Idris closed his eyes and bowed his head.
Mair pressed her hand to her heart, which pattered with soft, swift happiness for the man. She was not the only person smiling as they watched.
Arthur presented Excalibur to Idris. “Do you swear to serve the High King of Britain faithfully, to come to Britain’s aid when I ask, and to protect the people who look to you and the lands which support them?”
Idris looked up. “I do.” His voice was hoarse. He gripped Excalibur’s blade, leaned forward and touched his lips to it.
Arthur nodded. He was smiling, too. He pointed to the northern contingent. “Go and protect your lands and your people, King Idris.”
Idris got to his feet, as the hundreds of people gathered on the field cheered and clapped and called. Idris took a deep breath and moved back to where Gawain held his horse.
“Mount and move out!” Gawain bellowed.
“Southern riders, mount and listen for orders!” Cai shouted.
The northern contingent swirled and flurried, and Mair’s lips parted in surprise as she spotted Lancelot’s black armor among the officers. Lancelot lifted his hand to his forehead in acknowledgement.
Mair nodded back.
Then she swiftly mounted her horse, as everyone else was doing.
“Move out!” Cai bellowed, as the Pendragon banner fluttered and streamed back from the lance it was mounted upon, as the bearer galloped behind Arthur.
They were going to battle.
Again.
Chapter Twenty-One
The western borders of Lothian. 490 C.E. Three days later.
The bulk of the Lothian army was in the south, a part of Arthur’s host, with Gaheris at the head. What remained in the north with Lot was still a mighty force. Idris eyed the seething cavalry and foot soldiers at the other end of the glen. Had Lot always held back this much of his fighting forces, to serve him better at home, instead of sending them to serve Arthur? Had he always hidden his self-centered manipulations?
Lot was not hiding his self-interest now. He rode toward them with a grim, hard expression in his eyes and an air of irritation trailing behind him like the dust his horse kicked up.
He stopped short of where the line of senior officers was assembled ahead of the cavalry. “Why are you barring my way?” he demanded. “Turn your men aside and let me pass. I have business in the west.”
So. Lot would pretend innocence, as usual. Idris sighed. “You are working with the Saxons, Lot. You convinced Cuthberth to throw in with you and the pair of you intend to carve up the north between you. How far behind you do the Saxons ride? If they’re more than half a day, I will be surprised.”
Lot peered at the host assembled behind them. “Is there a man of my equal who will speak with me?”
Gawain gave a soft curse. He nudged his horse forward. “Ever you have been a bigot and a fool, father. Would you speak with the King of Strathclyde, or does your ambition soar above petty kings now, too?”
Lot smiled. “If such a king existed, I would speak to him. You are not that king. Son.”
Gawain laughed. “Gods preserve me, no! I have more important work to do. But lo! The King of Strathclyde is before you. Speak to the man.”
Lot’s smile faded. His gaze shifted back to Idris. “You?” Fury narrowed his eyes and made his jaw work.
Idris let himself enjoy a deep satisfaction. Arthur had engineered this moment, to strike at Lot and to support Idris. If ever a man—a king—was worth dying for, then for this moment and for Arthur, Idris would give up his life. A memory stirred. An old memory of a tall, gangly boy trailing chains and manacles, standing before a younger Lot, the boy trembling in fear and cold and hunger.
Idris smiled at Lot. “Submit to us now, Lot. As representatives of Arthur, we command you unite with us to fight the Saxons who, even now, pour into the valley behind you. This is your last chance. Arthur will show no mercy after this. I will not show mercy.”
Lot laughed. When he had himself under control, he spat. “You are all short-sighted fools. Even my sons are infected by the bastard in the south. Do you not see that Britain is doomed? Its end is coming. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow or even next year, but soon. The Saxons will not stop. Not ever. It is their children who starve for lack of land to grow food…and that is something your precious Arthur has forgotten. Because he has forgotten, Arthur will fall. I have no intention of falling with him.”
Pellinore rode out from the line of officers. “It is men like you who weaken Britain with your scheming and your ambitions.” His gaunt face was red with anger. “My Alis is dead. So are Tor and Dornar. The Saxons did that. The people you think are superior are nothing but thugs and bullies. They seek to take from us lands which have been ours since time began.”
“Pellie, don’t let him rile you,” Lancelot called. “Come back to the line and we’ll ride over the top of him and his foot soldiers. We have better things to do.”
Lot sat motionless upon his horse, his smile sneering, as always. He didn’t look behind him as Pellinore rode around the back of his horse.
Pellinore pulled his sword and prodded Lot in the back with it. “I challenge you, Lot of the small mind. Let me prove that even this old, tired man, the least officer in Arthur’s great army, is greater than you will ever be.”
Idris sat up. “No, Pellinore!”
Lot whipped out his sword and threw his arm back, so his blade clashed against Pellinore’s. “Done!” he cried, as Pellinore’s sword went flying.
Lot jumped from his horse and stalked toward Pellinore with both hands gripping the hilt of his great sword.
Pellinore slid over the back of his horse and leapt to where his sword laid in the dry grasses. He picked up the sword and got it up in a guard position just as Lot swung his blade at Pellinore’s head.
Lancelot edged his horse to Idris’ side. “You must stop this. Let me fight in Pellie’s stead.”
Idris watched as Pellinore struck back at Lot. He was using the old, proper forms, which he had known all his life. He was still a strong man, though. He had been the scourge of the campfire challenges for years. Even Arthur had submitted to him more than once. “There is still strength in the man,” Idris said.
Gawain moved up to Idris’ other side. “My father knows history, Idris. He knows the Romans ignored the rules of single combat and slaughtered our tribes as they retreated. Lot has no honor at all. If he wins this challenge, he will still send his men to fight us and we will be short a commander. He won’t abide by the rules of single combat any more than the Romans did.”
Idris spared a moment to take his eyes off the fight and glance at Gawain’s fear-filled eyes. “Lot may not abide by the rules, but his warriors will. Let the challenge play out.”
He turned his attention back to the fight. Lot and Pellinore stood with swords locked, breathing hard. Lot was no more a young man than Pellinore. His long, lanky black hair had much gray in it and the skin under his chin was loose, although he had always been a spare man with hidden strength.
Lot rammed his knee into Pellinore’s crotch.
Pellinore bent, heaving. He got his sword up, as Lot hacked at it again and again.
Lancelot hissed, shifting in his saddle.
Idris shot out his hand to grip Lancelot’s reins. “Wait,” he said softly.
Pellinore was recovering from the blow. He straightened and was no longer merely blocking Lot’s sword. He parried and fought back, with thrusts and blows which made Lot grunt and retreat. They moved over the grassy glen, backward and forward.
“Lot’s men. Look,” Gawain breathed.
Idris lifted his gaze. The men who had been obediently waiting on the slopes at the other side of the glen were creeping forward, drawn by the drama of the fight. They were Britons and would understand what this man-to-man challenge meant.
“Let them come as close as they dare,” Idris said. “It is better they see clearly what happens here.”
“It will gi
ve them less distance to cover when they attack us, after,” Gawain said, his tone bitter.
Pellinore and Lot were tiring. They rested on their swords between blows, breathing hard, as they sized each other up.
“Do you have last words I should give to your family?” Lot called.
“None I care to have spoken by your mouth,” Pellinore shot back and leapt again.
The fighting continued. Idris admired Pellinore’s fortitude. He was a canny fighter, with few habits to be used against him.
Lot could find no advantage. Neither could Pellinore.
For another moment they stood scowling at each other, their chests heaving.
Lot wiped his brow. “You are a lesser lord of a dying nation, old man. It is your inability to think of the future and to change with it that dooms you.”
Pellinore tilted his head. “Is that so?” He raised his sword above his head. “Brace yourself, worm.”
Lancelot gasped. Idris felt the same jolt of surprise. Pellinore was holding his sword in the on-high guard position which Lancelot insisted was superior.
Lot, though, merely saw that Pellinore’s body was undefended. He lunged with a cry, his sword extended. It was a perfect death blow.
His sword clanged and was jarred aside by Pellinore’s whirling blade. Pellinore’s sword slashed and slashed again, coming down from the high position in heavy blows.
Lot’s body remained on its feet for a few more heartbeats, his lifeless eyes in the ruined head staring at Pellinore. He toppled sideways.
Pellinore leaned on his sword and spat on the body. Then he looked up at Lancelot and winked. “It works,” he said, his tone approving. He moved slowly and tiredly back to his horse.
Gawain let out an unsteady breath.
Idris glanced at him. “Do you want to move Lot’s body aside? We will meet the Saxons here.”
Gawain considered. “Let his body be trampled by those he would treat with. He deserves nothing more.” He stirred. “I will speak to the Lothians.”
“Take men with you,” Idris said sharply.
Gawain glanced at him and raised his brow.
“No time remains for leniency. They join us and fight the Saxons, or they die. We take no prisoners today. See to it.”
Gawain nodded, his expression grim. He whistled and signaled to the Lothian men who fought with him in the south and had come north with him. They cantered across the glen to where Lot’s men muttered in tight clumps.
Lancelot patted Pellinore’s shoulder as he settled in his saddle. “There is hope for you, Pellie.”
“Good,” Pellinore said, still breathing hard. “The more hope I gather to me, the fewer there is for the Saxons. Idris, give the word. My blood is up and I would hew a hundred men before I stop tonight.”
“There is plenty for everyone, Pellinore,” Idris said. He pointed.
Cresting the edge of the glen came the Saxons. Thousands of them, stretching across the length of the shallow valley, their axes and hammers and metal helmets glinting in the sun.
Lancelot let out a breath and loosened his sword. “Now we come to it.”
The Summer Country, southern Britain. 490 C.E.
THE SAXONS, UPON HEARING OF Arthur’s coronation and that the might of Britain would be gathered upon the great plain in the heart of southern Britain, had taken the opportunity to push across their borders and into Britain itself. They attacked farther north of Amesbury and Venta Belgarum, where the arable and settled lands and family estates and vulnerable kingdoms laid among green downs and chalky hills.
Which was exactly what Arthur had planned upon. “The coronation will have caught them by surprise,” Mair heard Cai tell Bedivere and the commanders who would lead their houses into battle. “Aesc would be a fool to ignore the chance. He will push his army into marching even though they aren’t ready. It will bring them to us and shorten our ride. We’ll arrive fresh, and they will be cut off from their homelands and resources and forced to live off the land.”
The wild ride from Amesbury was not nearly as arduous as that facing the northern contingent. Within a day and a night they arrived upon the battlefield still fresh. The battlefield was a rolling meadow of wild grasses, with steep hills to the west and a wide lake to the right. The Saxons were at the far end of the wide valley, their campfires still smoking and their tents still standing.
Mair prepared grimly for the battle. Lancelot’s way of fighting required different preparations from those she had become accustomed to. It forced her to focus carefully upon each detail, including the exact placement of the sharpened combs in her hair.
She was conscious of the other fighters watching her with judicious gazes, too.
Rawn found her there. He gripped Leolin’s halter, his eyes blazing with anger. “Is it true?” he demanded. “You’re fighting with the Corneus contingent? Not in the Cohort, but on the battlefield itself?”
Mair straightened and readjusted her sword. “Bedivere’s lieutenant, Eurig, is dead. Lucan cannot be spared. I can be. Queen Lowri has the wing.”
“You’re leading them?” Rawn breathed. The lines beside his mouth turned white.
“That she is, my lord,” Nye told Rawn.
Mair met Rawn’s gaze. “I trained them. I can lead them. They trust me.”
Rawn shook his head. “No. Not this, Mair. Enough is enough.”
Mair glanced around, conscious of the men watching them. “Now is not the time for this discussion.”
Rawn shook his head. “There never has been a time for this discussion. Now must do. You are a woman, Mair—”
Nye and Iwan and the others burst into genuine, belly-shaking laughter.
“You just noticed that, my lord?” someone called.
Rawn’s cheeks tinged pink, which made the white lines of fury beside his mouth stand out even more. “I don’t mean it that way,” he said, his voice strained.
“I am not the first woman to lead men into battle,” Mair said coolly.
“Boudicca said that,” Rawn pointed out.
“Because my ancestor was not the first woman to command men, either,” Mair replied.
Rawn’s hand curled into a fist, then released and tightened again. He glanced around at the last-minute preparations of the Corneus house, all around him. Mair knew he wished they were standing where no one could hear them. She would not move away, though. Not now, not even for Rawn. “I have a battle to prepare for,” she said, keeping her tone as kind as she could.
Rawn stepped closer. His hand closed over her fingers where she held Leolin’s reins, preparing to leap into the saddle. He bent closer, so he could speak only to her. His initial fury was fading. “This is who you really are.” His voice was soft. “This is who you have been all along. You never were just a simple warrior. I knew that. In here.” He touched his chest.
Mair thought of the last few days, of the decisions she had made, the favors she had asked for. Her arguments with Bedivere over strategy and the commanding of the Corneus faction on the battlefield. She recalled how every man standing behind her now had got to their feet in support of her, while Bedivere’s eyes widened.
And Mair remembered how that had felt.
“Yes, this is who I am,” she said softly. Sadly. She made herself speak the rest. “When this battle is over and Arthur releases the tribes, I will be returning to Corneus…with my men.”
“I know.” Rawn’s jaw worked. “Just the nights…just a few…you gave me that. I will remember it always.” His grip on her fingers tightened. “Know this, Mair. I love you. I have loved you since we first met.”
Mair’s heart ached. So did her eyes. “Please, Rawn…” she begged. “Don’t.”
“I must,” he breathed. “Because I love you, I know you. I know how you think. I knew, almost from the start, that one day you would find yourself and that was when I would lose you. While you thought yourself just a simple warrior, then we could be…together.” He swallowed. “And now the day I knew would come h
as arrived.”
He released her hand. The air was cold on her fingers where his flesh had rested.
Mair reached for him as he stepped away.
Rawn shook his head. “My place is there, with Arthur. Yours is here.” He tried to smile and failed. Then he shook his head, turned and walked away and was quickly lost to her sight among the shifting, turning, sidling horses and men as they prepared them.
“Mount up! Mount up!” came the bellowed command, repeated by others.
“Mount up!” Mair called. Her voice was weak and wavered. She made herself stir and jump into Leolin’s saddle and grip the reins. She tried to watch the Corneus men with a critical eye as they followed her.
Nye watched her anxiously.
“I am fine,” Mair told him, making her voice firm.
He nodded, relieved.
His relief reminded her of the greater priority here. They had a battle to win. She put on her helmet and unclipped the big shield and thrust her arm into it. Then she pulled out her sword and raised it. “Forward!”
And she led the Corneus house into battle.
THE FIRST BATTLE RAWN HAD ever fought in, he had vomited before it began and again as the first overwhelming charge of the Saxons thundered down upon their lines.
That same breath-robbing, heart-stopping fear gripped his throat now as he watched the leading lines of the flanking houses charge upon the Saxon front ranks, for Corneus was among them.
He couldn’t tear his gaze away from Mair’s upright figure as Leolin reared, his hooves flailing, breaking the Saxon ranks apart. Mair chopped and sliced with her sword, using the powerful downward swing Lancelot had shown them. Saxons dropped and fell back from her blade.
“The ranks are breaking up,” King Mark observed in his gravelly voice. His one good eye glittered as he took in the melee in the center of the field. “Their middle is exposed.”
Rawn realized the first few critical moments had passed. Mair was still alive, still fighting…and winning.
Cai waved his sword in the air, in the silent signal to ride forward.
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