Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles)
Page 41
"Forgive me, Lady, I noticed nothing," Marrek said.
"The queen is right," Granwen said. "I hear fighting now too."
"Make ready," Yseult ordered. "As soon as I have finished dressing, we must go find out what's the matter."
"You too, Lady?" Ricca said.
"Yes," Yseult said. "I might be needed."
Yseult turned towards her chambers just as Brangwyn and Sevi rushed into the atrium.
"Yseult! What's going on?" Brangwyn said.
"I heard something," she replied. "I'm going with my men to discover what's amiss."
"Be careful, Lady," Sevi said.
"Do you want me to come along?" Brangwyn asked.
Yseult shook her head. "Watch over Riona for me, please. And get her away safely if necessary."
After she returned with a light cloak, Yseult and her men hurried from the townhouse. Out here, the sound of fighting was more audible, and they ran through the dark streets in the direction of the trouble. It was as she'd feared — it was somewhere near the principia.
Where Ginevra lived.
They turned the corner onto the Via Principalis to find a small-scale battle in the streets of the city, a battle of Briton against Briton for the possession of the Queen of Cerniw. Arthur's wife was peering through the curtains of a wagon, her expression anxious, while Medraut and his men fought Gareth and a handful of warriors, perhaps half as many as Medraut had at his command. Not enough.
"Stay here, Lady!" Ricca commanded over the sounds of clashing swords and shields. "Marrek, you remain with the queen!"
Yseult watched her men join the fray, trying to think what she could do to help. Her power of calling — what if she sent a message to Ginevra to try and persuade her to break off her flight? She had no idea if it would work, but if she could formulate the call in such a way that Ginevra believed she was having second thoughts, perhaps this battle could be stopped. She concentrated on the pale face of the Queen of Cerniw.
This is wrong, so wrong. What if some of these men die?
She saw Ginevra clap a hand to her mouth. It looked as if her message was getting through.
Can you live with that for the rest of your life?
Despite the reinforcements from Yseult's men, there was a surge forward among the blue-clad warriors fighting for Medraut, a deliberate move in the direction of the south-western gate. Yseult assumed there was someone waiting outside the walls with mounts for the men; they would not have wanted to call attention to themselves with two dozen horses' hooves clattering over the cobblestones in the middle of the night.
Call a halt; it's not too late. You don't want to go through with this.
Unfortunately, with so many people, most fighting for their lives, Yseult could not open her mind and try to discover what Ginevra was feeling — the amassed warrior rage would drown her out.
Think of Lyonors; think of the wives of the other men fighting here. Who will you still be able to call friend if any of their husbands die in these streets tonight?
Ginevra's pale face disappeared into the darkness of the wagon, and Yseult knew she had lost. That was always Ginevra's way: if she didn't see it, it wasn't real.
Powerless, Yseult watched Medraut's men push forward. Where were the rest of the forces left for the defense of Caer Leon? And then she smelled the smoke; Medraut must have set a fire somewhere near the barracks as a distraction while he fled with his lover. Or his prize.
One of Gareth's men fell and then another, and then Medraut and Gareth were fighting one-on-one. Yseult used her power of calling to try to reach some of the men fighting the fire, but she was afraid they would be too late.
The soldier beside Gareth took a sword thrust to the throat. Screaming, he dropped to his knees, his hands stuffed into the wound to try to stop the bleeding. Yseult clenched her own hands at her sides, wishing she could go to help.
The warrior who'd dealt the blow turned on Gareth, and now Gawain's youngest brother was fighting against two at once.
Marrek put a hand on her elbow, holding her back; she must have taken a step forward without thinking. "No, lady," he said. "You would only get in the way."
He was right. Illusion, she could create an illusion. She conjured up the image of one fighting man and then another, ghosts jumping out from side streets and between houses. One of the men fighting Gareth turned to this new threat, blocking a sword thrust — and almost stumbled when there was no clash of steel as he expected. He automatically blocked the next attack with his shield, but when once again there was no impact from the illusory sword, he turned away from the little Yseult had been able to do and resumed the uneven fight with Gareth.
Yseult let out a sob of frustration. Was there nothing else she could do?
While she considered, Gareth's attackers pressed in on him, their blows coming faster. He was obviously tiring. She looked around for Ricca, Granwen, and Valerius, but Medraut's warriors were three deep between them and Gareth. Gawain's little brother warded off one thrust with his shield and another with his sword, but then Medraut twisted Gareth's sword down, bringing his shield around and aiming it at his opponent's head. Despite his helmet, the strength of the blow sent Gareth reeling. Medraut followed up with a thrust to the groin below the hem of Gareth's mail shirt.
"No!" Yseult screamed. Marrek grabbed her by both elbows this time.
Medraut jerked his sword out, twisting it as he did. Then he turned and gazed down the street, straight at Yseult.
If she'd ever had any doubts that he regarded her as his enemy, she had none now.
Gareth's sword slipped out of his hand and he sank to the paving stones.
Medraut used the opportunity to make his escape. "Forward!" he yelled, running through the gap left by Gareth and the other men who had fallen. "To the gate!"
One of Medraut's warriors clambered up to the driver's seat of Ginevra's wagon and whipped the horses into action, while the rest poured after Medraut, swords thrusting as they ran. The few remaining men of Gareth's guard stumbled after them, but Yseult knew they no longer had a chance of stopping them.
Marrek released her, and Yseult ran to Gareth, kneeling beside him. The wound was deep and blood thick on the ground. She pressed her hand to the injury, but she could feel the blood pulsing steadily through her fingers. "Hold on, Gareth. We will get you inside to your family."
His eyelids fluttered open. "Thank you. I would like to say goodbye."
She did not contradict him. Gareth had been in enough battles, had seen enough men die, had been injured himself with the kinds of wounds from which a man recovered — he would know the difference.
"Make a stretcher, quickly!" she commanded. She had to keep her hand on the wound, but it would have to be bandaged before he was lifted and carried home. She twisted around to Ricca. "Take my cape and slice it into strips, please."
Ricca had been with her too long to question her requests, so he bent over, undid the clasp at her neck, and began to slash it to pieces. Yseult took the strips, bunched up the material, pushed it into the wound and bound it just as two men laid a makeshift stretcher down beside their commander.
By the time they arrived at Gareth's home, the hand Yseult clenched in hers was growing cold. But Gareth was still alive — by sheer force of will, Yseult suspected.
As they entered the vestibule, Lyonors flew forward with a cry. Yseult turned away while Gareth's family knelt around him. There was nothing more for her to do here.
"Come," she said quietly to her men. "It's best we leave them alone now."
They were barely out of the door when they heard a wave of sobbing and weeping behind them.
Gareth was dead.
Chapter 26
... At the instigation of Lucius, they labored to pay back their slaughter upon the Britons. The eagerness and force that were now shown on both sides were as great as if it was the beginning of the battle. Arthur continued to do great execution with his own hand, and encouraged the Britons to maintain the fight ...
The last weeks of summer were like one ragged and recurrent battle that was picked up and dropped and resumed all along the Armorican border. August melted into September in a blur of names and places Cador had never heard or seen before and probably would never hear or see again: Andenemessos, Gwitreg, Namnetes, Liger.
Cador slapped away a fly that was buzzing near his face. They had halted for a brief midday meal of apples, dried meat, and beer. Since their victory at Riedonum, they'd made some progress pushing Chlodovech back in the direction of his new seat at Parisius. According to the latest news, the Frankish king was now encamped near Diablintis. Arthur's strategy was to harry the towns along the border to Armorica long enough that Chlodovech would turn his energies in a direction promising more glory and less retreat. If they could make the strategic Armorican marches uninteresting to the Frankish king, they would do much to ensure the British kingdoms would not be overrun by Germanic barbarians. At least with their experienced cavalry, they were often surprisingly successful against Chlodovech's masses of Frankish foot soldiers.
But the strategy was wearing. In and of itself, it was not a war that could be won — Chlodovech was too strong. All that Arthur's army and the Armorican forces could hope for was that they might prove to Chlodovech that Lesser Britain was not going to fall into his lap as so much of Gaul already had.
Arthur probably wouldn't agree with him, Cador thought as he remounted; Arthur would prefer to take back the entire territory of the Suessiones, the last Roman province of Gaul. Syagrius had been a leader after Arthur's own heart. While Syagrius considered himself Dux of a Roman province, during his lifetime he had been referred to by many as Rex Romanorum, King of the Romans — just as many regarded Arthur as a kind of king, although he had been appointed Dux Bellorum by Ambrosius.
Sometimes Cador wondered why they were even fighting over this scorched patch of earth. The area had served as battleground often in the last decade, and it showed; first Roman against Frank, then Frank against Frank, then Armorican against Frank, and now Briton against Frank. The few farms and villas that had survived the many burnings and plunderings were poor and could offer little as they rode in the direction of Diablintis, a former civitas with a fortified granary depot — at least that was a good choice, given all the widespread destruction. It didn't help his negative mood that it was hotter here now in September than any summer Cador had experienced in Britain in the last five years. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of one hand.
"Hard to believe how hot it is for this time of year," Kustennin said beside him, echoing his thoughts.
Cador nodded. "Perhaps Diablintis has some trees. Was it this hot in August?"
"Hard to say. I have the feeling I have been doing little else besides fighting and sweating for months."
"Too true." If only Diablintis would give them a victory against Chlodovech decisive enough to satisfy Arthur, so they could return to Britain. But they were still less than a hundred miles from the border of Armorica and the home of Arthur's mother Ygerna. When Cador heard the rumors of what Chlodovech did with prisoners — and even allies who crossed him — fighting the Frankish conqueror seemed a worthy cause. Nonetheless, he wanted to go home, wanted to see Yseult again, wanted to find out what might still be left between them and if they had a chance to make a life together. And he wanted to see Riona — wanted to know if she was his daughter.
Doubts or no doubts, mostly Cador wanted to assure himself with his own eyes that Yseult and her daughter were well. He had already signed over his kingdom to a son who was not of his blood — what did it matter whether Riona was his? Other than the fact that it would prove Yseult had been unfaithful, of course. But she'd been gone for a year and returned. He wanted to hold Yseult in his arms again, wanted to hold his daughter in his arms for the first time.
Instead, he was riding through what had so recently been Gaul, following Arthur, saving British and Roman alike, saving romanitas, or what was left of it. Was that more important than what was left of Cador's marriage?
Of course it was. But it often did not feel that way.
They urged their mounts to a comfortable canter. While Chlodovech had the advantage in knowing the terrain — as well as so many fighting men at his disposal — their advantage was speed. With Arthur's emphasis on cavalry, a tactic he had learned from his foster father Ambrosius, the British forces could react quickly to new developments.
"You have not heard from my mother since the death of Modrun, have you?" Kustennin asked, his voice subdued.
Cador shook his head. "We have been moving so much it would be hard for a messenger to find us. Still, I worry."
"So do I. Modrun's death ... if only Chlodovech would return to Parisius for good."
"I was just thinking the same thing." Except, of course, he had not been worrying about the state of Britain; he had been worrying about the state of his marriage. It was strange how personal troubles could reduce the world at large to the significance of a mouse.
At least Yseult had returned. That had been his fear, after all — that she would decide she'd had enough of Britain and of him, and would never come back. But she had.
And every day he followed Arthur, saving some abstract ideal, was another day he didn't see Riona. She was crawling now; soon he would miss her first steps.
Instead of playing with his daughter, he rode. Against an enemy that wasn't his.
* * * *
They came within sight of Diablintis in the early afternoon. Chlodovech's colors were flying from the main buildings of the city, he and his army safe behind Roman walls. Roman or not, the stones did not care that Chlodovech was a Germanic tyrant who had murdered the last "king of the Romans"; they were thick and patient and only there to endure.
From the incline where they stood, it was unclear whether Chlodovech also had control of the fortress outside the city. Diablintis was unusual in that the city itself had no ramparts for protection; instead, when threatened, the population sought refuge in the large, fortified granary.
"We must discover whether Chlodovech holds the fortress or not," Arthur said.
"I do not see how we are to get a man inside to ask," Bedwyr said. "I doubt if we can even get close enough to shoot an arrow with a message."
Before they could consider what further steps to take, they heard horns blowing for attack. As the Frankish troops began to pour out of the city streets in their direction, Cador saw Arthur take in the situation in little more than a glance. He whirled the stallion Hengroen around to face his men. "Ride for the temple to the north!" he commanded. "The walls will provide some protection!"
The command was passed on through the ranks, and the advance guard of the cavalry rode for the deserted Roman temple. The walls were not high, but they still provided shelter from which their archers could pick off attackers.
In the relative safety of the central temple, Arthur discussed battle strategy with his inner circle. "The foot soldiers led by Hoel can only be a few hours behind," the Dux Bellorum said, pacing in front of them with his hands behind his back — as he so often did when thinking through a military problem. "If we can keep Chlodovech occupied until then, we have an excellent chance of weakening him."
Arthur's brother-in-law Budic spoke up, the frustration in his voice unmistakable. "Is weakening him our only goal?"
"If you can muster an army of as many men as the Franks command, then we may have a chance of defeating him soundly," Arthur said. His repressed anger must have been obvious to all who heard him, but Budic just turned away, shaking his head.
The fighting was heavy all afternoon. Although it was September, the sun was merciless, which only made their situation more difficult. The protection of the temple walls was not enough against a force of such superior numbers. Arthur had sent a detail of warriors to find Hoel and urge him to make haste, but Cador was beginning to wonder if the rest of their men would ca
tch up in time.
Cai rode up to the corner of the temple Cador commanded. "The archers are running out of arrows," said the reinstated Master of Horse. "Arthur has decided to launch a series of charges into the enemy army."
Cador nodded shortly, remounted, and began to gather his men. He could only hope the war horses would serve to even the numbers somewhat. Archers gathered at the gates to protect the mounted warband as they rode out.
Then a cry went up from the western side of the temple. "Hoel has arrived!"
For a moment, confusion ruled among the Frankish forces, the warriors apparently unsure which enemy to face. But then Chlodovech rode through the middle of his men, shouting commands, and organization returned, half of the men facing the new enemy that had appeared on the rise, half turning back towards the threat hiding behind the walls of the temple.
At Arthur's shouted command, they charged out of the gates to clash directly with the enemy. Wyllt carried Cador straight into the Frankish foot soldiers, doing nearly as much damage with his hooves as a man with sword or lance. The screams of the injured and the sound of swords striking shields filled the air. Time blended into a series of thrusts and parries and maneuvers with his mount. Cador could not have said whether hours or only minutes had passed before he heard the sound of horns again. To his surprise, the enemy warriors began to melt away from the field of battle.
"They are retreating!" Cai called out nearby.
Cador grinned and spurred Wyllt in pursuit of the enemy. It would be a rout — something he never would have expected at the beginning of the battle.
But then came the call along their own lines: "Secure the fortress of Diablintis! Arthur's orders!"
Cador sheathed his sword with the violence of frustration, sure that he was not the only one who felt so. To the east, he could see the Franks withdrawing with everything they could carry. They could run Chlodovech's army down so easily! Why had Arthur let such an opportunity pass?
Kustennin pulled up next to him, sheathing his own sword after wiping the blood off on his breeches. "Arthur can be relied on to take the fortress rather than the bait, can he not?"