None could possibly hear those words, through the exultant roar of voices. The combined voice of the Artoriani.
LXXI
Winifred, Lady Pendragon, as she obstinately referred to herself, had not finished with her one-time husband. Once decision was taken that he and his Artoriani would be riding from Durnovaria at first light, she found it next to impossible to seek him out for private audience, but she had always been persistent; finally caught up with him as the hour approached midnight. It had been his custom, in the past, to walk through his men’s encampment on the eve of marching or battle; they appreciated his presence. This night, his tour was even more important. He needed to reestablish his authority and his friendship, needed to greet each and every one of the two hundred and seventy-four men who would ride with him on the morrow. Arthur had the gift of making every man special, every man important. Duach, who carried a stiffness to his shoulder from one of their first battle’s together; Drwst, who had a fist and a punch as hard as iron. Glewlwyd, who had the strength in his grasp to hold a sword all day in battle and not once let go that grip – he too had been with Arthur from the first, aye, and with his father, before him, with Uthr Pendragon. Anwas, who they called The Winged because of his fleetness of foot; Hael, The Generous; Halwyn The Unsmiling; Gwrhyr, who could speak any language within a day of hearing it… many men, many old and so very dear friends. Peredur, as ever, had a jest to share that was as bawdy as a whorehouse. He was called Long Spear for his well-endowed manhood, a good man, Peredur. Chuckling at the jest, reminding himself to repeat it to Gwenhwyfar, Arthur barely noticed the shadow emerging from behind the next tent, felt his heart lurch and race as it materialised into a cloak-flapping shape. “Mithras, woman!” he raged, “What in the name of all the bloody gods are you doing here?”
Winifred stepped into the feeble light cast by the few campfires, tossed back her hood and laid her hand on Arthur’s arm. “You never used to startle so easily. What, are you growing old and tired?”
Irritated, he walked on, thumbs thrusting through his sword belt. Why did he let this damn woman annoy him so? If the gods were ever good enough to allow him to live his life over, he would certainly ensure this item of baggage was not loaded onto his wagon!
To annoy him further, she threaded her arm through his, ignored his attempt to shake her off. “Has it occurred to you, Arthur, it is not I who lie? Why would I have wanted you dead? There is another who may have desired that convenient ending.”
Arthur managed to brush her intimate hold aside. “Ambrosius?” He snapped, tetchily, “I do not see him behind murder.”
“Ambrosius?” Winifred scoffed, “God praise him, he is too pious for such a sin.” Determined she again threaded her arm, walked to match his striding pace, “I do not talk of him.”
He knew she was stirring mischief, knew he ought give her a few choice words and send her away, under armed escort if need be. Damn her, the question came out! “Who then?”
Winifred had two voices, one strident and harsh, used more often than anything to get her own way; the other wheedling, drowning in caring innocence, bordering on the sickly sweet. Also used to obtain her way. It was the second she used. “Are you aware Gwenhwyfar was to marry?”
Arthur had slowed, decided it best to ignore the informal way that she was walking with him. His lips compressed, his left, free hand, going to the pommel of his sword for self reassurance. Walked on. There was much to do before daylight, weapons to have an edge put to them, horses examined for lameness, harness and armour checked for loose stitching, cracked leather, loose joints and buckles. “Aye, I understand Amlawdd sniffed around. I would not expect ought else of that web-footed toad.”
She had to lengthen her stride to keep up with him. “Not Amlawdd, dear-heart, he is but a predictable fool kept deliberately sweet-fed by Ambrosius. ‘Tis better to keep a rogue under close eye.” She cocked a knowing eye at her ex-husband. “As I believe you often did?”
Absently he nodded agreement. Which is why he tolerated her nearness. Better to keep her in clear sight than hidden away. What did she want? Trouble, he was certain. Trouble by stirring clear water into black mud. Winifred excelled at that.
“It is not my place to tattle idle gossip,” she oozed. Arthur snorted, almost laughed outright at her hypocrisy. “But it is well rumoured that Bedwyr and your wife are not innocent of each other.”
“Gods, you’re a bitch!” Arthur halted abruptly, fiercely shook her arm away, faced her, angry.
They were at the end of the row of pitched tents, Winifred had not halted with him, but walked on. She swung left, heading away from the muted darkness of the encampment, returning to the bustle and light of the royal place. Over her shoulder, she tossed, “That I am. How else would I have survived being the wife of such a bastard?”
LXXII
They could, perhaps, withstand a siege for a few days, food was not a problem – they could always eat the horses, although even among the most cynical, this would be considered unlucky, a legacy surviving from pre-Roman paganism. Horses had been valued by those early British tribes, valued and prized, worth as much as gold or any splendid jewel. The concept of not eating horseflesh had never faltered, standing during four hundred years of Roman belief, and unwavering through the doctrine of Christian values. There was nothing to show the Christian faith honoured the horse, but British men would not eat one. Unless a great need meant they had to.
Water was the problem. The Ridge Way fortresses were built as intimidating watch-places, designed to mark the ancient track striding from south-west to north-east, not intended to withstand siege. The old tribes, those who had built them, would have had each of the four main strategic forts along this stretch of the Way occupied against inter-tribal raids, not against the massed, amalgamated force of the Saxons. Until Rome came, sieges would have been superfluous, the British warrior would have come out to fight, not remained trapped and cowering behind walls put there for the safe-keeping of women, children, cattle and ponies. Warfare had changed so much since Rome had decided on the taking of might and power by force.
Like the other three, Badon was above the water line. Taking the horses down for daily watering was no difficult task; collection and carrying by leather bucket similarly no more than a part of a day’s expected toil. The constructed dew ponds provided enough water for need, but not for an army seeking shelter from Saxons that had swept, so unexpectedly, up the Cuneito Valley, shrouded so cleverly by the heavy woodland, short hours of daylight and murky, low cloud. The forts were there to glower down upon the Way as it marched past the soaring, impressive ramparts. The southern side was vulnerable, and Aelle chose to exploit it.
A second, inconvenient problem. Ambrosius was again unwell. He had fought the returning sickness and diarrhoea off before that first fight, that victory, had swallowed powders and mixtures one end, inserted other such things at the other, to no avail. Even prayer had failed him. When he needed his strength, when he needed to be seen, to enforce courage and endurance, to instil the protection of the Good Lord, all he could do was lie on a bed and retch into a bowl. When he was not squatting over a chamber pot, Ragnall, may God bless her, was his strength, constant at his bedside, spooning unpleasant-tasting medicines, emptying the results. Ambrosius marvelled that any had ever doubted her sweet nature, her uncomplaining goodness. Like his son, he no longer noticed the puckered scarring, the clumsy limp or twisted fingers. Mind, he was too ill and too preoccupied to notice anything beyond the clamour of derisive shouts and abuse that hurtled from beyond the rampart walls, and the pain in his belly.
The second day. Two, three days more, they could survive, not beyond. What hope of the messenger getting through to Geraint? Huh! Even if he did, help would not arrive in time. Their only hope was that word had reached Durnovaria of the Saxon advance. That Geraint had realised the implications. And acted.
Cadwy had helped his father – all but carried him from the Hall and up the steps to the walkway
. Ambrosius leaned heavily on the boy, sweating profusely, his breathing coming in pained gasps. His belly and bowels were empty, had nothing else to eject, but the feel, the belief that he must soon visit that stinking latrine persisted. The day was duller than yesterday, the cloud billowing lower. It might rain later. Beyond the palisade and high, grass-topped, chalk-cut ramparts and ditches, the ground sloped down into the crowded swell of woodland that strode too close to the lower slopes of Badon.
“Why were they not cut back, those trees?” he asked, his accent critical.
His son’s answer was brusque. “Because I have not the manpower to fell so many, nor has there been a need.” Cadwy resented the question. He had tried to keep the creeping scrub tamed, had cleared to one half mile all around the ramparts. Always intending to do more, go further, when he had time.
The Saxons appeared in no hurry to flush them out, were unconcerned at the grey coldness of the day. The current work parties were piling branches, leaves, turf, into the outer ditch, steadily filling it in, a few British spears and arrows found their targets, but the men were mostly under orders to preserve their weaponry. Those arrows that went wide would be gathered, sent back with the next Saxon uprush. The last had endured for most of the morning. Not enough of the enemy had fallen, too many of the British lay awaiting burial, when someone found time or thought to order it.
The woods, deeper, denser between the undulating hollows of the hills, were full of Saxon men, some scurrying, busy about given orders, others taking their ease, tending wounds, adding an edge to their weapons, relaxing, playing dice, drinking or eating a meagre meal. Aelle was down there. His spread-winged Raven had been sighted on several occasions during that last assault. No doubt he was discussing the next move, the next tactic. As Ambrosius ought be doing.
But what in the Lord’s name was he to do? Several of his officers were shuffling a few yards away, their helmet-straps hanging loose, blood staining here and there, awaiting him. He wished – he snorted at the irony- that Amlawdd was here. For all the man’s irritations, he had a sense of bravado and gut feeling for these situations. It had been Amlawdd who had pressed home the victory at Radingas, but it was no good dwelling on what was not. Amlawdd was commanding at Castellum Prima, had precise orders to remain there, whatever happened here at Badon. The small force he held there could do nothing against the hundreds of Saex crowding these slopes, would be needed to hold that fortress when they had finished here. Ambrosius groaned aloud.
Cadwy, too, had been dwelling on the fancies of wishing. “If only those rumours of Arthur had proven true.” Stoically he watched the Saxons finish the filling-in of a few more yards of ditch. They would be across soon. Were it summer-dry, not winter-sodden, the British could have sent fire arrows down, burned the wood and grass.
His father made no answer, he dared not, for those officers were within hearing, along with too many of the men. But aye, as reluctant as he was to admit it, even to his own thoughts, he would have embraced that rumour were it true.
Ambrosius Aurelianus closed his tired eyes in prayer. He had so wanted to succeed, to lead with pious and clear-sighted wisdom. So wanted things to be like they were in the days of his father and grandfather. Now, would give anything to see the Dragon Banner, and Arthur, come riding out of that valley.
LXXIII
They camped overnight beyond Sarum, the Artoriani. The few families farming below its brooding walls welcomed them as if already a battle, a war, had been won. Sarum, the ancient defended place, with its battered ramparts and broken gateways, was proving its use yet again. For the Saex, it seemed, were no more than five and twenty miles north. Cattle, goats and swine were being herded into its protective enclosure, the air reeked of fear and panic. The relief, the immense joy that swept through that small community! “The Pendragon?” They asked, doubtful, disbelieving, when first the cavalcade of horse and men made stop for the night, “But is he not gone from us? Is he not dead?”
To Arthur, their elation when seeing the truth with their own sight, caused personal embarrassment. So loud were the praises, the cheering, the offerings of food, gifts, wine – best wine – nothing spared, nothing hidden. One landholder, of old Roman stock, offering two of his slave women should the men of the Artoriani need them. Arthur declined the generous-meant offer with thanks and gratitude.
“You are returned!” they all cried. “Returned to help us, save us, in this dark hour of approaching death!” The cry taken up, repeated, shouted and gloried.
A thousand, thousand Saex, the chief man had declared in fast, agitated breath, were gathered up towards the Way, laying siege to Ambrosius trapped these past two days at Badon.
This was news. News that explained the intense panic. How, Arthur cursed, did Ambrosius manage to get himself besieged? Mithras’s blood, the damn fool! The numbers he dismissed as exaggeration. Hoped he was right to do so. If not, it promised to be one hell of a fight. For all the love of all the gods, he hoped, prayed, he was right.
They slept on the open ground, wrapped beneath their thick-woven, as good as waterproof, cloaks. The tents they had not brought with them, nor pack-ponies. No accoutrements save what was necessary for battle. What could not be carried in a saddle-pack or across the shoulders, was left behind. Each man carried his own weapons, own equipment and enough corn to feed each horse for three days. Arthur needed to move quickly, and at the far end of the journey, quietly. The only exception the young lads, not yet old to enough to join the ranks of fighting men. The boys had their uses, aside from duties of serving, for they rode the spare horses. Wagons, baggage and army whores could follow on at the slower pace with Geraint and the infantry. They had no place with the three hundred Artoriani. An exact figure. Ten turmae, twenty and six to each, with four officers. Being pedantic, three hundred and two. Arthur and Gwenhwyfar.
She slept curled against him, both of them doubly warm beneath shared cloaks. Slept without murmur, as they all did. The march had been an endurance, almost forty miles to Sarum. With as much again to cover on the morrow, now they had this further information. New plans, new route. They would leave before dawn, swing out along the road heading north for the Dyke Arthur had built as a tormenting boundary between his land and that claimed by Ambrosius. God’s breath! How long ago that seemed! Follow it then strike up the valley of the Cuneito, marching eastward, to swing around and behind the Saex. Further to ride, longer for Ambrosius to hold out. A risk worth taking, for surely Aelle would be expecting reinforcements from Geraint to come the most direct route, from the south.
Dawn limped in, dark and dismal, replaced by a reluctant, dull, sulking day. At least, everyone said to himself, as they rode up past Ambrosium, it was not raining.
One question Arthur had to ask before they met with the Saex, before the fighting began. His stomach churned each occasion he thought of it, looming nearer with every mile set behind them. He had to know. They were walking the horses down the Cuneito valley, leading alongside the south bank of the river, resting them. The woodland was thick, quite dense, the surrounding area quiet and unnerving. Arthur had dropped back, was beside Bedwyr; there was no room here for more than two abreast. Gwenhwyfar walked ahead, leading her bay. The men talked in low tones, suppressed by knowing the Saex might just be wise enough to post scouts, and inhibited by the grey, low cloud, spirited chatter, jesting or singing seemed inappropriate. Gweir’s voice was the closest, telling his companion of Gaul. Exaggerating, as all young men do, with such a wondrous story to tell.
“Do you love her?” Arthur managed to keep his voice neutral, as if he were merely asking some minor, military matter.
Bedwyr had no need to ask of whom Arthur spoke. Only a matter of time before the questions were asked. And the answers had to be made. Just as good now as later. He spoke as casually, successfully masking the gallop of his heart-beat. “I always have. My boyhood fancy never grew from me.” He checked his horse from snatching at a mouthful of grass.
“How much?”<
br />
“Enough to know she does not love me in the same way as she loves her husband.”
There was no answer Arthur could make to that.
They had not argued about her coming, Arthur and Gwenhwyfar, as once, perhaps they would have done. She had sorted her saddle-pack, had the armourer put an edge to her sword and ridden out beside her husband. No glance, no challenge. Arthur accepted the gesture as it was meant. Was grateful for it. Nothing would have induced him to beg her to come; equally, nothing would have prompted him to order her to stay. Leaving the children had been hard – Archfedd had grown so! No longer a babe, but a girl, with fiery eyes and tossing head – ah, so like her mam must have been at that age! Medraut too, he missed, for he had grown used to the boy’s wide-eyed, awed company. They were safe with Enid; given a while to settle, would establish a friendship. Or was that another hope? Archfedd was quite the ferocious bully. Her idea of acquiring a friend, according to one tale Enid had laughingly told, was to hit another child over the head with some implement – a toy doll, a stick, whatever – and make demand that he or she would be a friend! It seemed the girl had a thing or two yet to learn about the subtle gaining of allies. Medraut, timid as he was, stood little chance of beating her tyranny. Timid, aye, but when it counted, the lad had courage.
One of the scouts was returning, the column ahead shuffling aside to let him canter past. He reached the Pendragon, dismounted, fell into step beside Arthur as Bedwyr gave ground to him, gave his report, brief but concise. The column halted. Arthur passed the order to mount up.
Ahead, several people gathered beside the old road, incredulous when they recognised the Dragon. The villa, rambling behind overgrown trees, seemed shabby, its once white-painted walls peeling and mouldering; the gardens were once maintained to the highest standard. Arthur had stayed there for a few days when he had served under Vortigern – when Winifred was his wife, he remembered grimly. Old Phillipi, the owner, had been alive then, a gentle, wise old man. The villa had seen better days, but with the old master’s passing, and a son who preferred to spend what little gold there was on wine and women rather than cultivating roses and their maintenance, was its sad demise so surprising?
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