Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar

by Frances Mason

  “Then we must engage, or the day is lost.”

  “What’s lost?”

  “The prince’s army, perhaps…”

  “Perhaps the prince,” Wulfstan said with an odd tone of satisfaction, “the wheel of fate turns. As one man falls another rises. New configurations of power develop. The beleaguered find new allies in old enemies.” Wulfstan looked grimly on.

  It’s as I suspected then, Arthur, Agmar thought, but all is not yet lost. I only hope you heeded my warning.

  Kalogh, suddenly alert to Agmar’s discomfort, mockingly sneered, “Oh, brave Agmar, so ready to sing the glories of war when subtlety is most required.”

  Agmar retorted, “Oh Callow a Quailing, subtle only in the ways of cowardice. Which way will you run?”

  “Towards any battle my lord chooses.”

  “It’s just as well he doesn’t choose to fight this day, since you’d find another day to obey.”

  Then Agmar’s long arm shot out, and his mailed fist struck Kalogh in the head so hard it knocked him from his saddle. The men behind cheered. Then Agmar spat in contempt and spurred his mount forward.

  “What are you doing?” yelled Wulfstan.

  “What the honour of my clan requires, my lord,” he called back to Wulfstan, then turned to the rest of Wulfstan’s host. He drew his longsword and thrust it skyward, calling out, “to the prince,” then spun about and charged. A small number of knights followed, then more followed them, and the sound of hoof beats grew louder, and the sound of steel blades sliding from sheaths filled the air, as men called on many others, and pride and the hope of glory, beating in the hearts of warriors, pulsing hot through their veins, urged forward a river of iron and steel, thundering down to the plain. Two hundred knights were streaming down the slope, hooves churning the soil where the peasants had recently hayed. They rode down toward the wide bridge within the port settlement, south of the rebel host. At first Wulfstan tried to order them back, but the knights were eager for action, and with each knight that rode forward, more champed against the bit of their lord’s will, like destriers not cowed but drawn by the sound of clashing steel, their spirit untempered by the smell of blood and smoke and the distant screams of dying men and horses.

  “Do we fight?” Aedgar asked.

  Edmer watched Wulfstan’s face expectantly.

  Wulfstan frowned as his remaining bannerettes turned their eyes toward him. Their own knights were streaming past them, and infantry and archers lacking great names had begun to follow, shaming, by their eagerness, the nobles who waited on the hill.

  “Damn that Seltic bard,” he muttered under his breath, then raised his voice, “we fight.” He drew his sword and ordered a general advance, and the bannerettes tried to restore order to their ranks.

  Chapter 64: Prince Richard: Summer Palace

  In the Summer Palace the king looked out across the hall.

  The acrobats tumbled but he was not entertained. The jugglers juggled but he was not moved to clap. His clown stumbled but he did not laugh. He watched them all suspiciously, wondering which one had been sent to kill him.

  At either side of the king the Priests of the Sun murmured of the light that was sure to warm him in the cold realm of Death. So much good had he done. So many chantries had he founded. And his bequest, not yet completely fulfilled for the greatest chantry of all, to pray for his soul and that of his family, that they might not be lost to darkness in that realm of shadows. These things were known to Thulathra, Sun, lord of lords, king of kings, greatest of all gods, who saw all, whose light made possible all knowledge. So his priests told him, and so he believed. His great chantry was already being built. The armies of White Monks and poor men to pray in it would not be provided for until he died.

  The king watched his guards and saw, as if for the first time, the weapons they held and wore. He stared at the weapons of one Yeoman who stood only a few yards away, and wondered what such a man had to gain from killing his king. He ordered the Yeoman to stand further away. The Yeoman hesitated for a moment, and the king’s eyes narrowed. Was this the one? Was this the man who would murder him? Then the Yeoman, accustomed to unswerving obedience to the king, stepped back a few paces. His eyes searched the hall, watching all its denizens, as suspiciously as the king, but without his madness.

  A sound of iron shod hooves clattering on stone echoed through the palace, and more than one Yeoman turned his eyes toward the great arching doorway, with its thick oaken doors clad in iron, which were cast wide open.

  The king called out for more wine, and his grandson ran up to take his goblet, then ran to the guarded barrel. He filled the goblet then ran back up the dais to his grandfather’s throne. When he was halfway up the steps one of the priests intercepted him and offered to take the king’s drink. The prince hesitated, then looked past the priest to his grandfather. The king waved his permission and the prince handed the goblet to the priest. The priest took the goblet, but fumbled and dropped it. Richard tried to catch it, dropping to his knee as he did so. It struck the steps, spilling red wine like watered blood, and he grumbled, since he was the one who would have to refill it.

  At the sound of the goblet clanging on the stair the several priests reached into their robes. Out came their hands, and in them glinted cold steel. Some of the priests who stood between the thrones of the king and queen turned toward the queen, but most faced the king. The cold light of the sun through the high arched windows was on their sharp blades, and the blades plunged into the bodies of the king and the queen. As they drew out blood sprayed, but still they stabbed, again and again. The priest who had dropped the goblet reached with one hand into the opposite sleave of his robes and produced a knife as the king and queen screamed. Richard looked up at the screams, and saw the blade descending toward him. Then he felt a painful impact in the centre of his chest.

  He was rolling down the stairs of the dais. On top of him was his new servant. His hat had been knocked off as he had tackled the prince, revealing his shaven head. Richard had always thought it was a silly hat. He looked up to where the priest had stood. Now that priest lay dead, his chest torn out by a crossbow bolt.

  A Yeoman rode his horse into the hall, the sound of shod hooves sounding from the flagstones. He cried out, “Curse the gods. I’m too late.” He dismounted and rushed over.

  Richard could hear screaming. About the king and queen the bodies of the priests lay, felled by the crossbows of the Yeomen in the hall. The priestesses of Naathi screamed about the queen. Richard tried to wipe the blood from his face, which was trickling into his eye and stinging, but he could not move. His servant covered him with his body, crying out, “Stay down, Highness. Assassins! Everywhere!”

  “You can get off me now,” Richard said calmly, and the servant looked around for any further threats. Seeing none, he rolled off and Richard sat up.

  The Yeomen were examining the king and queen. Richard saw them shaking their heads. He got up and ran up to the thrones, shoving against the Yeomen who tried to hold him away from the sight. “I’m your prince,” he screamed, and they relented. The king and queen were dead, their robes saturated with blood, torn apart by many knives. He had never seen so much blood. His grandfather’s face was twisted in a rictus of pain. Gore stained knives lay all around.

  The false priests were dead, torn apart by crossbow bolts, and on many were imprinted the smiles of fanatic certainty. He was only twelve, and had so many doubts. Especially now. How could they have none? His father had told him nothing was so dangerous as certainty. That a little bit of doubt was a good thing. He had not understood then what his father had meant. He shuddered, and thought he understood now. Doubt must be good, if this was the result of certainty.

  “Are you hurt, Highness?” one of the Yeomen asked.

  Richard checked himself, and as he did so the Yeomen added their hands, turning him this way and that. One of the Yeomen stepped forward and pushed the others aside. “He’s not been hurt. My bolt killed the as
sassin before he could strike a second time and the first was stopped by,” He turned and pointed to the servant, “by his servant’s body.” Richard wiped the blood from his face.

  “It’s not your blood, Highness,” the same Yeoman said, “it’s his.”

  Richard ran down to his servant, who was only now gaining his feet. The servant reached down and picked up his hat, putting it on and covering again his shaven head and the nasty looking scar across his forehead, which besides that purple welt was pale like living marble, with fine veins of blue sketching cracks across the translucent white. Richard pushed the front of the hat up. He examined the welt, but it did not bleed.

  “It’s nothing, Highness. An old wound. A chamber maid thought I reached too far into her chamber.” Despite their usual discipline and the horror of the regicide, some of the Yeomen laughed. The servant’s small, delicate mouth curved up in a wry smile as he pulled the hat back down over the scar.

  Richard examined him further and discovered he was bleeding from his arm. “You took the blow. If it wasn’t for you I’d be dead.”

  Some Yeomen now gathered around, and one patted the servant on the back. “You’re a hero. You saved the prince.”

  The servant said nothing, looking mildly embarrassed by the fuss.

  Richard turned to the Yeoman who had ridden into the hall. It was unusual for anyone, even great lords, to ride into the hall without the king’s permission. His father sometimes did it, but he was Prince Norwalds, Crown Prince – or, he corrected himself…now the king; for a mere Yeoman…it was…irregular. And now Richard remembered what he had said when he entered. He called him over.

  “You said, “I’m too late.’ You knew this was going to happen?”

  All present turned eyes intently on the Yeoman.

  “My lord. The princess was attacked by a priest.”

  “My sister! Is she…?” He did not want to complete the thought.

  “No, my lord. She’s safe. The assassin’s dead.”

  “Good, good.” His eyes searched behind the Yeoman. “Where is she?”

  “I rode back as fast as I could, to warn…,” He looked despairingly at the throne. “I failed.”

  “But my sister?”

  “She remains in the forest.”

  “Unguarded?”

  “Guarded by one.”

  “Not enough. Not enough. You must return to her. Take others with you. My sister must be safe.”

  The Yeoman signalled to half a dozen others and they followed him out. Others were herding the priestesses away.

  “Leave them alone,” Richard shouted, “it was the priests.”

  “We can’t be careful enough after this, Highness,” the commander of the Yeomen in the hall pointed out.

  “Very well, but treat them with due respect.”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “And someone find this man a physician,” he said, pointing to his servant, who was clutching his bleeding arm. Another servant hurried out.

  Richard turned his eyes back to the enthroned horror. He had never much liked queen Rose, perhaps because he sensed his father did not like her and he tried in all things to be like his father, but he felt sad as he gazed on her dead face. Her dying pain was written too clearly too. He thought of his many unkindnesses to her, and wished he had not been guilty. At least he should be kind to her in death. “Someone tend to the king and queen with due reverence,” he said to no one in particular. Soon servants were rushing in and lifting the two bodies onto litters, throwing beautiful ornate robes over them to cover the ugliness of murder, and carrying them out of the hall. But the blood seeped through the robes and trailed across the floor, the horror refusing to be hidden.

  Richard slumped onto the bottom stair of the dais, oblivious to the blood which dripped toward him from the slowly coagulating pools about the thrones, his head in his hand, senior servants like the Royal Chamberlain fussing over him, the servant who had saved him watching him. When Richard looked up he thought the servant’s expression was of curiosity, so different from the flustered concern of the others. Richard stared into the distance. He did not cry. Not out of stoicism. He was simply too stunned. He wondered whether his father would blame him. More than anything, he wanted his father to approve of him. Now more than ever he doubted that approval. Now more than ever he doubted himself. And his doubt set him apart from his resolute father. His very need for approval made him an unworthy son. His father, he was sure, would always choose the right course of action and, having chosen it, act. He wished he could be like that. He ran through the events in his mind in the order in which they had happened. He realised now that the fallen goblet had been a signal. If he had caught it would none of this have happened? Though he was young he knew that did not make sense, but it was a thought he could not chase away.

  Chapter 65: Arthur: Thedran Plain

  “If they don’t aid us, my lord,” the captain of Yeomen beside him said, seeing their forces encircled, “the day is lost.”

  “Is it?” Arthur asked. “Anyway, don’t worry, look.” He pointed to the west.

  Arthur watched the knights streaming down the slope, Agmar’s tall frame as unmistakable as Wulfstan’s banner, which followed instead of leading. Arthur smiled wearily. Despite himself Augustyn had aided his prince. He looked to the rear, and saw a rain of arrows pouring from the copse onto the rebels to the rear and right of his forces. Many fell before some turned and shouted, “from the trees.” Men on the periphery of the encircling host fled. Those further in only realised the change when the column of knights from the east smashed into their flank.

  Wulfstan’s banner had now reached the plain, raised high beside the cart on which Wulfstan sat, but Agmar was already crossing the bridge. As he did he called to the knights who had defended the port settlement and they poured forth to join him. Arthur wondered whether Wulfstan’s own men had berated him into fighting, or perhaps the fear of being branded a traitor. With Wulfstan’s men unaware of his true intentions, and Agmar, Arthur’s friend and agent, truly leading, the machinations of duke Relyan had failed. The feeling of weariness now swept over Arthur like irresistible sleep. The forces had not been engaged for very long, and he had not been injured. Neither did he bleed. He grasped the mane of his mount then fell forward, straightened up, swayed, then fell. Only the prince’s bodyguard saw him fall, and their captain called to the other Crown’s Yeomen. “To the prince. The prince has fallen.”

  Then Sir Marl’s knights, two hundred heavily armoured men, drove through the circle of rebels, cutting a bloody swathe through those who had not fled, as Thedra’s veteran levies fought toward them. And behind the knights came their squires, and behind them came their archers, continuing their deadly rain, but more selectively now. The fighting was frantic as the braver rebels desperately defended. One mounted rebel reared his steed and aimed his sword for Sir Marl’s horse’s neck, trying to bring down the knight by felling an easier target instead of wasting effort bludgeoning that heavy armour. A well placed arrow pierced one of his eyes, passing all the way through his head and out the back of his conical helm, and he fell from his saddle, his foot caught in one stirrup, and his steed ran across the field, oblivious to its master’s head bouncing on the earth until the arrow stuck firmly in the earth and the crown of the head was torn off with the helmet, the brains falling out after. William marched forward with the ranks of unmounted squires, their lances thrusting through wisps of smoke into shields and shoulders, helmets and faces. He remembered the discipline the prince had taught him, and called to the other squires to hold their line and not rush forward. Standing so tall among them he was seen and shouting loudly over the din of battle the others who had strayed too far forward heard the command of his voice and obeyed despite William’s junior status. Then Sir Marl’s forces and those of the city had joined up in the centre.

  Agmar led his contingent into the fragmenting right wing of the rebels. His sword swung like an arc of quicksilver, his reach so
great that those who thought themselves beyond its range fell screaming, or silenced in the moment of death watered the soil with their blood. A large rebel with a hairy wart on his forehead and a nose broken by many drunken fights, with muscles like a blacksmith and paunch like an overfed merchant, beat his chest with mailed fist and challenged him with upraised axe, and in the middle of his vaunting sentence the bard’s sword tore open his face, and spilled his brain with his eyes on the ground, to be kicked around by the feet of men who might have laughed at his tales of violent or sexual conquest around the campfire the night before. And many others fell in like manner to the rage of the ravening bard, as around him the knights of Glede and of Thedra clashed steel against shining steel and sent to Death’s realm many men, or died themselves on the field.

  The rebels, who had encircled the prince’s forces, were now themselves encircled. Their discipline collapsed. They fled to the river, and churned the shallow waters by the bank in climbing over each other in a desperate search for safe ground. As their bodies piled up it seemed they would make a bridge of their dead. But Seltathra is a mighty river, not a gentle stream, and where he reaches the plains below the foothills, when all his streams, divided by Mount Thedra, have joined again, he is at his most powerful, a raging torrent, with the power of flood in his ordinary flow. His currents churn and foam, his depths dredge silt and mud and spit it to his broiling surface. So the fleeing rebels climbed in vain, falling over the crushed bodies of their comrades, all camaraderie now forgotten, dragged down by their own armour, or swept away by the rushing current. Others were butchered like frightened cattle by the shore, and their bodies rose quickly like stones in a wall of flesh, and the earth was washed with their flooding blood, and the river flowed pink beneath the lowering smoke choked sky.