The Pendragon shut his eyes, filled his lungs with air, let the shuddering breath ease from his pounding body. With a groan he raised his arms, encircled Gwenhwyfar bringing her close, holding her tight, so very tight; his face in her hair savouring her nearness, her scent, her life. As she returned that embrace of possessive relief, she felt his body judder, relax.
The fighting was over. Now would come the accusation and the shouting, unless she intervened.
“I have come to no harm,” she said, again reassuring him. “Medraut needed to speak with you. Things,” she pulled away, sat astride him, “became out of control.” As she wiped at the blood on his chin with her fingers, she explained briefly and in concise words Medraut’s muddled and desperate reasons for bringing her here. She opened Arthur’s mouth to inspect from where the blood came. “He wanted to warn you of Cerdic, but did not know how to go about approaching you. You have lost a tooth.” She smiled, added, “It is a sad day when a son cannot speak with his father because the father has too much anger to listen. We are all too hasty to accept the first-made conclusions, no matter how wrong they are. Too slow to consider an alternative explanation.”
Raising his hand to investigate his gum, Arthur swore. He rolled Gwenhwyfar from him, tapped the tip of her nose with one finger, limped to his feet and strolled towards Medraut, who was tentatively scrambling upright, ready to bolt if need be.
“You boar’s whelp,” Arthur growled, “if you are damn well going to hit me, you could at least try to remove the right bloody tooth!”
Standing with head bent, hands bunched and gripping his tunic, blood dribbling from nose to chin, dripping onto the toe of his boot, Medraut knew not what to say or do. He had lurched from being the fool to a full-fledged imbecile. His father ought take up that sword lying naked on the wind-quivering grass and rip the blade through his throat. His death would be no loss to anyone. He raised his head, his eyes, face, expression, sodden with grief. “I have been with my half-brother,” he stated, his voice cracking, dry. “I went to him, deliberate. At first to hurt you, to make you realise I was someone to be valued, to make you see you needed me. And then I realised you never would, because… ” he swallowed down the pain of truth, spread his hands, pleading, asking for forgiveness. “Because you do not.”
White, puffed clouds had been straggling across the sky, shading the spring colours of the Summer Land into muted greens and pale yellows. The lake, down beneath the Tor, lay dark, brooding, in its overpowering shadow; the insistent wind, up here on the height, petulant and chill. When the sun shuffled from behind the covering a glow, a warm, mother’s smile, embraced the world, the light catching against the Stone, casting shadows among the swirled, carved patterns.
“How could you live with the shame of knowing I was born of your own sister?” The cry came, anguished, from Medraut’s heart.
All his life Arthur had found the need to hide feelings behind a shielding armour of pretence. Pretence that beatings and sneering words did not hurt, pretence that he did not care if he were called bastard-born. Pretence that he was in control, in command. How could he pretend to his own son? How could he lie about Morgaine? Relationships were only wrong to those who believed in Christian sin. Arthur was no Christian, but he could not, for all his lack of belief and indifference, hurt Medraut any more than he already had.
“There are three methods of bringing discredit to a man, Medraut. One, by accusing him of adultery, the second by calling him bastard-born. The third, branding him as a coward. There have been plenty who have tossed the first two at me, but they have failed to bring me down because I am not the third. And then there is a fourth for those who follow the Christian way of thinking. The accusation of illegitimate or incestuous birth. ‘Tis only the priests of the Christian God who seem afeared of either. Happen they are right to, happen not.” Arthur drew breath. Gods, he had made a mess of both his living sons! He should never have allowed Winifred to keep Cerdic. Morgaine ought never to have birthed this one.
“On my life, and that of Gwenhwyfar’s, I swear to you, son, your mother had no knowing of her father. She was born after Uthr’s death. Those who say we shared the same father have no proof of it, ‘tis speculation – and stirring of trouble. There is only one who could say for certain: your grandmother, and she is long dead. And anyway, I would never believe a single word she ever uttered.”
“Then,” Medraut answered hesitantly, “it may not be true?” Arthur shrugged. “That is for you to decide, what is truth, what are lies. Who would have reason to tell the one, or the other.”
Medraut turned away, stood looking out over the expanse of the Summer Land. Had he been so much of the fool all this while? There was much to think on, much to decide and accept, much that he ought outface about himself. He swung around, turned back to his father.
“I have decided to go north,” he announced. He had not, but it seemed a reasonable enough thing to say. “I came to tell you Cerdic is to march with the waning moon. He has many men. He intends to take Coed Morfa for his own.”
Arthur bent, took up Ider’s sword, held the blade before him, watching as the ripple of the sun swarmed up and down its crafting. He tossed it, caught it again by the hilt, handed it to its owner. Ider threaded it back into the protection of its sheepskin-lined scabbard.
What more could the Pendragon say? He had never meant to hurt the boy, but Medraut had not been Llacheu, or Gwydre, or Amr. He was chance-born to a woman who had beguiled a man. Just over there, in the hollow of the Tor. With the Goddess sublimely watching and the Christian God frowning, no doubt. Arthur had lain with Morgaine, believing the act was as a gift to the Mother. Offer the beginning of one life to save another. How the gods must laugh at the simplistic trust of mortal men!
He looked away, much as Medraut had, out over the Summer Land, his land, to where the purple spread of hills hid the Caer that was his stronghold. It was open up here, uncluttered, unconfined. No walls, no darkness.
“I would have my body brought here,” he said, unexpectedly, “to where my spirit can watch over that which means so much to me.” He loved this land, had fought so hard, so long, to make it good, to bring peace. Was all of it to be destroyed by his own son, Cerdic? Cerdic, turned sour through the jealousy and ambition of his mother. Medraut, abandoned and ignored by the selfishness of his. And Arthur, the father, had stood by and rammed it all home with the toe of his boot. What more could he say to this one, who stood empty and battered before him?
“Lad, I cannot expect but to be what I am, who I am. No more can you, or Cerdic, or anyone. Our fates are there before us, woven by the Three. All we can hope is that we can cling somehow with our bruised and torn fingers to the tangled threads of life. And make some good out of the torn remnant that is left us.”
Lightly, Arthur placed his arm around Gwenhwyfar’s waist, led her down the slope of the Tor, going the gentler way, following the path where Medraut had brought her up. Ider, a snarl on his mouth at Medraut as he passed, followed. To his mind, he would have cut the bastard’s throat and had done with it.
“Father!” Medraut ran a few paces after them, stopped as Arthur turned, inquiring. “What of Cerdic!”
Was the death blow any the better for being sharp and swift, or lunged from behind?
“Cerdic? I already know of Cerdic. The Artoriani will be ready to ride as soon as I return to Caer Cadan.” He half-saluted his son, hurried Gwenhwyfar away.
Medraut stood, blank, alone with only the sound and tug of the wind. It was for nothing then, all this. His father had already known and his stupidity had added delay.
He would go north – why not? They must have fools in the north. One more may not be overmuch noticed.
LIII
Arthur pushed Brenin into a steady canter – it would be no use encouraging him faster. With eleven miles to cover and another ride at the end of it, the horses would be finished before the Caer came in sight. Especially while carrying extra weight.
Strange, after all these years with him, as friend, mistress, then wife, Gwenhwyfar had never ridden double behind Arthur. It was not an unpleasant experience. The only slight discomfort was the press of the saddle against her groin, but to counter that, Brenin had a smooth pace and a broad rump; she felt secure with her arms around Arthur’s waist, wonderfully safe.
“You lied,” she said into his ear, “to Medraut.”
Guiding the horse past a few ruts Arthur made no immediate answer. Then, “What did I say that was a lie? Morgaine was born after Uthr’s death. None of us can be certain of her conceiving. There is a suspicion, that is all. I may not have told Medraut all the truth, but I did not, for once in my life, lie.” They cantered on another mile then he asked. “Would you have minded if I had?”
Gwenhwyfar said nothing. Did she mind about Morgaine, about Medraut? Would it be the truth to say she did not?
“Are you well?” he called when she made no reply, his voice floating past her ear, carried by the wind.
Briefly she tightened her grip, smiled as his hand reassuringly touched hers. Aye, she was well, now.
“I have acquired yet another lump on my head,” she said, then laughed. “I ought to wear a war cap more often!”
“You ought to take a guard with you!” Arthur growled back. Ahead, a bridge spanning a narrow, meandering river and an ox-cart laden with timber blocking it, one wheel shattered and buckled. Arthur drew Brenin to a jog-trot, assessing the situation as he approached. It would be cleared; ten, mayhap fifteen minutes. Too long. He heeled the horse from the road, across the parallel drainage ditch and pushing him into canter, set him to jump the river. Deeper than it was wide, a spread of only a few feet, it was an easy leap, for Brenin had the agility of a cat. Gwenhwyfar squealed as they landed on the far side, her balance toppling. Arthur put his arm behind to steady her, but she had already adjusted herself. She glanced behind, saw Ider’s horse clear the ditch; behind him, the two Artoriani.
Medraut had declined to ride with them, opting instead to bring the mule. “You need your men,” he had explained to Arthur, “more than you do me.” To that, Arthur had no disagreement. To need his men more than his son? How deep could the truth hurt?
“Forgive me!” Medraut had called as he stood by the Stone at the height of the Tor, watching them ride away, small figures against a wide land. He would send payment as soon as he could for the mule and cart, but he would never go back. Not to Caer Cadan, not to his father. There was nothing to go back to, nothing to go back for.
Arthur had known it, had seen it there in his son’s eyes – had known it before Medraut had realised it for himself. Would they meet again in this world? He ought to have said something, embraced his son, given him blessing to travel safe along the road ahead, but he had remained silent, just walked away, down the path from the Tor, back to the horses. He had left the ring, though, the battered gold ring with Gwenhwyfar’s hair still threaded through it, had fastened it to the mule cart. With it, a dagger, one Arthur had carried for many years. Medraut would remember it from those days in Gaul. As a child, he had often asked to see it, touch it, the brightness of its deadly blade, its jewelled hilt.
Will I have a dagger like it one day? Oh, Arthur remembered him asking! Aye, lad, he had answered, when you swear oath of homage, your chosen Lord will give you such a weapon as your own. But if you do not remain loyal to him, you must either use it on yourself or use it against the man you called Lord.
LIV
The sweep of the rain-grey marsh and the permeating tang from the estuary were the Artoriani’s companions. Caer Morfa and the inland run of the sea lay less than three miles to their left, with the Terste river and its tributary sisters behind. They had distinctly little room to manoeuvre here – Cerdic’s intention by choosing this ground so close to the rise of the Great Wood.
Arthur could have waited, forced him to move, but this suited well. It could have been a better place for a battle, but he had fought in worse and those tight-packed oaks and regal beeches would be of hindrance to both sides.
The woods had seemed so content at sunrise. The scent of leaf mould, dew-wet grass and wind-teased leaves; the gentle swirl of a light morning mist evaporating beneath the warming embrace of the sun. While they waited to move forward, Arthur had watched a tree-creeper jerking up a trunk, busy jabbing for spiders among the minute cracks of the bark. And then Cerdic’s army had stepped forward from between the sentinel trees, locked their shields into the formation of the shield-wall and cast their first introductory foray of arrows and spears. The nesting birds had flown, abandoning their young families, the tree-creeper had been brushed from her breakfast-hunting by the flank of a horse passing too close to the trunk. Her wing damaged, she had fluttered helpless beneath the surge of hooves. The first death.
Cerdic had chosen his ground well, Arthur had to acknowledge him that. The Saex fought on foot, men standing firm behind their shield-wall, the front rank the better armed, shield overlocking shield, spears ready for the horses, bowmen to left and right. He had the advantage of the high ground, with dense woodland behind.
Three hours after the first tentative steps into battle, the Pendragon needed to send his men in again, to charge up the hill, set their tiring strength on that damned wall of men and shields a fourth time. Cerdic must have lost as many men as he, for the British bowmen were skilled at their craft, and the damage to the front line must be taking its toll of wounded. He must come around behind the Saex, break their courage and solidity.
Cerdic stood to the rear of his shield-wall to be safe, but near enough to be seen by his men, to be a part of this ragged business. His hearth-guard were gathered close, their shields already prickled by British arrows, their Saxon short swords and heavy, sharp-bladed axes prominent, ready. Just in case, they told him, although they assured him with nodding heads and wide, confident grins that the wall was strong, would not waver. “Let the Pendragon set his horses at us, let them tire themselves coming and recoming up that hill if that is what they wish to do. We will be here to meet them, and send them away again!”
This battle was going well, better than the last disaster against his father. Cerdic closed his eyes briefly. Woden forgive him, but that battle at Portus Chester had been an experience he would not wish to face again! He had been unprepared then, minor skirmishes, raiding, the defence of one’s own stronghold – ah, all that was different from this, the real, whole, bloody thing! He wiped sweat from his forehead; he was four and thirty years of age, already his hair was thinning on top – gods, but he hated all this! He resisted the impulse to step backward as a man, tumbling from the affray, fell, blood and spittle gurgling from an arrow through his throat. Vomit rose in Cerdic’s throat, he swallowed, forced himself to ignore the man’s open, staring eyes. So many of his Saxons were already dead or maimed, but as they had said, the shield-wall was holding. He had good officers now, experienced men like Port and his sons, and the two newcomers, Stuf and Wihtgar, men who knew their job and did it well. The Saxons had every chance of victory, high reward had been promised to all those who survived the day. And for those who died in glory, an honoured welcome by the gods.
If the shield-wall held and if his ships were unopposed at the landing place along from Caer Morfa… Cerdic planted his feet wider, eased his sword from its scabbard. The three ships would bring his Saxons in behind the Artoriani, cut off their rear, trap them. Cerdic shouted encouragement to the men ahead of him as another charge by the Artoriani began to come up the hill towards them.
Arthur had judged it time to change tactics. It was obvious the wall of men and shields up on top of that hill was not going to fall as things stood. To damage a solid structure you needed to weaken its least strong point. He sent the horses in again, relying on the strict discipline of the Artoriani and their superb ability as horsemen and soldiers. A fighting machine that could take into account every required nuance of strategy.
The horses jog-trotted, easing into a canter, f
acing the wall head-on. They would gallop, release into the energy of the charge within the last twenty or so yards only, for the high ground was taking its toll of energy and impetus. The bowmen would hold their flights of arrows above their heads until the last moment, until the horses sprang into their full, powerful pace. The Saxons were ready, braced, their spears bristling from between and beneath the line of shields, their structure immovable, again awaiting the impact.
The line shuddered, wavered, almost toppled – for the horses had changed direction in mid-gallop a few yards from the shields, a manoeuvre fantastic to watch, brilliantly completed. Within those few strides the Artoriani wheeled to left and right, their charging, strung-out line compacting into two groups, the pace barely pausing. The Saxons staggered as the assault hit hard at each wing, where the more vulnerable stood, where the line was thinnest, least protected, and the Artoriani hammered through, breaking the line of men as easily as if they were nothing but a stand of golden corn. Saxons ran to defend their flank, the centre stretching, less densely packed. And another wave of Artoriani came up the hill at the gallop, straight for the thinning centre, leaving no time for the Saxons to regroup, to rethink. A swift assault executed by a man who had spent more years at war than his son and his Saxon officers combined.
The hearth-guard clustered tighter around Cerdic, the fighting rapidly swelling to hand-to-hand, infantry against cavalry, sword clashing against sword, an axe blade, glinting in the sun before it swooped down, was raised again, bloodied, ragged with sinew.
“Do we withdraw?” Cerdic yelled, frantically signalling his guard closer.
“Nay my lord, we can fight them off!”
Woden protect me! Cerdic’s mind shrilled, How can we fight this many!
Shadow of the King Page 67