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by Helen Hollick

  “Arthur may not be able to help, Gwen. Gwynedd does not have the knowing of how long this bad blood with Hueil may last.” Reluctantly he returned Gwenhwyfar’s direct challenging gaze. “Nor can Gwynedd rely on Arthur having the victory of this thing.”

  She was on her feet, defensive anger and frustration spilling over the boil. “Were Gwynedd to help, victory would be a certainty! We have only the Artoriani and a handful of Winta’s men. The militias on this side of the Wall have refused to march out lest Hueil attacks their settlements. We are but a few against the many!”

  The men made no answer, they sat cross-legged around the fire expressions embarrassed, knowing she had the right of it, but the right was on the wrong side of a damned impossible situation. Dogmail, sitting, studying his hands, not raising the courage to look at her, spoke: “When Gwynedd went north with you before, it was to settle our hearts against a land that was our father’s and his father’s before him. Also, Gwynedd was not in the danger she is in now.”

  Gwenhwyfar ignored him, swung on her heel, the metal of her scabbard clanking as she spun. She was wasting her time here; Arthur needed every sword and she had thirty of them here in Gwynedd.

  Enniaun climbed wearily to his feet, but made no attempt to follow her. “The sea-wolves were not roving in so full a pack then, and Lot fought with only a half-sharpened blade, he had no real stomach for a fight. Hueil has higher ambition and has been trained to fight by the best war-lord this land has ever known.” He raised his eyebrow as Gwenhwyfar halted, half turned, reluctant, to face him, dipped his head in a slight nod. “Hueil was of the Artoriani, sister, he fights like Arthur, with his head.” Slowly Enniaun raised his arms, let them drop in a gesture of expressed frustration. “Why do you think the raiders have set sail at this time of year in such numbers? Who do you think has lured them from their crumbling settlements to a promised land of gold?” His eyebrows creased lower. “Why has Powys suddenly developed a greed to extend her borders? Hueil buys his diversionary tactics, my sister. He can afford to pay a high price to those who wish, for whatever reason, to help him.”

  It was true, Gwenhwyfar knew, all true.

  Enniaun swept his hand towards where some trees had been felled, to where the beginnings of a building had started. “I had you brought here to this place for a second reason, sister, beyond our meeting. I thought you would like to see, I build a holy place here,” he snorted, “least, I had intended to. When the fighting eases I will try again.” He leant across, took her hand in his. “I build for our father’s memory this church, and I will give this valley to the men and women of God who will come here. It will be a valley of God, of the Cross of Christ, and of peace.” He squeezed her hand, said with a choke to his voice. “I want you to accept what I must do, sister. Arthur will.” He was no longer talking of his church of the Valle Crucis.

  Meriaun was rising to his feet, brushing damp from his tunic. He held his hand out to his dead father’s brother. “We have our quarrels, my uncle, and even in this, though I see your reason, I am not certain I would follow the track you take, but,” and he shrugged, “you are mounted and have set off on the ride. I trust God to be with you.”

  Enniaun took the proffered hand, accepted what was intended as an offering of peace between them. “Good hunting, my nephew, cast your spear well.”

  Meriaun nodded, smiled, followed after Gwenhwyfar who was already calling for the men and horses.

  The valley, its green hills and calm river, returned to its peaceful sleeping as the riders departed their separate ways. The spirit of Cunedda, had it been watching from its sentinel post on the top of Dinas Bran, could have looked westward into the high mountains of Gwynedd, to Moel Siabod and Yr Wyddfa, or east, across the lesser hills towards Deva. Happen, given the death that was about to strike that proud town, it was best the old lord rested, instead, in the sanctuary of the Other World.

  XXXIV

  Peace. The chance to sit idle by a river and cast a line for fish, to see your children grow and raise children of their own. Peace? Huh, a foolish dream that had no place in the world of men. The sickly smell of greed, Arthur thought, had a lot to answer for. He ran his hand along the arch of his stallion’s neck. Onager’s ears were back, as always.

  When Lot had tried for the north – by the Bull, it seemed a long time ago – none had challenged the necessity of the Artoriani to fight. It was expected, begged for, and Arthur had responded. But even in these few passing years the north had changed, aye because of that brief, flurried war which had left it poorer than before and aside from its own kind, friendless. This time, the rich lands of the south were speaking against the need to fight in the north. Let Hueil have it, the loudest mouths said. Of what use is it to us? Caer Luel is a grinding quern dangling at our necks, Eboracum an abandoned town left to the ravens and the poor, who care little where they dwell, and the Saex. There is nothing in the north save the smell of poverty and inhospitable, mist-shrouded hills, they said. Let Hueil have it!

  Arthur’s messengers, bearing their scrolls of parchment and wax tablets, had returned swiftly, bringing, time and time again, negative answers, a refusal to fight. There would be no Cymry this time, only Artoriani.

  Arthur called ahead to the officer. “Order the men to dismount. We will walk, rest the horses.” They were marching for Deva, had been riding through sparse woodland, a variety of trees and open clearings, the ground free of undergrowth. This was wet ground, low-lying, mostly marsh, scattered with treacherous bogs that sucked man and beast into hidden pits. Difficult for fast riding, perilous for fighting; Arthur wanted to be away from it. Let Amlawdd follow. He would have as hard a time getting through this stuff as did the Artoriani. And Arthur was enough ahead to choose the ground if he had to turn and make a fight of it. Deva was a handful of miles off, but horses, no matter how well fed, could not be pushed beyond endurance if they were to be needed for another day.

  Only Ambrosius had sent an encouraging answer. ‘Leave the groaning south to me, Pendragon,’ he had written. ‘A belly-full of wind needs a strong, unpleasant-tasting purge. I wish you all the speed and success of the apothecary’s vile potions, nephew!’

  Dismounting, the men took their horses’ reins and began walking, Arthur among them, grinning slightly as he recalled his uncle’s brief communication. He had not decided whether Ambrosius had been referring to Hueil or the southerners – but then, bellyache affected the rich as commonly as the poor. The difference was in who treated it: the fat physician with an air of self-importance or the old, toothless healing woman who lived in the tumbledown shack on the edge of the settlement? Both, Arthur thought wryly, probably prescribed the same medicines. One would be in a fancy glass phial, the other as it came, a root or leaves of a plant wrapped in a piece of old rag to be infused over your own hearth-fire.

  Ambrosius had changed his cloak for the better, and Arthur was glad, although whether there was a reasoning behind it he was undecided. His uncle intended to take command if anything happened to the Pendragon, that was a certainty. To do it, Ambrosius would need the backing of the men, Arthur’s men, the Artoriani – Ambrosiani? Did it have the same ring? By seeking friendship with Arthur, was Ambrosius looking to his own interest? Aye well, it was something worth considering, when the time for idling by that river allowed a chance for thinking of other things besides fighting.

  Arthur did not want to enter Deva; it was safer, but restricted. That camp up on the heights of Pengwern was the last time he could chance being within a confined space. He needed freedom of movement to fight as his mounted men were trained to fight. Hueil would surely fight before turning attention to Morgause? But then, he did not have the cavalry Arthur had. His men were the sons of farmsteaders, warrior men, the militia of Caer Luel – infantry. Infantry were no match for the Artoriani, unless they were well led by someone who understood horses. And Hueil, once an officer of the Artoriani, did.

  Casually, Arthur laid his arm over his stallion’s neck leaning h
is weight on the horse’s shoulder. Onager’s ears flattened further back, but he did not move away or kick. Arthur smiled to himself, the old bugger liked it really, this fuss and attention, only he was too mean-minded to show it. Unexpectedly, his thoughts wandered to the memory of Morgaine. Almost, almost, he could have loved her, in another life, another place. The subtle smells of her dwelling place, wood smoke, drying herbs, clung in his nostrils, evoking her fresh, childish innocence. She was Morgause’s daughter, but nothing like the mother. The one harsh and corrupt, the other timid, wanting only to please. Ah, but then, that was it, was it not? How much had the daughter wanted to please the mother? Of how much had Morgaine informed Morgause? Some? None? All of it? She had insisted, as Arthur had taken her pregnancy-swollen body and held her close, that she had sent no word concerning him to her mother. Arthur had almost believed her, almost. But even if she had not, what had Brigid been passing along the wind? He had made a mistake there, trusting that lying, two-tongued whore. At least she would lie no more, and she had not known of the child before the night Morgaine had killed her.

  Checking Onager’s over-enthusiastic stride, Arthur forced his mind back to the matter of Hueil. Ambition was as dangerous as greed. What was his intention? Arthur knew what he would do in Hueil’s position. When he had had the choice of the woman he loved or pursuing the chance to become king, he had chosen a kingdom, reasoning the first would come when he had the second. As it had, but then, Gwenhwyfar, for all her strengths and ability, was no Morgause. With that woman at his side, Hueil could obtain much. Too much. But he had to take it first, if he could. Which is why, latterly, Arthur had kept the bitch alive, why he had moved her to Deva, a more defendable fortress and not as faint-hearted as Caer Luel. He had kept her as bait, because he knew Hueil’s first move would be to secure her freedom.

  Except that Arthur had not planned on Amlawdd coming up, unchecked by Gwynedd, behind him, nor Hueil moving at this time of year, damn him, which was why the bastard was doing it! Arthur removed his helmet, wiped sweat from his forehead, closed his eyes. Hueil was ex-Artoriani, he would not blindly fall into a lure even if the lure was the witch-woman herself. Arthur ran his fingers through his damp hair; his head ached. Morgause would not sit silent and wait on hope. Messages had passed between them, gone north and south. How, damn it, how? Arthur halted, issued the order to remount. Another thought nagged persistently at the back of his mind. Had Morgaine been the pivot of all those secret sent words, or Brigid? And who else? Who else?

  They saw the smoke, thick black clouds of it rising into the low, grey winter cloud. Hueil? Arthur sent the command for his out-riders to advance, watched them gallop ahead, held the Artoriani back in closed order. The excitement of anticipation was rippling through the men and horses, the prospect of an imminent fight adding that edge to an already sharpened blade. He drew Onager to one side, letting the marching column ride past, waiting for the baggage mules to come alongside, intending to speak briefly with Llacheu riding there with Gweir and other boys of a similar age; officers’ grooms most of them or, like Gweir, servants. The boys were armed well enough to defend the baggage were an attack to come, but were nominally non-fighting youngsters who stayed well behind the lines when it came to battle. It had been a hard decision whether to bring Llacheu or leave him at Caer Cadan. But one day he would be a king and kings had to learn about war, not stay safe-tucked at home.

  For one quarter of a mile, Arthur rode beside his son. Mounted on a fine bay horse, Llacheu rode well, knew how to handle a larger, stronger animal. The lad was excited, full of questions and anticipation.

  “We will be fighting, Da?”

  “We?” Arthur raised an eyebrow in his son’s direction. “We will, aye. You will not.”

  Llacheu’s face became so crestfallen, Arthur laughed. He reached across to tousle the boy’s hair. “I need you here with the other lads. We lose our baggage and we’ll have no tents to sleep in, no spare war gear and no cooking pots.” Arthur nodded at the other boys, all of them sporting grins as wide as half-moons, they were important for they fetched and carried, tended the fires and the needs of the men, and the wounded.

  Riders were coming fast down the line, heeling their horses into a gallop. Absently, Arthur completed what he was saying to Llacheu. “I for one will be wanting a comfortable bed and supper in my belly this night, so mind you do a good job.” He kicked Onager forward to meet the men: a group of senior officers, a scout and a soldier he did not know.

  Sweat-streaked, breathless, the stranger urged his horse ahead of the others, hauled it to a halt as he came up to the Pendragon. Barely pausing to salute, he gasped his report. “Deva Auxiliary-man, Lucious Marcus Antonious, my Lord!” Wasted no more on formalities. “Deva has fallen to the Dalriads.”

  Arthur sat stunned, his fingers clenched around Onager’s reins, the horse tossing his head and fidgeting with the bit pulling tight at his mouth. The column moved past, the men silent as they rode, the joviality of a few moments before turned to sudden, grim shock as word spread rapidly from mouth to mouth.

  The Decurions brought their horses to a standstill, their faces questioning, disbelieving. One asked, “How can this be?” Another, “Has Hueil so great an army he can attack a fortress and gain entry within such a short passage of time?”

  Lucious Marcus Antonious answered, “It takes but a few men to take the strongest defence when someone opens the gates for them.”

  A short heart-beat moment of silence as his words were digested, then Arthur cursed, his choice of words colourful, even by his standards. Who else helps Morgause?

  They rode the last few miles to Deva as though the hounds of death were baying at their heels.

  XXXV

  The sun spread a bright glow against a pale, frosted blue sky as the Artoriani approached the slight drop down to the bridge spanning the river. The tide was recently out, and the mudflats along either bank glistened under the residue of salt water. Trading ships, moored alongside the riverside warehouses, were burning fiercely, beyond salvation. Pockets of fires raged within the settlement that straggled between the fortress walls and the sluggish river. Arthur held his stallion to a tight walk as he rode, his escort following onto the bridge. Searing smoke drifting on the wind, the nauseating smell of burning caught in their throats and nostrils. Onager faltered. Trained to avoid stepping on a fallen body, his ears flicked, uncertain, awaiting command from his rider’s leg, for the bridge was littered with dead and dying; the people of Deva, cut down as they ran. Ears flat, nostrils flaring, the stallion edged forward, balked again at the approach road leading up to the gateway. So many dead! Civilians: women clutching their children, tradesmen, old men, young boys. Men of Deva and Arthur’s own garrisoned Artoriani. A soldier, dressed in the blue uniform of Deva’s guard, staggered from the watch-house doorway, his bloodied fingers reaching for Onager’s reins as he stumbled. The stallion, already wildly unnerved, attempted to side-step, but Arthur rammed his boot against the horse’s flank, held him steady.

  The Pendragon’s eyes met with those sunken hollows of horror that were the soldier’s; he tried to speak but the blood of death spilt from his mouth instead of words. Arthur leapt from the saddle, knelt beside him, cradling the dying man, uncaring who saw the grief on his face. To die in such a way; this should not have been! The fortress gateway leered open like the gaping jaws of some monstrous, bloodied beast.

  Arthur laid the dead man down, stood slowly and turned his back on Deva, stared towards the distant, cloud-misted mountains of Gwynedd – where he had sent Gwenhwyfar. He closed his eyes, tightly shutting out the scenes of so much bloodshed. Where he had sent Gwenhwyfar! The Pendragon groaned, brought his hand over his mouth and chin, a discreet cough at his shoulder jolting him back from those mountains where the gods alone knew what was happening.

  The Decurion, his voice sober, constricted. “Do we ride in, my Lord?”

  “Aye, you and the escort.” He mounted Onager. It did not seem right f
or the day to be so bright and dazzling, not when so many innocents had done so much dying.

  Were there enough hours of daylight left to head north after Hueil? Or should he plunge west to head off Amlawdd’s scum? Did Gwenhwyfar need help? Arthur fought the worry aside. She was safe in Gwynedd, Hueil had gone the other way and Amlawdd was a day to the south. He told himself again she was safe. So why this pricking along his spine, this constant need to look again at those mist-floating mountains?

  Riding through the gateway, Arthur noted with a gloat of satisfaction that the scatter of corpses here were not all Deva’s dead. The guard had fought well, killing as many of the northerners as they could before the numbers became overwhelming. The gates had been opened: the scatter of the dead, the position of the main area of fighting, pointed to the obvious. It needed only one person to lift the two bars, pull back the iron bolts; one devious person who could have got past the suspicion of the guards. Arthur snapped his head around, hauling Onager to one side and was out of the saddle, dropping to one knee beside a tumbled pile of Deva’s slain. A woman lay with them, her throat cut. Women were lying along the streets, across the bridge, in the gateway, the northmen slaying as they entered, caring only for the killing – but a woman lying beneath the bodies of the guard? And this woman? Here? Arthur covered her familiar face with a fold of her cloak, and remounted. Questions, the whys and the hows, ran through his mind. An answer was forming, grim, repulsive. Whoever had opened that gate had to be someone the Watch-guard would never have suspected of treachery.

  At the head of his small escort, Arthur rode along the Via Praetoria making for the headquarters building, ignoring as best he could the bodies and the mess. This should have been a busy place, the main street. Should have been alive with the hectic bustle of a town’s daily business.