Pendragon's Banner

by Helen Hollick

  Llacheu had more nerve than Gweir, he was Arthur’s son, could get away with more than a serving lad. “We thought it would be an idea to help guard the mules, Da. We can do a better job properly dressed and armed.”

  “I have men to do the work of men.”

  “Which is why you need the boys to see to the pack mules.”

  Arthur did laugh at that, caught neatly in his own trap! He ruffled Llacheu’s hair, on sudden impulse squatted down and clasped the boy to him, felt Llacheu’s arms go around his shoulders with the same fierce need. The lad buried his face into Arthur’s neck, held back an urge to say ‘Be careful, Father, I love you!’ The words would not come, stayed caught in the boy’s dry throat. But Arthur knew they were there, for he squeezed the boy tighter, a brief acknowledgement of words and feelings too precious to put into speech.

  “Stay with the animals, son, and wait for your mam.” Arthur unclasped the boy’s hands, moved his own grip to Llacheu’s shoulders; held him at arm’s length, eye meeting eye, searching deep to emphasise the importance of what he said next. “I need you to look after her, Llacheu, for beyond you, Gwenhwyfar is all I have in this world to love and trust.”

  The boy licked his dry lips, again unable to speak, aware that were he to talk, the words would come in a rush of tears and thudding fear. The moment’s spell was broken as Arthur winked, stood, turned to his men, the officers gathered in a semicircle awaiting orders. With one last grip on the boy’s shoulder, Arthur laughed, said, so that as many as were near could hear, “Enough of this idling, my lads! Let us be up and doing – when we are finished, we can laze on our backsides.” He fastened the straps of his helmet. “Supper tonight will be venison stew, I believe.”

  He grinned as the men of his Artoriani cheered. They all knew that many of them would be having no need of their supper come dark.

  Llacheu watched his father walk away, the men following, filtering their way through the trees. He had Blaidd with him, his dog, and Cadarn, his mother’s. They lay together a few yards away, indifferent to the coming and going of the men. Cadarn, resigned to his mistress being away, was lying asleep, head stretched out on his paws. Blaidd yawned noisily, his brown eyes staring at Llacheu. The lad clicked his fingers and the dog ambled to his side, groaned in ecstasy as the boy rubbed that certain delectable place behind his ears.

  Now that the movement of men was gone, the horses could be heard chewing grass, shaking their heads, stamping their feet. The woods were full of them, tethered to the set picket ropes or hobbled, for although the Artoriani were cavalry, fought on horseback, no mounted man could ride and fight his way up that steep-sided valley. They went on foot, feeling naked without the reassurance of their mounts between their knees. As Hueil intended.

  The Pendragon allowed himself one final look at that woodland as he set foot on the incline. If he were Amlawdd, he would approach soon, come up out of his sheltered hiding among the trees and take the horses before smashing into the Artoriani rear, catching them like rats in a trap. Arthur had left good men down there to ensure that did not happen, but that meant not so many of them were about to lay assault to the problem ahead. Where was Gwynedd, damn it!

  As expected, the faces of archers appeared from behind the few scrub-stunted trees, boulders, rock overhangs, their skin showing white against the darker, natural colours of rock or winter-dull scrub. His own archers were skilled, loosing their arrows as soon as targets were seen, making every aim count; this was precision work, unlike the approach of two armies on a battlefield where arrow or spear was launched as a mass, to inflict as much damage as possible amongst ranked men. These were individual targets and Hueil had the advantage, for Arthur’s men were exposed climbing with shields covering their heads. Not easy to scrabble up and over rocks one-handed. The thud and jolt of arrows striking his own raised shield made Arthur’s wrist and shoulder ache, the shields of men around him bristled with shafts, like grotesque hedgehogs, but not many arrows were making their intended targets. There was the occasional cry as one pierced thigh or leg, but the cavalry shields were larger than an infantryman’s, made particularly so to give extra protection across a horse’s shoulder or flank.

  They were on the steepest part of the rise, climbing higher; not much noise, save the grunt and pant of men’s breath, the whine and thud of arrow or spear, an occasional scream or sworn oath. Half way up it became hand-to-hand fighting: a desperate struggle to keep a secure foothold; cover with shield, thrust with sword or dagger and remain balanced on a slope that threatened to slide from beneath your feet. Arthur was fighting instinctively, not thinking or planning, body, arms, legs, hands, just doing. Part of his mind was back there, way down the slope in those woods where the horses were, and his son. Where his wife should be.

  He risked a glance, was surprised to see the glinting sparkle of blue, blue sea stretching behind the brown march of trees. The hills of Gwynedd seemed so near from up here.

  A dagger sliced through the thick padding of his sleeve, blood oozing through the torn and split material. He twisted away, swung back, used his sword; another man before him, plunging an axe downwards, sending it thudding into Arthur’s raised shield, splintering the wood, a jarred wave of pain quivering up Arthur’s wrist and arm. His foot slipped on loose shale, his legs slithering from beneath him. He tried to steady himself with his sword arm, dared not drop his shield, as again the axe fell, shattering the wood. But the blade was caught! Arthur, on his knees, dropped the remainder of the useless shield and brought his sword up, two-handed, thrusting into the axe man’s belly. Pushing all his weight behind it, watched him crumple, topple forward and tumble down the slope.

  No time to draw breath; another axe, and he had no shield now. The Pendragon’s fingers were becoming sticky with sweat and the trickle of blood running down his arm. His vision was blurring, sweat pouring into his eyes, the feel of blood pounding. Fighting uphill, every inch higher another inch won. But how slow the progress, how much blood, how many dead or dying? They would never make the ridge, there were just too many of Hueil’s men, too many, and too impossible to fight on, uphill!

  Sounds came from behind, an odd cadence jarring against the battle rhythm, sweeping forward and up. Hooves on rock, neighing, the war-shout renewed, rising, from men lower down the slope. It took a while to notice it, to be aware of it above the tunnel vision of fighting who was in front of you. There came a creeping awareness that Artoriani and north man alike were moving aside, a ripple in the danced movement of traded blows, a faltering hesitation.

  And the horses were there, running free, unsaddled no bridles, ears flat, teeth bared as they were driven upwards. Arthur shouted as Onager came past, the big horse’s eyes rolling white, scared, as he scrambled riderless into the confusion and rising panic. With his left hand, Arthur reached out, grabbed the animal’s mane and was carried forward, dragged almost, onward. Onager was blowing, snorting breath steaming from his widened nostrils. Others of the Artoriani, men whooping and shouting victory, were doing the same, using the brute strength of their horses to barge a wedge straight through Hueil’s men, who were scattering or falling beneath hooves that struck against rock and bone, pounded into soft flesh.

  A Dalriad swung at Arthur, but Arthur took tighter hold of Onager’s mane, his fingers gripping into the neck muscles of the crest, kicked out with his boot, connecting with the man’s jaw, sending him backwards, out into the nothingness. He did not see the man fall, for the last few yards were ahead. Onager heaved his shoulders, thrust with his powerful hindquarters and was over the top, over the ridge, and galloping. It was easy to mount, to alter the grip on the mane and leap, bend forward over the stretched neck and feel the exhilaration of speed as the horse moved, fast, through the northmen. The men who were running, fleeing from these animals with bared teeth, whose riders slashed with their long cavalry swords at heads and shoulders and backs, the horses responsive to the pressure of leg and thigh. They were used to this: the sound and smell of battle,
of obeying leg commands only, for no man could use reins while manipulating shield and spear or sword. The panic was easing, the horses settling under control of a rider.

  The wind was keening its own battle cry over the flat moorland grass as the men of the north fled, a dark shadow of heads bobbing, arms pumping. Among them, the banners of Hueil and Morgause. She must also be running – but Arthur had no time to look, no time to search, for some of the Dalriads, braver men, older, wiser, were regrouping and turning to fight: men who, not so long ago, had fought beside Arthur against the woman who was now fleeing for her life.

  It was finished easily, quickly, and without mercy. Those who had run got away; the horses and men were too tired to pursue. Weary, Arthur called the command to stand down and slid from Onager’s back, feeling his legs quivering from the unaccustomed effort of gripping a horse bareback. He led him by the forelock through the litter of dead, dying or wounded, back to the lip of the ridge where men were coming, making an end to the northern stragglers, many men, not of the Artoriani. And a woman. She clawed her way over the lip of the ridge, her sword red, streaks of blood and sweat on her face, her copper-gold hair blowing free, its braiding long since come unbound. Her smile broad as she saw Arthur walking towards her, his own clothing and face and sword as grimed and stained as hers.

  “And whose idea was it,” he said, stepping up to her, taking her hand to help her, “to let the horses loose?”

  Gwenhwyfar grinned. “I would like to take the credit, but…”

  She was interrupted as a man clambered up from the slope, his breath coming in gasps, as much blood and dirt on him as on everyone else. “It was my idea to send the horses up. To create a diversion,” Amlawdd said, coming forward, grinning from one ear to the other, his sword outstretched, hilt first, in a gesture of peace. “Your woman persuaded me it would be the better option to ally with you.”

  Arthur did not know what to say. He leant his weight against Onager, looked from one to the other, could not find the energy to ask one, damned, single question.

  Through the blood and dust on her face, Gwenhwyfar was smiling sweetly. A warning sign that she was about to do or say something that Arthur was most definitely not going to like.

  “In exchange for alliance,” she said, with her eyes sparkling – she was most definitely up to some mischief – “the Pendragon will agree to give an equal share in whatever Amlawdd desires to ask for.”

  Wiping his face with his hand, Arthur did little to improve his appearance, succeeded in spreading the grime around further. All he really wanted to do was go back down that hill to their made camp, find his tent and go to sleep for the next few days. Na, make that months. And here he was, standing at the edge of a battlefield playing damned silly games!

  Amlawdd had sheathed his sword, was standing arms folded, legs spread. “Do you agree, Pendragon?”

  He was going to regret this. Arthur nodded, too weary to think the thing through. Stood, too stunned even to draw his sword as Amlawdd immediately replied with:

  “Then I claim a share of your wife.”

  XXXVIII

  Several thoughts galloped through Arthur’s mind almost simultaneously: he had not heard right; Gwenhwyfar was mad to have planted the idea in this turd’s addled brain; and, most explicit, he would slit Amlawdd’s throat before ever agreeing! The day had been long, tiring and the touch of death had been a little too close down his neck for comfort, components that did not make for an easy temper or humorous mood. Arthur took several steps towards Amlawdd and prodded him, none too gently, in the chest with the tip of one finger. “You ally with me, frog feet, or I kill you. Those are my terms.” He turned on his heel and stormed away, muttering dangerously beneath his breath. Several men, intending to approach him for further orders, scuttled off to find their Decurions instead.

  The sun that had shone so hopefully all morning had been outmanoeuvred by banks of cloud hurtling in from the east, herded before a wind threatening worse to come than this grey, overcast afternoon. The wounded were many, not as many dead as expected, although the numbers would rise through the night and the next few days. Of the horses, a few were lame, nothing worse. It had taken a while, and much cursing, to round them up. War mounts were trained to stand when their riders were tipped off, the reins falling loose, but running free in a mass of galloping excitement was another matter. Arthur took Onager out for an hour or two, persuaded a few of the more rebellious horses back. They could not pursue Hueil without the horses. Not that Hueil was going to get far, for Arthur had set his best scouts to following the bastard’s trail. Na, he would not get far. Nor would she.

  Then there had been the men to see to, as Arthur always did, going around the wounded, laughing, encouraging, a gentle word for those badly hurt. His own wound was tended late in the afternoon when the medical orderlies had finished with the more serious needs, and then he had to inspect the wounded horses… the list went on.

  The smells of supper cooking were becoming more enticing, but things had to be done before a man could fill his belly. Arthur clenched his teeth and gripped his sword pommel for support. This other thing would have to be outfaced at some point. The Decurions and officers would be waiting for him to discuss this day’s course and plan the morrow’s; no surprise to find Amlawdd sitting with them, wearing that same inane grin. Gwenhwyfar also, sitting among the circle of waiting men, Llacheu beside her. Arthur glanced at her. She looked beautiful, had taken time to braid her hair, wear her jewels, a fine gown. Her eyes were dappled with that swirl of familiar tawny gold, and her smile, as he entered the circle to take his place next to her, was more radiant than any sunburst after a summer storm. The Pendragon raised one eyebrow, squinted through the other eye at her. What was she up to?

  Amlawdd was full of intention to speak, but Arthur was determined not to let him, not yet. There were important, more pressing matters to deal with first, like what they were going to do about Hueil.

  One of the scouts had returned, keeping constant information flowing. Hueil’s scum had not run far, had come together to lick each other’s wounds and rejoin their strength when they realised the Artoriani were not pursuing. Rarely was an issue settled in one fight, but Arthur had no intention of letting this one drag on.

  “I want Hueil dead. If not on the morrow, then the next day.” He glowered around the circle, watching his officers, judging their feelings. Was satisfied to read the same objective. He altered the mood slightly, lightening to humour. “A peaceful life at Caer Cadan is more preferable than farting around in these miserable hills.” Several officers chuckled. “I have a mind to return south as soon as we can – now let us plan how that can be achieved.”

  The light was fading, the days still short, nights long, spring not yet strong enough to chase the darkness. Two turmae were sent off to ensure Hueil’s rabble stayed where they were, the lesser officers sent about their business. Only the Decurions, Meriaun and Llacheu remained with Arthur, and those few officers were curious about a rumour, spreading like wildfire, concerning Gwenhwyfar and Amlawdd. Arthur’s stomach was growling. The bowl of cold porridge he had eaten at dawn had emptied from his belly long since.

  “I have no intention of agreeing,” he stated. He was sitting cross-legged, his sword across his lap, folded his arms to emphasise his point. “My wife will not become Amlawdd’s whore.”

  Gwenhwyfar briefly touched his arm, her eyes sparking annoyance. She put two fingers across Arthur’s lips, silencing his rising anger, mouthed so that Amlawdd would not see, “Trust me!” Turned her dazzling smile on the other man. “Do you agree to share me as wife?”

  Amlawdd shouted, “Aye!”

  Arthur glared, growled a fierce, “Na, I do not.”

  “Then there will always be fighting between you both.” Gwenhwyfar spoke matter-of-factly, almost indifferent to Arthur’s rising hurt and anger. “You must accept this, Arthur, or Amlawdd will take the men he has brought you and return home.” She looked him square in the
eye. “And I will go with him.”

  That came as a shock – to both men. “I will not stay with a husband who shames me by going back on my sworn word.”

  Arthur began to bluster a protest but Gwenhwyfar silenced him. “This is what I say. I shall be wife to both of you for half and half a year’s turn. I shall be with one while there are leaves showing full-green upon trees, and with the other when there are none to be seen. To this you must both agree, and then one must make his choice.”

  Both men sat silent, although there was a small ripple of interest around those sitting in the circle. Amlawdd chewed his lip considering the proposal, Arthur’s glower deepened. It was almost dark but the trees, their silhouetted branches leafless against the clouded sky, were clear enough to see. Oak, ash, alder, elm: the woodland trees, winter dormant. “I agree,” Amlawdd announced, with a confirming nod of his head.

  “Arthur?”

  “Huh.”

  “Then choose, Amlawdd!” As she spoke, Gwenhwyfar came to her feet, stood before the flames of the hearth-fire, the winter darkness gathering around her like a cloak.

  For Amlawdd the choice was easy. He would have her for his own, have her and then forget to return her! When there were no leaves on the trees the nights were longer, the bed-place sought earlier, kept later. “I will have you now, my lovely one. Now, when there are no leaves upon the trees.” He jumped up, intending to take Gwenhwyfar in an embrace, stopped short as Arthur barked laughter that rose into deeper gurgles and then uncontrolled crowing. Anger puffed Amlawdd’s face as Gwenhwyfar began laughing too, her arms going about Arthur, clinging to him. And then the others were all laughing, all of them seeing the jest.

  Damned if he could!