by M. K. Hume
‘Find out what the Matricide wants, Bedwyr’, Artor ordered crisply.
Obediently, Bedwyr trotted his horse over the dried grasses and broken reeds on the margins of the river, until its hocks were buried in green water. A gentle breeze played through the bulrushes and disturbed the dragonflies as they skipped out from the waterweeds.
‘Bedwyr stands for Artor,’ the Cornovii shouted. ‘So talk.’
The Brigante warrior was large, hirsute and humourless. Bedwyr noticed that his battle gear was clean and well-oiled, and he wondered where the warrior had received the scar that cut across his cheek and distorted his nose.
‘My king, Modred, demands that Artor relinquishes the field to a younger man. He insists that the High King must retreat from our lands, or else he’ll be humiliated and killed in battle.’
‘Words, words, words!’ Bedwyr shouted back derisively at the Brigante warrior. ‘If you’re so confident, come and fight, traitor! We’re here! We’re ready to fight you! The murdered citizens of Deva call out for revenge.’
‘Your men are cowards who hunker down by this river,’ the Brigante warrior countered as he jerked on his horse’s reins. The animal bridled and snorted. ‘We challenge you to come over and fight!’
‘Perhaps when the Brigante tribe finds its nerve you might come to your High King and give your justification for your treachery and betrayal. You murdered fellow Celts! Artor demands an explanation; we demand to hear a reason to justify such a crime! You outnumber us, so the gods of war will surely stand with you if your cause is just.’
Then, as an afterthought, and because the Brigante’s voice was familiar, Bedwyr threw out one last barbed challenge.
‘I know you, Brigante! You stood with Artor at Mori Saxonicus when we were all young. How have you come to this pass, to serve a man of Modred’s mettle? We who stood and died at the shield wall were true brothers. How could you betray us?’
A red stain of embarrassment flushed the warrior’s face, causing the scar to stand out like a fresh white wound.
‘I am Brigante, and Mori Saxonicus was a long time ago!’ The warrior spat, and then raised one clenched, armoured fist. ‘Look for me in the coming battle, Arden Knife. My name is Cadwy Scarface, and I remember the past, and old sins, as if it were yesterday.’
Bedwyr cursed and lifted his sword so it flashed in the afternoon light.
‘How could you forget the blood of King Luka, hero of a hundred Brigante battles? How can you ignore that Celt will fight Celt on these fair fields because of your king’s greed? Modred does not have the endorsement of the Council of Tribes, and he isn’t even a legitimate heir. Your forces killed the peaceful, neutral traders of Deva just to lure out the Ordovice king. How can you justify what you have done?’
Cadwy Scarface flinched as each word pierced his armour of arrogance.
‘Will you ask King Bran to allow you to settle in his mountains when the Saxons come knocking on the walls of your towns and villages? Or will you take ship for Hibernia? Better still, will you grovel and promise to serve the Pictish kings, your allies, when you flee over the Wall? If these horrors come to pass, remember that Bedwyr, King of the Forests of Arden, warned you that there are consequences for treason.’
Bedwyr laughed at Cadwy’s flushed, angry face, then wheeled his horse and cantered back to the High King. His mouth smiled, but his mind wept for the warrior he had stood with in the shield wall at Mori Saxonicus, although all he remembered of Cadwy in those bloody days was a pair of grim, brown eyes under a battered, iron helm.
‘Their ragtag rabble are all huff and puff, without substance,’ he reported to Artor. ‘Modred is posturing for the benefit of the Picts, but they won’t attack us, regardless of their rhetoric. Cadwy Scarface was used for parlay only because he is a warrior with a stern reputation, but the words of Modred are base coinage. Many of his men have fought and bled alongside us as brothers in our cause and my heart shudders at the thought of slaying fellow Celts. But Modred has left us with no other choice.’
‘We’ll wait for another day,’ Artor decided. ‘Let their nerves stretch a little. Tomorrow we’ll rest, for I’ll wager my crown that Modred will sit in his blue tent like a lump of wood. The day after, in the early afternoon, we will begin our attack, just when they are most comfortable over their cooking fires. Instruct the captains to explain my decision to the men. This waiting is hard on everyone.’
Bedwyr nodded his understanding, wheeled his horse again and trotted off towards the left horn of the crescent where Bors of the Dumnonii waited like a huge, hulking bull.
‘So, it’s about to start, Bedwyr,’ Bors growled. ‘Artor’s plan is risky.’
‘It is, but that’s how the High King wins. He’ll succeed in this battle, as he always does.’
‘We live in extraordinary times,’ Bors responded and turned away.
In his campaign tent, Artor instructed Taliesin to find Pelles. ‘Tell him he is to target Modred’s tent with flame arrows when we ride over the ford. The colour offends my good taste, and I find its destruction irresistible.’
Artor turned to his bodyguard. ‘Odin, do you suppose that you can find a small group of volunteers who’d enjoy insulting the Picts and Brigante all day? Yesterday’s group was very colourful, but today I want you to find warriors who speak Pictish. It’s time to plant some burrs under woad-covered arses and place them in a fit mood to meet us.’
Odin grinned. ‘I’ll have more volunteers than I’ll ever need.’
Taliesin bowed briskly and left with Odin, whose shoulders were shaking with laughter. Taliesin trotted off to find Pelles Minor, son of the one-eyed scum captain who had served as Artor’s loyal mercenary for many years, while Odin was engulfed by foot soldiers who soon became loudly amused at the orders issued by the Jutlander.
Pelles had erected the tents of his archers behind the broad flanks of Artor’s army. Taliesin noted the neatness, the cleanliness and the efficient purposefulness of Pelles’ command. Taliesin had heard tales of Pelles Major, a one-eyed ruffian with a talent for survival. His son appeared to share many of his father’s gifts.
Pelles was checking barrels filled with arrows and a supply of sheep’s fat that was to be used for incendiaries. He certainly looks disreputable, Taliesin thought. But at least the son has two good eyes.
Pelles Minor was obviously not a Celt by race, even though he had been born within the isles of Britain. His father had been small, slight and very dark, a typical Roman mercenary, but his son stood taller, close to five feet and seven inches, which made him a veritable giant of his race. Pelles Minor was burly where his father had been all whipcord and sinewy muscle. Pelles Major had possessed a scarred, unprepossessing face, but his son was almost handsome, except for the closeness of his green eyes.
‘Greetings, Taliesin,’ Pelles Minor said in an unexpected baritone voice that was particularly loud in volume. ‘Don’t look so surprised, song-master; we have all heard of the son of Myrddion.’
Taliesin blushed. ‘And I have heard of you, son of Pelles who was the last of the scum. My father spoke of your sire with affection. But enough politeness, for I have little time to waste on ancient history.’
He smiled at the archer to rob his brusqueness of insult. Pelles smiled back like a pike, all teeth and thinly disguised hunger.
‘The High King requires the particular skills of your archers.’
‘The battlefield will be won by the cavalry, but I agree that my arrows tend to even up the numbers.’
‘As you know, Artor plans to make a feint across the river with his personal guard. If the strategy works, Modred’s main force will charge across the shallows of the river in the hope of capturing Artor’s head. But their response will make them vulnerable to our cavalry and your archers.’
Pelles was becoming irritated by the harpist’s tone and manner.
‘I was there, harpist, I heard the king’s plans at first hand. I’ve been up here working out the details. No offe
nce, Taliesin, but as a song-master, you know bugger all about battlefields.’
‘I meant no insult, Pelles . . .’.
‘Pa always said Myrddion’s only sin was that he liked the sound of his own voice.’
In the small silence that followed, Taliesin digested the insult.
Pelles pointed to small knots of men at the rear of Modred’s camp. ‘The flaw in Artor’s plan is that Modred also has archers, and he’ll pincushion Artor, and his guard, before they leave the river. Artor will depend on my men to even the odds a little in the initial feint attack, especially when he begins his retreat. His unprotected back will be a tantalizing target for Brigante arrows. There’ll be no difficulty in supplying an arrow storm, but the bolts will fall where they fall and, if we miscalculate, some arrows might kill friend as well as foe. But if the High King commands us to fire our weapons, we’ll do so, even if it seems a crazy idea. My pa always said that Artor was crazy like a fox.’
‘At the risk of offending you further, Artor would be grateful if you could remove Modred’s blue tent with some flaming arrows at some convenient time after the feint attack commences. I would only add that Artor chose me to deliver his orders because I happened to be the nearest warm and breathing body.’
‘No matter, Taliesin. Does the colour of the tent annoy my king as much as it does me?’
‘He doesn’t like its shade or its size but its owner offends him most.’
‘I’ll shoot that arrow myself,’ Pelles rumbled, his dark brows bristling.
Taliesin nodded. ‘I fear that the High King courts death by placing himself in harm’s way, but I hope I’m proved wrong.’
‘Ask the king to dress in armour over a sturdy ox-hide shirt. Or a pad of iron at the back. He’ll need it!’ Pelles laughed and slapped Taliesin’s back so hard that the harpist almost overbalanced. ‘Stick to your harp, Taliesin. Artor has made up his mind and he knows what he’s doing.’
The two men parted amicably and Taliesin returned to the High King, rubbing his shoulder where Pelles had clapped him on the back.
The day ended and night fell. Artor slept like an innocent, certain that he had considered everything that could affect his control of the coming battle. Gareth told Ector stories about Anderida and Mori Saxonicus until the boy fell asleep, his dreams full of heroic battles, staunch courage and cruel death. Later, Taliesin listened in the shadows as Gareth and Odin talked as old friends do, of times long past. When the old men slept, Taliesin stayed alert, as poems formed and swirled in his mind.
Eventually, he could no longer bear the enclosed space of the tent and stepped out into the soft night air. The many fires of the great encampment had burned low, providing a soft light that gently limned the outlines of sleeping men. As he walked between the campfires and made for the longer grass near the picket lines, he heard a tuneless whistling that carried on the slight breeze. A soft voice challenged him, and a mounted cavalry officer loomed up out of the darkness like a wraith. Taliesen responded with his name and his purpose in being abroad, and felt oddly comforted. Armed men prowled the fringes of the camp, alert to the smallest sound or untoward movement.
Shadows were lengthening the following day when Artor strode from his campaign tent in his gilded armour and mounted his horse.
His personal guard appeared like smoke from the body of the army.
‘We ride,’ Artor called, eager to retain the advantage of surprise.
‘We ride,’ fifty strong throats shouted back.
In disciplined lines, the guard moved their horses from a walk to a trot, then to a canter and finally to a full gallop through the shallows of the river as they maintained their impetus towards the enemy lines. As the Brigante and the Picts deserted their cooking fires in sudden panic, Pelles unleashed his archers. A volley of arrows sailed over the heads of the guard and fell on the enemy. Among them were several fire arrows, aimed at Modred’s brilliant blue tent.
Taliesin watched from the small knoll where Artor had first voiced his intention to draw out Modred.
Artor’s horse gained purchase on the muddy shingle of the riverbank and the red-cloaked figure charged towards a running huddle of Picts. His arm was upraised and the remnants of the sun’s direct rays turned Caliburn into a flaming brand. The guard ploughed through the Pict defenders with a loud clang of metal against metal and wheeled to destroy any man still standing.
Another flaming arrow arced out of the rear of the Celtic lines and, this time, it met its target. The blue tent erupted in flame.
Taliesin smiled to see it.
But the Brigante warriors had served under Artor’s command for decades. They were familiar with Artor’s tactics and his penchant for lightning-fast attacks, and their grizzled officers had anticipated this tactic. Although the afternoon light was in their eyes, they knew how to respond. In ordered rows, they fell into a defensive stance with their spear points at the ready, and taunted Artor to attack them in a full frontal assault.
‘Ride back, Artor!’ Taliesin shouted uselessly. ‘You’ll be cut to pieces if you continue!’
His pleas were as useless as dried leaves against a sudden, freshening wind.
Artor hit the waiting phalanx - and his attack was blunted by the shock.
Taliesin winced as the force of cavalry struck at the massed foot soldiers. Shield screamed against shield, spears pierced the breastbones of horses, and warriors were flung headlong on to the hoof-churned earth.
‘Ride back, Artor!’ Taliesin called to his king once more. ‘Ride back!’
But Artor knew that the Brigante wouldn’t follow unless they believed his attack was a complete failure and, for the feint to work, many of his personal guard would have to be sacrificed. At the rear of Modred’s lines, Taliesin could just make out some sudden activity as the Brigante cavalry released their horses from the picket line.
‘God help them’, he muttered.
In a moment of clarity, Taliesin understood that Artor’s personal guard must be chopped to pieces, for nothing else would cause the Brigante to lose their heads and commence a full frontal attack. Artor could not have sent another man in his place, for the responsibility for the death and destruction of those men, many of them his own sons, must rest on the broad shoulders of the High King.
A high, thin wail rose above the sounds of battle. Taliesin turned and saw Ector, perched upon Gareth’s shoulder, his face as white as newly washed wool and his right hand pointing towards the battlefield. The boy’s green eyes were dark and terrified.
A fragile hope whispered in Taliesin’s heart that Percivale’s god would not permit such fine men to die so wastefully. In desperation, Taliesin began a fervent prayer to the Christian god.
From above, battlefields are silent, strategic board games, where the action is clear in its entirety. But in the heart of the fray, the battle is a confusing cacophony of clashing armour, thundering hooves, and screaming men.
Slurries of mud and blood threatened both horsemen and foot soldiers. Wounded horses lay in their own gore and entrails, kicking out at friend and foe alike, while warriors slid and cursed amid the thrusts and screams of a terrible chorus of death. Riderless horses further impeded the field and struggled to survive the conflict.
A man appeared out of the fray beside Artor and, for a moment, the High King thought he saw a younger version of himself, maddened, and with upraised sword, smashing a Pictish face into bloody pulp. Another mirror image, but achingly young, screamed shrilly as he pushed his body down the shaft of the spear that impaled him to kill the warrior who held it. Around the High King, in a grim, bloody display, Artor saw himself killing and being killed, over and over again.
Artor had retained his horse, although blood steadily seeped from a long, shallow sword cut across its flank where a Pict had narrowly missed a gut-splitting blow. Fought almost to a standstill, Artor wheeled and turned his horse by the pressure of his knees alone, swinging his sword in wicked, scythe-like arcs that protected him inside a
circlet of steel.
One tattooed Pict leapt up on the back of the king’s horse, forcing Artor to drop his shield and employ his dragon knife to dislodge the blue-faced warrior. The king was not unscathed in the encounter. Reckless with hate, the Pict found a chink in Artor’s armour near his sword belt, and drove his knife home.
In the heat of the conflict, Artor scarcely felt the wound. His eyes scanned the rear and saw the cavalry forming. Around him, red, russet and tawny heads bowed under the intensity of the struggle, while wounded and maimed warriors from both camps lay sprawled in the mud. Barely half of Artor’s force remained on their horses.
Odin appeared out of one cluster of warriors, casually sweeping enemy soldiers from his path with his bloody, brain-spattered axe.
‘It’s time for us to leave, Artor,’ he shouted. ‘Our men can’t hold much longer.’
‘If they still live, pick up the wounded that are afoot,’ Artor screamed to his men. ‘Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!’
Such was the discipline of his men that Artor’s orders were obeyed as if in slow motion, and without panic. Where a rider still had a whole beast, he reached down and assisted a companion who was in peril. Slowly, ever so slowly, Artor’s troops wheeled, disengaged and retreated back along the route they had come. Taliesin watched as the red-cloaked figure of the king tarried at the rear of his departing warriors to slow down the enemy advance.
As the personal guard galloped into the river, Pelles ordered the archers to resume their relentless rain of arrows.
The Brigante cavalry arrived on the scene with a great thunder of galloping hooves. The enemy phalanx parted to allow the horsemen to engage the Celtic stragglers, while Artor roared defiance as they advanced. The small mountain ponies used by the Brigante were swift, for all that they were shaggy and unkempt, and Artor and Odin were in danger of being cut off. Then, just as Artor at last began to retreat from the field, Modred finally remembered his own archers, and Artor’s escape route was suddenly filled with flights of arrows.