by Jules Watson
He watched, but after barely an hour it was inescapable: his army was hopelessly outnumbered, their regulation armour a desperate island of order and civilization in the midst of the clashing colours, ragged furs and tattoos of the tribes; the fury of a wild sea overwhelming the stalwart land. No, it would not be!
His last chance was his cavalry reserves. The barbarians had none, and horses were all but invincible against infantry, his five hundred riders the equivalent of three thousand on foot. Orders were bawled from the hill, then passed via trumpet signal, and in moments the cavalry came thundering around the shoulders of the slope, one wing on the left and one on the right. His senior officers gathered around him, all of them straining to see.
The more far-sighted shouted in despair a moment before Fullofaudes realized what was unfolding before his disbelieving eyes. As the cavalry bore down on the barbarian warriors, they held firm almost to the last moment, and only when it looked like certain death for the Albans there rose from the ground a forest of stakes, each the length of three men, their bases dug into the ground and sharpened tips held up at an angle to meet the oncoming charge.
The Dux’s oath left his lips a moment after the cavalry crashed over those stakes, racing too fast to avoid the collision. Horses were lanced through bellies; men through their necks; others flung free of their saddles to break their limbs on the ground. Fullofaudes could only watch as his prized cavalry soldiers were torn off their wounded horses, each fighter disappearing under a mass of hacking barbarians. He wanted to turn his face away, to rail, to cry out, but he could not.
‘Send all remaining reserves in,’ he barked to his officers, their faces white as bone, as their horses wheeled restlessly at the smell of death. Drawing his sword, the Dux spun his stallion. ‘We have to throw everything at them. Let us make a good end.’
He made to kick his horse down the ridge, but one of his officers blocked him, appalled. ‘Sir, you cannot join the battle! You cannot – it’s a rout.’
‘It is a rout,’ the Dux agreed hoarsely. ‘So we will fling everything we have at them.’ He paused, pinning them there with his gaze. ‘Come! We must not let the men waver and flee. Show yourselves and your courage! For Rome!’
With that exhortation, he spurred the horse down into the pits of hell.
Fighting back to back with Ruarc, Gobán and Fergal close about him, Cahir saw that every knot of Romans was surrounded by triple their numbers of Albans, and he was flooded with jubilation.
He cleaved the terrified ranks of the enemy before him, striding through swinging his sword two-handed, taller and heavier than they and able to scythe through them like fallen wheat. It wasn’t the most elegant fighting, but it was glorious and reckless.
Blood was a hot wash down his face, and its taste on his tongue pricked at an animal part of him that knew it meant victory. He did not falter. Freed of mist, the sun ignited the sheets of polished iron cladding the warriors around him, reflecting back a blur of light, and sweat ran down his skin underneath the armour, washing away all restraint.
In the midst of the chaos Cahir unleashed a roar from his very soul, and as he stabbed and spun he felt more power and grace surging through him, utterly unwearied.
As if summoned by his passion he felt the presence of Eremon and Conaire and their men at his shoulder, formed of the dust motes and hazed sunlight around him. He sensed them behind him, eyes bright with battle ardour beneath helmet-guards, their spears a forest, their swords a wall of iron. Their spirits poured strength directly into his heart, and it flowed to every part of his body. Cahir fought as he had never fought before, as if he were filled with the endless sun and wind and sky.
‘The Boar! The Boar!’
Cian stumbled down the hillside, his arms spread wide like a sacrifice to the screaming enemies before him. But he surprised himself.
Though his blackened soul craved the release of death, his body retained the instinct for life. He heard a war cry wrenching itself from his throat, and, as the armies collided, he was suddenly ducking and weaving through a tempest of bodies, blades and lances. Part of him watched in detachment as he slashed and lunged with his sword and oval shield, a guttural growl punctuating each wild swipe and twisting leap. His acrobat’s grace was reawakened, his movements a dance, seductive in its deadly rhythm. Block with the sword, shield up across the arm, sword point into that exposed flank.
Inside he railed at this crude desire for another breath, another day of sun and wind, a need that overrode all sense. But without conscious thought, his arms and legs knew what must be done.
Battle days are full of ironies.
Red, who so desperately wanted to continue inflicting his hatred on all blueskins, took a blade in the guts in the first few moments of battle, clean and simple. Cian saw him go down, a look of absolute disbelief on his face, before he was lost under mud and blood and tramping feet.
And Cian, who had started the day praying for death, found himself overwhelmingly alive. He heard manic laughter, and realized that it was coming from his own throat.
He would have dropped his sword quite gladly, throwing back his head and screaming that mad laughter to the blue sky. But a snarling Pict came for him with a broken lance, and his sword was swinging around of its own accord. After shattering the lance his blade tip went in under the Pict’s arm, and sank into the soft place above the ribs.
Screaming now, Cian clutched the hilt with both hands and drove it home.
Cahir and his men retreated back to the ridge to view the battle’s progress. Wiping sweat away, they gulped ale from flasks and caught their breath. Gobán leaned on his spear, muttering to Fergal, but Ruarc stayed at Cahir’s side, his sword resting over his shoulder. Blood spattered his boyish face, and he made no move to rub it off, his eyes wide and white amid the gore.
‘Hawen’s blood and breath!’ Cahir exclaimed, pointing to the middle of the plain. Ruarc raised his eyebrows. ‘Their Dux has joined the battle. I didn’t think he would ever come down off his hill and fight like a man.’
Ruarc grinned. ‘It’s because they know they are beaten. Ha! At least he has the balls to die with his army.’ He flipped his sword back into both hands.
But Cahir was already one step ahead. ‘Then we will make an end!’ he cried, turning away for the slope.
Ruarc charged after him. ‘Let us take him, my lord!’
‘Come!’ Cahir shouted over his shoulder. To the side, in a small valley that split the hills, the druids and horseboys were catching and corralling any spare mounts that came riderless from the chaos. Ruarc saw Cahir’s intention, and a wild grin split his face as they ran for the most fiery stallions, those still tossing their heads, nostrils flaring.
Ruarc bellowed to Mellan and the few other young warriors nearby. Screeching, they followed their king, leaping onto saddles, hauling the horses around. Cahir galloped back into battle with a dozen riders at his shoulder, their eyes intent on the Dux, far away across a sea of ducking heads and slashing swords.
The Roman infantry, their famed discipline unravelling, fell back before the snorting horses and wild-eyed riders who bore down on them with blades swinging like scythes. There were no more rigid lines, just knots of Romans surrounded on all sides by shrieking Albans.
Again and again Cahir lost sight of Fullofaudes, as he leaned down to hack at men who tore at his bridle, blocking blows to the stallion’s bowels and legs with his shield. His knuckles were bloody and his wrists bruised from the many strikes he deflected, his back cramped as he twisted, sweat running into his eyes. But he shrugged it all away with an elated laugh, kicking the battle-trained horse up so it reared and struck out with its hooves. His men were close beside him, the flailing legs of their mounts cutting through the ranks, and the press around them soon melted away so they were able to gain a clear space and dig the horses in the ribs to a gallop.
Like arrows they streaked around the flanks of battle, as up ahead the eagle standard of the Dux dipped out of vie
w, then waved upright anew. The Roman infantry and officers had pulled into a tight group around their leader, but they were beset on all sides by howling Alban warriors.
Hearing the approaching war cries, the Dalriadan and Pict fighters leaped back as the riders collided with the Roman foot soldiers, and then closed about them again as Cahir and his men jumped to the ground to fight hand to hand.
On a small knoll, the Dux was wielding his sword with grim efficiency, wiry and strong for his build, but his guard was no match for the numbers of enemy piling on top of it, or the Albans’ greater height and reach. At length, Cahir pressed through a mass of lunging, rearing horses, his eyes fixed on the Dux in the centre of his men.
Cahir could not drag his gaze from that hard, Roman face which had haunted his dreams; the merciless eyes that had condemned Finn and so many others. Striking out left and right with a cold rage, Ruarc at one shoulder, Mellan at the other, the last of the Roman officers were soon piled in tumbled heaps at Fullofaudes’ feet, and he was swinging his sword against air, his standard shredded on the ground.
Cahir strode up boldly, one hand wrapped around his bloody sword-hilt and one tearing off his helmet, dropping it to the ground as he waded through knee-high heather and broken bodies. Fullofaudes looked upon his revealed face, his eyes widening.
Surrounded by jeering Albans, he knew there was no point in fighting any more, and his blade went loose in his hand. With a contemptuous flick of his sword-tip, Cahir dashed the weapon from his fingers so it fell uselessly on the bloodied turf.
And they stared at each other as the last throes of battle raged on around the knoll: in the Dux’s cold, grey eyes helpless rage and defeat; and in Cahir’s, a burning victory.
Chapter 48
Minna sat in the hall with a salt-stained scroll from Cahir in her hand. The unread contents burned her fingers, and she could barely make any conversation in Latin with the little trader who had offered to bring news to Dunadd, and, in so doing, flee the war.
At last he left to return to his ship. She raced up the stairs and threw herself on Cahir’s bed, ripping open the stained vellum. She unrolled the scroll and held it to the lamplight, her hands shaking. The writing was spidery, the ink already fading:
Forgive my informality, my love, for we have little time. But praise to the gods! We have enjoyed a great victory over the northern army of the Dux Fullofaudes, taking him by surprise. Fergus of Erin joined me in the west, and we took Luguvalium in a decisive victory and then subdued the Wall forts one by one until we joined Gede’s army in the east. The Dux had by then gathered most of his forces, but it was to no avail as we crushed them in one charge, our numbers and our anger ruling the day. Gede’s men killed the captured Fullofaudes, though it might have been better to keep him for bargaining. Our two armies have split once more to continue south on a wide front, east and west of the central hills. We are targeting the forts that guard the roads, and we will no doubt have to face more forces that the Dux was gathering from the south, and perhaps the southern commander as well, this Nectaridus. I have no more time, and must send this now. Please convey this news to Finbar.
You are in my heart as ever. As I sit here in the rain, I think always of the last night.
There was no name, but it was from Cahir. Only he knew of that sacred love-making in the darkness. Minna hugged the scroll to her breast, smiling into the lamp-flame.
When she came downstairs, Donal and Finbar were huddled around Cahir’s chair, deep in what looked like a grim conversation. Donal saw her first and greeted her, unsmiling, while Finbar continued scowling.
‘A message came from the king,’ Minna said, looking from one to the other. What had happened? ‘He writes to you that he has triumphed in the first, great battle.’
‘We have already heard the rumours from the port, lass.’ Donal’s eyes lit up, though his smile was stiff. ‘That is fine news indeed, fine news.’
‘Then … what is wrong?’
Donal glanced at Finbar. ‘As you know, the Prince Garvan refused to return to his father’s hall after his mother … ah … departed.’
Minna had barely crossed paths with Cahir’s son. Quite naturally, he blamed her for the change in his mother’s fortunes and refused to sleep under the same roof. He spent his time with the other boys too young for war, exercising their horses and playing at weapons, sleeping in their houses and refusing any food from his father’s hearth. She had hoped, probably in vain, that once the sting lessened they might one day forge some kind of mutual tolerance.
Finbar crossed his arms. ‘The boy has run,’ he said simply. ‘Four days ago. He’s taken his horse, stolen a sword and armour, and gone. The woman of the house where he was sleeping didn’t notice – said the boys were thrown together like a litter of puppies on her floor and how could she count them every day?’
‘Gone?’ Minna repeated blankly. ‘Gone where?’
Finbar’s mouth pursed sourly. ‘To war, where else? The other boys said he was chafing to go; said he was the heir and he wasn’t going to be left behind, and he would earn his own glory to be king.’
Donal rested his foot on the edge of the hearth-bench. ‘As to what side he wants to be king for, that’s up for debate.’
‘It doesn’t matter whether he’s gone to join his mother or his father,’ Finbar snapped. ‘The king will still spit-roast us for this.’
Donal shook his head. ‘Cahir charged us with the defence of this dun, not to act as nursemaids for a prince who should know better. He misjudged the loyalty in the boy.’
It wasn’t bad judgement, Minna thought with a pang. It was guilt on Cahir’s part, and a desperate hope that got the better of him.
‘We’ve already sent out scouts,’ Donal wearily told Minna. ‘But he’s got four days on us, and he’s a fine little rider.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Finding one boy in such chaotic circumstances is going to be near impossible.’
Finbar nodded grimly. ‘If the scouts don’t find him, we must hope the boy has headed for his mother, and she can keep him safe within stout walls. At least then he can make his mind up at leisure whether he wants to be King of Dalriada, or King of the Carvetii.’
Minna eased the hounds-foot fungus from the base of a log and put it in the bag around her chest. ‘Come,’ she urged, ‘I told you once what we use it for.’
Crouched on the log, Finola screwed up her face.
Minna waited, as the wet bracken slowly soaked her trousers. Even though the druids had just celebrated midsummer, rain had been drifting in the last few days, soft and misty from the sea.
Sometimes she thought of Garvan, cold and shivering under dripping trees. There had been no sign of him, though men had searched for days. More often she pictured Cahir, pushing her love towards him as if she could keep him safe. She wanted to take the saor again, to see something of him, but she didn’t think it was safe to try too often, for it depleted the body as well as the soul. And every now and then, she was surprised to find Cian’s face in her mind, though she had no idea where he might be – far away, she hoped, for his sake. She sent prayers to the Mother for him as well, though she knew he would only scoff.
She clambered up on the log beside Finola. The oak trees in this little hollow were festooned with moss, and ferns curled over her feet. Nearby she heard Orla singing as she chased butterflies, and scuffles from Lia’s paws. ‘We use the brown mushroom when there are pains …’ she prompted Finola.
‘In the tummy!’ the little girl finished, her solemn face lighting up.
Minna beamed. ‘Good. The Lady Breda’s children have griping pains in the belly, and I think it might be those horrid little worms.’ She tickled Finola, and the child squealed and laughed. Though the youngest, it was she who showed an aptitude for the herbs, healing and dreams, while Orla, with her quicksilver emotions, preferred music and words.
‘Minna!’ Orla suddenly called in a sing-song voice. ‘Someone’s coming, a man on a horse.’
Lia began ba
rking, as Minna lifted Finola on her back and tramped through the bracken to the rough-hewn track. Orla was crouched in the middle of the path, holding back the lunging puppy from one of Dunadd’s mounted guards. Minna let Finola slide to the ground.
‘Lady.’ The man seemed perplexed. ‘The Queen of the Picts is here demanding to see you. She arrived by sea this morning and came to Dunadd. I left to find you, but she insisted on accompanying me. She is not far behind.’
‘Queen Nessa is here? Did she say why?’
‘She said she will only speak with you, lady.’
Minna dropped Finola’s hand. Nessa would never risk such a journey on a whim. She strode blindly past the guard, then began to run.
The track dropped from hilly ground to the marshes, and she saw Nessa walking a borrowed horse not far behind, accompanied by a warrior of her own kin. Nessa gestured the man to stop, then walked the horse on some way before pulling up, raising her hand.
Minna’s impulse was to keep running, but each leg felt as if it were sunk in mud now, and she could only walk on unsteadily. As she approached Nessa, the bowl of the land began to echo with a soft, discordant song.
‘Why are you here?’ Her voice was faint. ‘What is wrong?’
Nessa’s chest was fluttering, though she had not moved. ‘I have something urgent to tell you that I could entrust to no messenger. I come because of the friendship we share.’ She was struggling not to cry, her mouth twisting.
‘What?’ Minna whispered.
Nessa’s eyes tightened with pain. ‘It is about Cahir. He is in terrible danger – but not from the Romans alone.’