Gwenhwyfar, awake also, gathered a fur to cover her breasts, Arthur swung his legs from the bed and strode naked across the circular hut towards the opening door.
Enniaun stepped inside quickly, a swirl of wind and snow leaping from the darkness entering with him to chase the fire-shadows higher. He shut the door almost before he was through, his wolf-skin cloak was snow-spattered, his hair wind-tossed.
He was breathless, panting. The wind was rising outside, and he had hurried, run, across to the Pendragon’s chamber.
“Lot is beyond the outer defences, Arthur. With a Picti war-hosting at his back.”
XLII
Enniaun had never seen Arthur so very angry, nor had the men.
No one spoke as the Pendragon, in hastily donned bracae, tunic, boots and cloak, strode across the hard ground of the inner yard and took the wooden steps up to the rampart walk above the gateway two at a time. Careful not to become skylined the Pendragon kept his body low, hidden behind the protection of the timber battlements. He peered across, out into the thick, snow-whirled darkness. Nothing, only the dance of snowflakes against the night.
Cei was there, beside the high wooden wall of the watchtower, his hand hovering nervously above his sword. “It is difficult to see through this swirl of snow, my Lord, but they are there. They must have come in under cover of this weather.”
Arthur glared at him, his lips and eyes threateningly narrowed. “Obviously,” he said coldly. “And where are the scouts who are supposed to bring warning of just such a thing as this?”
“Some rode in as dusk fell. They had seen nothing.” Cei was twisting the folds of his heavy cloak in his fingers. The leather straps of his helmet swung loose around his jaw. He had ridden many a rough ride on the crest of Arthur’s temper, this one tonight was going to be roughest of all, for it was justified.
“Some?” Arthur queried in a deceptively light tone. All the while, his furious glare bore into Cei’s, who looked helplessly at Enniaun for support. It was not forthcoming.
He cleared his throat. “It was assumed the other three were sheltering from the snow.”
“It was assumed the other three were sheltering from the snow,” Arthur cruelly mimicked Cei’s explanation, gestured towards the blackness beyond the falling snowflakes. “And do you still assume so?”
Cei reddened. “No, my Lord.” He jutted his chin, defiantly challenging Arthur’s anger. Justified himself with, “We did not expect Lot to attack a fort such as this – you yourself doubted he would do so. Especially not in this weather.”
Arthur ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek, stared at the haze of whiteness. Very softly, with a menace that was chiller than the night air, said, “Lot is allied with the Picti, and the Picti excel at fighting in any weather, Cei. I thought you knew that.”
Someone behind coughed, Arthur turned abruptly, barked at the hovering man. “Well?”
“Do I turn out and ready the men, Sir?”
Curt, Arthur nodded assent, adding, “With no noise, Decurion.” He cut his hand through the air, emphasising the order. “I want no noise. Understand? No noise, all must seem as normal. Keep the night guard at its posting, and if they have not attacked by then, sound the third watch. We must make Lot believe that we are not aware of his coming.”
He turned back to Cei, asked caustically, “Do you think you could possibly manage to see to it that the horses are saddled and made ready quietly also? Or would that small responsibility be over-much for you?”
Cei took in a sharp, hissing breath at the ruthless sarcasm, saluted and whirled on his heel, his hands bunched in tight fists at his side. Say nothing. Obey orders. But by God’s grace, one day… One day!
“That was uncalled for Arthur,” Enniaun said with calm observation. He gestured to the watch guard behind. “Particularly within hearing of the men.”
“When I want counsel on what to say or not to say to my commanding officers I shall ask for it,” Arthur retorted sharply.
“That too, was uncalled for.” Enniaun pushed himself away from the timbered wall against which he had been leaning, stood before the Pendragon. “We are all taken by surprise. None could have foreseen this. You are the brilliant commander after all, and even you did not.”
Arthur swung around, his fist raised. Unafraid, Enniaun caught the arm as it swung back. “Do we quarrel a’tween ourselves now then, brother-by- law? Have we the luxury to spend time on petty squabbles?”
Arthur sucked in his breath, slowly unclenched his fist, watching closely as the fingers uncurled, relaxed. Then, mood changing abruptly he slapped Enniaun’s arm in an apologetic manner. Laughed, his voice low. “You are, of course, right.”
Enniaun, too, relaxed. “I speak as my mind runs, Arthur. You are pushing Cei too far over his limit. You know his heart is not in this war.”
“Aye, he would rather be at his wife’s hearth.” Arthur snorted contempt. “He ought to bed an army whore or two if he so misses the pleasures of a woman.”
He spoke tactlessly, for Enniaun flared again. “Most of us,” he hissed, “are loyal to our wives. Someone is lucky enough to have his wife with him. He also has the joy of having his children here. He has no need to sit and gaze into the fires wondering how his sons are growing.” The volatile rage in him was unusual; Enniaun was a mild-tempered man, taking each day for how it came.
For a second time Arthur swung round to face his brother-by-law. “It was you, I recall, who brought Gwenhwyfar here. She, who ordered our two sons to be fetched. I did not know of it. I lay close to death.”
“You have kept them, though.”
Arthur raised his hand high, fingers wide, “So you are also bleating because I have my family with me and you do not?”
“I am not foolish enough to bring cubs and a pregnant woman into a war-zone!”
“Brother!” The two men spun on their heels as Gwenhwyfar, wrapped in a thick mantle of a wolf-skin cloak, its head fashioned into a hood, pulled well forward, made her way up the slippery wooden steps. “When I foolishly let out that private information in your presence some days past, you gave me your word it would spread no further.” Her anger matched that of the men.
Enniaun was staring at a point on the ground near his boot, ashamed to meet his sister’s gaze. He had indeed promised to hold his silence, the words had slipped out unexpectedly, uncontrolled.
“When?” Arthur asked Gwenhwyfar curtly.
“I am barely three months carrying. I was not over-certain of my dates, that is why I have said nothing.”
Arthur did not believe her reason for silence, but let the matter rest. Most certainly he would not have allowed her to stay this far north had he known. But she was here, and that was an end of it, so he said, “Fetch the boys from their beds and go back to our own chamber. Stay there. I will issue orders for a guard.”
“I would rather be helping with the wounded.”
Arthur opened his mouth to make some protesting retort, swallowed it. “You do not usually bother to ask permission to go against me,” he said with a glimmer of humour, “Why do so this time?”
Gwenhwyfar laughed with him and stepped forward to kiss his cheek. “I only ask when I know you will readily agree.”
He pretended to swipe at her backside. “You vixen! Aye, go then. You will be of much use to the men.” Then, as she began to descend the steps, “Gwenhwyfar… ”
She paused, looked up at him.
“I would have the boys near you. Find them a corner where they will not be in the way. Stay there. Whatever happens, Cymraes, stay inside.”
Gwenhwyfar gave the briefest nod of acquiescence. “I will look to them, husband.” She started again down the steps. No need to add more. She knew well what Arthur meant. Better for their sons to die quickly, painlessly by her own blade than fall into Lot’s hands should things not go well.
On impulse, Arthur jumped after her, took hold of her wrist, swinging her back to him. He kissed her, once, lightly, on the lips
. “The boys are important, but so are you. Stay inside, Gwenhwyfar, please.”
Their eyes met: thoughts and meaning passing unspoken between them. Flakes of snow settled on her lashes. “Is that an order?”
Arthur dropped her wrist, shrugged one shoulder. “Na,” he sighed, “I ask it. If Lot defeats us… ” He could not finish, could not put that numbing, terrifying possibility into words.
Gwenhwyfar stroked his hand with the tips of her fingers, a soft smile touching her face. He could see her eyes shining in the faint glow from the smoking torches, tawny gold against brilliant green. Her smile broadened. “I will obey you. This once, anyway.”
Arthur smiled back at her. “Glad I am that I have you with me, Gwenhwyfar.”
She kissed him. “Glad I am to be here.” Then she whirled away, hurrying into the snow. There was much to prepare, and little time to do it in.
Arthur ran back up the steps. Cautiously, he moved to the fence and peered over. Nothing, save white snow against black night. Nothing to see, but there was a feel, a vibration, a knowing there was something there. Instinct. Enniaun came up behind him, he too peered cautiously over the top of the defences. “There was nothing seen, nothing heard, just a blur, a hint of moving wind and rippled grass. Shadows scuttling in the night-dark. Something’s out there, we do not know for certain what.” He chuckled. “It could well be a wandering herd of cattle or horse.”
Arthur pulled back from the fence. “Na, the gut-feeling is too strong. Lot’s out there.” He sucked his lower lip between his teeth. He ought not to have reprimanded Cei in such a harsh manner. The man was becoming an oppressive bore of late, though, with his moralistic lecturing on the Christian God, and his over-cautious, unasked advice.
Into the darkness, Arthur said, “I apologise Enniaun. I am angry with you and Cei because I am angry at myself.” He turned with a grin, offering his hand in friendship. “It’s not easy to yell at yourself.”
Enniaun took the hand, clasped it firm between his own. Grinned also. “Your disagreement with me, Arthur, I can shoulder. Your quick temper is a thing we are all used to.” He spread his hands, “But how in the realms of all Hell I am going to obtain Gwenhwyfar’s forgiveness for letting my tongue wag, I know not!”
Arthur clapped the big man’s shoulder and began to descend the steps. “Forget it,” he chuckled, “I suspected anyway. I notice when her woman’s courses do not come, and her spewing into a bucket of a morning!” He reached the flat ground and walked with a long stride in the direction of the picket lines of horses. Tossed over his shoulder, “I love her too much not to notice.”
XLIII
Attack came an hour before dawn. There was nothing of their coming at first, just a shadow behind the light swirl of snow and a swift, uprushing sigh of movement.
They ran with notched ladders that spanned the wide ditches and reached the height of the palisade walls, their spears and arrows humming through the darkness, some flaming an arc of fire that caught and spluttered. The wind fanned the smouldering thatch despite the wet, but the Pendragon had expected it, had men ready to form a bucket chain while others tore down the burning roofing, forking it to burn ineffectually in a piled heap. And all the while the attackers came dodging and weaving through the hail of British flights of spear and arrow – if there was any surprise that Arthur was ready for them, Lot’s hosting showed no concern of it. They poured over the outer defences, laying their ladders against the walls, climbing and scrabbling swiftly; where one man fell, another took his place. Lot’s men fought spear to spear alongside the Picti warriors, who were semi-naked even in this cold swirl of winter, their chests, arms and shoulders patterned by the blue dye pricked into their skin. Single-minded men who knew that this time, they must have the victory.
The Artoriani fought them off, this initial wave of attack; sent them melting back into the first-touch light of dawn. The snow had ceased but the wind continued to shout across the hills, shuffling the wet, white, bloodied stuff up against the fort’s walls, into ditches and covering over the scattered dead.
Arthur tugged loose the straps of his helmet and wiped sweat from his face, peered cautiously over the ramparts at the bodies lying in the red, snow-muddied slush, then down into the fortress below and along the walkway. His nose and mouth curled in distaste. Too many of his own men dead or wounded. Not enough of the enemy. He did not pause over-long but hurried down the steps two at a time, jumping the last three, calling his officers to assemble within his private quarters.
Three did not come. Two dead, one wounded.
“We have several choices.” Arthur, his arms folded, back straight, legs slight apart, came straight to the point.
They stood, or squatted around the unlit central hearth, cramped together in the confined space. The King’s timber-built Hall would have been more appropriate but the medics were busy there with the wounded.
“One,” Arthur ticked his argument off on his fingers, “we stay within the fort to beat off each attack, our numbers growing weaker with each onslaught. Two,” he spread a second finger, “we hold out as best we can until nightfall then attempt to withdraw.”
“What?” The response was instant, outraged and angry. “Run with our tails tucked a’tween our legs!” Enniaun’s voice was the loudest, horrified at the suggestion.
Arthur ignored the rumble of protest to what would never be his decision, tapped a third finger. “Or three… ” he paused for quiet listening to resettle, “we go out and meet them.”
Again, voices rose as they discussed the suggestion, tossing the two remaining choices – the initial second choice automatically discarded – back and forth. While none was under any illusion that Arthur would not, in the end, do as he saw best, they recognised the Pendragon was willing to hear them out first; it was why he was so loyally followed, so respected.
“We could hold out for many days,” one Decurion said, pitching his voice above the general squall of the others. “We have more than adequate water and food.”
“For ourselves, aye,” someone else added, “but not for the horses. We have them safely picketed along the night lines, grain-fed and well watered – fortunately – but daylight normally sees them grazing outside.”
“Then the three choices become the one,” Meriaun remarked cheerfully. He rubbed his hands together eagerly. Several men grinned at him.
“They must be expecting such a move,” Cei pointed out blandly, his pride still bruised from Arthur’s tongue-lashing. But damn the man, why did he have such a knack of being so contritely apologetic without the need of saying a word? How many times had Cei vowed that Arthur’s temper had flown its last in his direction? How many times had Arthur won him round? The Pendragon was bewitched, no matter how many wounds he inflicted he always followed through with some magical salve that had Cei wagging his tail in obedient loyalty. Damn it, Cei loved him.
He happened to glance up, caught Gwenhwyfar’s gaze. She was sitting with her legs curled beneath her in the shadows of the fur-covered bed. It was not that Cei begrudged her being with them, it was the principle. A campaign was not the place for women. There would always be a few of the men’s wives, hardened army women, and the whores of course. They appeared as surely as flies gathered around a rotting carcass. But Gwenhwyfar was no sewage-spawned baggage. Cei sighed. Was it because he always felt so uncomfortable in the presence of Arthur’s Lady? She too was caught within the Pendragon’s enchanted spell that bound those who loved him tight to his side. And Arthur loved her. All his love, aside from that of a father’s love for his sons, went to her. There was nothing left to give back to Cei, his cousin, his foster-brother.
Gwenhwyfar had looked away, throwing a fur around her shoulders. It was chilly in the room, with the hearth-fire gone out.
“If they are expecting us,” Arthur said, “we must ensure they do not have the chance to prepare a reception.” He was enjoying himself. This was his constant dream, to lead his men to fight, to outwit the other man. T
o win. “And I expect we can come up with one or two little tricks to scare the blue off their snow-white skins!”
XLIV
The shouting and clamour from the battlements was rising as the second attack, coming an hour later, gained momentum. Arthur, glancing at the sway of fighting up there, swung onto his horse and settled his thighs under the two forward pommel horns, his buttocks against the rear two. Agitated by the sounds and smells of fighting, the animal’s ears were flat upon its skull, a mean look in the rolling whites of its eyes. But then, Onager was a stallion whose ears were permanently flat back, whose teeth were always bared or snapping at some unfortunate who ventured over-close.
An uneasy love-hate relationship existed between the Pendragon and the chestnut horse. He was a magnificent beast, taller than usual, measuring a little below six and ten hand-spans to the withers and with a depth of chest and solidity of muscle that showed all too clearly his immense strength and power. Unfortunate that he had the temper of a wounded rogue boar and the kick of a wild ass. Arthur had named him Onager, for the powerful Roman catapults that were renowned for their dangerous kickback after firing. He was a good horse in battle, with courage to equal his height and stamina, but unreliable with people, and his stubbornness of self-will was as unmoveable as his rider’s. For this, Arthur had always chosen Hasta in preference, a horse who put his heart and soul into doing his best to please. Arthur had wept over the loss of his favourite horse one night when the summer heat sweltered relentless, even through the hours of darkness. He had assumed that Gwenhwyfar was asleep and the pain of his wounded arm blistering and pounding had awoken memories of that fight in the clearing, memories of loss. Had it been the pain or the frustration at being bed-bound while his wound healed to cause the despair to wash over him?
He missed Cabal, his young fool of a hound too. Even now, his fingers would feel at his side for the brindled head that was no longer there. For Cabal too he had shed tears. Gwenhwyfar had held him like a child while he sobbed aside the anguish, cradling his sorrow, soft-stroking the loss from throbbing temples and aching throat, and her tears had fallen with his. They could share this, the sorrow of lost animals, but not the death of a son. Sometimes, pain ran too deep.
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