by Hume, M. K.
Elayne shook her head. ‘I will send word to King Bors of the Dumnonii so they can be freed from the cruelty of hope. Be assured that I will explain all that is necessary to set their souls at rest.’
She smiled wistfully and hugged her son once again.
‘I have seen so much pain and glory in my life, Arthur, and methinks I have lived too long. Yet I feel no different from the girl who lay with Bedwyr on her wedding night under a bower of leaves.’
‘Do you miss him, Mother? We heard on the road that my father was dead, but I wasn’t surprised. I felt the lack of him in my world a long time ago, so I knew instantly that my lord had passed into the shades. He had lived so long and had suffered so much that death must have been as welcome to him as sleep.’
Arthur rested his chin on his palm and half-reclined on one elbow so he could examine the truth in his mother’s amber-green eyes.
‘I miss him the way I’d miss the sun if it suddenly died in the sky. But my lord was weary of living at the end of his life. Once our people were safely domiciled in Dean Forest, he took to his bed. Towards the end, it was only his desire to know your fate that kept him alive. I promised him that you’d return one day, but I only half believed my own vow. Eventually, he closed his eyes and simply drifted away in my arms.’
Two fat tears slid unchecked down her cheeks.
‘I am so glad you’re still alive, Arthur. Bran has tried to kill all those souls who bear the Dragon’s blood, so you’ll need to be extremely careful who you trust now that you’ve returned to your homeland. The king has become crazed in his old age and forgets the old alliances. He trusts no one, and no one understands the motivations that impel him.’
‘You couldn’t comprehend that man’s thinking, Mother, for your heart is honest and selfless. Bran yearns for the love and approval of King Artor, something he cannot have.’
‘But the High King has been dead for near to thirty years,’ Elayne murmured. ‘So he’s chasing a mare’s nest.’
‘And that is Bran’s torment,’ Arthur replied.
Three months later, Eoppa’s force moved slowly along the winding track through the pastures that hugged the land next to the beaches.‘The bastards can run, but the trap you’ve set will drive them towards our archers if they attempt to flee, as surely as Loki watches us today and laughs at what he has fated to happen.’ Snorri was elated as he stood beside his master on the small hill above rocky cliffs that plunged down to the sea below. The sun had barely risen but the gulls were abroad already, their wicked beaks gaping wide.
Behind him, a primeval wood was filled with bright, sharp eyes. Arthur could feel the arrival of the carrion hunters of the air who sensed the blood-letting to come. He felt waves of danger vibrate out of the woods, and his inner voice warned of a large and hostile force awaiting him along the narrow road.
Ordinarily, Arthur’s strategic thinking would have required him to keep his archers and cavalry to the south of Bran’s army which was lying in wait near the Vellum Antonini. But he had seized on an opportunity to use his longboats to transport a small force of troops into positions to the north of the anticipated battlefield that could cut off potential escape routes if his enemies were forced to retreat.
The commander of Arthur’s blocking force had been instructed to position his warriors behind a concealing ridge once the combined Pict and British force, led by Bran, had been committed to the battle. So far, Bran seemed to be unaware of Arthur’s presence; he was convinced that his opponent was Eoppa, universally recognised as an elderly kinglet making one last throw at securing his boundaries. The Ordovice king was fighting blind.
‘Know your enemy!’ Germanus had often told the young Arthur. Now that simple soldier’s adage was more important to Arthur’s safety than ever.
‘We’d be foolish to believe that Bran is feeble-witted with age,’ Arthur began, as his jarls gathered for their briefing on the forthcoming battle.
‘I don’t underestimate that cunning bugger,’ Germanus rumbled. ‘He’s in his sixties now and he’s like his grandfather, the High King, so he’ll always be a force to be reckoned with.’
‘He should be sitting by the fireside with his grandchildren rather than going to war on the back of a horse,’ Gareth added. He remembered how he’d been forced to give Bran’s lands a wide berth when he had travelled to Caer Gai to seek aid from Lady Nimue and Taliesin in those early days after Arthur had been kidnapped by the Dene. Even then, Bran had sought to do harm to Arthur, although he kept his dark needs secret. Nothing much had changed in the interim, except his animosity was now open.
‘Bran recalls a time when the High King ruled most of Britannia and men trembled at the possibility of attracting the Dragon’s rage. He wanted his son Ector to aspire to the throne of the west but the boy was far too soft to rule during such turbulent times. Bran’s personal ambitions have grown slowly, but since the death of his mother, Licia, my elder sister, there’s no one to keep him in check. Though the men in my family struggle to be wise and just, there must be an acid in our brains that drives us to achieve our desires by any available means. Truly, Bran has lived too long, and the dragon is rising within him like a poison. I believe I can predict what he will do in most situations that frustrate him.’
‘And that will be?’ Ragnar asked, as his seaman’s eyes tried to pierce the wood and discover its secrets.
‘Bran is angry because time has robbed him of his birthright. The grandson of Artor expected more from life than the kingship of a minor British tribe, no matter how large that kingdom might be. In his youth, Bran was Artor’s strong right arm. But the High King took that strength for granted, while looking elsewhere for an heir. Eventually, he settled on Ector, Bran’s son. That decision must have eaten into Bran’s soul.’
‘Is he so jealous of his own kindred?’ Snorri asked, with a bewildered expression.
‘Not now! But he was angry and hurt as a younger man. Unfortunately, King Artor was dead, so he couldn’t explain his motives.’
The presence of his friends gave Arthur some comfort. Like Bran, he had known the flail of ambition. He had led his followers to this land; now, for the first time, he questioned his true motivations.
‘Why did King Artor bypass him, anyway?’ Gareth asked. ‘You’ve never explained that.’
‘Artor had experienced the deaths of his other grandsons, Balyn and Balan, and he loved Bran too well. He told my mother of his reluctance to crush Bran under the weight of a crown. It was only when I found her in the Forest of Dean last spring that I learned this; she was with King Artor during those momentous years and had seen for herself the guilt that King Artor had felt for the deaths of Bran’s brothers. He swore to her that no other grandson would die in pursuit of the British throne. So the sins of the present arise from careless small actions in the distant past. Little by little, the real and decent Bran has been devoured by his own jealousy.’
‘So a High King who has been dead for some thirty years is the cause of Eoppa’s struggle with the fractured tribes of the north.’ Ragnar worried terrier-like at the question.
‘Yes, although my father never intended that Bran should be slighted. Unfortunately, evil is often born out of good intentions.’
‘How does such knowledge help us?’ Snorri was ever the practical man.
‘If the battle begins to swing away from our grasp, as it might, I’d only need to show myself. Such a sight would cause Bran’s reason to crack, as he believes me to be lost,’ Arthur answered bluntly. ‘He fears and hates me more than any other man on earth.’
The silence that followed this statement indicated how helpless his captains felt.
‘Right, let’s get on with our planning! Where is Bran’s main force, and how many men do the scouts estimate are at his disposal?’
Ragnar pointed towards a bare hill just visible above the thic
kest part of the wood. ‘Bran’s men are in bivouac at the base of that tor, and he has dispersed a number of scouts throughout the woods. Some of them are armed with bows, and they seem to have been ordered to give him plenty of warning if Eoppa decides to attack.’
Ragnar bent and roughly sketched the terrain he had scouted on a bare patch of earth.
‘The scouts estimate that there are about two hundred Picts in Bran’s force, plus a contingent of some two hundred highly trained warriors from the south. The local tribes of Meirchion Gul, the Dragon Slayer, have contributed near enough to three hundred and fifty men too. That’s a sizeable number of warriors by any estimation,’ Ragnar added. ‘I think your Bran is playing a very hard game. He intends to destroy Eoppa, because he must believe that the Anglii contingent on the coast road is the total force at the old man’s disposal.’
‘I agree, Ragnar, so you can send word to Eoppa that he is to remain in his present position for one more day, and then march up the coast road as if they haven’t a care in the world. In the interim, I’ll send our cavalry north on longboats and then put them ashore to the north of the area patrolled by Bran’s scouts.’
Arthur’s instructions were clear: Eoppa’s force would endure the brunt of Bran’s initial thrust because the Anglii force was expected to be in that position. Bran would believe that Eoppa was moving blindly into an ambush with a limited number of warriors at his disposal, and would mount an immediate attack.
‘Eoppa’s three hundred men will be outnumbered by almost three to one,’ Snorri said, as he drew a large cross on the ground to indicate the spot where Eoppa’s troops were likely to trigger the ambush.
‘Eoppa and I have decided that he will form a shield wall as soon as Bran’s forces spring their ambush. If they perform the manoeuvre speedily, the Anglii warriors will withstand whatever force is brought against them from that point onwards, even if Bran commits his cavalry to the battle. Bran has brought his cavalry with him, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he has,’ Germanus answered with his usual calm. ‘But only forty horsemen. I suppose he believes the terrain isn’t suitable for cavalry manoeuvres.’
‘Mnnnn! The land is relatively flat once you leave the forest. Still, we’d be fools to argue against the will of the gods, or fate, or Jesus if he’s on our side. Forty cavalry is a third of what I expected Bran to throw at us, but no doubt he has some reason. I’ll think on it.
‘Well, gentlemen, that’s our plan and it’s all we can do for now. I’ll take ship shortly and will join the northern troops on the longboats. Our fifty cavalry will more than match the horse soldiers used by Bran and, in any event, he won’t expect barbarians such as Eoppa to be using cavalry. A hundred foot soldiers will follow us in the same ordered ranks that we used at the battle in Smaland. Once our northern forces engage with the enemy, our warriors may fight at will, but we must seal off all escape routes to the north and to the south. I will personally command the cavalry attached to this contingent, and Snorri will command those warriors who are afoot.’
He gave his commanders a reassuring grin.
‘You, Ragnar, will command our battle group. I require your men, supported by the archers, to infiltrate the forest and penetrate the area behind Bran’s army in their bivouac. You have the best part of a day and a night to position your men, and this time will allow Eoppa to move his contingent up the road. Then you will wait for as long as it takes for Bran to unleash his men at Eoppa. You must use your scouts to avoid detection, Ragnar, and your force must remain hidden from Bran’s picket lines. Your part in this deception is critical, so Gareth and Germanus will assist you with the deployment of your men, one on each flank. The warriors know and trust them! When Bran attacks, Thorketil will move his archers forward to the edge of the forest where they can unleash their arrows.’
Ragnar grimaced. ‘You’ve given me a task which will involve a great deal of walking if we are to position our men behind Bran’s force.’
‘Are you complaining?’ Arthur countered. ‘You have two good legs.’
Ragnar quickly apologised.
‘Sorry, but I want to be certain that I understand my responsibilities. What role will my force play in the battle? It will be difficult to hide two hundred and fifty warriors who are blundering about in the woods.’
‘I’m sure you can manage,’ Arthur retorted silkily, certain that Ragnar would arrive at a solution.
‘There is one final matter to be addressed, Ragnar! When Bran’s cavalry and infantry move against Eoppa’s force, I want you to select suitable men to release Bran’s s spare mounts, scatter his baggage train and set fire to any stores that can be destroyed. Let’s leave them with nowhere to run to.’
Arthur paused.
‘After that, Ragnar, you will wait! Bran won’t commit his infantry with his cavalry, but he’ll use them to mop up Eoppa’s last few living warriors. But, if all goes as I plan, when I attack Bran’s cavalry with mine, and he sees who I am, he’ll panic and commit all of his infantry. He will want to smash me. Only then should your land attack begin. We will each deal with our own separate tasks as best we can. You and your men must crush Bran.’
Ragnar looked much happier now.
‘What do you want from Thorketil?’ Gareth asked. ‘Does he need to enter the woods?’
‘Only so far! He’ll need to be concealed at the edge of the forest before the battle. However, he must hold his fire till Bran’s cavalry is fully exposed. His presence must be a surprise. We don’t want small groups of Bran’s people rampaging around the woods to threaten those warriors we are holding in reserve. I’d also prefer his archers to hold their fire during my cavalry charge. After that, my friend, Thorketil can kill every warrior who isn’t showing either our red dragon symbol or Eoppa’s white horse.’
All four men grinned, knowing full well that the Troll King was too experienced to fire on his own cavalry.
‘So the battle is a three-pronged affair,’ Arthur summarised. ‘Firstly, Eoppa comes along the coastal road and draws Bran’s forces out of the woods. As soon as Bran’s army leaves their bivouac, Ragnar will destroy Bran’s escape routes. Meanwhile, my cavalry attacks Bran’s horsemen when he charges Eoppa’s position. My foot soldiers will follow and they will lure Bran’s full force out in the belief that he outnumbers us.
‘In the centre, Thorketil’s bowmen will be inserted into the battle once Bran is committed. At this point, Ragnar will join the attack to cut off Bran’s retreat and complete the encirclement. Are there any questions?’
Arthur looked at his commanders. ‘Then we shall meet again after the battle, if Loki is kind to us. I pray to God that we will all be alive to drink ale together.’
Dismissed at last, the captains dispersed and left Arthur to gaze out over the small cliff. His careful gaze noted that the road, really a narrow cart track, was the only sign that humans had meddled with nature. No smoke stirred the air in all four directions, and the land waited patiently to have its price paid in blood.
Arthur’s thoughts seethed. The plan was complicated but Bran was too clever to attack, breast to breast.
‘Dear Lord,’ Arthur prayed. ‘I hope I’ve thought of everything. But if I haven’t, let it be my body that bears the blame for my errors.’
Eoppa’s force moved slowly along the winding track through the green pastures that hugged the land adjacent to the pebbled beaches. A long baggage train slowed their pace considerably, for their passage was impeded by camp followers and heavy wagons. Nevertheless, the mid-morning sun shone brightly on mailed shirts and helmets and shields. Above them, a large banner snapped and curled in the wind. Bearnoch’s clever fingers had made a wonderful flag for her father, showing a white horse at full gallop on a green background against a bright blue sky. Several crows took flight in the wood and filled the air with their harsh cries as the army of the white horse marched into th
e north.
Eoppa rode at the head of the column, wearing the helmet gifted to him by his son-in-law. In style, it was much like the Anglii versions, but a long nose-guard gave a threatening aspect to the polished ironwork decorated with bezels of brass coated in gold.
With his guard clustered about him, Eoppa felt steadier and more confident. The weariness that comes with age and a growing deafness were the only ills that time had laid upon him, but on this particular morning he could feel a heavy presentiment of his own mortality.
Yet Eoppa was content. His daughter was happy in her marriage and was the mother of his only male descendant, a sturdy little boy. When Arthur had gone away in search of his parents and left Bearnoch alone and heavily pregnant, Eoppa had considered killing the lad. But Arthur had returned, much to Eoppa’s surprise, and the boy now used the name Ida on every official occasion. If the King of the Northern Angles should die in the coming battle, he would be content with his fate.
Meanwhile, another old man waited impatiently for Eoppa’s arrival; Eoppa could feel Bran’s menace for he knew the British warriors waited in ambush within the forest.
The Anglii troops were deep into the pastures by noon and the air had that peculiar vibration that comes before the arrival of a summer storm; Eoppa wished passionately that something would happen so that the conflict could begin and the tensions would be released. Arthur had assured him that Bran would respond to his presence.
The Angles had seen Arthur’s flag with its strange scarlet dragon, and the common soldiers were gambling even now on the subject of Bran’s standard.
On the very edge of the forest, Thorketil and his archers were concealed in their hides. Several dozen archers had clambered into trees and had settled themselves into comfortable positions in the crowns. Their bows were strung and ready to fire, their iron-tipped arrows laid out within easy reach. Several more archers had been positioned in a fold in the earth adjacent to the tree line. These men would be invisible to Bran’s warriors when they eventually entered the pastures, but their targets, the Britons and the Picts, would find themselves caught in crossfire when the killing began. Eoppa’s force also included another small contingent of archers who were hidden inside the wagons that would remain inside the shield wall once battle was joined.