there in full glory. Mark’s nephew, Tristan, and his friend from the east, Sagramore, held the line beneath the Kernow banner. Tristan was bareheaded, his wild sun-bleached locks and fierce black beard distinctive among the dark-headed men of Kernow. A slim, black-haired man fought beside Tristin with elegant ease, his sharp chin lifted in disdain.
Mair only allowed herself one glance at the other banner which was not usually at the front lines unless there had been a general call. The Brocéliande banner was unwavering, on Arthur’s left. Two dark-haired figures on war stallions fought shoulder to shoulder beneath it.
Even amid battle, her belly crawled with an uneasy mix of guilt and fear which had nothing to do with the enemy. Mair looked away, pulling her gaze back to the Saxon host.
The Saxons were attempting another flanking movement. Mair snapped out her sword arm, pointing with the tip. “Divide and surround!” she called, for there were only a dozen Saxon. They’d been foolish enough to separate from their host.
The work continued. Mair starved her mind of thought and focused on the pure movements of defense and attack. Victory would be theirs, if all her skill and experience sufficed to make it so.
THE SUN LOWERED IN THE sky when Lancelot won the day. He took the mad risk of casting aside his shield, to skewer the Saxon leader, Hengist, with both knife and sword. As the British swarmed around the pair, Lancelot hauled Hengist off his horse and put his knife blade against the Saxon’s throat and declared him captured.
As the British war horns blew and drums beat in triumph, the Saxon host hesitated…and in that moment lost. The British sensed it, in the way armies could detect the fighting spirit of the enemy. They drove over the top of the Saxons, scattering them, hewing them down and sending them running into the gloaming.
The battle was won.
Mair stayed on her horse and kept the wing in place. The battle might be won, but until Arthur left the field, their work was not finished. She watched the retreating, escaping Saxons, in case any of them thought to circle back to take advantage of their enemy lowering their guard.
The younger warriors, those with energy to spare, took chase and hunted down the slower Saxons. They would drive the remains of the Saxon army far across the dales into the night. It would separate them and keep the Saxons on their feet and fleeing. With the Saxons scattered across the countryside and far away from Arthur’s camp, they could not reform and return. The work would continue for days, yet.
When Arthur and his closest officers picked their way around the dead and dying, heading for the next shallow valley where the camp would be raised, it was a signal that for this day, the fighting was over.
Mair waved her sword in a circle over her head, gathering the wing.
“Will Lowri live?” Elaine asked as soon as she was within earshot.
“Yes,” Mair said. She had seen too many war wounds to mistake the mildness of the cut Lowri had taken. “Although she should not sit upon a horse for weeks.”
The dozen women surrounding her looked grim.
“We are finished for today,” Mair added. “Go back to your families. See to their comfort. Check your men folk. You worked well today. Your work helped bring this victory to Arthur and for that, I thank you.”
The women smiled. Lowri always dismissed the wing with words of thanks, and Mair had always appreciated them. She could not fail to thank the women on Lowri’s behalf.
The horses of the Cohort did not canter or gallop home. They were tired, too. It had been a long day. They walked back to the head of the valley, their heads down, their steps plodding, while the women talked among themselves. A soft laugh drifted back to Mair, at the far end of the file.
She patted Leonlin’s neck. He snorted agreement. It had been a hard day. It was over, though.
For the first time since she had pulled her gaze away from the Brocéliande banner, Mair let her gaze cast across the field. Medics and aides were already moving among wounded, putting them on stretchers and declaring the dead.
The youngest fighters, those still too young to bear arms in the heat of battle, guarded the edges of the field. With the coming of night, looters and other opportunists would try to move in. The youngest fighters would protect the British dead and their possessions by dealing ruthlessly with the scavengers, per Arthur’s orders. It was just one of many changes Arthur had instituted in the years since he had become War Duke.
It was a change Mair agreed with, as did most of the soldiers in Arthur’s army. They only had to put themselves in the place of the bodies on the field, to realize this simple act gave honor to the dead, instead of being discarded upon a burial mound.
Brocéliande was still upon the field. They had been at the front of the lines and would make their way off the field as slowly as the others. Alun, King of Brocéliande, was still mounted, his head hanging with weariness, while Rawn led both horses, their reins in one big hand.
I am whole and well.
He had survived the battle unscathed.
The signal was a customary one for them. Mair completed the exchange by pressing her hand to her chest, although the chances she might be wounded were less than Rawn’s.
Her smile faded when she remembered that Lowri had been injured today. Safety was not guaranteed, not even in the Queen’s Cohort.
It was the cost of war, Mair added to herself. It was the price of victory. And today, they were victorious.
Time for wine and song and to stare into the flames of the camp fire and appreciate that victory.
GAWAIN RACED AHEAD OF THE body of fighters surrounding Arthur, displaying more energy than a day of hard fighting should have spared him. Idris admired his stamina. Gawain was an exceptional fighter. He had a natural affinity for the work.
When Arthur and his company reached the narrow dale which led to the camp, Lancelot laughed and pointed. “Gawain, are you picking flowers?”
Gawain had dropped his stallion’s reins and was bent over the long grasses, his shoulders working.
“It is early summer,” Bedivere murmured.
Cai gave a low chuckle. “There’s the pretty woman, the one with the braid down to her hips.” He raised his voice. “What was her name again, Gawain?”
Gawain got to his feet with a grunt of effort, proving his energy was not as high as his race forward had shown. He held a large bunch of daisies in his gloved hand. “Woman?” he repeated, frowning. Then his frown cleared. He moved up to where Arthur stood watching, with a small smile, while his white stallion snorted and nudged his shoulder. Rex wanted his oats.
Gawain thrust the daisies at Idris. “Here.”
Idris stared at him, his mind grasping at…nothing.
Gawain shook the daisies for emphasis. “Take them, fool.”
Cai and Lancelot both laughed. “How sweet!” Cai said, his belly shaking.
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