Black Horses for the King

by Anne McCaffrey

  Audible now were the war cries of the Saxons as they swarmed up the hill to meet the waiting Britons. I heard the angry hiss as our archers loosed their arrows, to rain down on the oncoming foemen. And then I saw our mountain men step up beside the archers, and watched their lethal showers of stones knock men to their knees.

  Still the Saxons charged forward, bellowing fiercely, in a seemingly endless flow across the river, multiplying the force opposing us. Their shouts all but drowned out the neighs of the Libyans.

  And then, just when the Saxons were halfway up the hill and the barrage of our arrows and stones had thinned, the black horses moved up and over the brow of the hill, Artos on Cornix in front.

  The black stallion reared, pawing the air with his metal-rimmed hooves. I saw the shock and horror on the faces of the leading Saxons. I saw them halt in their tracks as more and more big black horses followed Artos and charged down at them.

  I shall never forget that sight-as frightening as I had once imagined it would be, those years ago during my first visit to Camelot. And I was not an enemy suddenly faced with the flaring red nostrils, the bared teeth, the blackness of these monsters. I was not a Saxon with no way to evade flashing, iron-clad hooves.

  I cheered loudly, pumping my right arm skyward in a salute to that charge and leaning just slightly to my left. And heard, and felt, something zing past me between arm and head.

  I whirled, crouching, hand on my dagger hilt, wondering what missile had so narrowly missed me.

  Iswy was already launching himself at me, face contorted, dagger raised. He didn’t even see Borvo and Maros instantly coming to my defense.

  “No, he’s mine!” I shouted at them, and ducked away from my assailant. “He slaughtered my pony!”

  I didn’t think of Yayin’s lessons in dagger fighting: I thought only of avenging Spadix. That lent me a cunning I didn’t know I possessed. I noticed that I had the reach of Iswy, for I had grown in arm as well as leg, and the years at the anvil had matured the spindly cabin boy Iswy had once mocked.

  He came at me again and I caught his dagger hand, forcing it back, hoping to break it; but somehow he squirmed free and sliced at my belly.

  The leather apron I had put on that morning deflected his blade. He cursed wildly.

  “I’m not the easy mark I used to be, Iswy.” It was my turn to taunt him as we crouched, facing one another and circling, each trying to discover an opening.

  Like a snake, he twisted and made to stab at Ravus where the gray was tied to a bush. But Ravus reared, breaking the restraint and trying to run. Maros, for all his bulk, was fast on his feet and caught the trailing reins.

  “Horse killer!” I cried. “That takes such a brave man, doesn’t it, Iswy? To kill an animal that looks to be protected by you!”

  I changed my dagger from hand to hand, making him watch the transfer: a trick Yayin had drilled me in. Then I attacked, just as I had switched the blade once more to the left. Iswy didn’t expect that and didn’t know which way to lunge. I sliced at his right leg, catching him above the knee with a deep gash.

  He staggered back, totally surprised by my strategy. I switched the blade again even as I closed with him, my left hand gripping his right wrist and arm. I struck downward, through his leather jerkin, and into his chest.

  “You’ve-killed-me,” he gasped out, sinking to the ground, dead before his body stretched out.

  I looked down at him and did not close his sightless eyes. Spadix’s death was now avenged. Still gasping from my exertions, I turned away, back to the battle raging on the slope below.

  The Companions on the great black horses wielded their swords tirelessly and brought down every Saxon enemy they passed on their way to the Glein. The river was turning red in the sun, with the blood of the wounded and dying.

  And then our reinforcements-the troops of halfbreed Libyans-charged out of the woods from the left of the river. It was a total rout of Aelle’s arrogant horde.

  “That were well done, Master Galwyn,” said Borvo at my side.

  “That were some fight,” Maros added.

  They were looking at the carnage below, but it wasn’t that battle they meant.

  “There,” I said, pointing to a loose horse, limping badly and dazed as it wandered back up the hill. “We must be about our duties.”

  We left Iswy’s body where it had fallen, where the ravens would find it.

  THAT WAS THE FIRST Battle of the Glein, and the only one I fought in. As Master Glebus had said, I had a skill that was of far more service to Lord Artos than that of another swordsman’s.

  There were twelve great battles in all, the final one at Mount Badon. But though I lifted neither dagger nor sword in any other, I played my part, watching every one of them, and keeping well shod the great black horses of Artos, the Comes Brttannorum.

  AFTERWORD

  Although farriery as a profession was not established as a guild in England until 1160, under Baron de Fer, horseshoes as such were used even in Caesar’s days. The Worshipful Company of Farriers is still going in Hereford, training up masters in the art to shoe the horses of today for their various tasks.

  Unfortunately iron does not last well, so few examples of early horseshoes-or sandals, as they were indeed called-have been preserved. However, it is true that a blacksmith was an extremely important craftsman, since he made weapons for defense as well as other important tools.

  It is also very true that the Libyan horses that Arthur is reputed to have bought in the horse fair at Septimania would have had foot problems, carrying the weight of large, well-armed men and moving over surfaces different to the ones in their native country. Though Hollywood would have us believe fifth-century knights wore full-body suits of armor, they actually used only breastplates, and leg and arm guards such as the Roman soldiers had, and carried heavy swords and shields. That gear alone required big, strong horses to bear them any distance. Such weight, as well as the uneven and wet terrain, would have caused hoof problems. Britain in those days tended to be wetter and warmer than it is now.

  I feel it is reasonable that horseshoes would have had to be developed for the purpose of keeping Arthur’s cavalry sound. “No hoof, no horse” is still a farrier’s truism. And there would have needed to be men knowledgeable about hooves and iron, to make such aids.

  It is historically true that someone like Artos, a Comes Britannorum and dux bellorum (war leader), existed in the latter part of the fifth century and the early part of the sixth century. This leader united the tribes of Britain to defend themselves against the Saxons invading from their base at York. I prefer to keep to the historical facts, such as they are, in this extrapolation. These facts include the strong Roman and Christian religious practices current in those times.

  I have not included Merlin in this story because he is not historically mentioned by contemporary chroniclers, namely Gildas and Nennius, who are reputed to have lived when Artos did. Nor have I bothered resetting the age-old triangle of Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot. Arthur is not thought to have married before the first of his great battles, when his fame would have made him a fine match. Guinevere is purported to have come from a prestigious family of Roman Celts, and marriage with Arthur would have enhanced her family’s reputation as well as shown support to his efforts.

  Since this is my story, about a facet of those times, I can deal with such facts as I choose from those available. But all the farriery details have been checked by Master Farrier Joseph Tobin, Associate of the Worshipful Company of Farriers, and those facts concerning horses in general by my daughter, Georgeanne Kennedy, Irish Certificate of Equine Sciences and British Horse Society Assistant Instructor.

  The reading I did on my own.

  Dragonhold-Underhill Wicklow County, Ireland, 1995