by M. K. Hume
Germanus was fighting a brace of Saxons with the concentration and strength of an automaton. His blade was sweeping in wide arcs that kept the enemy warriors at bay while his shield protected him from the wicked axe blows that had cut the stretcher bearers to pieces. Three of the guard had already fallen, including the freckled youth, but the remaining two protected Germanus’s back, forming an effective triangle of iron that prevented most of the attacking force from reaching the hospital. The stretcher bearers had fallen, but they had slowed down and blunted the determined advance of the Saxons. Their deaths had not been an entire waste.
Nor were the healers totally helpless. Several of the enemy had bypassed the main struggle with Germanus and entered the nearest hospital tent with drawn swords. Now one of them suddenly reeled out of the tent into the night, his chest sliced open by a small knife. He was bleeding from a number of small wounds, and ineffectively trying to draw the weapon out of his breastbone with flailing hands. Arthur quickly finished him off with the Dragon Knife. A shaking, bandaged Briton followed him out of the tent, his body leaking blood from wounds that had reopened in the struggle. Armed with a surgeon’s scalpel, the man wore the maniacal grin of a patriot still anxious to strike a blow at his enemy, even while in his extremity. Arthur helped him to lie down on the ground before he fell, and then turned to enter the hospital tent.
Pushing through the loose entry flap, Arthur came to an abrupt halt, for several women with sword cuts lay moaning on the bloodstained canvas floor. The warrior who had inflicted the damage was almost invisible under a heaving mass of nurses who had sworn to tend the sick and cause no harm. Arthur watched aghast as one woman screamed in triumph and held up a single blue eyeball in a blood-stained fist. Her long nails were thick with the man’s blood from the cuts they had inflicted on him, and her face was vicious with the gleam of crazed revenge.
Then he felt a sting across the forearm, followed immediately by a crushing blow which felled him to one knee. As he rolled away from the Saxon who had attacked him from behind, he realised his right arm was broken. Thanking the gods that Germanus had taught him to use both hands in combat, he cast aside the stolen sword and sprang to his feet to meet the Saxon’s second rush, the Dragon Knife in his left hand. Just as he reached him the Saxon stumbled, and in that moment’s vulnerability Arthur slashed at his throat. The Saxon dropped like a stone, spurting arterial blood.
Arthur glanced down at the body, still twitching on the canvas floor, and saw a small dart-shaped object sticking out of the man’s thigh. Either a healer or one of the women had thrown a surgical tool at him when they realised that Arthur was in imminent danger.
I’d be dead now if someone hadn’t thrown that knife, Arthur thought, for the blow knocked the Saxon off balance. I never saw him coming, so I’ll need to develop that fighter’s extra sense that Germanus keeps talking about. I’ll be fucking useless as a warrior without it.
Even though he didn’t say it out loud, Arthur took heart and pleasure from the word, for it made him feel manly. But he knew his mother would have cuffed his ear for the curse, as would Father Lorcan, a man who swore like an ignorant savage at every available opportunity, his calling notwithstanding.
With a quick, muttered thanks to Fortuna and her caprices, Arthur left the tent and settled back into the fighting crouch which was now second nature. His right arm throbbed with a steady ache and screamed with outrage if he moved it, so he thrust his hand carefully into his iron-studded tunic to support it before parrying a savage thrust from a slightly smaller Saxon. Reckless with the thrill of battle, he grinned madly, although his knees were weak from loss of blood and he felt light headed. If he was destined to perish on this damned hill, he was grimly determined to take as many Saxons with him as possible.
Feigning an all-too-real weakness which caused the Saxon to rush at him and come within reach of the hungry Dragon Knife, Arthur sliced at the warrior’s face and saw it open and bloom like a strange, red flower. One hand holding his chin together and blood trickling down over his throat, the man charged again, maddened with pain and rage, so Arthur slashed again, opening the hapless warrior’s face from the eyebrow to the throat, almost losing his grip on the Dragon Knife in the process. Then, as if by magic, the reeling Saxon disappeared under the hooves of a war horse and was swept out of Arthur’s sight. And so, anti-climactically, the small battle at the top of the hill was over.
A troop of cavalry swept across the hilltop, their swords glimmering in the moonlight as they cut down the remaining Saxons. Bedwyr was in the van of the charge and could see his foster-son through the slits in his helmet as the boy swung the Dragon Knife around his head in a glittering circle. Arthur’s face was as pale as newly bleached linen, and his hair was a wild nimbus around his head and shoulders.
The lad has turned into a man, Bedwyr thought. How will my Elayne feel now that her chick has grown into an eagle? But Bedwyr knew the answer already, for it is easier to stop the wind or the rain than it is to gainsay the nature of a young man. When Arthur’s voice broke and his beard grew, Elayne’s boy would be gone. And, if this momentary glimpse was any indication, he’d be off with the warriors.
In the aftermath of the attack on the British field hospital, Arthur was alternately lauded and castigated for his reckless bravery. White with reaction, Ector was far harsher in his treatment of Arthur than he had originally intended. ‘You were foolish enough to face fully armed Saxons without a helmet, Arthur? Are your wits lacking? From what Germanus saw during the melee, your sword broke, you didn’t consider using a shield and you didn’t buckle your armour. Well? What excuses do you have for your execrable behaviour?’
‘But there wasn’t time. I had to . . .’
‘Had to what? Didn’t you consider for one moment that it would have saved many lives if you had alerted the guard? Instead, you took action without anticipating the results. Someone should have brought the warning to us at once, for we had a whole army at the foot of the hill. I’ve seen you run, Arthur, and for a great lump of a lad you’re as fleet as the wind. You could have alerted the cavalry long before they heard the watch bell and saw my father’s tent burning. How many stretcher bearers died because you wanted a piece of the glory?’
Even Bedwyr blanched a little at the harshness of the criticism, but the Arden Knife could see how much Ector had been rattled by Arthur’s brush with death. He actually loves my boy, Bedwyr thought. He really does. It’s not just a pose for political expediency.
‘I didn’t have time, Lord Ector. The Saxons were upon us before we knew they were there, and we only had a few armed men to protect the healers. I never thought . . .’
‘You’re right there, boy. You didn’t think! Do you believe you can be replaced? Well, you can’t! It takes generations to grow a man of your promise, and who knows what might happen in the future? If my father and I should die in battle, you’re meant to become the fucking regent! My mother can’t rule in Aeddan’s place and my grandmother’s too old. Who will protect my three-year-old son? Who will protect his sisters and his mother? So when will you face the fact that you are thirteen years of age – and your safety is of paramount importance to the future of the tribes?’
Against his will, Arthur felt tears begin to prickle at the corners of his eyes and he was terrified that he would cry. Such shame would be impossible to bear, so he steeled himself to listen to Ector’s insults, and told himself that he had earned every harsh word.
‘I’m sorry, Lord Ector,’ he replied steadily. ‘But I was trying to do the right thing. How can anyone think of everything in the heat of a battle?’
‘Welcome to the world of the leader and the warrior,’ Ector snapped. ‘That’s what I must do, and that’s what my father Bran does. It’s what Bedwyr does. You must, as King Artor was known to say, get over the heavy ground as lightly as you can. You put yourself at risk, and your actions prolonged the battle.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Arthur brushed his eyes with his good hand. �
��I’m sorry. I’ll work harder and I’ll try to learn everything I need to know. I’m sorry!’
‘Enough, Ector,’ Bran interrupted roughly. ‘The boy has apologised.’ Everyone present was surprised, because Bran rarely took Arthur’s part, having a natural distrust of the youth because of his birth. ‘The boy has admitted his fault like a man, as he should, but in his favour he alerted those warriors on the hilltop to the presence of danger, else the Saxons would have killed everyone up there before the watch realised the threat to the healers. He has never faced an attack in the darkness, and he had no idea how to respond. He might have put himself at risk, but you can’t put old heads on young shoulders. The boy did his best.’
Ector ground his teeth, but then opened his clenched fists and visibly forced himself to relax. He even managed a slight grin. A little embarrassed by his emotional outburst, he reached towards the distressed boy, who was obviously on the point of weeping, and took him into his arms in a rough, comradely hug.
‘I spoke harshly because we nearly lost you and the hospital. If truth be told, I’m also very angry with myself. I’d happily lose a thousand hospitals before I’d see you hurt, Arthur. It never occurred to me that anything like this would happen, because the Saxons usually avoid night attacks and I would have expected them to consider such a strategy to be a slur on their honour. But as commander I should have taken precautions, especially when Germanus asked for an armed troop to carry out patrols around the hill. Let’s shake hands, Arthur, and we’ll say no more about our lapses.’
Flushed and embarrassed, Arthur shook his kinsman’s hand and swore allegiance with his whole heart, accepting the blame for what he had done at a time when most men would have been indignant or resentful at their treatment. Nor did he lose any honour by this free admission, for every man present knew that he would be a fine warrior and leader once he had learned to think before he acted. Secretly, Bedwyr’s heart swelled with pride when he thought of the level-headed courage his son had displayed.
‘Now get yourself off to the healers and have that arm seen to. I can tell from here that it’s broken, and the love-tap on it will need to be sewn together.’ Ector grinned like the boy he had been before care and responsibility started to create lines in his forehead at the grand old age of twenty-five.
‘You’ve collected a respectable number of scars, Arthur, but I’d prefer you didn’t try to collect any more,’ Bran added with more kindness than usual. ‘Tomorrow we bury our dead. If the Jutes wish to recover the bodies of their fallen comrades, as is their custom, they will pay for the privilege. As for the Saxons, their remains will be burned. I wouldn’t leave them to scavengers, even though they fight like animals.’
‘We ride the next day, son, so you must be ready to sit astride a horse,’ Bedwyr said baldly. ‘Can you do it? If need be, I can organise a place for you in a wagon.’
Arthur flinched at the idea and shook his head vehemently. ‘No, Father. I’ll return to Arden like a man – even if I’m not one yet.’ His final addition was accompanied by a rueful grin.
‘Good lad.’ As Arthur started to move towards the healers’ tent, Bedwyr stopped him with a quick tap on the uninjured shoulder. ‘Your birth father is swelling with pride in the lands beyond the shadows where the heroes dwell, for you are everything he would have wanted in a son. Although I’m not your sire, I’m unspeakably relieved that you’re relatively unhurt, Arthur. I’m so proud of your courage that I could burst. Don’t mind Ector’s harsh words. He was horrified by the thought of how easily you could have been killed and he over-reacted. When you are a man and a leader, try to remember this day and how you felt when Ector berated you. Don’t do it to anyone else.’
Then Bedwyr patted Arthur’s cheek and cleared his throat in embarrassment before stalking off, leaving his son to wipe away a sudden gush of tears.
Few men in the British camp took Ector’s jaundiced view of Arthur’s part in the Saxon attack. Germanus was the centre of attention as he filled a bowl of half-heated stew, composed mostly of horsemeat, and regaled his eager audience with his recollections of the battle.
‘I’d not say a word of praise to young Arthur’s face, him being in training and only a student of the sword, you understand?’ The listening warriors nodded their approval of such sensible treatment, for too much praise might go to the head of a stripling. ‘I’d also prefer that he doesn’t become too full of himself, if you know what I mean. I’ve seen many promising young warriors spoiled because they’re told how good they are before they’re ready to wear the mantle of hero. Damn me, but the boy was just so good.’
Once again, the audience of hard-bitten fighting men nodded in agreement, for soldiers understand the difficulties of training a lad with extraordinary talent, but they were curious to hear the whole tale of the battle on the hill.
‘How good was he, Germanus?’ a captain of cavalry, Selwyn of Glevum, asked eagerly. Normally, he gave Bedwyr’s mercenary a wide berth, having little trust in barbarians, especially those who fought for coin. But his opinion had changed, for by all accounts Germanus had killed four men on the crown of the hill and proved himself to be a warrior of distinction.
‘The boy predicted the Saxons would attack during the night some hours before it actually happened,’ Germanus began, but when he saw several men cross themselves he hastily amended his statement. The boy needed no taint of superstition to damage his relationship with warriors who could, one day, come under his command in a future conflict.
‘There was no magic – he saw a weakness in our defences and suggested to me that any Saxon who wanted to inflict major damage on us might attack the hospital. The boy is very sharp, so I had a word with the guard commander. He put five men on duty, purely to protect the healers. As it turned out, five men weren’t enough, but without them I wouldn’t be sitting here eating this slop.’
‘Don’t you be insulting my stew, Germanus. I guarantee you’ve eaten far worse in some of them heathen places you’ve been in. Iomhar ap Gwalchmal stands by his food, and I take exception to your rudeness. Now hand that plate back.’
‘Don’t be daft, Iomhar. I was only joking,’ Germanus apologised quickly. ‘The stew is fine and it’d be a pity to waste a dead horse. At any road, Arthur’s still a boy, and like all lads he couldn’t sleep after the excitement of the day. Old soldiers like us know better than to waste any time when we can be at rest, but this was his first battle.’
Germanus sighed, obviously reminiscing over the distant time when he too was a tyro in the arts of death. Respectfully, his audience permitted him his momentary return to his past, but cleared throats and impatient feet and hands soon indicated their eagerness to hear more. One enterprising young man filled Germanus’s cup with ale, which he drained with obvious satisfaction.
‘The first I knew of the attack was when I heard Arthur bellow the alarm. Damn me, but his voice is breaking young, and I remember thinking how odd the warning sounded. Then, when I was dressed and armed and came out of the tent, I was under attack immediately. The boy didn’t even have a shield or a helmet when they came at him.’
‘Heavens! He must have been crazy,’ Selwyn murmured. ‘I’ve got a lad of thirteen back in Glevum. He’s training as a blacksmith because I don’t want him dying young on the battlefield. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, but he’d panic for sure in such a situation.’
‘Young Arthur will be hearing from me about his failure to protect himself once his wounds are healed, because going into combat without a helmet is plain suicidal. Damn me, but he was daft. Still, he acquitted himself like a grown man.’ Germanus smiled. ‘I didn’t have time to see anything much of Arthur as those buggers charged over the crest of the hill, but I watched him kill the first man who reached him. Very neat it was too. He took out the bastard’s knee with that Dragon Knife of his before spitting him through the side with one stroke, just as I taught him to do. It was as good as you’d ever hope to see, and he didn’t even pause to watch his m
an fall.’
‘But he’s just thirteen!’ a voice exclaimed from the audience.
‘Aye, but he’s born for the warrior’s trade or I’m a granddam in my dotage,’ Germanus replied, ignoring several ribald comments as the listeners tried to imagine an old woman with bristling, greying moustaches.
‘I saw him,’ a bandaged warrior called from the edge of the audience. The man’s face was grey and he had obviously received a nasty sword cut across his ribs, sufficient to break several and cause considerable loss of blood, but no lasting hurt. ‘I was one of the guards . . . only two of us survived. I thank the gods that Arthur was alert, otherwise we’d all have been killed, including the thirty injured men in the hospital. Yes, I saw him with his amber hair spread out like a halo of blood in the light of the burning tent. I’ll never forget it for as long as I live. For one moment there, it seemed as if the old Dragon King had come again to save us, just as he promised he would.’
Respectful room was made for the guardsman beside the fire and a comfortable stool was handed into the inner circle for him. The cook found another wooden bowl and filled it to the brim with more of his greasy horsemeat stew.
‘Eat well, good sir. You need the warmth, and the meat will help to replace your lost blood. Ignore this Frankish oaf – it’s very good.’
‘Thank you, cookie. I’m famished and tired, both at once, but I don’t believe I can sleep. Who would credit that the Saxons would attack at night?’
‘Perhaps they’re learning from us, or there’s a thane with a little more sense than most of his kind,’ Germanus muttered irritably. ‘Tell us what you saw of my boy. I’ll not comment on who his antecedents might have been, but he’s a natural warrior when it comes to his use of weapons. And he doesn’t show any strain when he’s under pressure.’
‘Not him! He took out his next man, a hulking brute who outmatched him in every way, breaking his sword in the encounter. I was helping our commander, only a boy himself, but a kinsman of the Deceangli king. My lad had taken an axe blow that came near to taking his arm off at the shoulder. I knew he couldn’t survive the wound so I dragged him out of the way in case I stepped on him. Your boy went down on his knees and attacked his opponent’s balls from below, being outmatched in strength, reach and weaponry. Ah, but it was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.’