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by Helen Hollick

  The living were beginning to crawl from their places of concealed safety. A woman moaned over the body of her man. A shopkeeper stood staring, blank-eyed, at the smoking ruin of what had been his trade. A boy, no older than ten summers, lay hunched beside the walls of a tavern his arms locked around the body of a black dog. Arthur kept his eyes and concentration directed up the straight-running street, at the building ahead, choked back a half-sob at the thought that kicked him like an ox-hoof. He hoped the boy and the dog had died quickly, one sword slash, one stab of spear or dagger. He could have looked, the wounds would have told, but he did not want to see, wanted to believe they had died well.

  There was an eerie half-silence hanging over the smoking roof timbers of the old Principia building, the headquarters complex, and behind it, where once the Legion Commander would have lived in splendid grandeur, the Praetorium. An odd stillness here. The crackle of dying flames, scorched and blackened timbers settling or falling. In the distance, a dog howling, the women wailing their songs of death. Overhead, the harsh “cra… aak” of a raven. Arthur shuddered. The Morrigan, the Goddess of war come in her disguise to collect the dead. It was like riding into the Underworld. He peered briefly over his shoulder to reassure himself that his men were there, behind. Their faces were grey, as his must be, their hands making the sign of protection, pagan and Christian.

  They rode on through, into a courtyard that would once have boasted a fountain, green plants, neat and ordered, but was now a place of the wounded. Even here, there was only minimal noise: a man groaning, another coughing, the shuffle of feet; bloodied, dazed men. A few turned to watch the Artoriani ride in, their gaze uninterested, barely comprehending as Arthur halted and swung down from the saddle. Bedwyr would have been here, somewhere here. Arthur forced himself to walk with controlled dignity, his hand casual on his sword pommel, between the mess of wounded men, up the steps and into the house-place, telling himself again and again not to run, not to take to his heels and scream Bedwyr’s name.

  Blood seemed to be everywhere, across the walls, puddling on the cracked mosaic tiles, smeared on doorways. The blood of Arthur’s loyal, brave men, slaughtered as they attempted to bar entrance to whoever had done this awful killing. That this house-place had been the ultimate target was beyond doubt. Arthur had no need to question as to where Morgause had been held, he only had to follow the trail of destruction, leading as pointed as any arrow along the corridor, up the stairs. He did run, then, for this upper corridor was narrow, leading to one room, where the door leaned wide open and a body lay sprawled across a bed covered with blood-slimed linen sheets. Arthur ran because that stained, tousled hair belonged to only one man; he ran and cradled the body to him, yelled with fear and alarm as the body moved, groaned, sat up. Arthur’s heart was pounding, his throat had rasped dry, his breath coming in great gasps. He put his hand to his chest. “Mithras, Bedwyr, you scared the shit out of me!”

  Easing his legs over the side of the bed, Bedwyr sat cradling the side of his head. There seemed to be a lot of blood oozing through his fingers and soaking his clothing. Arthur explored the lad’s arms, legs, his torso; frowned, puzzled. “Damn it, Bedwyr, you’ve a gash as wide as the Hafren on your head, but surely, in the gods’ names, this blood is not all yours?”

  Managing a feeble grin, Bedwyr patted the Pendragon’s exploring hands aside. “It’s not mine. Hueil made one mistake, he did not realise I know how to use a sword. Some of this is his.”

  For a hopeful moment, Arthur thought perhaps Hueil lay dead, but Bedwyr shook his head, groaned as the dizziness returned. “He is stronger than I am. I gave a good fight, but,” he touched his head, “that bitch hit me with something. I went down like a snuffed light.” It was his turn to express a question, Arthur’s to shake his head.

  “Na, he’s not among the dead. You might have wounded him, but Hueil’s aim was to get in by treachery and out again as soon as he had Morgause. They didn’t even stop to loot or rape.” He would get the men to search as they buried the dead and tended the wounded, but they would not find Hueil. Not here, anyway.

  Apart from the spillage of blood near the door, and Bedwyr’s on the bed sheets, the room was ordered, left as though its resident intended to be gone only a moment. On a table, phials, combs, a gold-backed bronze mirror; beside the bed, a half-drunk goblet of wine. Arthur finished it in one gulp, and searched quickly, opening chests and cupboards. Under-garments, folded, freshened with a scatter of dried lavender, clothing; the paraphernalia of a woman’s face-paint. No winter fur cloak. No heavy wool garments. No boots, only soft, leather house shoes. She had known then, been prepared.

  “You entrusted her care to me, Arthur. I have failed you.”

  The flagon of wine beside the goblet was almost full, Arthur poured himself another drink, drained the goblet, refilled it and passed it to Bedwyr.

  There was not much Arthur could answer with. It was not Bedwyr’s fault, this damned mess. If anyone should take blame, it must be himself for keeping the bitch alive when he should have slit her throat. As Gwenhwyfar had argued. He lightly shrugged one shoulder, offered more wine. “You are a man, Bedwyr, not God. Only He, so I am told, is infallible.”

  Bedwyr accepted the second drink. “There was no warning.” He had to talk, suddenly, let the bad taste spew from his mouth. “They were just,” he spread his shaking hands, “there. At dawn. They came from nowhere, appeared beyond the walls and then… ” He cradled his head again, the gash was not deep, despite all the blood, but his head pounded as if a thousand hooves were galloping there. He took a breath, “Then they were just in, like that.” He glanced up at Arthur. “Someone let them in?”

  Arthur had seated himself in a chair. He nodded, suddenly too weary to answer.

  His eyes narrowing, similar to his cousin’s familiar expression, Bedwyr regarded Arthur across the room. “You know who opened it don’t you? Who it was passing the letters and messages in and out beneath my nose?”

  Again, Arthur nodded, still did not answer.

  Bedwyr sighed, pushed himself from the bed, rocked a moment as the blinding headache swirled across his forehead. He bent for his sword, lying bloodied on the floor, had to put out a hand to steady himself. Straightening, he looked again, directly at Arthur. “I had my suspicions of the apothecary. I stripped him naked, but unless he’d shoved a parchment somewhere I’d rather not look, he had nothing on him.”

  Their eyes met, Arthur’s sad, Bedwyr’s resigned. “I began to fear it was her, but turned my back to it, hoping I was wrong.”

  “If it is any comfort,” Arthur offered, standing and heading for the door, “we all should have realised. Nessa came from Dalriada; she was of the north.”

  XXXVI

  Amlawdd had set out from his west-country fortress full of enthusiasm and expectation, meeting with several petty lords and chieftains who were against Arthur. What a sight they were! Close on two hundred warriors – with the shield-bearers, women and followers of a hosting, double that number. They progressed north slowly, hugging the course of the river, laughing and chattering, foraging and hunting as they marched; camped early, for although the nights were drawing out, who wanted to march in the dark? The baggage wagons were laden with skins and amphorae of barley-brew, strong ale to keep the cold away at night and the men cheerful. Oh the carousing! The jocularity, the high spirits! A fine thing to be one with a war-hosting. They did not hurry, took time to break camp of a morning, taking longer as each night passed, for the heads of the men were becoming thicker from a night’s drinking, their keenness, by the seventh morning almost evaporated, dwindled even more when word came that the Artoriani were ahead of them.

  That was not to have been; Amlawdd was supposed to meet up with Hueil near Deva where they would wait for Arthur and have a decisive end to the arrogant bastard. But Amlawdd had not bargained on the time it took to manhandle the wagons through mud and marsh, or how quickly enthusiasm ebbed once sore feet, aching shoulders and drunkenness s
et in. He had miscalculated how fast Arthur could move with his mounted men, who used mules for pack animals, not carts and wagons. The men were grumbling and Amlawdd himself was becoming sick of the whole thing.

  A toad-faced messenger from Hueil added insult. Were it not that they had come so far, Amlawdd would have hacked the insolent braggart’s head from his shoulders and gone home. Who in the gods’ names did Hueil think he was? Issuing orders, sending curt, insulting commands: do this; do that. Were it not for the promise of gold… and that other prize.

  There were a few hours of daylight left, they could march some more miles, but this place they had come to was a good spot, Deva was ten and five miles away, they would be there on the morrow. Let Hueil wait!

  The messenger Amlawdd sent off tied to his mount, riding facing his pony’s tail and stripped of his clothing. It cheered the men slightly to see their lord deal so with the upstart. “Tell Hueil of the North I will come when I am ready and not before!” Amlawdd shouted at the unfortunate man, as they whipped his mount into a gallop, sent it northward, leaving behind a gust of laughter. Arthur could not risk fighting Hueil knowing a hosting was behind him, of that, Amlawdd was certain. They had until tomorrow; the men needed one more night, one night of celebration and laughter before the business of battle came to hand.

  The day had been bright, crisp, a day that heralded the coming of spring. Amlawdd stood at the edge of the made camp, looking across at the mountains a few miles to the west. Gwynedd, swathed in patterns of mist. Gwynedd, from where the woman he wanted as his own had come. When this was over, Hueil had promised she could be his. They needed only to be rid of the Pendragon.

  Clouds were striding up from the south as the afternoon descended to evening. Was that movement among those trees? This was lonely, inhospitable, country, either pocked with marsh and bog or clustered with striding, dense woodland. They ought to have marched the quicker, not ambled at a leisurely pace, spent so long encamped. Arthur and Hueil were professionals, soldiering born into their blood. Amlawdd was the youngest son of a man who had preferred his own hearth to that of a hosting campfire, for all that his two older brothers had enjoyed the rigours of warfare. Melwas had even run with the Saex kind! Ah, but where had it got them, and Gorlois? Both were dead, Gorlois slain by Arthur Pendragon and Melwas? Amlawdd knew not how he had died, or where, except rumour tattled that this Pendragon had been involved.

  God’s mercy! What in all hell…! Amlawdd was running, drawing his sword, shouting, using the flat of his blade to get men moving off their backsides, screaming for someone to sound the alarm!

  Gwenhwyfar had taken only thirty men with her into Gwynedd. She was hurting and anxious as she rode back to join her husband, knowing there would be no men coming to his aid from the mountains. She knew there should not be delight in killing, but as she thundered from the shadowed concealment of the trees with the war cry of the Artoriani bursting from her open mouth, a satisfying sense of justice flooded her. Happen Gwynedd could not help Arthur, but neither would Amlawdd be helping Hueil.

  Two hundred men, most already drunk, were unaware of what had hit them. Taken by surprise, without arms or armour to hand, badly led, poorly organised, they had no chance even against only thirty horsemen of the Artoriani.

  There was not much killing. Before the Artoriani had chance to draw breath for a second charge, Huel’s allies surrendered, throwing their spears and axes to the ground, holding their hands high, fear and horror paling their faces, disbelief hammering their minds.

  Amlawdd had placed himself before the hosting’s standards, he and a few of his loyal men. Dry-mouthed, horrified, he offered up his sword to the woman mounted on a red-coated stallion, her own sword tip hovering too close to his groin for comfort. Was this the woman he had wanted for his own? The woman who had seemed so perfect, so desirable? Gods, he would never be able to sleep at night for fear of what she might do with that blade! He swallowed hard, tried an affable smile, which she ignored.

  Meriaun was supervising rounding up the men and women, herding them into the centre of the camp, the Artoriani helping themselves to weapons, armour, anything that looked worth the taking, including the women.

  For a long moment, Gwenhwyfar sat on her horse, staring at Amlawdd, considering what to do with him. The attack, the whole event had been instinct, reaction. Arthur would probably yell at her, say she had behaved foolishly, taken an unacceptable risk, but the chance had been too great to miss. And she was a warrior’s daughter. As always in hostile territory – and peaceful too after that attack near Lindinis – Artoriani scouts had ridden ahead, had reported the camp, the slovenly lack of care, no out-guards, few men on watch. It was like landing a pike with a bent brooch pin!

  She had two choices now, run the bastard through or send him home, humiliated, mutilated. Na, three! A slow smile spreading across her cheeks, Gwenhwyfar brought the sword across her lap. “I can kill you, Amlawdd, which I would like to do, or cut off your hands and take out your eyes, which I am capable of doing. A waste though, both of these, when my husband, your Lord Pendragon, needs men to fight behind his dragon banner.” Her smile increased and she put away her sword, swung her legs from the saddle and dismounted.

  Gwenhwyfar walked up close to Amlawdd, savouring his stench of fear that stood proud with the sweat and darting eyes. “We could form an alliance, Amlawdd, you and I, for Arthur.” She circled him, noting how his anxious eyes swivelled to follow her.

  He swallowed, hard. “Alliance?”

  “Aye, your men and your spears fighting for the Pendragon, not against him!”

  Now that the possibility of a painful death seemed to be receding, Amlawdd’s bravado began to return. “Hueil paid me, promised me much for my services.”

  The smile quirked around Gwenhwyfar’s mouth. Services? She had to stretch up slightly to whisper in his ear. “Ineptitude, Amlawdd, is a more fitting word.” She stood again before him, looking him up and down, assessing him, then took a long, dramatic step backwards, flourished her arm in a southerly direction.

  “You can go, Amlawdd. Take this pathetic rabble of imbeciles with you. The people of Britain will hear of how I, Gwenhwyfar, wife to the Pendragon, with only thirty of my men, considered your blood unworthy of my sword.” Her green eyes, swirling with a sparkle of tawny-golden flecks, met his as he considered this ultimate humiliation. “Or, we can come to agreement, Amlawdd.”

  And when she told of her terms, Amlawdd’s fear evaporated, his disbelief altering to that of amazed wonder. So Hueil was offering the Pendragon’s wife when victory was claimed, was he? God’s wondrous truth, if he had known Gwenhwyfar’s terms before this, he would have been licking Arthur’s boots without comment!

  XXXVII

  Morgause stood with the wind streaming through her hair, her hand holding her raven banner, proclaiming her freedom and triumph. Her presence, there on those cragged heights, mocking and challenging.

  The valley rose steep, awkward to negotiate, in front of Arthur and his men. The Pendragon squinted up at the rocks and crags, deep shadowed or golden bright beneath the new-rising sun. The sky was cloudless, a perfect spring morning, although the air was crisp. Birds were twittering, busy at the first stirrings of nest making, flowers were poking their winter-sleepy heads through the greening grass. A perfect-looking day on which to die. He would not waste a wager on guessing Hueil had placed Dalriadian archers up among those rocks. He beckoned his own banner forward, took the pole in his hand and walked Onager to stand alone, clearly seen, before his men.

  Morgause saw, for her arm came out, her head back. Arthur could not hear her, not from this distance, but knew she was laughing. He raised the banner, holding it high above his head for the bitch-woman to see. Gwenhwyfar had worked him this banner, the red dragon, proud on a white background. His banner, the Pendragon’s banner.

  A horse came up, halted a few paces behind. Arthur turned his head to inspect the returning scout’s expression. The answering, brief, shake o
f his head made Arthur’s frown sink deeper.

  “Nothing? No sign?”

  “Nothing, Sir. We scouted the few miles you asked of us. There is no movement, no riders coming from Gwynedd.” The scout shrugged. “Neither is there anything of Amlawdd. They could be anywhere – the woods are dense behind us.” He gestured helplessly in the direction he meant. Only the road to Deva ran clear, a swathe of open land, empty sky. “Were I to have more men, we could scout a wider arc.”

  Waving his hand, dismissive, Arthur shifted more comfortably in the saddle. He could not spare more men. He handed his banner back to its bearer. Could not spare any men. “I can no longer spare you either. Form a flank watch – I need to know as soon as either of them approaches.” The Pendragon sounded calm, in command of the situation, the unknown. Where were Gwenhwyfar and her brothers? To where had Amlawdd disappeared? And how in the Bull’s bloody name, were they going to fight Hueil in this damned impossible ground? Only by the smile of Fortuna would they win this one.

  Wheeling Onager about, Arthur cantered back into the cover of the trees, crowding close to the rising ground of Hueil’s chosen place. The baggage mules were secured half a mile back, the men waiting, spread out under the shadow of the bare-branched canopy seeing to their war gear, their horses; putting an extra edge to dagger or sword. Several called cheerily to Arthur as he trotted by. They were to fight within the hour, when the Pendragon was ready. Nothing had been said, no orders passed; a thing known, a soldier’s born instinct, an awareness that set the brotherhood of the Artoriani apart.

  Gweir came immediately to his lord as Arthur dismounted, Llacheu at the servant’s heels, both boys grinning as broad as an oak tree’s spread. Both were wearing leather fighting gear and brandishing spears.

  Arthur wanted to laugh at the sight of them. He loosened Onager’s girth, refastened a flapping strap on the bridle and handed the horse to his groom. “And just where,” he said, turning to face the two boys, his fists settling at his waist, his voice deepening to sound the more serious, “do you think you two might be going, dressed like that?”