Pendragon's Banner

by Helen Hollick

  Arthur reached the door, pulled at it, was flung back as a blast of heat and flame erupted outward, engulfing door, lintel and wall. Inside, Onager was screaming, kicking; Arthur could imagine the great beast lashing out at the wooden partitions of his stall – he was tethered, had he yet managed to break the rope? God’s love, he could not lose another stallion! He raced around to the front double doors, praying to every god that was listening that they had not been barred from the inside. Belches of flame were streaming up into the sky now on the far side from where he had just come. Men were tumbling out from the Hall, some pulling on tunic and bracae, others tearing, naked, running for buckets, fetching water, forming a linking chain from well to barn, and Aesc’s Saex were coming from their camp.

  Arthur, with his hands on one of the huge doors, paused a heartbeat of a moment. If the flames spat out from this end of the building as they had the other, he would never get in, never get Onager out. He lifted the latch, the door gave, swung outwards, hens bustling and flapping, squawking as they fluttered in panic from the confine of the place, caused Arthur to take a step backwards, his arms going up to shield his face from their flurried alarm. Two rats ran between his feet. Black smoke billowed out, no flame this end, but the hiss and crackle rose louder. Inside, Arthur could see the red hell at the far end of the barn creeping nearer, and Onager, this end, rearing, twisting and plunging.

  All the Pendragon could do was fill his lungs with breath and plunge into the choking blackness. Vaguely, he heard someone scream his name, Winifred’s voice, but he ignored it, directed his full attention to the panic-stricken horse, terrified, four yards within the left-hand side of the barn. The flames were slithering nearer, touched another bank of stacked hay and rocketed upwards with a great, whooshing roar, caught at the roof. Arthur was at the stall, desperately trying not to hear the rush of sound coming nearer above him, or the creaking groans from the tortured roof beams. He had to slip in beside the stallion, had to reach the tethering rope that held so damned fast. Onager was throwing himself from side to side, his hoof slammed into the partition wall, lashed out again, caught Arthur a blow to the thigh that made him gasp in pain – but he was past, was at his head! Gentle, calm, Arthur laid his hand along the massive horse’s neck, stroking, soothing, murmuring soft, crooning words.

  “Whoa there, my beauty, my brave lad. This is a fine old mess eh? Come now, easy my boy, let us be going from here; come lad, come.” He could not untie the rope, so tight had Onager pulled the fastening; didn’t bother to try. He had his dagger out, cut through it and his hand laid firm on the halter in a moment. He pushed the stallion backwards, one hand insistent on his chest, clicking his tongue. “Back, step back.” Onager was frightened, blinded and choked by the acrid smoke, but for all his vicious manner, he had trust in his master and took a step backwards.

  “Good lad, good boy. Again, back, back.”

  The smoke was thickening, flames darting along floor, wall and roof. The rear wall suddenly crashed down, timbers giving way in a belch of fuming smoke and shooting flame. The heat was becoming intense, the noise deafening, but Onager was out from the stall and Arthur turned him for the open door. For a throat-gasping moment he thought the animal was not going to move forward, but Onager was a war-horse and though he was shaking and scared he dropped his head and walked beside the only man he would let ride him, walked to the door and out through the reek of smoke into the cool darkness of a star-studded night.

  Someone came to take the horse, but Arthur waved him aside and led the animal across the paddock, filled with men running and shouting, or standing looking stunned, speechless. The buckets had been abandoned, there came another tremendous crash and the barn roof fell in, the flames lighting the night sky in a fireball of orange and red and dense black smoke. Arthur did not see it, for he was across the paddock, leading Onager through the gate, across the cool, frost-sparkled grass into the field, where he would have been curled asleep with his men had he been able. The other horses had fled to the furthest side, milling by the wall, feet stamping, snorting, ears going back and forth, frightened by the smells and sounds.

  At last Arthur could stop. Gweir appeared, face blackened, eyes round-white. “Master? Are you all right, Sir?”

  Arthur could make no answer. His throat felt dry and sore, his lungs heavy and congested. Another man appeared, his Decurion, and took Onager’s halter as Arthur passed it to him. For long, long moments, Arthur stood there, on the furthest side of the field bent double, hands on his thighs trying to get his breath while coughing the vileness out from him. Gweir had disappeared, but within a moment came back clutching a tankard of winter-cold water. He gave it to his master, who nodded his thanks and sipped the delicious liquid, cooling the burning that ran from tongue to belly.

  They all looked up, round, as the final agony came. The walls buckled, the barn fell. It would not burn for much longer for there was nothing left for the fire to consume.

  XXIII

  The tracks were easy enough to follow; two horses, galloping. Arthur’s horses, war stallions, painstakingly trained and taught, a bay and chestnut. Where the trees had thickened into denser woodland and the frost-rutted track divided, the horses had slowed, halted a moment, then been pushed on again, uphill, deeper into the woods. Ridden. Bolting horses did not stop to decide in which direction to run, they went fast and straight.

  Dawn had been thick with the heavy reek of smoke. All the stored hay and grain was gone. The gathered grain harvest for the steading. Two men had been killed, one hit by falling beams, the other caught by flame as he bravely tried to save some of that precious grain. Gone also were two of Arthur’s horses – and two boys.

  By mid-morning Cerdic and Vitolinus had not been found, and then the tracks were discovered. Arthur himself, mounted on another horse – for Onager was still shivering, his coat scorched and blackened in places, his tail singed – followed the trail of hoof prints, his men, grim, silent behind. Occasionally they checked, where the ground had frozen too hard to betray a print, but Arthur was a soldier and his men were experienced scouts and hunters. Always they found the way again, following at a jog trot or walk, but following. Silent, angry.

  A stream twisted its way between steep-sided earth banks that gouged a path through the close-growing trees. The woods were silent, no sound of bird song; no mournful call of a wolf. Only Arthur and his turma of Artoriani: the rustle of grass and fallen leaves beneath the hooves; the occasional jangle of bit and creak of leather. The tracks of two horses were plain here beneath the trees on the layers of leaf mould where the frost had not yet come. Down the steep bank, the earth was scoured and crumbled where the animals had slid into the water.

  Arthur drew rein at the top of the bank. There were no tracks on the far side. He studied the double line of disturbed pebbles and floating weed beneath the sluggish water. They had gone upstream then. He pushed his horse to follow, rode on a hundred or so yards, then his horse snorted, plunged, as a boy, with dirt and tear-smeared face, clad in a muddied, wet tunic and boots appeared suddenly from around the bend ahead. Arthur cursed. The boy, wading down through the water, intent on re-trailing his way home, was as startled to see the men. He bit off an exclamation, stood, hands clasped into fists at his sides looking up into the cold eyes of Arthur, the Pendragon.

  The man returned the look with searing contempt. The boy’s skin was ash-pale beneath all the grime, that first startled horror of unexpected meeting becoming masked, steadfastly thrust aside into a show of defiance. His legs were shaking and his stomach churning. He wanted to run, wanted to shout that it had not been his fault, he was not to blame. It had been the other boy’s idea, Cerdic’s, not his. He had only meant to scare the horses, not start a fire. But Vitolinus did not run, or blurt out his protests. He faced the Pendragon and lifted his arm to point upstream. “Cerdic is hurt. He fell.”

  Arthur said nothing, continued that awful, contemptuous stare then kicked his horse into a trot, bending low beneat
h sweeping branches, riding past Vitolinus, ignoring him. Another rider, towards the rear of the column, lifted the boy and set him before his saddle. No one had spoken, not one single man uttered a word.

  The bay stood beside a clump of alder trees, head down, hide stained with dried sweat, his nearside foreleg hanging limp. The stream narrowed here, the banks reared steep. The second horse, the chestnut, lay up against the earth bank, body half covered by water, the ugly twist of his head showing his neck to be broken. To the left, propped against a tree, lay Cerdic, his skin white as chalk dust, sweat pricking on his forehead. He saw Arthur ride around the bend of the stream, tried to move, his face contorting in pain, and fear.

  Arthur reined in, slid from his horse and walked past the injured boy, paying him not even a cursory glance. Approaching the bay with extended hand and soft words he petted the miserable animal, smoothing the wrinkled coat where sweat had dried, talking all the while in low nonsense words while he moved down the shoulder past the knee to the swollen, misshapen fetlock joint. Straightening, he drew his sword, again patted the horse’s neck, fondled his ears, and quickly, before the animal knew it to happen, brought the blade through the throat. The horse dropped, blood gushing, the life left within the muscles and veins twitching and jerking.

  They had been good horses.

  The chestnut’s rider, Arthur’s Decurion, a man whose father and father’s father had bred horses, slipped from his borrowed mount and walked towards the grotesque body. He stood a moment looking down at the lifeless hulk and the sightless eyes, remembering the pride that had been there only yesterday. He turned quickly away, walked back to his borrowed horse and mounted with a stiff back and erect head. Their horses meant much to the Artoriani.

  Many eyes swivelled from the dead chestnut to Arthur, to Cerdic, back to Arthur, wiping his bloodied sword blade on the grass. Aye, they all knew it was wrong to become attached to their mounts, knew that sentiment had no place beside a warrior’s sword, but the knowing did not ease the doing. Not one man there, watching as Arthur walked towards the boy huddled against that tree made any attempt at objection, or frowned, or even cared, as Arthur kicked out, his boot connecting savagely with Cerdic’s fractured thigh. The bones grated, blood spurted. Cerdic screamed.

  Vitolinus, standing uncertain at the rear where his escort had dumped him darted forward. His hands grasped at Arthur’s tunic, pleading, tears streaming down his face. “It was not Cerdic’s fault! The chestnut slipped, it was an accident. An accident!”

  Arthur whirled, his hand sweeping back and down across the boy’s cheek, the blow sending the boy tumbling, blood spouting from his nose. Nostril’s flaring, the Pendragon hauled Vitolinus to his feet, held the boy by the collar.

  “Accident? Was the bay, too, an accident? Was it an accident that set ablaze your sister’s barn where my stallion was stabled? Was it accident that has destroyed the stored harvest, killed two men and two horses?”

  Vitolinus cried out as Arthur’s fist again hit him. No one attempted to interfere. They watched, silent, blank, with no pity.

  Cerdic, the pain intense, teeth chattering, sweat soaking into his eyes, shouted, “Leave him be!” He attempted to rise. The world spun red and black. “Leave him, you murdering bastard!”

  The red rage that had seized Arthur at this senseless waste calmed. He flung Vitolinus from him, swung around, fists clenched, breathing hard. Cerdic flinched, expecting blows to fall on him, but Arthur stood where he was.

  “Murdering bastard is it?” Arthur could barely talk for the raw, burning anger that filled his throat. “You think that of me now, boy. Na. You have not yet seen how much of a murdering bastard I can be.”

  He went to his horse, mounted, heeled it into a trot, rode away. Behind him, without a backward glance, rode his Artoriani. A lone bird glided silent on spread wings to a nearby branch, black eyes cold as death, eyeing over the pickings. The scavengers were coming, drawing closer, their harsh, excited caws breaking the silence of the woods.

  Arthur kicked his mount into a canter. He had a meeting with Aesc and already the day was half wasted.

  Cerdic watched him go, through a hazed blur of tears and pain, watched his father ride away and leave him there.

  Vitolinus crawled to his feet, spitting blood from his mouth along with a broken tooth. He would have to walk back to the steading, fetch help. It would be a long walk, but even so, the undamaged side of his face formed a smile of relief.

  “Jesu,” he said, “I was certain he was going to kill us!”

  Cerdic made no answer, but his thought showed. I’ll be killing him first!

  XXIV

  Slowly, stopping often to gain his breath, Vitolinus made his way back to Winifred’s steading, halting as he stumbled to the edge of the oak woods, hurting, angry and humiliated. Arthur was surveying the remains of the barn. The blackened timbers were sticking obscenely upright; the burnt, charred rafters, hanging, fallen, one still resting across the supports. Smoke drifted here and there and the acrid, choking smell wafted even as far as these trees. He watched Arthur step through what had once been the huge double doors – only the doorposts remained – watched as the Pendragon bent, picked something up. It must have been metal, for it glinted, caught by the afternoon sun.

  Summoning courage, Vitolinus took a step out from the shaded protection of the trees into the cloud-scattered sunlight, ready to cross down the slope into the steading. A bird, a kestrel flew low over his head and he looked up to watch its passing, saw the autumn blueness of the sun-glistened sky, and the majesty of the trees tinged with the stirrings of colourful splendour. And suddenly freedom seized him. He had never known what it was like to stand entirely alone beneath the shade of an oak tree and feel the smart slap of sun on his face. Always, when he was young, his mother had been beside him or behind or before; his mother with her stifling possessive loving that had swamped him, engulfed him, so that his stomach heaved and his throat choked, clawed to be free of her. But he was a small boy, he had not the knowledge or understanding to run from her. Then Arthur had rescued him. Oh, that glorious day when he realised he was no longer to remain with his doting mother! They had been living with his grandsire, old Hengest, and Arthur had beaten him in battle. Part of the price of surrender had been the handing over of the boy, Vitolinus. But it had turned out to be a brief happiness, for he was put into Ambrosius Aurelianus’s care, that dour-faced, God-praising bore, and from him, to the monastery. Where his sister, the so revered and oh so hypocritical two-faced bitch could keep eye to him.

  Freedom! He held his arms wide, let his head fall back and smelt and tasted its feel. Ah, it was good! Drunk on the heady intoxication he stepped into the concealing shadows and waited. He saw Winifred’s men hurrying up the trail into the woods, watched them returning a long while later with a boy lying on a stretcher, his mother running in a flurry of high-carried skirts to tend him. He waited and watched as the afternoon shadows lengthened and the two leaders, the British Pendragon and the Jute Aesc, came together in Council, sitting out in the open, gathered circular around the huge-built fire to make their peace and promises of treaty. Watched and waited for the long, cold-nip night to turn through the darkness into the pink-fringed dawn. Watched, with a sneering grin of hatred, as the Pendragon mounted and rode away. Waited for Aesc to make his way to the river where his two ships lay moored.

  And then he cut himself a staff, hitched his cloak tighter around his shoulder and started eastward. He would follow the coast, would walk to Aesc’s country, make his own way, in his own time and his own freedom, to return to his kindred. He could have gone down to the river, waited by the boats and begged his uncle to take him on board. But Aesc might have refused; Winifred, the old sow, might have been there, or the po-faced Ambrosius.

  He would make his own passage to Aesc’s territory, for then he could present himself truly as free-born, and no man could mock or jeer or accuse him of a cowardly running away.

  He would go to Aes
c and learn how to become a man. He needed to learn, for there were two things he now wanted. His freedom, and to make an end to the bastard he hated more than any person living. Arthur, the Pendragon.

  XXV

  “Mam?” Llacheu looked up from the ash-spear shaft he was rubbing smooth, the thing intended as a gift for his father when he returned. “Why has Da gone to see Winifred? He detests the disagreeable bitch.” The sun had set half an hour gone, its brief blaze of glory fading into evening. Beyond their private chamber, Caer Cadan was preparing for the night.

  “It is not for you to call her so.” Gwenhwyfar reprimanded her son, not entirely masking her amusement. Llacheu had mimicked Arthur’s tone and often-used expression. He was so very much like his father, even down to that familiar squinting look of one eye half closed, the other eyebrow raised. When he grew, the voice too, would be similar.

  The boy had muttered a response, she did not quite hear what, but did not question him. It was probably something rude about Winifred and she had no heart to chide him for thoughts she herself harboured. Aloud he said, “Do you think Cerdic will want Da’s torque when he is grown?”

  Gwenhwyfar was kneeling beside a brindled hound, sitting patient by the central hearth-fire, pulling burrs and ticks from his thick coat. Her nimble fingers had caught a flea, broken it in two. But at her son’s question, she paused, hands hovering above the dog. She considered an answer; to tell the truth or pass it away? Llacheu was ten years of age, a child no more. She began again to search for parasites on the dog’s coat, chiding the animal to cease his ridiculous squirming and be still.

  “Da said you were to be the firmer with him,” Llacheu informed her as the hound scrabbled to his feet and attempted to wash Gwenhwyfar’s ears with his tongue.