Pendragon's Banner

by Helen Hollick

  “Mithras,” Arthur gasped as Hasta plunged, swimming also, “this water’s bloody cold!”

  XXXV

  Somehow they were across. Somehow, Mithras in his wisdom knew how, they were pressing forward over the open space beyond the bank and up into the trees, pushing Lot’s men back, gaining ground. Under foot and hoof the earth was slippery, churned with mud and blood. No time to guide thrashing hooves away from wounded and dying men; those who could not drag themselves to safety found themselves trampled.

  Arthur fought within his King’s Turma, joining the right flank as they rode up out of the water in a vain hope to turn the northmen up-river into the wide sweep of a bend. Close behind the Pendragon rode his standard bearer, clench-jawed, attempting to keep the Dragon high, but the trees came low down the slope on this side of the river, and branches snared its tubular shape and flying streamers, catching it like some snarling pack of bared-teeth animals. There were two undisputed rules of battle: obey orders, and ensure that the King and his banner did not fall.

  A shout from the left of centre. The infantry had broken through the hard-held wedge of northmen and Picti. Only briefly could Arthur afford to take in the situation, to cast a quick, experienced eye over the sway of battle, the knotted groups of men, the strew of the dead. He swung his sword two-handed, almost absently, at the neck of a Northman, his blade slicing through bone and sinew, blood spouting in a thin fountain of red stink. Others of Lot’s men were falling back, heading away up the slope, ducking beneath trees, turning to run. A shout went up among the British militia-raised men, a lifting and swaying of uncast spears and raising of shield and sword, axe or staff. A tossed shout of triumph that scuttled through the overhang of branch and leaf. Lot’s banner was seen bobbing and weaving away up and over the slope, men, northmen and Picti, were starting to run, dodging through the trees, bent low, heads and shoulders crouched. The sun was one hour high in the sky, the fighting had been brief, too brief.

  Arthur breathed relief, they had guessed right then. Lot was feigning a retreat, though it did not take much of a fool to see they were not fleeing in terror, but running easy, unhurried, drawing Arthur’s men forward. Not a single northern man was discarding his weapon or scrambling, terrified for his life, to safety. They almost trotted, one or two even turning to wave their swords and shout abusive taunts. The British must not yet follow the wolf into his lair. Despatch these last men, snatch a few short moments to gain breath and wipe bloody hands and swords, then they would dismount, leave the horses here along the bank and under the trees with the rearguard and… what in the Bull’s name!

  “Gweir,” Arthur yelled, outrage darkening his face. “You whoreson whelp! What are you doing across here?” He spurred Hasta into a flying leap, came aside the boy thrusting like a raged bull-calf at a Picti twice his height. Arthur’s sword felled the man; he glared down at the lad who stood panting, beaming up at his Lord.

  “I’m followin’ orders, Sir. You told the rearguard to make all haste across the water when you had them on the run!” He pointed up through the trees with Arthur’s third-best spear, its blade spotted with blood. “And they be a-runnin” my Lord! Runnin’ like a scared hare afore the fox!”

  “And when,” Arthur asked, “were you authorised to become part of the rearguard? I’ll have the hide off your back for this disobedience, lad!” Arthur roared the reprimand through panting breath, needing to turn attention aside from the boy, to cut down two woad-painted men coming at them from the right. Cabal launched himself at one, teeth bared, snarling. Arthur plunged his sword into the other.

  He glanced again at the centre and cursed vehemently, Gweir forgotten. His officers and men of the Artoriani were standing firm, beginning to dismount, picket the horses as ordered, but not the untried men of the militia! Curse and damn the whelps – may the Hag of the Underworld take the cur sons! He damned knew this would happen!

  “Hold hard!” Arthur bellowed, casting his command after the stream of British taking to their heels after Lot’s fleeing men. Hasta wheeled, his head tossing, feet dancing, foam flecking back to splotch Arthur’s iron-studded leather tunic. The King turned to his Signifier who, like the standard bearer, was sheltered by a knot of soldiers whose sole function was to protect these two vulnerable men. “Sound me the stand!” Arthur shouted. “We must not thrust ahead in a rag-tag rabble!”

  The call sounded from the trumpets, taken up further down the line, sounding again and again; “Stand hard… stand hard… ”

  But these young British men were not drilled to obey Arthur’s commands instantly; they were cattle-raiders, hunters, craftsmen – untried, easily excited, easily led astray.

  A hand touched Arthur’s thigh, fingers gripping a moment, jolting his attention. He sucked in his breath, raised his sword, stopped short as he recognised the blood-smeared face of one of his missing scouts. “Where in the name of Mithras have you been?” he roared, the anger at the stupidity of the British militia spilling over at this man. “Never mind – make your report, hurry man, ‘tis urgent!” Arthur was leaning from the saddle, gripping the scout by the shoulder.

  “Lord,” the man panted, his own hand resting on Hasta’s neck, leaving a streak of other men’s blood there on the white coat. “We found ourselves pinned down by a band of Picti who chose to rut with their camp whores close where we were hidden – we could not move until dawn.” He took a breath. “Then I had to fight my way to you! As my lord Enniaun reported, the men here at the river are but a part of the main body; t’other side o” this hill, deeper into the woods, the rest wait in ambush. If we pursue unchecked, Sir,” he glanced nervously, uneasily, at the cheering and yelling British, “we will be slaughtered, Sir.”

  Arthur swivelled to face his Signifier. “Do not stop sounding the stand until I give orders to the contrary! Decurion!” He kicked Hasta to move, the enemy, who moments before had been swarming thick and deadly all round were thinning fast, only a handful left, too involved in hand-to-hand combat to turn and run.

  Arthur yanked Hasta to a halt beside the mounted Decurion, ordered, “Send a rider to each chieftain – they must hold here and regroup.” He swore colourfully as he looked towards those young men, chieftains’ sons, brothers, cousins. “Forget it. Cancel that last order. It’s too late.” The Pendragon lifted his hand, let it fall hopelessly, uselessly, cried, “Damn them, damn them to hell! They’re chasing like untrained pups on a false trail!”

  Close to despair, Arthur ordered the re-form. As the trumpets changed their signals the Artoriani responded without question, forming lined ranks within three beats of a heart. Those dismounted vaulted their horses, nudged into line. Eyes, all eyes on Arthur the Pendragon, their King. Discipline, instant obedience of orders. Drill, drill and more drill; manoeuvres practised over and over and over, until man and horse could perform a given command in his sleep. The raised militiamen were almost gone, away up the hill, lost among the trees, whooping their fools’ victory.

  XXXVI

  The carnage beneath the overhang of crowding trees was something those men who survived that grey, mist-dripping morning would take a long while to forget.

  Chasing the retreating northern men, the British had full forgotten, or disregarded, the danger and the warning. And the orders. Did not realise until too late, far too late, that the willow and alder trees climbing the slope on the northern side of the Great River were giving way into the denser forests of lowland oak, ash, elm and birch.

  Lot had planned well, was pleased with his cunning. He ran with his warriors at an easy lope, spears and weapons carried low, heads bent, breath and muscles pumping, running north-west together as a pack. A hunting pack, luring instead of chasing along a scant-seen track where the red deer trod – and suddenly they were upon a clearing, stretching away between the patrol of trees; a natural arena echoing a Roman amphitheatre where gladiators fought and died upon the bloodied sand. Only this was covered in an ocean of blue flowers and the spectators lay in wait, hidden
among the dappled shade of breeze-murmured leaves. Waited in held-breath silence for their comrades to come rushing through, and turn to fight.

  The scent was rich; a heady, potent smell as strong as last summer’s fermented wine, a tranquil sea of brilliant blue etched against the surrounding dark and pale-green, wind-teased, silvered or variegated foliage. And running behind the northmen came the British, cheering, for they assumed they had them trapped. Then with the swiftness of a swooping hawk the calm became ragged, the bluebell flowers were trampled and squashed, and the still silence foamed into a raging shout with the sudden uprush of the storm. White bulbs, shredded stalks, scattered leaves. Bluest blue and sweet scent, stained and gored by red and stink.

  Wounded, appalled, sickened, the British tried to pull back, to seek escape, stumbling and crying, but they found no exit for the men of Lot’s host were all around, save to the rear, where their own men were still coming, heedless, mindless of the death that awaited them.

  Arthur had no time to show emotion of either extreme, neither pity nor anger. They had been told, warned. Nor had he time to think or plan. His intended action was gone, in ruins. If he was going to save any of those irresponsible fools he would need to move fast.

  A barked, short command and the trumpets sounded. Two turmae, at a gallop, swung to either side, spreading their line as they reached the thickening trees. They burst beneath the foliage, hacking up into the overhang of branch and bough, chopping at the legs and arms of concealed men hurriedly aiming spears and arrows; hacking a path through undergrowth and bush, weaving in and out of sturdy oak trunks and slender birch as if making the steps of some grotesque mounted dance.

  Following in their wake others of the Artoriani on foot, their horses left down the hill with the rearguard as planned, marched forward, line upon line, steady marching, swords slashing, daggers piercing. Rescue and revenge.

  Incredibly they were smashing through the ambush, rolling forward, driving the men of the north before them; Lot’s warriors and his allies were giving ground; slow, reluctant, fighting as cornered prey, inch by painful inch, but giving ground to Arthur and his desperate men!

  Those outer mounted wings kept the thing tight, cramped in the clearing with no way ahead, no escape behind. “We must contain them,” Arthur had insisted. “If Lot breaks and comes up behind us in the heavy woodland, we’ll be finished, every last man and horse of us. Keep close formation, press forward, leave nowhere for him to manoeuvre – let their own weight of numbers and choice of location loose on them.” Arthur was glad that he knew in advance of that bluebell-scented clearing.

  They needed to form a mounted wall all around; there were not enough men to make the noose, tighten the rope and fight at the same time. Where was Enniaun? Cei? Close, hand-to-hand fighting now, sword and dagger, fists, teeth, feet. Heads butting, fingers gouging, the situation desperate. The cries and screams of wounded men and horses; the all pervading, constant shriek and stench of death with the raised voice of war song.

  Arthur could only see what was happening within his own small group of men, had no idea how things were going even a few yards beyond, save for the sway in the rise and fall of sound. It was never easy to fight effectively in the confine of small space – it was up to each individual officer to command his own men, up to each man to make instant decision, to fight and move as he saw fit. But Arthur had faith in each and every one of his prized Artoriani. Of Morgause and her raven banner, no sign – but then, in this crush and shove neither could he see Lot’s thistle. She had been here last night, was she watching from some concealed place of safety? Or had she slipped quietly away as the Painted Ones took position, to let the men do the fighting? Morgause had not trained to use the weapons of war, she had been Roman born and bred, but born as the rotten apple in the barrel.

  A Picti rose up, seemingly out of the ground beside Hasta’s feet. The stallion leapt sidewards, crashed into the solid trunk of a gnarled, aged oak tree, crushing Arthur’s leg. With his other boot Arthur desperately kicked the horse forward, saw Cabal leap at the yelling man, the great dog’s teeth tearing into the soft, vulnerable flesh of the throat; but another was there, a dark Picti with the swirling blue tattooed patterns on his cheeks, across the nakedness of shoulders, arms and chest. Arthur saw Cabal crumple, fall, and hauled Hasta around, anger and hatred blazing. “Ca… bal…”

  He swung his sword down at this savage who held a dagger dripping dog’s blood in his hand, and the warrior moved with lithe speed, crouching low as the horse plunged, thrusting his dagger hilt-deep into the horse’s chest. The world was spinning, slowly rotating. Hasta was pitching, head going down, legs collapsing, Arthur was rolling across the stallion’s neck, falling towards a clump of bluebells that were somehow not yet crushed or bloodied. His leg felt heavy from where it had been slammed against the tree, his breath knocked from him by the suddenness of the crashing fall. He saw the Picti, the red-bladed dagger scoring down, felt fire sear through his shoulder and down the length of his left arm. Saw so much death spangling the gay patches of bluebell blue.

  XXXVII

  Someone was above him, whirling a spear, screaming nonsense words of furious abuse. Other voices, shouting. Arthur was aware of these sounds mingling with the swish and sigh of what seemed one moment like an incoming tide, the next, the movement of the trees shuffled and agitated by a rising wind. And before his eyes, a blur of red on a purple-black oozing mist; he felt hands under his armpits dragging him backwards. He wanted to say no, leave me, let me rest, I’ll be all right in a moment. But the words would not come.

  They put him down, his back against a trunk, covered him with a cloak. Arthur blinked sweat from his eyes. His war-cap and shield had gone but his right hand still gripped the hilt of his sword, he would not let go of it, kept its firm, reassuring comfort nestling against his finger and sweating palm. The fuzziness of blurred vision was fading, his left shoulder and arm were quite numb. When he glanced down, the ripped sleeve of his leather-padded tunic was a wet, dark mess. A boy was leaning over him, concerned, very pale, very frightened.

  “I am all right, Gweir,” Arthur croaked, “just give me a while to gain breath.”

  When he next had the strength to raise his head, open his eyes, the fighting had swept up and over him. The clearing was emptying save for the bloodied mounds of dead men and dead horses. There were sounds coming from the trees on the far side, of men dying, and a new, braver sound of men cheering victory.

  Arthur struggled to his feet, pushing himself up with his sword. His leg ached, it would be bruised from thigh to calf, but at least the bone was not fractured. He handed the weapon to Gweir, grinned at the boy, whose colour was flushing back to his cheeks as the fear of his Lord’s imminent death faded.

  “You still here, boy?” Arthur said, “I’ve not forgotten the beating I promised you, you young whelp. Your orders were to stay with the baggage.”

  Gweir grinned back at his Lord. “As well I did not, or you’d be dead!”

  Another voice, deeper, gruffer. Ider, the messenger from Eboracum. He clipped his palm around Gweir’s ear. “Hold your tongue, cub!”

  Arthur swayed a little, the ground rising and falling before him, then steadied, the dizziness passing. He managed a few steps, though his leg trumpeted against it, his eyes looking straight ahead past the dead bulk of Hasta and the matted, bloodied bundle that had once been Cabal.

  Ider said something. He heard the voice, did not listen to the words. The boy Gweir disappeared, returning a moment later leading a riderless black hill pony. Its ears were flattened, eyes rolling white with fear, blood was spattered on its right shoulder. Ider wiped at it with his hand, found no wound. “It’s his rider’s gore,” he said, holding the animal steady while Arthur tried a second attempt to mount.

  “My legs are about as useless as a babe’s.” He laughed with a strange, light-headed humour. He managed, struggling, to get up on the pony’s back, sat swaying, his left arm hanging useless. Ignorin
g the reins his right hand clutched a handful of wiry mane to stop himself from falling.

  Ider led the pony into the clearing, across the straggle of crushed bluebells, stepping over or around the dead, walking to meet Artoriani emerging from the trees across the far end. They wore broad grins like battle honours on their blood-smeared, sweat-streaked faces, were laughing, raising spear and sword, proclaiming triumph.

  As he came up to him, Arthur regarded the Decurion of Blue Turma who, interpreting the Pendragon’s familiar questioning expression as praise, launched, delighted, into his report. “Lot’s men have burrowed their way out and have fled with tails tucked well a’tween their backsides.” Added, with swaggering confidence, “We are pursuing, Sir, but hold little hope of finding many in these woods.”

  His grin, and that of the men gathering behind him, broadened. “They were like rats caught in a trap my Lord Pendragon, when Enniaun and Cei swept in from the north. They threw down their weapons and ran – or tried to, for they’d nowhere to run to, save the spear tips of Gwynedd and Red Turma.”

  “And your own Blue Turma was so exhilarated,” Arthur drawled, coolly, “by the salt taste of blood, they left their King for a whelped brat of a slave and an untried lad from Eboracum to defend?” His explosion of anger gushed, ferocious, with those last words, biting hard, deep in its contempt.

  The Decurion’s face flushed scarlet, the beam of triumph instantly gone. Several men exchanged glances or hung their heads, others shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

  “And Lot? What have you done with him?” Arthur asked, his anger cutting harder for the sarcasm behind the question.

  The Decurion faced his lord direct not bringing further shame by giving in to the pounding desire to look away, to curl up, to shrink into the ground. He stamped to attention. “I believe men are looking for him, Sir.”