by Joan Wolf
Father and son were alone in the audience chamber of the praetorium. Uther was seated in his chair on the dais and Arthur was standing before him, his head bare, his thin, muscular hands hanging empty by his sides. He had just come from a meeting with Claudius Virgilius and so Uther’s words were no surprise.
“I realize that, my lord,” he replied. “Give me two thousand foot soldiers and the cavalry unit I have been forming.”
Uther never had enough breath anymore. “Two thousand?” he almost whispered. “Lot is said to have twice that number.”
Arthur smiled. “If you can give me more than two thousand, I’ll gladly take them.”
“No.” Uther’s face was like a mask. “I cannot spare you more than two thousand.”
“I will raise the garrisons at Corbridge and Luguvallium as well,” Arthur explained. “And we may gain some more recruits as we march north.”
Uther tried to smile. “You are taking Prince Bedwyr and his men, I gather? And your friend Caius?”
“They wouldn’t miss this chance for the world,” Arthur replied lightly. He hesitated and then stepped up onto the dais. He knelt and bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said. “Father.”
Uther put his hand upon the shining black hair. “I wish it was all to do again,” he said achingly.
He felt the quiver that ran through the boy’s body. Then Arthur looked up. “I will do my best,” he said, and his gray eyes were clear and fearless. He picked up his father’s hand, kissed it, and rose to his feet. “Good-bye, Father.”
Unable to answer, Uther merely nodded. Arthur turned and walked out of the room.
“We march in two days,” Arthur said to Cai and Bedwyr later in the afternoon. He had summoned his lieutenants to his room as soon as he had had further speech with Claudius Virgilius. Both Bedwyr and Cai were in the leather tunics of army dress, although they were not wearing their mail coats. Arthur wore his usual white wool long-sleeved tunic with the leather belt Morgan had made for his fifteenth birthday. The table in front of him was piled with papers. Cabal, the hound puppy, lay at his feet, his tail occasionally thumping as he responded to a change in the tone of his master’s voice.
“The king has given me the Eighth, Ninth, Twelfth, and Fifteenth foot regiments. And we can take our cavalry.” Arthur looked at Bedwyr. “That is the one hundred and fifty from Wales as well as the fifty from the King’s units.”
Bedwyr nodded. He was lounging in his chair, his long leather-covered legs stretched out in front of him. “How many men is Lot reported to have?” he asked.
Arthur’s reply was matter-of-fact. “At least three thousand from Lothian and Manau Guotodin. I don’t know how many tribesmen.”
Bedwyr grinned. “It should be fun.”
Cai was not smiling. “We may be able to raise more troops in Elmet and Rheged.”
Arthur lifted a black eyebrow. “Reports are that the kings of Elmet and Rheged are waiting to see who comes out the victor before declaring themselves.”
“Cowards.” Bedwyr’s blue eyes were full of contempt.
“They call it prudent,” said Cai.
“Well, whatever one chooses to call it, I’m afraid we can’t rely on much help there. I have better hopes of the garrisons at Corbridge and Luguvallium. We should be able to pick up additional troops there, troops who know the country.” Arthur’s voice was businesslike. “Now,” he went on, “I have here the rosters of all of the companies we will be taking, with their officers.” He touched one of the neatly stacked rolls before him. “And a list of all the supplies we shall require.” The pointing finger touched another roll. Bedwyr stopped lounging in his chair and sat up as Arthur began to issue a list of instructions. When the two young men left the room twenty minutes later they had enough to do to keep them busy until they marched.
Waiting in the corridor outside Arthur’s door was a soldier they both recognized. He gave them a friendly grin. “Finished right on time, I see,” he said cheerfully, “I’m next in line. The prince wants to know all about the terrain in the north.”
Both Bedwyr and Cai watched as Uther’s mapmaker, Gerontius, knocked on the door of Arthur’s room. At the command to enter, his attitude changed magically from breezy insouciance to respect. Bedwyr and Cai exchanged an amused glance before they went off to carry out their respective commands.
Arthur finished with his interviews and his paperwork at midnight and, exhausted, finally permitted himself to go to bed. He awoke two hours later, his limbs still leaden with weariness but his brain infuriatingly active.
It was like this every night. He slept like a man drugged for two hours and then lay awake counting the hours until dawn, when he must rise and face another day.
He thought again of his lists, of the plan of march he and Gerontius had mapped out, of the officers who must be spoken to and encouraged. His brain raced and the blood pounded feverishly through his tired body. Sleep was impossible. He could force his mind to go blank and his limbs to lie quietly, but still sleep would not come.
He could not continue to live like this. He put his hand down and let it rest on the warm head of the hound who slept beside his bed.
He was trapped. It was like living in a dark cave from which escape was impossible. The weight of the pain was too much. No one could be expected to bear it.
The weight of her absence. It was not getting better, it was getting worse.
He could not continue to live like this. Beside him, the puppy snorted in his sleep. Arthur got out of bed and went to light the lamp on his table. He would go over the list of supplies once more.
Chapter 14
“WHERE is she?” Arthur, with a wild look in his eyes, burst into Merlin’s room at the praetorium. It was almost midnight and Merlin was in bed; Arthur’s army was due to leave Venta the following morning.
Merlin, who had not been asleep, stared up at the figure of his grandson looming over him. The oil lamp held in Arthur’s hand clearly illuminated the boy’s face. Merlin felt a stab of fear. He struggled to a sitting position and shoved a pillow behind his back. “Do you mean Morgan?” he managed to say with an assumption of calm.
“Of course I mean Morgan! I sent a courier to Avalon and he just returned with the news that she is not there. Where is she? What have you done with her?”
Merlin’s eyes closed, an involuntary reflex of relief. It was all right. Arthur did not know. He looked at the boy once more and answered, “I sent her into Wales for a change of scene. This has been difficult for her too, Arthur. You have your work and the distraction of a new place and new faces. Morgan has been at Avalon surrounded by memories.”
The boy’s slim frame was shaken by the force of his breathing. “Why didn’t someone tell me she was going?”
“I was supposed to, but I’m afraid, in all the excitement of the army preparations, I forgot. I’m sorry.”
He had not forgotten, of course. He had never had any intention of telling Arthur. He looked now at his grandson’s tense face. He might have known Arthur would keep some sort of surveillance on Morgan.
Arthur’s brow was still lined. Merlin’s easy answer had not completely reassured him. The danger, Merlin realized, had not yet been averted. “Why Wales?” Arthur asked.
“Morgan’s mother brought some holdings in Wales as her dowry,” Merlin answered with elaborate patience. “Since the property will be Morgan’s one day, I suggested she go and look at it. Morgause went with her. They were both in need of something to do, and this seemed to be a good solution.” He made himself stop talking. If he talked too much, he would only increase Arthur’s suspicion.
In the little silence that followed, Merlin studied his grandson’s face. There were hollows beneath the high cheekbones, and the shadow of a coming man’s beard on his upper lip and jaw. The outward marks of fatigue were unmistakable.
“You will never survive the march north if you don’t get some sleep!” Merlin exclaimed. “You’re driving yourself too hard, boy.”
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Arthur’s smile was not pleasant. “Where in Wales?”
“Powys. The holding is called Dinas-Cymri.”
Arthur nodded slowly. Merlin refrained from letting out his breath in relief. Even if Arthur sent someone to Wales to check on her, as he undoubtedly would, it would be all right. Morgan and Morgause were to exchange identities on the way to Dinas-Cymri. If news reached Arthur that one of the sisters was pregnant, the name he heard would be that of Morgause.
“When will she come home?” Arthur asked.
“In the spring. I don’t want them traveling through the mountains in winter. And it will be as well to have Morgause out of the way until we can make some arrangements about Lothian.” He added after a moment, “The boys are still at Avalon.”
Arthur’s expression became slightly more friendly. “You are very confident, sir.”
“Yes. I am.” Merlin allowed something of what he was feeling to color his voice. “I wish I were coming with you, but that is for my sake, not yours. You will do very well without me. However, about Lothian . . . ”
He spoke his mind and Arthur listened with his usual courteous attention. When his grandfather had finished, Arthur nodded. “I will remember what you have said. I am sorry as well that you cannot come, but . . . ” Gray eyes held blue in perfect comprehension. “I fear you will be needed more here in Venta,” Arthur concluded.
“Yes,” said Merlin. Unspoken but perfectly understood between them was the knowledge that Uther would not live to see his son again. With Arthur away in the north, it would be left to Merlin to deal with the government at Venta. Merlin ran a hand through his still plentiful gray locks and frowned. “Now, get yourself to bed, my boy,” he ordered gruffly. “You need sleep—”
“Yes,” returned Arthur. “I will” And turned away too quickly for Merlin to see the bitterness that twisted his mouth.
It was gray and overcast when the line of troops marched out of Venta the following morning and headed north. In leaving Venta, they were leaving Rome. There would be no more square forums surrounded by colonnades containing shops and offices. No more public baths, or inns offering good food and beer to the traveler or to the farmer come to market his goods. Venta was one of the last functioning cities in Britain, held that way solely because it had been the center of government under both Ambrosius and Uther. Luguvallium, their destination, was but a legionary fortress with none of the amenities they enjoyed at Venta.
Their march north, however, would be greatly facilitated by one of Rome’s greatest legacies to all her outposts of empire. They would march on Roman roads, first north to Calleva, then west to Glevum, where they would take the road that led directly north to Luguvallium, the last British stronghold before the wall.
The foot soldiers marched four abreast, wearing their leather tunics and mail coats and carrying weapons that shone with careful polishing. The cavalry led the way, with the supply wagons and camp followers bringing up the rear. Arthur, mounted on Dun, rode up and down the line of men, assessing the mood, his sharp eyes checking the equipment and the readiness of the weapons.
It rained, but they were British and used to the rain. The mood in the tents when they camped for the nights was cheerful. The food was hot and plentiful and the young prince appeared to know what he was doing. The soldiers all found themselves unaccountably cheered whenever they caught sight of their commander’s black head, white tunic, and scarlet cloak. He knew just what to say, too, to make a man laugh.
They marched into Rheged, through the humpbacked bare uplands that were its chief feature, and saw no sign of the king or any of his followers. The only people besides themselves they encountered were a smattering of hill farmers whose holdings overlooked the road.
They were within twenty miles of Luguvallium when Arthur called a halt to the day’s march. They camped in a small valley called Glein and had finished putting up tents and were eating their dinners when scouts brought Arthur the news that the garrison in Luguvallium had declared for Lot. As had the five hundred men at Corbridge.
It was not news Arthur had expected to hear. He was not happy. “They are all men of the north,” Cai said slowly as they sat in Arthur’s tent discussing the unwelcome report.
“They fought with Uther in the spring campaign!” Bedwyr said angrily.
“Presumably because Lot fought for Uther also.” Arthur’s voice was cool. “It’s a pity, but it seems we will have to do without them.”
“More than that.” Cai’s normally calm face was looking extremely worried. “We will have to fight them.”
“How many men does that give Lot now?” Bedwyr demanded of Arthur.
“By all the accounts we can discover, about forty-five hundred,” Arthur replied.
Bedwyr swore. It was more than twice their own strength. Arthur looked at him and raised a black eyebrow. “But we have the cavalry.”
Bedwyr ran an impatient hand through his hair, dislodging some golden strands to fall across his forehead. “The cavalry is not trained,” he said. “You know that, Arthur.”
Arthur looked into the arrogant face of the man he had chosen to be his cavalry leader and replied, “You will be able to do what I need.” Bedwyr’s nostrils flared, and then he nodded.
“You’ll think of something,” Cai said to the companion of his youth. The worried frown had lifted from his brow. “You always do.”
Arthur produced a shadow of his old grin. Then he said, “I need to talk to Gerontius.” He rose to his feet as his two commanders stood up. They looked down on him from their superior height and he said to Bedwyr reassuringly, “If all else fails, I’m very good at ducking and hiding. Ask Cai.”
“Shall I send Gerontius?” Cai asked him in return.
Arthur shook his head. “I rather think he must be waiting,” he replied, and indeed, as Cai and Bedwyr left the tent, they saw the little mapmaker waiting outside.
All of Arthur’s careful planning with Gerontius was in vain, however, as he was awakened the following morning with the news that Lot had made a secret march through the night and was now but seven miles away. Arthur swore and called for his horse.
As the horns roused his army and his officers prepared their men for battle, Arthur reconnoitered the local terrain. Then, when the troops were drawn up and ready to march, he called in Bedwyr and Cai to look at the map he had drawn.
“Here,” he said, pointing to a place on the map, “this is where we’ll put the center. It’s a relatively strong position; there are a lot of bushes and rocks to shelter behind.” He looked at Cai. “The center will be your command.”
Cai was deeply surprised; traditionally the center was the commander’s post. “I am honored—” he was beginning when Arthur cut in.
“Don’t be. I’ve given you the worst job of all. You will have the Twelfth foot.”
Cai and Bedwyr stared at him in stupefaction. The center was also traditionally the position of the greatest strength. “Five hundred men and my banner,” Arthur continued grimly. “I want Lot to deliver his chief attack against you, Cai. I want him to think that is where I am. And I want you to hold him for as long as you possibly can.”
Bedwyr recovered his voice. “Those are eight-to-one odds.”
“I know.” Arthur turned to the Celt. “Bedwyr, the cavalry will be stationed here, in this hollow. The landscape will screen you from Lot’s view.” The finger pointed to another mark on the map. “I will be here, with the rest of the foot. Behind the hill.” The gray eyes scanned both faces.
“From your position, Bedwyr, you will be able to see me. When I give the signal, you are to ride like devils out of hell and smash into Lot’s forces.” Bedwyr nodded and Arthur continued, “But not until I give the signal. Understood?”
Bedwyr looked down his arrogant nose. “Understood.”
Arthur turned to his oldest friend. “The brunt of this is on you, Cai. You must draw them on. And you don’t have enough men to do it properly.”
Cai grinne
d. “Well, when you see me sinking, you can ride to the rescue.”
Arthur smiled back. “I will.”
It was one of those cobalt-blue mornings you sometimes get in the north, but Arthur would have preferred mist and rain. The entire success of his plan hinged on Lot being made to think that the bulk of Arthur’s forces were in the center with Cai.
He knew he had affronted several of Uther’s officers by putting Cai in command of the center. Cai had been only a junior officer under Uther, and Arthur’s policy had been to be as conciliating as possible toward army veterans, but still he had put Cai in command. He knew Cai, knew his mind and his capabilities. Cai had the fortitude to take punishment and not retaliate. It was something Bedwyr, for example, could never do. There might perhaps have been someone among Uther’s senior officers who could have commanded the center successfully today, but Arthur did not know any of them well enough to be sure. He knew Cai and he knew Cai could do it.
Arthur had all his men in position by the time the skirling sound of the Lothian pipes came echoing down the glen. From his vantage point on higher ground, Arthur could see Bedwyr and the cavalry hidden in the hollow further up the glen. Lot should march right past him, leaving his rear exposed to Bedwyr’s surprise attack. Arthur could not see Cai, who was to the right of both his command and Bedwyr’s, on the other side of the hill that was screening Arthur and his men from Lot.
There was a shout of triumph as Lot’s forces spotted Cai’s banner. The war pipes skirled even louder. Then the noise began to move down the glen in their direction. The pipes and the roaring from thousands of throats came even closer. Lot was attacking the center with the full force of his army.
In the moment before the battle was enjoined, Arthur had time to remember what everyone else had apparently forgotten: he had never yet been in a battle himself, let alone commanded one.
The deafening noise from the far side of the hill was suddenly augmented by the sound of sword clashing upon sword. Then, more horribly, came the shrieks of the wounded. Arthur turned Dun over to a subordinate to hold while he went to lie on his stomach at the top of the hill to watch.