by Jodi Taylor
I watched my team join the column of other men, all being herded towards the gate. Most of the conscripts were either very old or very young. One or two limped. I guessed these were second-rank fighters. The 6th-century equivalent of cannon fodder, possibly.
Peterson turned, waved cheerfully, and disappeared.
They’d gone.
I found I could barely breathe. They’d be at a huge disadvantage. What could they do? If they killed someone …? History might not even allow them to defend themselves. And they couldn’t run away – they’d risk being killed as deserters. And I could do nothing. There wasn’t a single thing I could do to help them. I had a terrible vision of them being overrun by a horde of blood-soaked Saxons. Going down without a fight. Because that was the correct thing to do. The historian thing to do. I might never see them again. Any of them.
I stood, torturing myself with visions of them being hacked into pieces so tiny that bringing the bodies back to St Mary’s would be an impossibility. In my mind’s eye, I saw them fall, one by one, overwhelmed, unable to help themselves. I hugged myself even more tightly and struggled for calm, trying to think of something. I had wild ideas of escaping out of the gates, getting back to the pod, and going for help. Maybe returning with Guthrie and a security team and somehow getting them out.
Useless. The gate was guarded. No one in and no one out. Even if I managed to get out over the walls unaided, what could Guthrie do except risk more people?
I was so deep in thought that I realised afterwards I’d been hearing this lack of noise for a long time without any idea of its significance. A sudden silence around me – a sudden stillness as people listened.
There, miles away, on that faint line between actual sound and imagination, I could hear it. First a murmur, then a rumble, then a roar and then a beat as an unknown number of feet marched more or less in rhythm. I’d heard that sound before. In Colchester, as Boudicca’s army approached, and now I was hearing it again.
This was no local squabble over stolen cattle or a disputed boundary. These were Saxons. Probably not an invading army, but a raiding party. Or possibly, given the noise and commotion below, several raiding parties. I tried to remember whether the Wye was navigable to this point. I imagined dragon-headed boats rowing up the river, silent except for the occasional soft creak of an oar. In my mind, I saw giant men, splashing to the banks, hoisting their swords and shields and setting off through the trees.
This was the classic approach at dusk – too dark for numbers to be accurately assessed. Night-time fears would double the number in the minds of the defenders and, then, a new day would dawn. The sun would rise, picking out men, armour, and spears. I’ve been besieged before. I know how quickly that feeling of security behind high walls can turn to a fear of being trapped behind those same high walls.
I blinked to clear my eyes, because the wind was making them water, and turned back to my suddenly cheerless and solitary camp. They’d left me a blanket and some rations, for which I was grateful. I wrapped myself up, leaned back against the wall, and closed my eyes.
I was roused by a shout and a poke. The correct response would have been to leap to my feet in an instant, assume a defensive posture, all ready to deal, effectively and efficiently, with whatever threat was being posed.
In reality, I thrashed around inside my blanket, unable to free my arms, and eventually toppled over. Suddenly, I was glad Peterson and the others weren’t around to see that.
There was no threat. Unless you count granny, grinning gummily at me, and gesturing. The neighbours were inviting me over. There was granny herself, mum stirring something in a pot, and their indeterminate number of children who wouldn’t stay still long enough for me to count them.
I shared their meal. They had hardly anything and yet they shared everything with me. We had some hard, flat bread, which I chewed very carefully, because it was full of grit from the millstones. We dipped this in some kind of hot, salty broth that could have been anything and I wasn’t going to ask, followed by a heel of hard, dry cheese. There was no meat. I looked at the chickens who stared beadily back again. None of the portions was very large and I saw granny give her cheese to the kids.
I crawled over to my bundle, pulled out a pack of the hitherto despised high-energy biscuits, and shared them out. They loved them, washing them down with some kind of fluid that looked as if it had been drained from someone’s U-bend, so it was probably beer.
By the time we finished eating, it was dark. We smiled at each other and I curled up in my blanket and tried to sleep. Behind me, the chickens made the sort of noises that led me to believe they were contemplating suicide. I don’t know why they were worrying. Chickens had value – even if it was very short-lived. If tomorrow went badly, we’d have even shorter anticipated life spans than the chickens.
I was lying on the hard ground, feeling the damp seep up through my blanket, when Peterson spoke in my ear. ‘Can you talk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t worry about us, we’re all fine. I don’t think they were that impressed by us. We’ve been put at the back. We seem to be guarding some sacks of strategically important flour.’
‘Really?’ I said, relief temporarily overriding the damp.
‘Yes. We don’t even have weapons. Wait. Hold on.’
I could hear the sound of men’s voices.
‘Ah. As you were, Max. We’ve just been issued with three swordy-looking things,’ said our on-site weapons expert.
‘I thought there were four of you.’
‘They’ve given Roberts a stick. I think they think he’s a girl.’
I could hear Roberts waxing indignant in the background.
‘Well, I keep telling you – grow some facial hair. It’s not difficult. You just have to stop shaving for a couple of days. You still there, Max?’
‘No. I got bored and wandered off. Of course I’m still here.’
‘We’re going to get our heads down now. Big day tomorrow. ‘
‘OK,’ I said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Try to remember to stay at the back.’
‘We’ll be fine. And you make sure you stay safe, as well. We’ll need to brag about our exploits when we next see you.’
I snorted, but he’d closed the link.
They might have got their heads down. They probably did – Markham could sleep on a clothesline, but for me there was no chance. Apart from the depressed chicken noises, granny’s snores could have woken the dead, and in our enclosure, smiths hammered all night long, working on weapons and shields. Men moved backwards and forwards, shouting instructions. In the distance, excited dogs barked, baying at a moon visible occasionally through holes in the shredded clouds.
I lay on my back and looked up at the cloud-cloaked stars. It wasn’t cold. The air was warm and wet. I could feel rain in the wind.
I gave it up in the hour before dawn, sitting up and earning my keep by stirring their dying fire back into life. I could see bubbles of moisture on my blanket and clothes. I nibbled my last biscuit and then, just as the sky began to lighten a little in the east, horns sounded.
My first thought was that this was it – the fighting was about to begin – but there was no way an army could have snuck up on us unawares. Whoever it was, it wasn’t the Saxons. I could hear the distant thunder of hooves. Shouts rang out. More horns sounded from the gates.
All around me, people sprang to their feet and ran, shouting, to the wall.
I followed behind them.
In my ear, Peterson said, ‘Max, something’s happening.’
‘I know.’
I ran to the wall on legs that trembled with excitement. My heart pounded. I fumbled with my recorder with clumsy fingers. Because if this was who I thought it might be… I elbowed myself a place at the wall, stood on tiptoe and peered down the slope.
They came fast, their big, powerful horses thundering uphill, manes flying, and hooves kicking up great divots of mud. About thirty of them. A horn sounded
– a long musical note. A greeting. From behind me, up on the ramparts near the gate, another horn responded. A low, rumbling tone, dark and dangerous. Then, a great noise of them all together, returning the greeting. I felt the short hairs on my neck stand up on end.
They galloped out of the early morning mist like avenging gods. All foam and fury. A long banner snapped behind them. As a contrast to the skinny, underdeveloped livestock, which was all we’d seen so far, the horses these men rode were good – very good – their muscles bunching and flexing as they galloped up the hill. These were warhorses that had been taught to fight and maim and kill.
Their riders were equally tough. These were not the chivalrous knights of legend. These were hard-looking men; swords and battle-axes hung from their saddles and their shields were slung across their backs.
The excitement around us was intense. People jostled each other for a good view. Children were lifted up to sit on top of the wall and wave. All around us, people cheered. The word Arth was everywhere.
Remembering I was supposed to be on the job, I activated my recorder, saying softly, ‘Sleeveless jerkins. Coarse shirts. Trousers. Leather boots. About thirty of them. Good horses. Stirrups. Ten spare horses at the rear. Three baggage horses. Assorted grooms. Blacksmith. Armourer. Maybe a medical man. Hard to say. No religious symbols visible.’
The gates opened. People streamed out to greet them, cheering and shouting. Granny grinned her toothless grin at me.
I was close enough to see the splattered mud on their boots, make out the coarse weave of their trousers, see the sweat stains under their armpits. I fixed my gaze on the man riding under the banner, watching his tangled hair lifting and falling in time with his horse’s stride.
Then, just as they breasted the rise to approach the gate, in one smooth movement, they drew their swords. I stiffened, but it was a salute, not a threat. This was friend, not foe. The guards at the gate returned the salute, roaring a greeting as with scarcely a pause, the riders swept into the fort.
In my ear, Peterson said, ‘Someone likes a dramatic entrance.’
But this wasn’t just any someone. I knew who this was. I’d seen the banner as it swept past. I’d seen the Red Dragon, blazing fire and fury.
This was Arthur Pendragon.
Chapter Five
I’ve been so lucky. I’ve seen more than my fair share of heroes. I saw Hector and Achilles fight at Troy. I watched Henry V prevail at Agincourt. I even witnessed Leonidas’s stand at Thermopylae. I’ve seen legends come to life in front of my very eyes and now, if I’d interpreted things correctly, I was about to see the biggest hero of them all.
Everyone around me was shouting, ‘Arthur’, or one of the many variations of his name, and jumping up and down as if just his presence was enough to win the day and, for all I knew, it might be. All around us, unseen dogs howled hysterically, the noises filling my head until I thought it would burst. I leaned against the wall for support.
In my ear, Peterson said, ‘Max,’ very faintly, but I wasn’t in any condition to respond. Because it was him. It was Arthur. Riding under the Red Dragon of the Pendragons. His own personal emblem.
I became aware I was clutching at the wall so tightly that two of my fingertips were bleeding. I smeared the blood across the stones for luck, because this was an age when stones demanded blood, and historians need all the luck they can get.
Someone must have thrown a bucket of water on the dogs, because the noise subsided and I could hear myself think again.
I pushed myself off the wall and watched people begin to move away, returning to their little camps, talking excitedly. Boys picked up sticks, using them as swords, pretending they were Arthur. I heard the word everywhere and now he was here and I’d just seen him. Up close. Nearly close enough to touch him. The real Arthur.
Forget the High King of medieval legend. Forget the myths and fairy stories. He didn’t found Camelot. Or the Knights of the Round Table. He didn’t search for the Holy Grail. He didn’t kill dragons or rescue damsels in distress. He didn’t have a magician named Merlin. Those are just pretty stories. He didn’t do any of that.
What he did do was fight. He was a war leader. A Dux Bellorum. And, by the looks of him, a bit of a bastard. Forget the tall hero with long, golden hair. The real Arthur was a stocky man, broad-shouldered and short-legged. Long, dark hair hung in greasy snarls around his face. His bare arms bulged with muscles. Later, when I was able to observe more closely, I would see he wore two golden arm bracelets, each depicting a dragon eating its own tail. No beginning and no end. Was this the origin of the legend of the Once and Future King? They were his only ornament.
Much is made of Arthur carrying the image of the Virgin on his shield. On other occasions, he may have done so. Or that story might simply be Christian embellishment. Today however, his shield bore the device of the Red Dragon, as did his standard. He was distinguished from his fellow riders only by a matted pelt which I assumed to be made from bear, which hung around his shoulders. More likely, it was just wolf, but it was a nice bit of PR, just the same.
There has always been a theory that there was more than one Arthur – a number of chieftains scattered around the countryside, leading the struggle against the Saxons and somehow they all merged into one mighty legend, because, physically, one man and his army couldn’t possibly have fought at all the battles with which he is credited, but here was a very likely explanation. This is how he managed to be at so many battles at so many different places around the country. He commanded a portable army. A small, highly organised mobile cavalry unit, working out of bases scattered around the land, and able to cover long distances very quickly, bringing reinforcements and much-needed professional assistance to beleaguered Brits in their struggle against the invaders. He had arrived at the best possible moment, skidding in under the very noses of the approaching army. Making a spectacular entrance. Raising morale. Because everyone knows the cavalry always arrives in the very nick of time.
I looked up. The sun had risen, but the sky was still dark. The smell of smoke was everywhere as the valleys burned below us.
Staring over the wall and through the thick trees, I could just make out an approaching mass of men. Torches flickered in the gloom. The sound of drumbeats floated on the wind.
They weren’t marching – there was no ordered tramp of feet, just a long, unbroken rumble of sound. Occasionally, a voice would be raised in command, shouting words I couldn’t make out. I tried to estimate numbers, but they were a continually shifting mass in thick woodland.
The day was overcast. Wisps of mist lay in pockets between the trees. A light drizzle fell. I smoothed the moisture off my sleeve and wondered how safe we were up here. I was wet. The grass was wet. There was mud. How easy is it to run uphill, sword in one hand, and shield in the other? With a hail of missiles raining down from above? With bloody great tree trunks rolling down towards you, bouncing over the rough ground? Uncontrolled and uncontrollable. Crushing everything in their path. How easy to slip on the wet grass, or in the mud? Or become entangled in the brushwood? Or impaled on sharp branches? How would they get up the hill? In attack formation? Or would they just grit their teeth, lower their heads, and charge?
I would soon find out. Time to earn my entirely inadequate pay.
I’ve watched many battles. It’s my job. And we don’t hang around at the back, either. Peterson and I were up with the archers at Agincourt. The Battle of Bosworth was practically fought around Markham and me. Being in a battle, surrounded by men with no thought other than to slaughter each other as quickly as possible, is terrifying. But not half so terrifying as having to sit, helpless and listen to one happen around you. Not to know what’s going on outside, or what’s happening to your friends. To listen to the war horns, the cries, the clash of swords, the shrieks of the wounded and dying. To be blind, vulnerable, powerless … I really don’t recommend it. I particularly don’t recommend the part where you sit helpless, locked in a hut for your o
wn safety, listening to blood-crazed Saxons scrabbling at the thatch overhead, shouting to each other in anticipation of the treats in store for them – women, plunder, feasting – knowing that if they are here now, then it’s because everyone else out there is dead, or dying, or driven off; that the day is lost and the winners are here to claim their prize. That’s really not a good feeling at all.
First things first, however.
I turned my attention back to what was going on around me. As discreetly as I could, I recorded the enclosure, the people crowded at the walls, and got the best shots I could of the forces below us, still partly concealed in the morning mist.
I was certain that all the interesting stuff was happening in the other compound, but Peterson and the others would have all that under control. If they could spare the time from guarding all that strategic flour, of course.
On the ramparts, the big horn sounded again. Not in welcome this time. A warning. The mighty note rumbled on and on, deep and menacing in the mild, early morning air. At the same time, they ran up the standard. With a snap, the banner unfurled, revealing the Red Dragon, fluttering defiantly, and a roar went up around the fort.
We cheered too, our women and children’s voices pitched high over the masculine bellow as we shouted to give ourselves courage.
I know I’d speculated about the Saxons’ ability to fight after that long struggle up the hill, and I had looked forward to seeing it, but the chance came more quickly than I expected, because with a suddenness that took everyone by surprise, Old Faithful, that big, deep horn, rumbled again, and over the dramatic echoes a single voice was raised in command. The gates crashed open and the cavalry exploded out through them, headed by Arthur himself, bear pelt flying out behind him, wielding a sword in each hand.
The speed of the attack took my breath away. Whether the Saxons had reckoned on a moment or two to get their collective breath back was now unimportant, because they weren’t going to get it. They lifted their heads to see a wall of horses and swords thundering down the hill towards them.