With no flicker of fear or doubt Mathild regarded the older woman. “Another murder, Lady, might just be questioned.” She depressed the door latch, tossed parting words. “Already have I arranged my security against you, Winifred. Were I to die under any but the most natural circumstances, there are those loyal enough to me to ensure I do not enter the next world alone.”
Winifred took her meaning wrong. She snorted contempt, mocked, “So you threaten my murder!” She seated herself, laughed at the absurdity.
“Oh no, Madam,” Mathild said, “not yours. I will enter Valhalla with my husband.”
XI
Skirmishes up and down the border-land, a British farmstead burnt, a Saxon family butchered. Ambrosius’s men were gathering strength, gaining courage, but then, so were Vitolinus’s followers. Petty cattle-raiding by the Saxons had already escalated into the mindless, bloody murder of farming families; Ambrosius retaliating by thrusting across the border of the Cantii land on punitive raids. It was not enough. Winifred’s brother had a grievance, justified in his mind, and a young, hot-headed man with an ambitious cause to follow was not to be easily pushed aside.
With the Pendragon gone, Vitolinus rapidly grew in confidence. The arrogance of his father and the dominance of his sister were swelling within himself also. Before, there was always the knowing that Arthur could come back, would not give up his kingship to the challenge of a spot-faced youth. Others of the Saxon kind, the various tribes, petty kings, Ealdormen and warrior-class thegns, were indifferent to the lad’s claims while Arthur still lived; agreements were honour-bound, until necessity dictated otherwise. The Pendragon had ensured treaties made with the English were adhered to – from both sides of the boundary. His death in Gaul laid all that void, but most were reluctant, even then, to upset the apple-barrel deliberately. They had their land, their settlements and farm-steadings. Trade was increasing. The Saxon kind were not, below surface need, a warrior race. They were farmers, settlers, family-raisers. Seeking peace and prosperity. Why muddy calm waters?
Nor, to the Saxons, was Vitolinus wholly English. He was untried and mistrusted, too many remembered those half-truths and forgotten promises made by his father, King Vortigern. “Come fight with me,” he had encouraged, “and I will pay you in gold and land.” Now here was the son who looked so like the father, even down to the jagged scar raking across his cheek, claiming those same offers. Fight with me, make me King and all Britain will be yours. The same empty promises? Not even his own uncle, Aesc of the Cantii, had believed or backed him. Until Arthur was dead.
Mistrust and suspicion was a double-edged blade, cutting to either side. While Arthur remained King, peace, however uneasy, however delicately balanced, between English and British remained intact. Borders had been established, limits of settlement, of respect, and what was, or was not acceptable agreed. With the placing of Ambrosius as Supreme Governor of Britain, those same boundaries were challengeable. All of the English knew that peace to be vulnerable. Ambrosius Aurelianus was a man of the old kind, the old, prejudiced, blind-eyed order of the Romans, who looked upon the Saxons as invaders, barbarian, savage, unlearned and unworthy. It was a matter of time before the British reassembled, regained their strength and determination. A matter of time only, before the English had to put an edge to their weapons and fight for what had become theirs.
Arthur had promised not to fight as long as there was peace. Ambrosius professed to determine for the opposite: to drive the Saex back to the sea, to cleanse Britain of all savagery and heathenism.
“I need more men,” Vitolinus coaxed, sitting cross-legged before the hearth-place of his uncle. Already he had emptied a chestful of plundered silver and gold before the gathering, had marched the rows of chained and grimed slaves before them, giving the best of the women to the more influential among Aesc’s guests. “With more men, I can crush Ambrosius before he has chance to come into his full strength.” Vitolinus spoke; eloquent, confident. “The British run around in circles, like chickens with their heads cut off. Ambrosius is no leader. He has not the balls for an outright, bloody fight. His head is full of his Christian God and the ideals, the misguided notions, of the past.” He was toying with his dagger, running the blade across his thumb, fondling the fine carving of the handle, fixed his attention on his uncle Aesc who sat, leaning a little forward, on his king’s stool of honour.
“My father,” Vitolinus said, “became King because the people of Britain, the ordinary folk, the tribesmen, their warrior kind, wanted no more of the Roman law, harsh taxation and injustice.” His lazy smile turned into a broad grin, the scar on his face creasing menacingly. “My father had a greed for wealth and power, yet he was no soldier. He left the fighting to others, the English. Your father, Uncle, my grandsire, the great warrior, Hengest, gained for Vortigern a royal torque and a kingdom. Without the blades of the Saxons, Vortigern would have been nothing. Yet, like fools, we believed him when he promised to do well by us.”
Vitolinus pushed himself to his feet, sheathed his dagger, drew instead his sword, the short-bladed Saex. “Well, we took the Kingdom of Britain once, in the name of Vortigern. Let us take it again, in the name of the English!”
He was anticipating a roar of agreement, a storming to their feet of all the men listening, a drawing of weapons, unleashed enthusiasm. Instead, a few murmurs, one or two mildly nodding heads.
It was Aelle, from the south coast, Aelle, chieftain of the settlers of the South Saxons, who spoke, coming regally to his feet, the faces of his three sons quietly watching him. “And do you, then, Vitolinus a half-Wealas, expect us to follow where you lead? In your name?” It was a mild question, betraying nothing beyond its simple asking.
“I do.” Vitolinus had also inherited those unfavourable traits from his father that he shared with his elder sister; self-opinionated arrogance and conceit, an ill-judged vanity for control and dominance. Among those of his own age and inclination, objectives that were somewhat admired and encouraged; but for those such as Aelle, a man of superior years, breeding and worth, added up to nothing save insolence and disdainful presumption.
Aelle gestured for his sons to rise, enclosed his cloak firmer around his shoulders, and made polite respect to Aesc, host to this assembled gathering. “Then you are as much the fool that your father was, and as ill-bred as the bitch-sow who is your sister.” And he was gone, his sons walking close at heel gone with him, the thirty or so men who had accompanied them, rising from the gathering and disappearing into the night. Others slid as quiet away, the great circle rapidly diminishing, men who had come as representatives from the Eastern Saxons and the settlers of two, three generations who had established steadings along the Tamesis river and its tributaries.
A long silence drifted with the woodsmoke rising from the stacked hearth-fire.
“It seems,” Aesc observed, himself rising from his stool, “you must fight Ambrosius alone, my nephew.” He began to stride away, back to the light and warmth of his Hall that beckoned beyond the spread of this, the gathering ground. “Prove yourself able to succeed in more than the slaying of women and children, and mayhap they,” he nodded his head into the night, “will think again.”
Vitolinus remained where he stood, fists clenched, grit-jawed. Angry. “Ja,” he vowed, his nostrils flaring, eyes narrowed, to those, his friends, the young men, young warrior-kind, who had stayed. “They will think again when I force them to kneel before me, and honour me with the title Bretwalda, High Lord.”
He rammed his sword back into the sheath at his hip, spat contemptuously into the blaze of flames. “They will indeed think again when I have taken Ambrosius’ head.”
April 471
XII
In the land of the Cantii and at the insignificant steading of the old warrior Cille, spring leapt into life a week or so behind the milder climate enjoyed by the southern areas of Gaul. When it came, bursting forth with a rejoicing of new-leaf budding and enthusiastic bird-song, the blood of the young Sax
ons stirred with it. Tales around the winter hearth-place had been plentiful and vigorous, stories of war and glory, of new beginnings and future expectation. With the dazzling yellow of the spring sun, the time came for the young men to tie the coloured war ribbons to their spears and meticulously sharpen their sword-blades, axe-heads and daggers. To spread the heating of a warriors’ blood-lust, Vitolinus, at the old man Cille’s suggestion, had paid the travelling harpers well. As April shifted nearer the bloom of May, he called for others to join his small band of followers. The young, untried youths, keen to blood their blades, answered him. They sought adventure, manhood and a chance to swagger their achievement before the maids. Glory would not be found behind the ox and plough.
Initially, it was planned well. Vitolinus had realised, perhaps belatedly, and on Cille’s advice, that he had to work with others of his kind to gain what he wanted. His uncle, Aesc, would not take part in the foolery of young men – yet neither would he condemn nor put firm end to it. A youth’s blood ran with the urge to prove his brave-hearted strength by the spilling of blood on the field of battle. So it was with the male of whatever species. Who were the older and the wiser to interfere?
Fortunate for Vitolinus, another Saxon had the cry of the battle-blood in his heart. The South Saxon, Aelle, was waiting his chance to extend his borders, waiting patiently to-claw for himself more than those few, small, scattered settlements that he held along the south-eastern coast. And Vitolinus wanted to strike at Ambrosius. Despite their earlier differences, it became an easy matter for the two to secretly put aside judgmental words, call truce, and negotiate their plan through the long winter. The one with his battle-scars and experience and with bold, firm-muscled sons; the other eager, sharp.
The Shore Fort of Anderida, slightly eastward of the island of Vectis, was a bastion of dogged Romanised perseverance. An irritating itch that lay beyond the stretch of Aelle’s finger reach. It would fall to him one day, but that day seemed too distant along the horizon. He wanted it destroyed, needed it gone. With no Anderida to heckle his warriors, to burn his steadings, slaughter his cattle, he could concentrate on dominating this stretch of the southern coast, could build on his strength and achieve his aim, his hope. Gain power, credence and wealth. None could be his while British Anderida stood defiant at the corner of the land Aelle intended to make solely his.
When more ships came, he could do it; when many more men carried arms beneath his banner, he could rid himself of the pestilence that fortress entailed. Vitolinus was a boy, a piddling whelp, but he was easy to manipulate. A setting aside of previous misunderstandings, a few crooned suggestions, some flattering praise – the occasional idly slipped-in propositions and he was trapped like an eel. However uneasy, such a temporary alliance could form a mutual benefit for two ambitious men. Aelle had no concern whether Vitolinus succeeded against Ambrosius. If not, the Governor of Britain would last well enough for Aelle to fight on another day. Once the coast was secured as the Saxon’s own then Aelle – or his sons – could see to him. If Vitolinus was, by some unexpected hand of help from the gods, successful… ja, it could now prove useful to Aelle to be united, for a while, with the half-bred whelp, Vitolinus.
The plan was simple enough. Using two of his uncle’s long ships, Vitolinus sailed into the harbour at Anderida two days before the spring month ended, fire-arrowing the craft moored there, and attacking the seaward wall. Simultaneously, Aelle and his men marched on the western side of the fortress, battered at the gateway beneath the spanning arch of the main entrance, and scaled the massive stone walls that soared high beyond twenty feet. The Pendragon had seen well to his coastal and border forts, but neglect and rot had set in rapidly once his demand of discipline and authority had wavered. Undermanned, under-equipped, attacked on both sides together, the place fell – the fight valiant but brief. Within the passing of two hours, the might of what once had been a proud Roman fortress was ended, its defenders dragged, some wounded, still alive, to burn in the victory fires piled high with gathered timber and dead bracken. An inglorious end to such a noble place.
Aelle was well satisfied. He had won his eastern boundary. And Vitolinus, cheering and laughing with the South Saxons, had a foothold in the south, from where he could march, undetected, unexpected, into firm-held British territory.
He would move north, taking Ambrosius’s defence from the south. A few settlements burnt along the way, but the march must move swiftly, no time to delay, to tarry. Later, they could return and leisurely settle accrued accounts. For another reason, then, had Vitolinus so wanted to approach the British territories from the south. After settling with Ambrosius, he would march on Venta Bulgarium. Would visit his murder-minded sister, Winifred.
XIII
Unlike Arthur, Ambrosius had few cavalry. He fought in his own style, with ranked, disciplined infantry. He had ensured Vitolinus had been watched through most of the winter – the shabby steading of the warrior Cille was no difficult place to observe, with its tumbled dwelling-place, poorly tended fences and encroaching woodland. But Ambrosius’s spies were paid men, not loyal comrades of the Artoriani. Paid men worked only as well as the gold clinked in their waist pouch. And when rain fell heavy or a cold wind blew they were inclined to prefer huddling around the warmth of a campfire rather than stand in the shadows watching the closed door of a small, rough-made, Saxon dwelling-place.
Cille was an ageing man. There would be no more fighting for him this side of the Otherworld, but though his joints were stiff and cramped, his mind was active, his senses alert. He knew well enough that Ambrosius’s poor excuse for spies were watching him and the lad. Knew when to send Vitolinus out, secret, under cover of darkness and rain-scudding clouds.
When word came that Vitolinus was gathering the young warriors to Cille’s hearth, Ambrosius made ready. There would be a fight, that was certain – and he greeted the prospect with enthusiasm, now it was upon him. One victory, one good, well-fought victory, and he would gain the respect, the kudos that he needed to put the memory of Arthur aside.
Inadequately informed, he had not calculated the unexpected. Unable to move as swiftly and precise as the Artoriani had, the British found little time to seek a more suitable position, so unexpected and unpredicted was Vitolinus’s coming at them from the southward. A few, a very few of Arthur’s men had survived the massacre in Gaul and had struggled homeward. Four complete turmae of cavalry, one hundred and twenty men of the old Artoriani were encompassed now into an effective cavalry wing of the Ambrosiani. Experienced, battle-hardened men who knew what it was to face a rampaging enemy, who knew how to deal with a mewling cub, which had not yet learnt what it was to face the spilling of blood in battle.
There were a few who whispered, of course, that Ambrosius had never taken the responsibility to lead men into battle. He had fought himself, once, with Arthur in the north, but he was a man of book-learning, not raw experience. He knew the theory of how a battle ought be deployed, knew the tactics and logistics of war, and below his authority he had those experienced officers, men like Bedwyr and old Mabon who had fought beneath Arthur’s command. Experience counted for much, but so too did a cool head and a determination to prove capability. Ambrosius would show that he was as good as ever his elder brother or younger nephew had been! Vitolinus, the son of Vortigern and that Saxon whore-witch Rowena, was a stabbing thorn that needed plucking. Chance to achieve both aims may not come again for Ambrosius.
It was a shabby, shambling affair, the fight, when it began. A young man no more than a boy with an arrogance the width of the Tamesis estuary, leading an ill-prepared rabble – the young Saxon Cantii warriors, for all their numbers of several hundred and their surprise appearance from the south, could never boast the title, army. And these, arrayed against a man who followed the rules of war as written by the book. A man who had taken no account of the bloody mess that was the reality of battle.
It was not a battle, this ill-thought, ill-timed yearning for a fight, that h
appened at the place called Guoloph, along the Roman road northwest of Venta Bulgarium. It was not how the scribes had written the glories of battle to be. This was a bloodied scramble, a muddle of snarled oaths and wounding blades, of hand-to-hand mauling and killing. Feet kicking, teeth biting, fists punching. When the rain, threatening for most the morning, finally dropped from grey, hard-packed clouds, and the ground beneath their feet turned treacherous from churned mud and spilt blood, the two sides fell apart, breathing hard, growling and cursing, teeth bared, hackles high. Dogs squabbling over the same mouldering bone.
Only later, did men give it the grand title of battle. Later, when, in retrospect, British harpers told of Ambrosius’s first-led fight, and English story-tellers recounted the inglorious ending of Vitolinus.
XIV
Winifred had not dared admit, even to herself, the extent of her fear when first she heard that her brother was marching up through the forests of the south, up from the coast, swinging out along the Roman road heading for a battle with Ambrosius. He had come too close to her wealthy steading outside Venta Bulgarium – and the fear ran high through all those who dwelt on her land. Many knew there was no love between brother and sister, as many could too readily make guess at the prospect should Vitolinus take the victory over the British.
Winifred’s fear had rapidly turned to anger when word came, back along that same Roman road, that the fighting was over. The British -Ambrosius – had won. The anger swelled, now she was safe; that her brother, the toad-faced, poxed, weed-stunted shrub, should dare, dare, to threaten her… indirectly maybe, but she knew well her danger had the outcome at Guoloph proved different.
The anger became scathing derision when, through the storm of rain and thunder that had persisted across the night and into the next day, a few tattered, blood-smeared Saxons came stumbling into her steading. Breath-panting, sweat-pocked, they huddled behind a young man, face bruised, arm torn and bleeding. The man they had, but yester-dawn, hailed as a son of Woden.
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