The Blood of Kings: Tintagel Book I

by M. K. Hume

  What if he chose positions that could be easily crushed by his enemies? What if he had underestimated the strength of the enemy and never made it into the town?

  From his vantage point, he could see the scars on the landscape where the Saxons had dug themselves into the sand dunes, but what if there were more defenders and defences than Caradoc had thought? What if the Saxons hadn’t left half of their number to protect their boats sheltering near the beach?

  ‘Sir! Sir! The signal fire! It’s been lit!’ Mabon shouted urgently from behind his master. ‘See? The smoke is rising over the tree line.’

  Llew felt his stomach lurch: the time for action was at hand.

  ‘It’s time to move, Mabon. I’m glad you noticed it, because I was miles away.’

  As Mabon issued orders to the cavalry, the archers climbed onto their calm and compliant farm horses. The nonexistent fighting skills of the bowmen were well known, so these peasants would bring up the rear where they could be protected by the cavalry. Thinking furiously about the tasks that lay before him, Llew swung into the saddle and turned his horse to face the Saxons embedded in the town.

  ‘At the trot, move out,’ he ordered and took satisfaction from the firmness of his commands. He could only pray that he had prepared himself for the test that confronted him, for the lives of his men would depend on the clarity of his thinking.

  The troop had initially formed into pairs but the riders were starting to fan out, now that they were picking up speed and moving towards the walls on the eastern side of the town. Llew could see the boiling movement in the concealed trenches that overlooked the sea as soon as he permitted his steed to pick up speed.

  ‘Ready?’ he yelled in a strong, clear voice. ‘Into Anderida! At the gallop! Charge!’

  The horsemen wheeled their steeds and took up their allotted positions as soon as they felt the hard road beneath the hooves of their horses. Forming into rows of four, as many as could be accommodated when they passed through the open town, Llew’s troop moved smoothly into a gallop and the horses were soon at full stretch.

  Saxons appeared in front of them with their pikes raised to take horses in the chest. But the defenders were too slow to mount a defensive line, just as those Saxons who were running from concealed positions along the foreshore could never play a part in the initial stages of the battle that was about to be joined. The first rows of horsemen hit the gates’ defenders and Llew felt his horse shudder from the force of the contact. A trained warhorse, this steed was more accustomed to battle than its rider, so it lashed out with its iron-tipped shoes and one of the Saxons reeled away with his chest crushed. From the corner of his eye, Llew saw Mabon fall, but the commander was already through the gate and had entered the town. Disorganised, the defenders were already on the run. Everything was happening so fast.

  ‘Hunt the bastards down,’ Llew screamed, and was surprised that his voice remained so firm. ‘No quarter! No quarter!’

  Meanwhile, some of Llew’s horsemen were peeling off from their ordered ranks to attack small groups of Saxons who had formed into small circles where two streets intersected. Llew barely paused to think.

  ‘Bring up the archers to kill these bastards. They don’t deserve good deaths, so don’t waste good Dobunni blood on them. Kill them with arrows,’ he shouted.

  Several of the archers immediately appeared from out of the confusion behind the cavalry and a hail of arrows began to scythe down the Saxon defenders.

  ‘Get the archers onto the roofs! Up there! And collect as many arrows as you can.’ Llew pointed towards a two-storey structure that overlooked the intersection. ‘Six of you! Up there! You can control the whole street from that position.’

  Even as he continued to force his way down the narrow street with some fifty cavalrymen stretched out behind him, Llew could hear the whizz of arrows as they drove deeply into the defences of armed and desperate Saxons.

  Resistance remained stiff, but Llew recognised panic in the ad hoc nature of the defence. He was also aware that British casualties were less than he expected. The advantage of surprise gained during his initial attack and his stolid use of his cavalry was clearly evident, for the northern raiders had no answer to warriors who remained beyond the reach of the Saxon’s weapons. Roman-trained, the British cavalrymen used their horses as fighting weapons, while the beasts’ armour had protected their riders from the gutting blows from axes or long knives.

  In the midst of nasty hit-and-run raids against the Britons by small groups of Saxons, Llew set archers onto the roofs of three of the tallest buildings in the town. One, a Christian church, had a simple wooden tower with a small bell used to call the faithful to prayer. It offered cover and the height that would permit the archers to see the broad sweep of most engagements within the town. Driving hard and slicing through all resistance, Llew moved ever deeper into the maze of the town until an open space loomed ahead of him.

  ‘It’s the market square, my lord. The headman’s hall is over there,’ one of Llew’s cavalrymen said when he noticed his commander’s raised eyebrows. The man pointed to a shabby, circular structure.

  ‘Secure all the lanes and buildings on our side of the town,’ Llew ordered as he scanned the empty, muddy space around the archaic building. ‘Let’s hope that Caradoc arrives here before the Saxons are reinforced by the warriors who are manning the boats,’ he added under his breath.

  He sent out sorties to assault those streets that hadn’t yet been cleared, until he noticed that signs of fire and smoke were obvious now in the north-western sector of the town. His hopes soared, for this conflagration could only be an indication of Cadal’s advance from the western side of the town. They had almost caught up with each other, flame to flame.

  Belatedly, Llew ordered his men to begin burning those buildings that might harbour small groups of Saxons, cursing himself for having forgotten the deterrent of uncontrolled fire.

  Then, as the first thick plumes of smoke rose into the air near where the eastern gate had once been, Llew racked his brains for anything else that he might have forgotten.

  He swore vilely as he remembered the Saxons would need an open approach to the beach if they were going to gain access to their ceols. He must send a small group of warriors back into the areas where fierce fighting had already taken place. After selecting one of the more experienced of his junior officers, he briefed the man and selected a small squad of warriors to carry out the mission.

  ‘Set all the houses alight on the seaward edge of the town. I realise I’m sending you into danger, but the tribe requires this effort from you. We can’t allow them to man their boats and make good their escape, so any Saxons you meet must be forced to flee from the flames in our direction. We’ll be able to neutralise them once they enter our loving arms.’ He grinned encouragingly.

  The hard-faced men selected for the mission laughed and nodded their understanding, while the Dobunni king tried to forget that he was sending these men to almost certain death. Fortunately, some of the archers were still in place on the edges of the more dangerous streets in the south-eastern sector.

  ‘Wherever you can, use your archers to keep the Saxons pinned down. Take five bowmen with you from one of the buildings close to the headman’s house. The square can be defended without them!’

  Once again, his hand-picked veterans nodded; they understood that taking these archers with them would give them a chance of survival.

  Then, from out of the drifting smoke, Cadal rode into the town square on a wounded horse with half his original warriors loping along behind him. All carried swords dripping with blood, and many brandished makeshift torches. Their faces were black with soot and a memory of fire and violence flamed in sooty eyes framed by networks of white wrinkles.

  ‘Where’s Caradoc?’ Cadal shouted over the melee of conflict and the roar of flames. ‘I thought he was ahe
ad of me.’

  ‘You’re the first to arrive,’ Llew answered, happy that the horror of decision-making was now shared.

  ‘If the old man has gone and got himself killed, then I’ll . . . I’ll be forced to follow him into Hades to drag him back again. My sister will kill me if anything happens to the old bugger.’

  Llew grinned, despite the seriousness of the situation.

  ‘From my observations, your father seems to be a very difficult man to kill.’

  ‘Humpph! That’s as may be, but I swear the old devil is off in a corner somewhere, and he’ll be adapting the plan to keep himself amused.’ Cadal slammed his fist into the palm of his left hand in frustration. ‘He’s always doing things like that to me. He’s quite happy to ignore his own rules when he fancies.’

  So, as Anderida burned and the Saxons were driven closer and closer to the town square, Cadal and Llew were kept busy ambushing the enemy who were prepared to die rather than run. Fire had served the Britons well. Those Saxons to the south of the square had been driven into the waiting clutches of the Britons. Those to the north had nowhere to go, except for the mud and quicksand of a huge swamp beyond the town.

  This war of attrition could have continued for hours, for Anderida was burning on three sides now. But news of Caradoc came with a triumphant courier who rode into the square just as the sun was setting. The man threw himself from the saddle, and Cadal realised the rider was Trefor, who had caught a loose horse on the field outside Anderida and ridden like the wind in pursuit of his master.

  ‘What of the king, Trefor? Is my father well? Has he engaged the enemy?’ Cadal asked in rapid-fire.

  ‘King Caradoc was well when I left the line to the north of the town, my lord. He is forming a new perimeter along the northern side of Anderida adjacent to the sucking swamps. He has blocked off the enemy’s options to the east and the west, so they have nowhere to run. The enemy has almost reached our line on three occasions and they formed themselves into a shield wall to repel our troop when we went on the attack, but we have repelled them each time. When he knows that he has bottled up as many of the Saxons as his perimeter can hold, he will mount a serious attack on them with our remaining cavalry and foot soldiers. He intends to kill them, down to the last man.’

  ‘Has my father issued new orders?’ Cadal asked. ‘His strategies seem to be working well on all counts, but the Saxons seem to be massing between the square and the swamp. Huw? What have you seen so far?’

  Huw edged his horse into the circle of powerful men grouped together in the middle of the square. The British troops had formed a line around the square that faced the streets on all four sides, routes that led to freedom away from the narrow, burning streets.

  ‘The bowmen have kept many of the Saxons pinned down, but whole groups of them have made their way towards the laneways in the north of the town, choosing to risk their lives in some form of concerted action, rather than be picked off piece-meal by our archers.’

  ‘Send two troops of twenty men to guard the eastern and western gates. Let no one escape,’ Llew ordered crisply. ‘The rest of us will add our forces to those of King Caradoc. He’s decided on his battleground, so that’s enough to convince me.’

  ‘It might be worth our while to keep the bowmen in a ring around the town square to pick off those stragglers who try to rejoin their thane,’ Cadal added. Llew concurred.

  As they spoke, a small group of five blackened scarecrows returned after completing their mission along the southern extremity of Anderida. They were the only survivors of the small patrol sent out by Llew to torch the buildings along the southern wall. Surprisingly, there were more survivors than Llew expected.

  ‘Most of the Saxons along the southern side of the city have been killed, my lord, as you ordered. Any who are still hiding down there can be picked off by our archers if they try to escape. There are still four archers holed up just outside the southern wall and they are prepared to remain in their present position.’

  Llew thumped each of the five men on the shoulder.

  ‘There will be time to laud your courage and write songs in praise of your dead at a later time. But, for now, what say you to cleaning out the last of this rats’ nest? If you’re weary, I’ll not be critical if you have a need to rest and regain your strength.’

  The five remaining warriors looked scandalised at missing out on the last battle of Anderida. Their leader, a hard-bitten veteran with only one ear, spoke for all the men.

  ‘It’s a good day to die, King Llew, and I’d hate to miss the very end of this battle. We intend to fight while a single Saxon remains alive.’

  Trefor added one further order from their commander. ‘King Caradoc wishes you to begin a lane-by-lane, hut-by-hut, drive towards the northern outskirts of the town. If the gods are with us, we’ll make contact with the Saxons somewhere in the middle and we can crush them, once and for all.’

  ‘So, why are we waiting? Gather together all the men who’ll be going with us,’ Cadal ordered. ‘Night is here but Anderida’s burning makes the town as bright as the sun. I agree with your brave warriors, Llew. Whether by sunlight or moonshine, it’s a good day to die.’

  Llew and Cadal issued the necessary orders before riding off with the cavalry and the remnants of Cadal’s foot soldiers at their backs.

  Eyes that were irritated by smoke and heat from the fires stopped watering, while the last traces of twilight allowed for relatively safe movement. Both of the young commanders were concerned that the series of battles had consumed too much time and the Saxons might reap the benefit of a night where they could sleep in the filthy alleyways of this wight-haunted township. But there would be little rest for the Britons, forced to mop up the remaining Saxon warriors if they were to achieve a complete victory.

  Night finally fell to the sounds of barking foxes and hunting owls. The thick darkness was full of strange sounds as Anderida turned to ash behind them, while Cadal cursed and sent out men to form a large semi-circular perimeter that would keep the remaining Saxons confined within an area of British choosing.

  But no one would sleep tonight while the Britons were sweeping the Saxons before them. Those northerners who tried to fight were trapped and slaughtered. Above the burning cinders, the white moon seemed so close they could touch it with their outstretched hands.

  The Britons’ progress during the night was frustratingly slow. Whenever a nest of Saxons was found, they must be dealt with before the British troop could move on. The soft darkness hid desperate struggles and the evidence of swift and violent death.

  Long after midnight and with the moon sliding down the sky towards morning, Cadal and Llew realised that their men were tired out. At one of the more important crossroads, Trefor set up a roster of sentries and ordered the unassigned warriors to sleep for several hours at times when they could be spared. Exhausted warriors would be of no use to Caradoc on the morrow, and many of these men had been awake for almost two days. They had fought themselves to a standstill.

  Yet, although they were so weary that they could barely think, both Cadal and Llew found sleep was elusive. Finally, they managed to drift off into a light doze that allowed their bodies to enjoy a short rest, even if their minds remained watchful.

  Light came fast. A slice of sun appeared on the eastern horizon with the brilliance of spilled blood. Yellow and white light edged dirty thatch and exposed the bared rafters of burned buildings. But there was no trace of the Saxons.

  Cadal and Llew pushed forward with their men. An arrow whizzed past Cadal’s ear and embedded itself in the thatch of a house across the laneway. All the warriors ducked in reaction and Llew roared out a warning to several foot soldiers as he pointed towards a small church. The small building was little more than a hut surrounded by a dilapidated and weed-choked graveyard, enclosed by a stone wall, where only humps and hollows indicated
that Christians had been buried inside these hallowed grounds. There were no gravestones, no sarcophagi and not even a large stone cross to mark the earth’s holy nature.

  The stillness raised the hair on Cadal’s neck. Such a threatening quiet was unnatural, so he halted his column and signalled that his troops remain alert.

  The eerie silence, devoid of birdsong, dragged on.

  Then a horn sounded to the north beyond the graveyard, an unfamiliar clarion call. What was this new threat? Somehow, Cadal’s sword appeared in his hand as he pulled his shield away from the thongs that attached it to the saddle. Nerves tightened as the horn sounded again, brazen and close. Too close.

  Suddenly, the door of the church swung wide and a huge, bow-legged man in a cloak made of fox pelts in their winter white stepped out into the field. Other men materialised from the shadows under yew trees, from behind and within the church, and from hollows in the ground between the grave plots. The Saxons had chosen this site for their last stand and had prepared to ambush Cadal and Llew as they rode to join Caradoc, but the sound of the horn had driven them out.

  The bow-legged Saxon, who was obviously one of their thanes, roared out a challenge, while his warriors thumped on their breast armour with swords and axes and howled out their responses. Cadal strained to make some sense from what the thane was bellowing.

  ‘Do we hide like rats in burrows like Britons who are waiting to die?’

  The words were shockingly clear and Cadal realised how foolish he had been to allow his force to get so close to Harald Ironfoot’s position in the cemetery. He was also aware that the Saxon’s first challenge had been in his native tongue, but his next insults were roared out in the British tongue.