“Ten horse, twenty bow, and forty foot, my lord!”
“Ten archers and seventy spearmen, my lord!”
“Two hundred total, my lord, horse, bow, and spear!”
No matter their enthusiasm, the numbers were too few. As the captains and lords arrived, greeted King Arthur, and then went on to speak to Myrddin about the king’s strategy and to be assigned their location in the battle, a grimness settled on everyone watching. Finally, Huw couldn’t endure it any longer. He put a hand on King Arthur’s shoulder, begging forgiveness for retreating for a moment, and departed for the battlement. The sight that greeted him, however, wasn’t any more cheerful. Modred had brought an army unlike Wales had ever faced before. To say the Saxons outnumbered Arthur’s force was to woefully understate the case.
Morosely, Huw turned his attention to the cooking fires that still blazed on the sides of the Long Mynd. It had been a good idea to light them—he didn’t regret that—but in his heart of hearts he’d hoped in the end they’d be more than a charade. But then he squinted through the murky light of near dawn and frowned. Small figures moved around many of the fires—more men than could be explained by the need to tend them.
Confused, he looked back to where King Arthur was holding court and then at the mountain again. Deciding that he must be missing something, he trotted back down the steps and halted beside the king. “There’s something I’d like you to see, my lord, if you will.”
A lull had occurred in the line of oncoming captains, so King Arthur turned to him. “What is it?”
“My lord, please, just come look.”
Smiling slightly at Huw’s confusion and leaving Myrddin to accept the obeisance of the few more lords who’d reached the fort, King Arthur followed Huw up the steps to the west-facing battlement. As he reached the top step, the first rays of the sun cast their light on the mountain before them and reflected off row after row of shields, axes, spears, and helmets.
King Arthur took in a breath. “I’ve been keeping count of the men so far recorded and have reached some three thousand total.”
Huw laughed and pointed. “There are more than three thousand men on that mountain.”
King Arthur swung back to the courtyard. At that very moment, Gawain and Gareth rode underneath the gatehouse side by side with Geraint just behind them. King Arthur threw out a hand to point to the mountain as Huw had done. In so doing, he revealed the glory of the armor he wore underneath his cloak. Nell had suggested that the king leave off his tunic so the polished metal could shine for everyone to see—and shine it did as a ray of the newly risen sun struck his chest.
Throughout the last month, Huw had wanted with all his being to defeat Modred’s armies, but in the back of his mind, he’d known it was impossible. He hadn’t regretted throwing in his lot with his father, but even as he’d done it, he’d acknowledged that it was unwise.
But now … now as King Arthur stood on the battlement, for the first time since Huw had come to Gwynedd and allied himself with his father, he allowed himself real hope that King Arthur could triumph against Modred.
“Take off your cloak, my lord,” Huw said.
Arthur twisted at the toggle that held his cloak closed at the throat, and the fabric dropped to the wall-walk. Then the king pulled Caledfwlch from its sheath and held it above his head. The sunlight reflecting off it was blinding. Huw didn’t think King Arthur had intended to make a speech at this hour, but circumstances required one, and the king obliged.
“There was a time before the Saxons came when our lands were bountiful. We had wealth and peace. We can look to that time and remember it, but we cannot wish the Saxons away. As spoke the bard, Taliesin, whose words have carried us through many victories: To have lasting peace and true tranquility, we must have commotion first! I aim to make a commotion the like of which the Saxons have never seen! Heroic men from every corner of Wales must stand together. For too long, we have retreated. For too many years, we have defended what was ours from those who would take it from us.”
The king pointed to Myrddin. “We have long known that this morning would come. Myrddin foretold it years ago. He has seen us meet Modred’s forces on the field of Camlann. He has seen us meet them sword for sword! No longer will we be outcasts in our own country. We will have victory, and we will drive the Saxons from this land forevermore!”
A great shout went up from the men assembled in the courtyard. Even if they couldn’t hear King Arthur’s words, the men on the mountain to the west could hear the cheering and they cheered too. The combined might of their voices rang from peak to peak and into the valley. Huw could only hope that Modred’s men trembled at the sound.
With a nod at his men, King Arthur sheathed his sword and started down the stairs. Huw bent to scoop up his cloak and throw it over his arm, and then he followed. When they reached ground level, Myrddin approached, and he shook King Arthur’s offered forearm. “That was a good speech,” he lowered his voice, “except for the fact that I haven’t seen our victory here.”
“You haven’t seen our defeat either, not since you returned from Modred’s camp,” King Arthur said. “Have you?”
“No.”
“Then we will make our own fate. The men need courage, and I have given it to them.”
“I don’t object to that, just—”
“You don’t like being singled out. You still aren’t comfortable with either your visions or your birthright. I said once that you couldn’t be both king and seer. I was wrong. You are Myrddin ap Ambrosius and thus, by definition, you are both. To deny one is to deny the other.” King Arthur nodded sharply and then headed towards where his horse was being held, prepared to ride out of the fort.
Huw stopped at his father’s side. “Is he right?”
“About most everything, in my experience. Who am I to doubt him in this?” Myrddin looked into Huw’s face. “We will fight today, perhaps to the death. If the king falls, if I fall, are you prepared to be king? Are you prepared to carry on?”
“I—” Huw cleared his throat. “You know I’m not, but that doesn’t mean I won’t or that I don’t understand that I have to.”
Myrddin settled a hand on Huw’s shoulder. “I have known you for all of a month, but you are my son, and I couldn’t be more proud of who you are and what you have become.”
Huw blinked, not wanting to be betrayed by tears.
Myrddin jerked his head towards the center of the courtyard where their own horses waited. “Come. The king needs his cloak before he rides. We must cover his finery until the time is right to unveil it.” He started walking and his last words were thrown over his shoulder at Huw. “The king is right about what he said too. I haven’t seen your death or mine. Whatever lies in store for us and however this ends, we will end it together.”
Modred had come, and Arthur had come, and they would fight to the death in the full light of day on a field of King Arthur’s choosing. It was the end that his father had spoken of, but still, Huw wasn’t ready, even as he rode at the king’s side, and they wended their way through the ramparts that protected Caer Caradoc to the valley below.
Whether because King Arthur planned it that way or because both leaders had an instinctual understanding of when the time was right, both armies arrived on the battlefield within moments of each other: long rows of men with shields, axes, pikes, and swords. Both sides had archers too, and King Arthur and Myrddin arrayed their men to take full advantage of the higher ground they’d claimed. The field was buttressed on the west by rising hills, on the south side by the Long Mynd and Caer Caradoc, and on the eastern side by the Lawley.
The banners the Welsh flew were many and varied. Often in the past when the Welsh faced a Saxon army (with the notable exception of King Arthur’s victory at Mt. Badon), lords insisted on leading their own archers and spearmen, each lord’s army fighting as a discrete unit. Today King Arthur had convinced his captains that they would need to fight as one—one army, one people. Men from Gwynedd
rubbed shoulders with those from Powys or Ceredigion, though there were few enough of the latter.
Modred, by contrast, did not have a blended army. On the far left, Huw could see the banners of Urien. As promised, he had chosen Modred’s side. Huw recognized other banners too, though Lord Cedric’s were not among them. To Huw’s great disappointment, he had not come at all.
The archers had been deployed to the two flanks of the main body of Arthur’s spearmen, who stood shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield, as Britons had been taught to do by the Romans who ruled them for so long, facing Modred’s force. Each archer had a bow, a quiver, and a sharpened staff, which he planted in front of him at an angle, pointing towards Modred’s lines in case Modred ordered his men to charge. Any horse or man would balk at taking on such a forest of points.
The field was bowl-shaped, and Arthur’s archers had claimed the east rim, which also happened to be wooded, though the trees provided little cover in December. It was some two hundred yards from the center of the field—easy shooting distance for an archer, even a less accomplished one. Anwen had taken up a position somewhere over there, a fact Huw was trying not to think about lest his fear for her distract him from his own fight.
Huw had expected Modred to want to talk before fighting, but the pause as the two armies looked at one another lasted only a few heartbeats before Modred raised his hand above his head. “Mercia!”
With a roar, the Saxons charged, as they were known to do—without order, without design, just with a wild-eyed madness that had driven the Welsh from the field time and again. This time, however, the Welsh lines held, and the Saxons had run only twenty yards before the first arrows struck them.
The front line went down, but those in the rear of the Saxon force had no idea what was happening in the front, and the second line of men ran straight over them, pushed by those behind them. Everyone was running forward, swords and axes high or spears at the ready. The Saxons had defeated the Welsh so many times in the past that they had no thought that this time should be any different.
But this time was different, if only because, for once, the Welsh knew they had nowhere to run, and if their lines broke, their way of life was ended.
“Brace yourselves!” Myrddin’s voice rang out from somewhere in front of Huw and to his left.
Huw and Arthur were with the cavalry at the rear, as was the custom of kings. It wouldn’t do for Arthur to go down in the first assault. If opportunity arose, they would fight on horseback, but if they tried to do so now, they would end up running over and through their own men, just as the Saxon foot soldiers were doing. The Saxons had men to spare, however, and even with the addition of the survivors of Buellt, whom Geraint and Gawain led, the Welsh couldn’t afford huge losses today. Or any losses, for that matter.
Huw’s head moved this way and that, trying to pay attention to everything at once. He and the king sat on a slight rise, so they could see above the bulk of the men. The archers on both sides of the field were firing at will now. Modred might be half-Briton, but his men were almost exclusively Saxon, and there were fewer archers among them. It wasn’t that Saxons didn’t know how to shoot a bow, but the common man didn’t practice with the regularity of Britons, and thus the bow was less used as a weapon of war. Regardless of their numbers, however, the press of bodies on both sides was so close that the archers, of whatever allegiance, could hardly miss.
Initially, Arthur’s archers shot in an orderly fashion, but now the opposing armies fought so close together that the archers had lost the advantage of their position. Many pulled their spears from the ground in preparation for the need to hold off the Saxons with them, were any to decide to flank the main body of the army by going through the archers.
King Arthur saw the problem. He pointed towards the line on the right, at the base of the Lawley. “Go, Huw! Tell the archers to head north. We need them to keep shooting! If they can flank the Saxon army, they can fire right into their backs.”
“Yes, my lord!” Huw’s horse leapt away. This was why he and the king had stayed out of the initial fight, since someone needed to be able to see the whole of the battlefield. It had been left to Myrddin, among others of King Arthur’s captains, to lead the men—and to be seen leading them. Men found courage to fight in the face of terrible odds when their captains fought beside them.
Huw rode around the rear of his own force in order to reach the archers’ lines, located three hundred yards to the north. He pulled up behind these lines and swung his sword around his head to get the attention of the captain, a man named Morgan. “Follow me! We must flank them to the northeast!”
Like King Arthur, Morgan had fought in enough battles to instantly understand what Huw wanted the archers to do. “Leave the stakes and come with me!”
As one, five hundred men and women drove their spears back into the ground and ran after Huw and Morgan. Anwen wasn’t among them since she’d taken up a position on the other side of the valley, and he spared another thought for her and her party of archers, hoping that Urien’s forces hadn’t gone through them.
Huw leapt a stone wall and navigated through the woods alongside the column, his horse weaving in and among the trees. He glanced to his left, trying to pay attention both to where he was going and what was happening on the field. Regrettably, because Huw was moving the archers, the Saxons no longer had to fear their arrows, and the absence emboldened them. They surged forward with renewed effort, and as Huw gasped and reined in, the center of the Welsh line folded in on itself.
A river of Saxons poured through the gap and curved around to attack the rear of the Welsh force, much like Arthur had hoped his archers would do to the Saxons. Most of the Welsh fighters took a moment to notice that the Saxons were now behind them and still pressed forward, unaware that they’d been flanked. To make matters worse, with a roar, the vanguard of the Saxon force, which had been holding back just as Arthur’s reinforcements had been holding back, raced forward, screaming their war cries to the sky.
Although Myrddin had set himself near the center of the line of spearmen, he hadn’t fallen, and it was with huge relief that Huw heard his father’s voice echo across the field. “Reform the line! To me! To me!”
At the same time, King Arthur himself gave a mighty cry: “Charge!”
His heart in his throat, Huw could only watch as the cavalry, which like the Saxon reserves had been held back behind the main force on the chance that this very opportunity presented itself, drove forward. At first Huw had eyes only for the king, but then the banners that flew above the heads of the men riding with him drew his attention. Geraint’s wolf on a white background was clearly visible, but beside it flew Cedric’s swans and the blue and white standard of Edgar. Huw didn’t know how Edgar and Cedric had managed it, but they had come—and come just in time.
Side by side with King Arthur, they urged their horses towards the gaping hole in the Welsh line—and right over the Saxon foot soldiers who’d dared to fill it. The Saxon spearmen on the other side of the shield wall braced themselves to confront the oncoming horsemen. Horses whinnied and men screamed as they two armies collided. Many British horses went down on Saxon spears, and while many Saxons fell to the thundering hooves, it wasn’t enough. More Saxons came on, including, finally, Modred himself, leading a cavalry charge of his own.
Huw couldn’t bear to be so far from the action. With a wave at Morgan, who was perfectly capable of arranging his archers without Huw’s help, Huw raced to join his father and the king. So desperate was he to reach the spot where his father was fighting that he hardly even noticed when he killed his first Saxon, slicing through the back of a spearman who was attempting to move around the outside of the Welsh line.
And then another great shout went up from the center of the field. Again it was King Arthur: “Hold! Hold, I say!”
Chapter Fourteen
17 December 537 AD
Nell
Somehow Modred and King Arthur had found each other, a
nd Nell had to believe that with fifteen thousand men on the field, their meeting was deliberate. They had sought each other out—Modred because he wanted to personally kill King Arthur, and Arthur because he believed that to take on Modred man-to-man was far nobler than losing thousands of men on both sides because of their personal disagreement.
Two kings meeting on the field of battle was an ancient means of settling a dispute over territory. That the two men hadn’t chosen this route earlier testified to their mutual uncertainty that either one would survive it. This contest would not be to first blood, but to the death. The war had gone on too long for there to be any other outcome.
Once King Arthur had sent his command echoing across the field, Modred had ordered his men to hold as well. Slowly and with great deliberation, King Arthur dismounted from his horse and paced forward to stand across from where Modred had reined in, staring at him across sixty feet of cleared space. Nell’s heart was in her throat as she watched from her vantage point on a small hill below the Lawley. Her view of what was going on before her was terrifyingly unimpeded.
Then Anwen reined beside her. “Come with me!”
Nell had left the safety of the fort itself because she couldn’t see well enough from there. After thirty years of dreaming, if her husband and son were going to die today, she couldn’t stand to be far away when it happened. Nell reached up to grasp Anwen’s hand and scrambled onto the horse’s back behind the girl.
Snorting at the smell of blood and fear, Anwen’s horse picked its way across the field, which was littered with the dead and wounded, towards the great ring of men that had formed to observe the fight. Even if the horse had a mind to balk, Anwen wasn’t taking no for an answer, and she clicked her tongue and prodded him with her heels to keep him moving.
“Stay back.” Modred’s voice carried all the way across the valley. He threw out a hand to reinforce his command to expand the circle. Dismounting too, he stepped away from his horse, his eyes fixed on Arthur. “So it comes to this, old man.”
Frost Against the Hilt (The Lion of Wales Book 5) Page 10