Medraut

by David Pilling

  Artorius seized the advantage, and his veterans knew their business. Their disciplined companies drove into the milling herd of bodies and hacked men down. The spathas rose and fell with the grim regularity of scythes at harvest, piling up ramparts of bodies. No such iron discipline was shown by their allies, the ceitherne of Munster. These fought half-naked, armed with hatchets and knives. They shrieked with the pleasure of killing, crawled under the bellies of horses to cut their hamstrings, slit the throats of wounded men on the ground.

  “No!” howled Medraut, his voice lost in the throng, the chaos of slaughter and destruction. His army was disintegrating before his eyes. With it went his cherished destiny, the only thing that kept him sane. He was forced to fight for his life. A Scotti warrior leaped at him, stabbed at his thigh with a dagger. Medraut cleaved the man’s skull with his spatha, but more came. They clawed at his bridle with bloody hands, tried to saw through the girths of his saddle. Once they got him on the ground, he was a dead man. Medraut hacked at the bearded faces with furious desperation, gasped when a spear thrust at him and slashed his face open. Neighing in terror, his horse burst from the throng and carried him out of danger.

  Medraut fled. It was that or die. He took one last, despairing glance over his shoulder at the dragon banner, rearing over the chaos on the beach, and cursed his fate. Yet he was still alive. Beaten, but alive.

  16.

  Once the fight on the beach was won, Artorius ordered the horses to be disembarked. While the animals were ferried ashore he rode up to the headland to view the remains of his wife. Bedwyr and two Companions went with him. He looked down at the pathetic naked corpse, still tied to the crucifix. Medraut’s slaves had dumped it when they fled.

  This was not Gwenhwyfar, he told himself; this could not be her, the young girl he fetched out of Powys, all those years ago. Bony and awkward she was then, barely sixteen, though with a certain poise. She also had courage, the trait Artorius admired most in anyone. Not many young girls would don armour and stand in the shieldwall. That was how Artorius first saw her. Bloodstained in borrowed mail, spear in hand, leading her warriors in battle. Tending to their wounds afterwards.

  I should have left you in Powys, thought Artorius. He noted the mass of wounds on her body. Stab-wounds inflicted by some frenzied madman. Gwenhwyfar must have bled to death in unspeakable pain and terror, screaming for help that never came.

  He dismounted, drew his knife and cut through the bonds on her wrists. His companions watched in silence.

  “Go,” he said, still on his knees, “fetch men with shovels. And a priest. We shall bury her here, beside the sea.”

  Artorius was left alone with his wife. Now the tears came, the waves of guilt and self-recrimination. His multiple failures cut him like knives. He had failed to love Gwenhwyfar, failed to provide her with children, failed to protect her against Diwrnach, failed to protect her against Medraut. Now she was dead, and her blood was on his head. There would be no forgiveness, no redemption, in this life or the next. Artorius would bear this remorse forever, as long as any part of him existed.

  He gazed into this eternal horror. For a moment, he was tempted to draw Caledfwlch and fall upon the blade. Everlasting torment in Hell, the penalty for self-destruction, was all he deserved.

  As ever, duty dragged him back. He had a kingdom to save, enemies to kill. His own son, a snake he had nurtured and reared and placed among the great ones of his palace. The kings of Britannia, men he had trusted and given seats at his council, when he might have destroyed them all. Artorius could barely comprehend such treachery. Such hatred.

  Gwenhwyfar’s burial was conducted in near-silence. The priest, a young man who had volunteered to accompany the army to Hibernia, looked pale and frightened as he mumbled the liturgy. Artorius and Bedwyr lowered the body, now wrapped in the red cloak of a Companion, into the freshly dug grave. Twelve veterans formed an honour guard.

  Bedwyr and the veterans openly wept. Artorius’ well of tears had run dry. He was dead to sorrow, all his passions spent, all his hopes and labours fallen into ruin. The world was stripped of meaning. There was only revenge, and after that the peace of a monastery. Or the grave.

  Once the last rites were over, Artorius strode over to Llamrei and hoisted himself into the saddle.

  “We give chase,” he barked, “destroy their rearguard and turn east to Viroconium. Pick up our reserves there, march south and retake Caerleon.”

  There was iron in the High King’s voice. His men stared in awe at the burly golden figure on the black horse. The victor of Mount Badon, shield of Britannia. A few were overcome and knelt to lay their swords before him.

  “Viroconium must be under siege,” said Bedwyr, his eyes still red with tears. “It may have fallen by now, or surrendered.”

  “The garrison will not surrender,” snapped Artorius. “They are good men. Some of my best. We need them to destroy Cerdic and Medraut.”

  No more time was wasted. Once the horses were ready, Artorius took his cavalry in pursuit of their defeated enemies, following the trail of abandoned gear, hoofprints and the marks left by fleeing men. He didn’t spare another glance for the lonely burial mound on the high ridge overlooking the sea.

  * * *

  Thirty miles south-east of the beach, Artorius fell like a ravening wolf upon Medraut’s army. Unable to run forever, his enemies had pitched camp for the night, to eat and lick their wounds and hold desperate councils. Their camp was deep inland, on some high moorland bordered by forest. Medraut ordered his men to dig a ditch and erect a temporary stockade.

  The traitor was no fool, yet he underestimated his father. Artorius raced south with all his old speed, the terrifying pace that always baffled and spread panic among his enemies. Medraut’s men were still labouring on the ditch when his cavalry suddenly burst from the trees under the dim light of dusk. The tide of red-cloaked horsemen came at the gallop and vaulted over the unfinished ditch, spearing or riding down the labourers. In their wake came Artorius’ Hibernian allies, a horde of lightly armed ceitherne. The sky echoed to the wild yells of these men, the blowing of their horns, the screams of their victims.

  Medraut had enough experience of war to guard against sudden ambushes. He had ordered a single phalanx of spearmen to patrol the outskirts of the camp, and these men saved his army. They bravely formed line against the Companions. Artorius led charge after charge against the hedge of spears, hurling javelins before retreating to collect fresh missiles. The Scotti slingers came up and flung stones and darts at Medraut’s warriors. Many fell under the hail, but the gaps in the line were quickly filled, and the wall of spears refused to break.

  A red-haired giant stood in the middle of the line, encouraging his comrades by ferocious example. When the Companions charged, he strode forward to meet them, chopping down horses and riders with his axe. He wore only a light coat of mail, yet the stones and javelins rattled harmlessly off his enormous frame.

  Artorius instantly recognised the giant.

  “Amhar,” he snarled. “So he turned traitor as well. Is there no end to these serpents? Who else has betrayed me?”

  “Let me deal with him, lord king,” said Peredur. Before Artorius could respond, the young man slid from the saddle and went forward, alone, to meet Amhar between the battle-lines. His opponent grinned and raised his soaking axe in silent acceptance of the challenge.

  Artorius slammed his fist against his thigh in frustration. While this farce was played out, Medraut’s army escaped his grasp. Beyond the spears he could see men streaming out of the camp, some mounted, others leading their horses. They fled in wild rout, with little order or discipline, but could fight another day.

  “Bedwyr,” he shouted, “take your company and go after those wretches. Kill as many as you can. Don’t return until it gets too dark to see.”

  Bedwyr saluted and wheeled away. Moments later he led his troop south-east, around the outskirts of the encampment. While they hared off in pursuit, the air
rang to the clash of blades.

  Peredur and Amhar fought in silent fury. They were equally matched, both physically gigantic and possessed of monstrous strength. There was little skill or finesse in the combat; they simply hammered at each other, sword against axe. Peredur was on the defensive, crouched behind the thin oval of his shield. A weaker man would have been flattened within seconds, but Peredur stayed on his feet, calmly waiting his turn. The men of both armies roared encouragement at their champions.

  Strong as he was, Amhar could not fight with such sustained fury for long. When he started to tire, Peredur took advantage. The end was swift. He stepped in close, punched the hilt of his sword into Amhar’s right eye, drove the shield boss into his stomach. Amhar gasped and doubled over, all the air expelled from his lungs. Peredur stepped back and kicked him in the groin. The red-haired man dropped his axe and went over, hands clasped over his private agony.

  A wail of despair rose from his comrades; cheers from the Companions and Hibernians. Artorius spurred Llamrei forward.

  “Lay down your arms,” he yelled at the line of spearmen, “and you shall have mercy! Fight, and die where you stand. Your leaders have fled. Why shed your lifeblood for them? I will not repeat the offer.”

  After some hesitation, Medraut’s warriors meekly laid down their spears and knelt, heads bowed. The defeat of Amhar, coupled with the prospect of certain death if they continued to resist, had knocked all the fight out of them. Artorius nodded, satisfied.

  “Your masters are traitors,” he said in a less severe tone. “They broke their sacred oaths to the High King, and thus sacrificed their own right to kingship. You are released from your oaths of service to them, but not to me. Every one of you shall join my army. I have need of brave men.”

  The captives rose and were led off in files, escorted by infantry under the watchful eye of Maelwys.

  Artorius turned his attention to their beaten champion.

  “Pick that thing up and bring him to me,” he commanded. Two Companions dismounted and helped Peredur to heave Amhar’s dead weight off the ground. Together they dragged him before the High King.

  Amhar was still conscious. One eye was closed over by a mass of swollen purple flesh, where Peredur had struck it. The other glared up at Artorius with undisguised hatred. For the first time Artorius noticed the spiked slave collar clamped about Amhar’s neck.

  “Is that your reward?” he asked quietly. “The treasure you hoped to gain from Cerdic? You poor, empty-headed fool. What did you possibly hope to gain from betraying me?”

  Amhar didn’t answer. Instead he bared his teeth wide and hissed.

  He has run mad, Artorius thought sadly. It is time to end this.

  “Take off that collar,” he ordered Amhar’s captors. “Make him kneel.”

  While this was done, Artorius climbed down from the saddle and drew his knife. Amhar, who offered no resistance, knelt before him. Peredur had cut away the collar, exposing the white weal around his neck where it chafed against the flesh.

  “Stand back,” Artorius commanded. Peredur and the Companions obediently retreated, hands ready by their swords. Artorius stood behind the fallen giant and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

  “You are no son of mine,” he whispered. He drew the edge of his blade across Amhar’s throat, swift and clean. Hot red blood bubbled from the gash. Artorius seized a handful of the dying man’s hair and held his head upright for a moment. He watched the light fade from Amhar’s good eye. Then he let the massive body flop over into the dirt.

  “Leave it,” he said, wiping his knife on the hem of his cloak. “Let the carrion-eaters have him. Nothing shall remain of Amhar. No body, no grave, no memory. Let him vanish.”

  Shortly after dark Bedwyr returned, tired but exultant, with not a man lost from his troop.

  “We harried them for some ten miles,” he said breathlessly, “slew a hundred or more. Darkness saved the rest.”

  Artorius handed a wineskin to his exhausted friend, who took it and gulped down the contents. While he drank, the High King pondered.

  Medraut had suffered two bad defeats. Roughly half his army was gone. His chief ally, Maelgwn of Gwynedd, was dead. Yet the arch-traitor still lived, and escaped with most of his cavalry intact. Artorius could guess his son’s next move. Medraut would go south to join his ally, Cerdic. Only the Bretwalda could supply him with the reinforcements he needed to turn the tide of this war. Artorius grimaced. Thousands of Saxon warriors, mailed hearth-guards and spearmen. All young, eager to earn glory and renown, untainted by the defeats their fathers had suffered.

  And land. British land. The Saxons bred like rats. In another generation or two Cerdic’s folk would outgrow the part of Britannia they had conquered already. Even after Mount Badon, Artorius had always known they would one day push west again. He had hoped to hold off that day for as long as possible. Give his people the strength and the courage to hold out forever. Medraut’s greed, and his rank stupidity, threatened to bring about the conquest and enslavement of the entire British race.

  Not while I live, Artorius thought grimly.

  All his old energy returned in a flood. Age was nothing, just another enemy to be held at bay. He was the leader of battles once more, the only man who could shield Britannia from her legion of foes. At dawn the next day, Artorius set off on a lightning ride south-east across the entire length of Gwynedd. He followed the Roman roads, bypassing strongholds held by supporters of the late King of Gwynedd. These he left his infantry to deal with. Artorius’ target was Viroconium. Three days after his victory on the beach at Penllyn, his banner appeared before the walls of the beleaguered fortress-town. Viroconium was surrounded on all sides by a host of Saxons and their British allies. Perhaps news of Artorius’ victories had reached them, since they fled like fire before the first onset of his cavalry. They wailed in terror, died under the churning hoofs and stabbing spears. Artorius drove them without mercy, piled the ground high with corpses, chased the scattered survivors into the woods.

  When the enemy was swept clean away, he turned about and rode back to Viroconium. There he found the garrison reduced from eighty to sixty-seven, thirteen men having died in the siege. He took heart: this was more than he expected, and even a few score good cavalrymen were worth many times their number of infantry.

  “The enemy thought to starve us out,” explained the captain of the garrison. “They tried one or two assaults, but we whipped them back every time.”

  Artorius gave the man a gold circlet from his arm.

  “You did well,” he said, “and now must do even better. You and your men will join my army.”

  The captain, a grizzled veteran with a missing eye, looked startled. “All of us, lord king? If you strip the garrison, only the citizen militia will be left to guard Viroconium.”

  “It can’t be helped,” Artorius replied. “We need every man to retake Caerleon. The city must be recovered.”

  At any cost, he added silently. No city, no kingdom.

  17.

  “Once again you come crawling to me, little king, and beg for my help. Why should I give it?”

  Medraut stood before Cerdic in the Round Hall at Caerleon. The Bretwalda sat sprawled in the High King’s seat – my seat, thought Medraut – gnawing at the remains of a roast chicken. In his other hand, he grasped a hornful of mead.

  The hall was a wreck. Cerdic’s men had chopped up the Round Table and scattered the broken bits of timber all over the chamber, or carried them away as trophies. Just for good measure, they had also pissed and dunged on the floor. Most of the mess had been cleaned up, but the hall still reeked with their ordure. Ox- and sheep-bones from the Saxon victory feast lay scattered about, left for Cerdic’s hounds to snap up.

  “We had an agreement,” Medraut replied sullenly. “You made me High King, and now you sit in my chair. Are you an oath-breaker?”

  Medraut was amazed and horrified at his own courage. To throw such an accusation at Cerdic was to invi
te death. To his relief, the Saxon seemed more amused than angry.

  “We did have an agreement,” he replied after a long swallow of mead, “and it is not I who broke it. You promised to destroy Artorius. What happened? He smashed you in two battles, slew your chief ally, and chased you off with your tail tucked between your legs. Now I hear he has broken the siege of Viroconium. Killed my good men. Slaughtered them like sheep.”

  Cerdic straightened in his chair. His little eyes lost their mazed look, and his face took on that dangerous, shut-in expression Medraut had learned to know and fear.

  “Not a drop of Saxon blood,” he hissed between his teeth. “That was another of your promises, little king. My people would not suffer a single casualty.”

  Cerdic slammed his fist on the arm of the chair.

  “Over a hundred of my thegns died at Viroconium,” he roared, “and the gods know how many lesser men!”

  Medraut stood firm.

  “Britons died too,” he answered. “Our people fought together and died together. Their blood mingled on the ground. Like it or not, my king, our people are allies now. Desert me, and you will have to face Artorius alone. He is coming. Have no doubt of that.”

  The Bretwalda glared for a moment, then tossed back the last of his mead and threw away the horn. It bounced and rolled on the flagstones of Artorius’ ravaged hall. He fingered the amulet on his neck.

  “When I was a young man, I swore an oath to all the gods that I would save my people from Artorius. He seemed unstoppable then. A demon in battle, wielding a magical sword handed down from the Caesars. Twelve battles he fought, twelve crushing victories. My kin were slaughtered, my brothers sent to the long house. Of all the sons of Hengist, only I remained. Cerdic the half-breed, whelped on some British wench my father captured on a raid.”