Pendragon's Banner

by Helen Hollick

  Arthur tightened his hold on the reins as he felt Onager raise an off-hind leg and strike out. Someone behind hissed, cursed. Arthur turned his head to see Meriaun rubbing his thigh.

  “God curse that damned monster of yours, Arthur!”

  “Did he catch you?”

  Meriaun stepped back to a safer distance. “Na, I know better than to get over-close! My grandsire ought have had the whoreson gelded as a foal.” He studied the animal’s handsome head beneath the flat ears and rolling eyes, the perfect conformation, added, “Yet, I see why he did not.”

  An officer approached, wary of the horse’s stamping rear hoof, stopped a few yards short. “All are ready, my Lord.”

  Nodding, Arthur peered at Cei, standing ready, a frown of concern on his face, Enniaun beside him. With that familiar expression of left eyebrow raised, right eye narrowed, Arthur said, almost flippantly, “I leave the fort to your command then, Cei.”

  Cei saluted. His voice was thick, cracked slightly as he answered. “The outcome of this day will be sung to the children of our children.”

  Arthur returned the salute. “Aye. Let us pray the song is one of victory not defeat.” As his heel nudged Onager forward into a walk, he said over his shoulder, “If things go badly, do what you can to pull out, Cei. I trust you to see well to our men.”

  Cei choked down a sob of despair. He liked it little that Arthur was to be riding out without him; but someone needed to remain in command on the inside, and here it was, one of those rare, embracing compliments that Arthur could so casually toss aside to breach any gap of anger or irritation.

  With pride, Arthur ran his gaze over the mounted men awaiting his order to move off. Good men: Marcus; Julian Justinian; Gwyn Longhand; Gai Du, and Madoc, known as “the Horseman” for his wondrous skill with horses. All such good men. They were taking a terrible risk splitting their force like this, but then, what was battle if not a risk? Arthur raised his hand, about to signal, but someone ducked through the crush of men and horses to stand panting at Onager’s shoulder. The horse snorted, flattened his ears further.

  Arthur hastily checked the stallion and regarded the little man, a Christian priest. He had appeared out of the mist one autumn afternoon, striding alone across the moors with no possessions save the clothes he wore, a staff he carried and a small leather-bound volume of the Holy Gospels. That he was sent to them by God himself no one doubted – including Arthur – for this gentle, quietly spoken man, dedicated to spreading the word of the Christ, had arrived two mornings after their previous Holy Father had died of dysentery.

  “I thank you for the blessing you gave my men, Father,” Arthur said, shielding his irritation at the man’s reckless approach so close to the horse. “I trust your prayers will be heard and answered by your Christian God.”

  “He always answers, my Lord King,” Cethrwm answered with a teasing smile. It is just that some of us do not listen.”

  Arthur returned the smile, adding a slight chuckle. He liked this priest, an honest, pleasant man, who did not push the Word of God, ramming it day after day down your throat until you wanted to vomit it out. Na, Cethrwm only told the stories of Christ, of his time on this earth, of his healing and courage. Arthur could stomach that and had, to his own great amusement, even found himself listening once or twice.

  The priest fumbled with something he held in his hand. He licked dry lips, seemed nervous and embarrassed.

  Arthur had to say, impatiently, for they must begin this thing, “Father, the men of Gwynedd and half my Artoriani are fighting for their lives and for those in this entire fortress up there on the battlements, and I am waiting to give the order to open the gates for the rest of us to do what we can. If you have something to say then please say it quickly.”

  “You are not a believer in the Christ, are you my King?”

  Arthur rolled his eyes skyward, biting his temper. “I am not.” Onager crashed a hind leg towards the horse behind. Arthur cursed. “I am sorry; this is not the time nor place to be discussing my lack of religion.”

  Cethrwm extended his hand, holding out something, his eyes meeting with Arthur’s, pleading for him to listen, to take the thing. “My Lord, wear this on your shoulder. It is a portrait of the Virgin, Our Mother of Christ. I believe it to be most ancient, coming from the very time that Christ walked our earth. It is the only possession of value I own, save my Bible.” He was talking hurriedly, his voice rising in his agitation. “It is a thing which means a lot to me. I am reluctant to part with it – none has seen it before now, I keep it hidden beneath my robe.” He licked his dry lips. “For many years I have been guilty of sin by keeping it to myself. The Holy Lady came to me in a dream last night, she said I was to give her portrait to you, for you to carry into battle so that through Her, you may realise the Truth of Her Son.” The words came in a rush as Cethrwm thrust the thing into Arthur’s hand and spun away, running with his robe hitched to his knees back into the Hall where already the wounded from this assault were being carried.

  For a blind moment, Arthur stared after him, astonished, before glancing down at the oval brooch in his hand. He laughed then, a loud roar of delighted amusement, head back, mouth wide, tears almost coming to his eyes. Still chuckling, he turned in his saddle and grinned at the men, holding the brooch high, although they would be hard pressed to see its fine painted detail.

  “See,” he shouted above the noise, “it is a portrait of the Lady. The Mother rides with us!” He fastened it beside the great cloak-pin at his left shoulder, the shout of approval increasing as word rippled through the ranks.

  Arthur raised his hand, the wooden doors beneath the entrance towers swung inwards and the Artoriani, spears raised and yelling their battle cry plunged out into the swarm of Lot’s war hosting.

  Cethrwm, so devoted to God, so immersed in the short sighted values of Christianity, had not seen beyond his belief. Aye, the woman with dark eyes and veiled in pale blue was indeed a mother, but she was not, as the priest thought, the Holy Virgin Mary, Mother of God. She was earlier, older, was the pagan Goddess, the Earth Mother.

  Arthur was still roaring his laughter as he cast his spear, with a grunt of satisfaction seeing it thud deep into a warrior’s chest. Then he had his sword out and had no more time to reflect on how each man within this furious melee would look upon the Mother, be she of Christ, or the Goddess.

  XLV

  The prisoner, hands bound firm by coarse rope, stood tall, proud, before the British Pendragon. Arthur was deliberately ignoring him, paying attention to the stark gash snaking across the ribs of a bay stallion. The horse fidgeted, half-raising his leg in protest as Arthur’s fingers probed the jagged wound.

  “It will heal well enough,” he said to the cavalryman holding the animal’s drooping head, “though the scar will be an ugly one. It saddens my heart that his rider did not escape as lightly.” He patted the horse’s flank. Too many of his men were as badly wounded and awaiting treatment within the Hall: Marcus; Gwyn Longhand, Madoc the Horseman. More, like the rider of this bay, lay growing cold beneath their cloaks awaiting burial.

  As if seeing the prisoner for the first time, Arthur, with his head back and slightly cocked to one side, stared long and hard at him through slit, appraising eyes. They were lucky indeed to have captured him, these eastern Picti men were as wily as wolves when it came to vanishing in the undergrowth.

  Fresh blood oozed through old, had dried and crusted around the man’s thigh; a deep wound, the reason for his capture. The Pendragon noted the slight flicker of his eyes at the brooch pinned to Arthur’s cloak. Absently, he toyed with it, watching with satisfaction as the same superstitious flicker came again.

  “You,” Arthur said, using the tongue of the Picti, “are no doubt craving the honourable death of a warrior. I could order it so, and the same swift death for Lot’s captured lowland curs.” Arthur dropped his hand ostentatiously to his sword hilt. “Or, I may decide to order your maiming and let you go back blinded,
worthless and mutilated, to your people.”

  He paused, his calculating gaze never leaving the man’s guarded expression. “There again, I could show mercy and grant you pardon, in return for some small gesture of loyalty to me, the Supreme King.”

  The prisoner spat at Arthur’s boots. A smile played over the Pendragon’s mouth. “Na, I thought the idea would not appeal.” He turned to the two men keeping firm hold of the prisoner’s bonds. “Have the captives blinded and gelded then throw them to the wolves. Oh, and Decurion,” he added as an afterthought, “have Lot brought to my chamber, I would speak with the traitor before you do the same with him.” As he knew they might, the words caused the prisoner to react with cautious uncertainty.

  Arthur stepped closer, saying with venom, “Aye, I have the whelp who has dared call himself King of the North. That is my title.” He made a dismissive gesture and turned away, swinging back to add, “One thing I would know. What were you promised in return for this alliance? Whatever, it would almost certainly be as hollow as a decayed oak.” Arthur fingered his brooch again, ensuring the man saw it clearly.

  That flicker to the eye had come again in the Picti man, an uncertainty, a doubt. Arthur smiled, a lazy, unconcerned expression. The figure painted on that brooch, representing the Mother, the pre-eminent goddess of these pagan clans meant much, very much. Arthur laughed and began to walk away, called over his shoulder, “Morgause is no goddess.”

  The man’s eyes had narrowed, ah, so Arthur was riding the right track! He was several paces away now, half turned, “I wear the image of the Mother. To me, she gave her protection and the victory, not to Morgause or her whoreson husband.” He paused. “See that my orders are carried out, Decurion.”

  And Arthur strode away, heading for his private chamber. He lay on the bed, wearing cloak, muddied boots and battle-stained bracae. Within a few breaths, he was asleep.

  XLVI

  Rotating his aching shoulders, Arthur attempted to ease the weariness from his muscles. All he really wanted was to lie on his bed and finish the sleep that had been so necessarily short. He sighed and returned his attention to the man standing before him, bound as the Picti captive had been. Only this prisoner was clad in rich dress and had more to lose than the other hundred or so lowland prisoners, who had half an hour since been herded beyond the gates, naked of clothing and weaponry, blinded, and mutilated of their manhood. Most would not survive the night. It was the way of things.

  “I am weary and I have yet to see to the well-being of my men,” Arthur said to Lot dispassionately, “I will not waste breath on trivial formalities. Your instigated rising has been crushed.” He waved his hand to silence Lot’s denial. “My Artoriani will soon head further north, to purge the foul stench that you and your bitch wife have created.”

  He sat forward on his stool, rested an elbow on his thigh, cupping his chin in his palm and threw a lie at Lot. “The prisoner I questioned told me Morgause was the leader behind this uprising. I could not believe that. A woman such as she cannot think beyond who next is to share her bed.”

  Lot was angered, but held his tongue.

  “I believe it was you who rallied the north; you who arranged alliance with the Picti. Whatever it was you promised them in return cannot now be given. You have failed, Lot.” Arthur shrugged. “You will shortly be joining the other unfortunates beyond our defences.”

  Lot licked his dry lips nervously. It was one thing facing the Pendragon with a thousand and a thousand men at your back, quite another to be herded, defeated, before him. It had all seemed so promising back in his own Hall where he and Morgause and his warriors had talked of easy victory. With Morgause’s suggestion of an alliance with the Picti, the possibility of losing had never entered his head.

  Arthur suddenly tired of the pointless taunting. He flapped his hand at the guard. “Take this pathetic fool away, blind and geld him as you have the others and throw him over the battlements. Either the fall or the waiting wolves will kill him.”

  The guard saluted and began dragging Lot from the chamber.

  Lot panicked. He squirmed from the man’s hands, flinging himself to his knees before Arthur. “My Lord, let me speak! I beg you!”

  “I have other matters to attend.”

  “It was Morgause who sent to the Picti for alliance. The Eastern Clan need a royal woman as high priestess and queen. We offered our daughter to their king.”

  Arthur controlled the quick catch of breath. So-o, that was how they did it! And the one Clan would call to the other for support… Speaking slowly, he countered, “Your daughter is not a handful of years old.”

  “She is old enough to become a Clan Queen!” Lot replied with pride.

  It took only a rapid moment for Arthur to mull over the information, to reach conclusion. He laughed cynically. “The Picti were to have had their queen, but I doubt Morgause was intending for it to be your daughter. If victory had gone your way, Lot, you would now be dead. Conveniently killed in battle.”

  Lot was shaking his head. “No,” he mumbled, “it was not agreed like that.”

  Arthur lunged to his feet in sudden anger, crossed the small space between him and Lot, his hand reaching for the sagging flesh of the man’s quivering throat. “For you, you poor blind, used fool, it was agreed like that. The Picti would not unite and raise a war hosting for a pathetic rebel and the bedding of a baby girl. But for Morgause, and holding the entire north, they would!”

  Lot looked wildly around the chamber, seeking the help of some sympathetic eye, but not one of Arthur’s men gave him anything but a returned stare of contempt and loathing. He hung his head, swallowed hard. “You have it wrong. She has been a good wife to me, she is loyal and faithful.” He could not believe Arthur. Would not believe him! Even though he feared, deep down, he spoke the truth of it.

  Movement at the door, footsteps beyond, the latch lifting. Enniaun strode into the room. He saluted, indicated he wished to speak privately.

  Standing well aside from Lot, Arthur’s cheek twitched as he listened to his brother-by-law’s news, strode back to stand close before his captive.

  “So, you do not believe me? Your infant daughter has been escorted into my care. It seems, in the haste to flee with her Picti friends, your wife forgot to look to her safety.” Arthur hooked his thumbs through his baldric, stood rocking slightly from heel to toe, said, mockingly, “I assume she is your daughter?”

  Lot reddened in quick, hurt anger. “By the light, you shall pay for that insult to my wife!”

  Arthur lifted his hands, let them fall in a subtle, resigned gesture. “It is you who are about to pay for insults, Lot, not I.” To Enniaun he said, “Have the girl killed.”

  Lot’s face drained from ash-grey to colourless white. He was walking a night terror from which there was no hope of waking. “She is a child! You would not murder an innocent child!”

  Returning to his stool, Arthur sat wincing at the ache running down his arm, shuddering through his thigh. Old wounds resented new battles.

  “You said yourself, she is betrothed to an enemy king. Through marriage she could become a powerful enemy. By implication, she carries the death penalty. Morgause would have known this well enough when she abandoned her to save her own skin.”

  “Christ’s blood, Pendragon, she is my daughter!”

  “Despatch the child, Enniaun, as I have ordered.” Enniaun nodded, drew his sword as he left. Unpleasant, but necessary. War was unpleasant.

  Lot shuffled forward on his knees, tears flowing, voice breaking, begged, “You cannot do this!” Lost, defeated, broken, his chest heaving in sorrow, he blurted, “What do you wish from me then, Pendragon?” He looked up, pleading. “Ask and it shall be yours.”

  Arthur wanted many things, but one wanting soared above all others. Morgause.

  He felt sudden pity for this man before him, answered, with genuine sorrow, “I cannot spare her for those reasons I have already said, and for the suspicion that she may not be your
child, but a Picti-born daughter.”

  Lot bit his lip, choked. There was no hope then. “For myself,” he gulped, “I ask nothing. Do with me what you will. It is the way things must be. But for my daughter, I plead a grave; do not leave her for carrion meat. She is a child, none of this her doing.”

  The guards moved forward, took Lot from the chamber. It would be done immediately, his ending. Arthur heard his pleading as the door shut, begging this concession for one so small and innocent.

  Arthur walked to the table, poured himself a large goblet of wine, drank it down in one gulp. The door opened again, closed, a light tread behind him, Gwenhwyfar’s.

  “I heard,” she said. She stood, her hands clasped across the slight bulge that was widening her waist. “I have seen the little girl also.”

  Arthur made no reply.

  Suddenly angry, Gwenhwyfar snapped, “I realise she cannot be allowed to live – but what he asks, is that too much to grant?”

  Arthur swung around, tears were watering his eyes. “I have sons, happen that one new in there,” he pointed at her belly, “is my daughter. Death must come, but well do I understand the afterwards. She would have a burial, Gwenhwyfar, without the need of an asking.”

  XLVII

  Morgause was desperate – would this poor-bred hill pony not move any faster! Stupid creature, damn stupid men, why had they not found her a better horse to ride? The pony, labouring from the forced pace through this swirl of wind-crusted snow, stumbled, pitched his rider forward. Morgause shrieked as she fell, toppling over its shaggy head and neck as the animal sank to its knees in a drift of snow. It lay winded a moment before scrambling to its feet, breath coming in gasps, head lowered, snow settling along its mane and shaggy rump.