by Whyte, Jack
He had no choice other than to keep moving south, hoping against hope that he would be able to swing southwestward and ensure the safety of Ygraine's party before the southern army came in sight. Tight-lipped, he issued strict orders that any fighting that occurred on the march must be purely defensive. On no account were any of his squadrons to be committed to an attack that would take them away from their defensive positions.
It galled Uther to appear so passive, and he had to fight down the black and bitter anger of his resentment lest it affect his own people. For the time being, however, there was no other responsible course open to him.
The first attacks, two of them coming simultaneously on the west and east flanks, hit them less than two hours into the first leg of their journey. They were jagged, undisciplined affairs, mere mobs of armed men rushing against the moving column with no visible order and obviously no central plan governing their movements. Each attack was stopped short and destroyed by co-ordinated cavalry charges. But that was only the beginning. Similar attacks followed, none of them posing any great threat to the security or good order of the moving column, but all of them cumulatively resulting in a general slowing of progress, since the speed of the column was governed by the need to keep the defending cavalry close to the main train. Dedalus's infantry were frustrated by the fact that all they could do was watch and keep moving forward, for their new commander allowed them no opportunity to become involved in the lighting. Huw Strongarm's bowmen fared little better; their orders were as rigid as those governing the foot soldiers. Uther kept them close, and they were forbidden to shoot at anything other than targets too close to miss. There were three wagons with the column that carried nothing but spare arrows, tightly bound and heaped together and then bound again like piles of firewood, but Uther knew he had to hoard those. He could see no benefit in squandering precious arrows on moving enemies who were too far away to hit.
Towards mid-morning they arrived at a river, and sitting on its high bank, staring down at the roiling waters below the edge Uther's frustration once again threatened to overwhelm him. The stream itself was not particularly deep—thigh-high at worst and no more than forty paces across—but it was fast-flowing, channelled by banks as high as a tall man on both sides, and its bed was littered with boulders that churned the waters into a powerful and treacherous torrent that could easily destroy his wagons. There was an island in the middle, but it was as boulder-strewn as the riverbed, and the sight of it offered him no comfort. In the normal course of things, he would have sent scouts along the bank in both directions, looking for a spot where he could ford the stream more easily, but the enemy was close on both sides of him now, and he knew that he could not afford to turn his people in either direction without inviting disaster. He called Dedalus to him and told him what he was thinking, and the taciturn infantry commander nodded and agreed, then made his dispositions without further comment, and the business of crossing the river was quickly organized and put into effect.
The infantry corps was split into three groups, each of approximately three hundred men, and two of those moved rapidly to form a defensive perimeter about the wagon train, forming a secondary line of defence should any attackers breach the cavalry curtain beyond them. The Pendragon bowmen were sent quickly across the river to set up another defensive half-circle on the far side, facing outward and vigilant against any hostile developments over there. In the meantime, the remaining three hundred infantry were set to creating a crossing place for the wagons. Fifty men set to work immediately with picks and shovels on each bank, tearing down the earth of the high riverbank to form a sloping path from the high ground to the water on both sides of the stream, while the remaining two hundred laboured to move the worst and biggest of the boulders to one side or another, in order to create a clear passageway for the wagons, a path that might permit them to cross without shattering wheels or axles.
It was a gargantuan task, and it was accompanied by the sustained cursing of the wet, cold men who struggled in waist-deep water to dislodge and roll the obdurate river rocks, which created new chaos as they incessantly changed the force and direction of the waters crashing against them. The job was accomplished in something under three hours, and by shortly after noon the wagons had all been safely manhandled to the opposite bank, each vehicle carefully harnessed by ropes to stop it from tipping or being overturned by the force of the water.
When it was done, Uther allowed his weary workers no respite but harangued them into motion again, regrouping them and marching them out while their clothing was still soaked. The delay had cost them dearly, for the enemy had made good use of the time and was now numerically far stronger and more concentrated than they had been before. Many of them had crossed the stream above or below Uther's crossing point and had circled inward in the hope of gaining an advantage by waiting on the far side. Only the arm-long arrows loosed by the Pendragon bows had kept them safely at a distance.
For the rest of that day, Uther kept his army moving at forced- march pace, hating the necessity of driving them so hard. The infantry had trained for this for years and, if anything, they bore the pace as well as the cavalry, who proceeded constantly at the walk and the trot, easy gaits for the horses to maintain. The sustained trotting, however, was punitive for the mounted troopers, whose bodies were continually jarred by the awkward rhythm of their jogging mounts, and there was loud muttering and cursing among the saddle-sore men each time they paused to rest the horses. It was the draught horses, pulling the heavy commissary wagons, that suffered most on the long haul, for their burdens were enormous and the constant demands of pulling them made serious inroads into their strength and stamina. But as the miles fell steadily behind the column, so too did the Erse enemy, who lacked the discipline necessary for such sustained effort.
Then, when they had travelled almost sixteen miles, they came to another wide stream, this one shallow and sandy-bottomed, offering them little difficulty in crossing. They had seen no signs of hostile activity for several hours by then, and their scouts had been searching actively for more than an hour for a suitable camping spot where the army could spend the coming night. The column was passing between the first two hills, which were low and covered with small trees, when the scouts brought back word that they had found a suitable spot, less than a mile ahead: an enormous, almost flat meadow, close to a mile in length and half as wide, at the base of a shallow bowl formed by the flanks of four hills.
Dedalus was riding at Uther's side, slightly ahead of the main command party, muttering darkly about how he hated hills and hated even more being on the low ground among them, when the narrow valley in which they were riding opened up to the southward and revealed the proposed camping ground. Uther sat up straight as soon as he saw the place, and his eyes went immediately to the flanks of the westernmost hill, which were bare of trees and broken by two long, strangely formed outcrops of craggy stone that arched outward from a common height and stretched all the way to the bottom of the hill on both sides, forming a pair of crude but protective walls that embraced the main width of the valley to the southwest and were at least a hundred paces apart at the base of the hill. Staring at the place, assessing its potential for defence, he saw the distinct line of a plateau of some kind less than a third of the way up the gently sloping hillside, just above the point where the stone outcrops emerged from a common fault. Above the plateau, the trees resumed again, covering the crest.
"There," he said, pointing it out to Dedalus. "If that level area up there is deep enough, we can command the field and fight here. Get the wagons up there somehow, and they'll be safe. It doesn't look too steep. Cavalry halfway up on both sides above those stone cliff outcrops, so they can cover the field wherever they're needed. Bowmen on the plateau there with a wide, clear field of fire. Infantry in front at the bottom, protected by the cliffs on either side."
Dedalus nodded. "Aye, if it's deep enough, as you say. But is it?"
"Looks deep enough from here.
If it's as little as thirty paces, front to back, we can use it. If I'm right, then once we're installed there, anyone who wants us will have to come to us. We'll be able to see them coming and greet them properly, on our terms. Those cliff walls are widespread enough at the lower ends to let us attack outward, but they're high enough to stop us being outflanked or raided during the night as we were last night. We'll stand here and face these Ersemen when they reach us. I've done enough running for one campaign."
Dedalus dipped his head in agreement. "It's your decision."
"Aye, it is. Let's get our people up there. Send out your trumpeters to sound the recall and get everyone back here, the bowmen, too. Break off all engagements. We've held the Ersemen back long enough. Time for them to come to us. Do it now!" He swung around in his saddle and waved his arm in a circle, summoning the officers and commanders who rode with his party and barking out his orders even before they had crowded around him.
Uther had the impression that Dedalus had not moved at all when he turned back to him again. The infantry commander was still staring upward to the plateau on the side of the hill. Uther looked from him to the hillside and back again.
"What ? You're still here? What's wrong?"
Dedalus did not even glance at him. "I sent out the trumpeters. They're on their way. But we can't take the wagons up there, Uther. It's too damn steep on the hillsides above those cliffs. They'd have to be manhandled all the way up, and we haven't got the time . . . And I don't even want to think about what might happen if we had to get them down again in a hurry. Besides, the horses are exhausted. It won't work."
The King's eyes flashed in irritation. "Don't tell me what we can 't do, Ded! Find a way to do it."
Dedalus merely shrugged. "Bark as much as you want, but the truth's the truth. We'll be asking for grief if we try to get those wagons up there. Better to mass them, all the wagons, behind the infantry formations in the shelter there at the base of the hill. And we'll probably have the damned Ersemen about our necks before we can even begin to do that. They can't be far behind us."
Uther bit back another angry retort and looked towards the hillside again. He sniffed, and then spoke more temperately. "You're right. It's wishful thinking." He turned to where one of the cavalry commanders sat waiting for orders. "Philip. Take a squadron of your men and carry the women up on to that plateau on the hillside there. One woman to a horse, as many as you need. And one trustworthy man to carry the child they have with them, carefully, without injuring him. They'll need tents and bedding, too. See to it."
As Philip spurred his horse away, Dedalus was already issuing orders to marshall the wagons at the base of the hill and to send men to carry the King's tents up to the plateau.
Night fell slowly, the day's light lingering in the early-summer sky long after the sun had set. Uther spent the first two hours of the night making the rounds of the sentry outposts with Dedalus, exchanging at least a few words of comfort and encouragement with every man on duty. There had been no sign of the pursuing enemy.
Few of the army had much sleep that night, Uther among them, for they knew that, come the dawn, they would probably be facing death again. Uther sat by his fire for hours with Dedalus, Philip and several of his other senior officers, planning for the events that might come with the day, and then, when he was finally alone and all the others were asleep, he sought his own rest. Highly aware of the allure of the willing female body that lay inside his tent close to his son, he bit down on his desire and wrapped himself in his huge cloak, then stretched out on the ground by the fire outside, still in full armour.
In the morning, the Ersemen were back in sight. Uther's trumpets roused the army and sent them swarming into their formations.
"A mob. Look at them."
Dedalus sat his horse beside Uther on the lip of the plateau overlooking the scene beneath. The enemy hordes had come streaming from the valley between the two hills to the north and had then bunched there in a milling mass at the far end of the long meadow, obviously unwilling to come any closer to the area below the hill, where the tightly disciplined Camulodian infantry were now drawn up in order of battle.
Uther did not respond immediately, his attention focused upon the three Roman-style legionary formations of infantry below. Each of them was laid out cleanly and perfectly, rank and file, fifty men wide and four deep, with an additional hundred in reserve behind the fourth row of shields, waiting to fill the ranks of the fallen. The space between the files was the classic distance of two long paces, the first taken up by the infantry soldier with his long, grounded shield, and the other left as empty space, providing fighting room. Each soldier's duty was to protect the man on his right, making sure that no enemy could come close enough to strike his partner down. Behind the front rank, the other ranks were staggered, so that the men in the front line could fall back to rest and safety while the rank behind advanced to replace them. This technique, in use since before the days of the Caesars, had enabled the Roman legions to subjugate the world, and the founders of Camulod's small army had seen no reason to abandon it. Most of the foot soldiers who now stood facing the enemy, waiting for them to advance, had been born and raised in Camulod and had been drilled for years, since boyhood, in the stern discipline that gripped them now. They would stand there and light until they had won or died, Uther knew, and he felt his heart swelling with pride for them.
Two of their formations faced the enemy to the north, the central one confronting the Ersemen squarely, the left angled obliquely backwards, looking towards the northwest lest the enemy try a flanking attack from that direction. The most westerly files in that formation stood protected by the outcropping spur of rock from the hill at their back. The third formation, on the right, stood at right angles to the centre, facing directly east towards the open meadow that, for the time being at least, seemed to offer no threat. Behind all three formations, close against the protective base of the hill on which Uther and his officers now stood, Dedalus had positioned his quartermasters' wagons, the hospital wagons and the extra, lighter wagons that had carried the women.
The wagons and the infantry were as safe as they could be, with the hill at their backs and their eastern and western flanks protected by the long ridges of rock and by vigilant cavalry massed in tightly dressed squadrons drawn up on the hillsides above them. Uther scanned the scene below one more time and accepted it as the best available to him, and then raised his eyes towards the mass of the enemy at the northern end of the plain. He did not bother to look at Dedalus as he responded to his observation.
"You're right, they are a mob. But a very large mob."
Dedalus hawked and spat. "Numbers count for nothing in a situation like this, Uther. I taught you that long ago. They outnumber us, but they don't like the prospect of attacking our lads. They can see that if they do, they'll be like water smashing against rocks."
Uther looked around him. He and Dedalus were at the centre of a small knot of twelve commanders, who would soon be moving down to join their individual units below, but upwards of two score more messengers, runners and riders both, were grouped in a wide semicircle behind them, and behind those, Ygraine's blood guard and the Cornish clansmen stood waiting to be used in reserve. At the rear of the plateau, the tents of the women and the King's party had been pitched, safely hidden from view from the valley beneath by the front edge of the escarpment. Above his head, rolling in from the west, great banks of lowering grey clouds were slowly blotting out the blue of the morning sky, skirts of rainfall trailing from their bellies.
"It's going to rain. Coming right towards us."
Dedalus glanced up at the clouds. "Showers, no more."
"Mayhap, but we don't need wet grass under our horses' hooves. Can you see any sign of anyone in charge over there?"
Dedalus leaned forward in his saddle, peering towards the enemy, his eyes shaded with one hand. "No, I can't, but that means nothing. Wait a moment, though. You see that group of bright colours on our lef
t, on the hill above and behind them? That must be the commanders, whoever they are. Colour's a sign of rank among these Ersemen. The brighter the colours, the more important the man."
"I wonder what they're waiting for?"
"Guts. I told you, they're afraid to attack us. They have us out- manned, two or three, perhaps even four to one, but they know it's not enough."
"No!" Uther shook his head. "No, Ded, it's not that. They might not have our discipline, but they've no lack of guts. They're waiting for something."
"Runner coming in, sir, from the south. One of yours."
The shout came from behind him and the King turned to peer over his right shoulder. Sure enough, the returning scout was plainly visible, one of Uther's Pendragon bowmen, running through the long grass on the valley bottom, far to the south of where they stood, straight towards the ranks of the men drawn up closest to him. Uther watched him for a few moments, his lips drawn into a thin line. It was plain, even from this distance, that the runner was exhausted, for he was weaving as he ran, and at one point he stumbled and almost fell headlong.
"That man has important tidings," Uther said, almost to himself. "Were they less so, he would be kinder to himself. Let's hope he brings word of Lagan Longhead's coming." He turned to one of his aides. "Take an extra horse and go and meet him, then bring him here to me as quickly as you can. He won't want to ride, won't know how, but tie him into the saddle if you must."
Another shout came from behind him, but this one was more distant, coming down the hill from above, from the tree-covered summit at his back.
"Go now." Uther waved the aide away on his task and turned immediately to gaze up towards the hilltop. The trees up there were small and bushy, mainly hawthorn and hazel, but they provided very effective concealment from below. Uther scanned the entire hillside as far as he could see, but nothing seemed to be moving up there, despite the fact that there were a hundred of his own bowmen among the trees.