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by Helen Hollick

  Ider held back the pleased grin. “A bear’s not an alibi you can use too often is it, Sir?”

  Arthur laughed, “Na, I think a husband might just see through that one!” He turned away, ducked back inside the tent, laughing louder.

  XLI

  Once Winifred had made up her mind on something, she went ahead with the decision. Several things had become apparent these last months, some things she would rather not have had occur, but the Fates enjoyed weaving knotted snags into the warp and weft of mortal life. Some had been gradual changes, others abrupt. A few difficult to swallow, but when there was a shortage of food, even porridge was preferable to starvation. When there were choices of the future, Cerdic’s future, the deciding came even harder. Now, having won the thing she desired, Arthur’s written acknowledgement of Cerdic as his son, she was determined to waste no time. Cerdic had to learn how to fight, how to lead. How to become a man.

  She poured her best quality wine for the man sitting opposite, taking his ease on her comfortable, newly refurbished couch. Leofric was a good man, nearing mid-age and with the wealth to attract any woman of high ambition. Wealth did not sway Winifred, she had that for her own. Neither did the land he owned, for her own estate was not small, was well profitable. His age was suitable, and his character? Anyone, after surviving Arthur’s tempers, would seem docile.

  Winifred handed him the wine with a warm smile, fetched her stool, sat, with her hands demurely folded on her lap. His one useful asset: he could fight and he could teach Cerdic what the boy needed to know.

  “I have decided to accept you as husband, Leofric. There will be conditions.”

  Leofric wiped wine residue from his gold-fair moustache, nodded acquiescence. He had expected it so. No man, no matter how rich, could expect Winifred, first wife to the British Pendragon, Princess, daughter of Vortigern, granddaughter of Hengest, child of Woden, to accept marriage without terms. How many months had he waited for this? All this time of courtship; his gifts, letters, honey-tongued messengers! Thor’s hammer, how much had it cost to get this woman to accept him! How much more to keep her?

  “I have offered already to take your son into education of arms. He will be as a son of my own.”

  Winifred inclined her head, smiled. Ah, because you have no son to call your own, and to embrace the one born of a king is more than adequate compensation! Leofric understood she had guessed his motives, did it matter? He had no one to follow his name, even after the taking of three wives. At least Winifred was proven not to be barren. He would be content to adopt a son who might be king of the British one day, and if there could be other sons born, all the better.

  “I am happy to comply with any other desires, my dear one. Tell me your conditions.”

  Keeping her hands folded, Winifred answered, “I agree to be your wife, I will on no account leave this estate. My son you may take with you when you have need to visit your own places across the sea. He will need to know them, and your people, for my other condition, all that is yours becomes his upon your death.”

  To his credit Leofric did not waver his relaxed smile. “This is asking much.”

  “Not so much. You are marrying royal and divine blood. Our sons, should there be any, can call upon Woden as their ancestor.” And Leofric wanted that, for he was a man who held great pride and self-importance.

  He spread his hands, indicating confusion. “But if you are not to leave this estate, how do I find adequate opportunities to beget my sons?”

  Winifred stood, clapped her hands for the slaves to come, remove the debris of their shared meal. The interview was ended. “I will wed with you, Leofric Golden-Hair, within the passing of this month. You may place your feet at my hearth for six months of a year, the other six I will not expect you to remain here. As for my bed, I shall invite you there when it suits me. There will be chance for a son to be made.” She inclined her head, offered him her hand to touch briefly, and for the first time since their knowing placed a kiss on his cheek. Then she left the room, went to the privacy of her own chamber, her heartbeat thumping in her chest. Mother of God! That was a more difficult thing to handle than arguing with Arthur!

  She unpinned her hair, removed her gown, sat in her under-tunic before the polished bronze mirror, gazing at her distorted reflection. Leofric was not the first to ask marriage of her, nor would he be the last. She had accepted this thing because Cerdic needed the teaching. He needed to know how to manage and control an estate, to oversee the planting and harvesting, to know the accounts; needed to know how to wield an axe and a sword, a spear and a shield. He needed to become a man who could one day rule not just as a thegn over an estate, but as a king over a country. Leofric could teach him all this, as could any of the men who had sought to wed her these past few years, but with any of those other men there had always been the risk of her having another son. And already there were too many sons stepping before and behind on Cerdic’s path. She removed her under-tunic, slid naked into her bed, running her hand over the silk-softness of her body, from breasts to the curl of hair between her legs. She had not lain with any man except Arthur. Did not want this Leofric touching her, being intimate with her, soiling the memory of the man she still loved, but for Cerdic she would do it. Knowing there would at least be no sons.

  She leant from the bed, extinguished the lamp on the side table, her smile satisfied that the choice had been a right one. Leofric was indeed a good man, but proud men were so quick to put blame on their women! Three wives, numerous mistresses? Ah, Winifred knew of them, had paid well to know of them. Not one had carried his child.

  Ja, if she had to take a husband to secure manhood for her son, and to strengthen him for when he challenged his father or that Gwynedd bitch’s brat, then one who was empty of seed would be the more preferable.

  XLII

  Two scouts arrived within the hour of each other, from the north, where Hueil was becoming restless, and from the south where an army with the banner of the Chi Rho was approaching. Arthur posted an extra turma of men to keep high-profile watch on Hueil and decided to deal with the south himself. Only one man could be following a banner of Christ.

  Although early morning was well established, Gwenhwyfar was taking a rare chance at lazing abed. Both messages had come direct to the King’s tent. After the delivering of the second, Arthur raised an eyebrow at his wife, who was lying with her arms behind her head, staring at a vague spot along the ridgepole. “Pity you’re not dressed,” he said, feigning disapproval, “we could have arranged a reception committee.” She was up and dressing before he finished. Chuckling, Arthur ducked out and ordered the horses made ready and returned inside. He could not resist taking hold of his wife, wearing only her undergarments.

  Half serious, Gwenhwyfar batted him aside, complaining he had asked her to hurry.

  “It’ll take a while to saddle Onager, you know how tetchy he is.” He began unlacing her breast band.

  “How long is ‘a while’?”

  Arthur had the band off, his hands taking its place over her breasts, his face nuzzling against her neck. “Long enough,” he murmured.

  They waited where the Roman road crested a slight rise, sat their jiggling horses, watching the column, half a mile distant, swing nearer, seeing the men raise their heads, the occasional pointing hand. They had been seen then – and recognised. Arthur glanced up at his banner, tossing proud in the wind that had calmed with the sunrise but was of a spirit to bring Gwenhwyfar’s beautiful dragon to life. How impressive it must be from a distance! The brilliant red and flashing gold leaping and darting against the billowing white. He allowed himself a self-congratulatory smile, leaned across the space between them and took Gwenhwyfar’s hand, squeezed her fingers.

  “You ought not to look so smug,” she said, her own expression as proud and delighted as his. “I would almost think you were gloating.”

  Arthur pretended shocked horror. “Me? Never!”

  Her lips pursed, a chastising shake of
her head. “Don’t you try to convince me you had all this planned, Pendragon.”

  He squeezed her hand again, “I knew Ambrosius would see sense and join with me one day.”

  “Liar.” They were laughing as a man detached himself from the column, spurred his horse forward, the smiles remaining on their faces as he approached nearer, reined to a trot, walk and halt; made formal salute.

  “I was wondering,” Ambrosius Aurelianus said casually, almost as if they had unexpectedly met while on an afternoon’s exercise, “whether you could find use for a few extra men?”

  Arthur surveyed the column, counted the number of infantry in the first quarter, made a mental calculation. Ambrosius would march in strict Roman formation. “Mithras, Uncle, have you brought me a legion?” he jested.

  “I wish I could have, Nephew, but, as you are so fond of telling me, the days of those numbers of available men have gone.” Extending his hand in less formal greeting, he added with a twinkle of laughter, “You will need be content with five centuries. I have gathered all the militia men along the way, shaming them into coming – those who refused your first call to arm.”

  Arthur took his hand, eyes alert, mind already planning how to deploy them. “I think I can find some small use for four hundred men.”

  To Gwenhwyfar’s surprise, Ambrosius offered his greeting to her, his smile warm and genuinely friendly. Uncharitably, she thought, What is he gaining from this? Did it matter? He was here, with all these men. She blushed then, as red as the dragon fluttering beside Arthur, for drawing their horses aside to salute the column as they marched past, Ambrosius candidly announced the reason.

  “I came because I have limited military experience, Pendragon. If I am to lead when you are gone, I will need more than book learning to be effective.” He held his hand palm outward to acknowledge the standard of the first century pass by. “You will teach me, Pendragon.”

  Arthur saw Gwenhwyfar opening her mouth to make sharp retort, surreptitiously signalled her to silence. He couched his own answer politely. “I was hoping this campaign would be a short one, Uncle!”

  Ambrosius formed a stem expression, then saw what Arthur meant and relaxed into another smile. “No, lad, I did not intend to sound pompous!” And to Gwenhwyfar, on Arthur’s far side, he offered, “I trust, in all sincerity, my Lady, it is your son who follows our King. I merely plan for possibilities.”

  She inclined her head, wanting to believe him, but not quite achieving it.

  XLIII

  Arthur’s men moved up from the south during the afternoon. Artoriani, the elite cavalry, with the Ambrosiani, the infantry, Amlawdd and the men of Deva. The cohorts swaggered up the Roman road taking an easy pace, wedging Hueil against those already outflanking him to north and east. He had nowhere to run. To the west lay the estuary and the marsh, clustered with birds facing with plumage puffed into the cold eye of the venomous wind: pied oystercatchers, lapwings with their call, kee-wi kee-wi; plovers; curlews, and always the geese, floating in grunting groups or grazing at the marsh-grass.

  Bedwyr rode beside Arthur. Directly behind them were the men of Deva who had the brown stains of blood on their tunics and the new wounds to their bodies. Men who needed to rid themselves of those memories of treachery, thirsty for the work that needed to be done.

  Hueil had manoeuvred as far eastward as Arthur’s hovering turmae allowed, placing his men on the firmer ground inland, reluctant to be pushed to where the winter-high rivers meandered and split into the broken places of the sea strand. They were impatient, his men, some angered, more, bitter and grumbling. Hueil had promised them an easy victory, glory and riches, but all they had was this wind-tagged, desolate marsh wading beneath a grey-clouded, sullen sky. In comparison, the woods to the north seemed friendly and alluring. Beyond those trees tarried the hills, tracks and roads leading homeward. Some had attempted to go, murmuring plans between themselves, slipping away under the night cloak that hid moving shadows. A few, the lucky ones, blundered into the bogs, their water-blown bodies found drifting on the next tide. Of the rest, the Artoriani allowed no one through: the deserters were butchered and hung from the march of trees forming a border between the marsh and the forests that ran north into the high hills.

  Arthur played a war of nerve, a softening of courage. When the one day passed, and then the next, Hueil guessed the Pendragon was playing with them as a cat would dab and pat at a mouse; let it run, capture it again. Morgause wanted to be gone, wanted to be tucked safe in the far, far north. She urged they take their chance and charge the patrols, declaring that even the fastest horse could not do much against a solid body of men, but Hueil argued her down. Once in those woods he would not keep his army of frightened men together. Short of heart, they would melt into the trees and simply go home. There would not be another fight. Without a victory, no matter how small, Hueil would never again be able to bring all these men together. So they stayed out on the edge of the marshes, where the rivers that descended from the hills split into channels and runnels before rippling into the sea. Stayed and waited for Arthur to come; and told the men they had a chance, a good chance, of winning.

  The night hearth-fires spread across the darkness of the sea-tinged marshes, and the sound of Hueil’s men talking or singing drifted in the calm, salt-damp air. The wind finally eased, then ceased, blustering out to sea at dusk with the ebb tide, giving way at dawn to a white-pawed mist that shrouded the marsh with a cobweb cloak of shadow. Hueil raised his banner high and brought his army into the square formation that could, as long as they stood firm, resist any cavalry charge. Morgause he put at the centre with the banners and standards, ordered her to sit her horse and give courage to the men. They sore needed their blood warmed, and the Goddess on Earth so vividly among them might grant enough heat to outpace the strength of the Artoriani.

  Arthur would have preferred better ground than this, but to have let Hueil run further north would have brought a longer campaign, and these open, flat lands were preferable to the confine of the trees. For the both of them this was a gamble. To either side could the roll of the dice fall.

  Gwenhwyfar retained her smile until the last man rode from camp, the lines and lines of cavalry; Amlawdd’s men untried, untrained; the infantry militia, Ambrosius’s men. The jangle of bits and harness, the chink of metal, creak of leather. The smell of horse sweat and dung, the excitement, the overshadowing anxiety. The clench of fear knotting her stomach as she watched them – watched him – go. She stood with Llacheu in front of her, hands on his shoulders, she with a smile for the men, he, laughing and waving. Both wishing them well, wishing them all, keep safe.

  Arthur had set camp on higher ground along the last edges of the trees, a hand-span of miles from where the grassland river marsh began. The sounds began to drift across the reeds and wind-hissing grass, distorted by the distance and echo of the great vault of open sky. Indistinct sounds of horses and men screaming, the clash of sword and spear on shield, a moulded, jumbled mulch of noise.

  The army women stood, some arm threaded through arm. Others sat, squatted, hunkered on their heels in groups or alone. Waiting, their heads raised, senses alert, listening and imagining. Knowing what was happening among that vague, mist-shrouded blur of movement that was their menfolk, surviving or dying.

  The boys, the grooms, the smith’s lad, youngsters not yet of an age for shield-bearing or the rearguard, employed their time sharpening their own crude weapons, fashioning spear shafts, sharpening arrow blades and daggers, mending harness or tents.

  They too waited and listened, they were the men of the morrow; they could not show their fear naked, like the women. They hid their worries beneath a frenzy of tasks and errands, keeping hand and mind busy. But they listened, all the same, to the distant rise and fall of the battle song.

  The mist cleared into a midday haze over the sand bars and mudflats of low tide, where the birds gathered in their hundreds, anxious about their search for food before the water should c
ome again, oblivious to the matter of men a few hundred yards away. Hueil was aware he had a chance of winning. Again and again, Arthur’s cavalry had come in to the charge, the arrows of both sides coming first in a hissing wind of bright-tipped malevolence, and then the spears, their sound deeper, more haunting, the blades shrieking as they hurled towards the bringing of death or wounding. Again and again, the horses veered aside as Hueil’s close-packed lines stayed firm-held.

  Hueil’s men stood, feet planted, determination set, their fire fuelled by the screaming encouragement of the golden-haired woman. Where one man fell another stepped in his place – and they were moving forward, gaining ground. The river marsh was dropping behind, receding with the lifting mist. Hueil paused, briefly loosened his helmet straps, wiped the sweat from his forehead, took a breath. He could win this! He could!

  The Pendragon too, was acutely aware Hueil was close to victory. Not for ever could he keep throwing his horses in, trying and trying to break that solid wedge of unyielding men. He must get them to run, to break the mass. Together, Hueil’s formation could stand all night and all the next day. Broken, the cavalry could finish them as easily as scything barleycorn.

  He watched a heron trail slowly across the grey-dusted, cloudy sky. For all their corn feeding, the horses were lathered, breathing hard, many wounded from arrows and spears. The men too had suffered, but men could go on fighting when urged, not horses; only so much would they take before beginning to balk. There could be only one more charge. Only one.

  He sent his messengers to call in Ambrosius, Meriaun, Amlawdd and Bedwyr. A hasty conference: the men and horses would appreciate the respite, the chance to draw breath, bandage wounds, adjust armour and weapons. But so too would Hueil have such chance. Time to change the balance. The birds were already beginning to circle in from the sand and mud-flats, the geese crying mournfully as they passed overhead, back to the grasslands from the shallows that were deepening with the flood-tide. Once the water came in, Hueil would be safe from rear attack, the horses useless. This one last try, to get Hueil’s men to break.