Born of the Sun (65 page)

Bevan, prince of Dynas, was appalled when the messenger came from the king stating his intention of holding Yule at the villa. When a messenger came from Bertred the following day inviting the British prince to sojourn with his daughter at Romsey for the month, Bevan accepted with alacrity. He remained at Dynas only long enough to greet Ceawlin and hastily assure him that the villa was at his disposal. Then, to the well-concealed contempt and amusement of the West Saxon king, he took horse for Romsey.

“What a worm the man is,” Ceowulf said with incredulity after Bevan had left the room.

“True, but he has served us well,” Ceawlin answered. He looked at the two sons who had accompanied him and his hall thanes to Dynas. Ceowulf was inches taller than Crida but he was yet only fourteen. He would never have been allowed to join this expedition if Niniane had been in Winchester. Ceawlin knew that, yet he had not had the heart to deny his son’s plea. This would be the greatest confrontation between Briton and Saxon since Badon. How could he refuse the boy a part in it? Ceowulf was a son to be proud of, full of courage and skilled in weaponry. Freed of Niniane’s maternal anxiety, Ceawlin had allowed Ceowulf to join the army.

Ceawlin looked at the charcoal brazier glowing in the corner of the Roman room. “Pleasant as it would be to stay here in the warmth,” he told his boys, “I’m afraid we must first see to the supplies.” Ceawlin had brought wagon loads of food with him for the men whom he expected to be gathering within the week. The king placed little reliance on his army being able to live off the winter-bare countryside of Dynas. “And I want to assign camping places to each of the eorls,” he added. “The more organized and comfortable the army is in camp, the better they will fight.”

“Yes, sir,” said two bright-eyed boys, and with absolutely no sign of reluctance they followed Ceawlin out into the cold.

It was hours later, after the food had been got in out of the weather, after the hall thanes had been bedded down, after the excited princes had fallen into the bed they were to share in one of the villa sleeping rooms; Ceawlin was sitting alone in front of the glowing brazier in Bevan’s sleeping room. Outside the window a light snow had begun to fall.

Ceawlin sat comfortably in the silent room, his long legs stretched out before him, a cup of wine in his hand. He was well pleased with the way this campaign was going. Before a month had passed he fully expected to have extended Wessex all the way to the Sabrina Sea.

He sipped the wine, then stood and went to look out the window. It was too dark to see the snow. A little snow would be all right, he thought, but he did not want too much. He did not want to delay this coming battle. All his instincts told him to press for it quickly; Ceawlin always followed his instincts. They had never failed him yet.

Coinmail had played right into his hands, he thought as he gazed out into the unrevealing dark. Niniane had thought the opposite, but it was not true. His wife did not know that Ceawlin had long coveted the rich lands to the west of Wessex. He had coveted them but he had also understood that to conquer them by force would be to incur the enmity of his British subjects. What he would gain by such a move would not offset what he would lose.

Then had come Bevan’s marriage offer. At first it had seemed a splendid chance to gain a foothold in Dumnonia by peaceful means. Then had come Coinmail’s challenge, and the vision of a far greater gain had loomed before him. Aquae Sulis. Glevum. Corinium. Wessex would be the largest kingdom in England. And for the first time in Saxon history, the Britons of Dumnonia would be cut off from the Britons of Wales. Ceawlin’s eyes glittered as he considered the possibilities. He would be the most powerful king in all of England. He would be the Bretwalda, the High King.

He finished his wine and put the cup down on a small table of inlaid walnut. There was no doubt in his mind that the lands of the Dobunni would do better under his rule than they had under Coinmail’s. Ceawlin had been a good and a just king to his Atrebates subjects; he would be the same to the Dobunni. The blood of Woden ran strong in his veins. He had been born to be king; to be a great king; to be Bretwalda. It was his fate.

Ceawlin stripped off his tunic and prepared to go to bed.

As soon as Ceawlin and his men rode into Dynas, a British scout took horse for Glevum to report to Coinmail. Then, in successive days, as more and more Saxons poured into the villa, the reports to the British prince were updated.

“He has garrisoned Dynas with an army of near seven hundred men,” Coinmail told his fellow princes as they met to discuss the situation in Coinmail’s hall in Glevum. “It is a direct challenge to us.”

“So it is.” Farinmail blew his nose vigorously and spoke around the loud honking noise he made.

Coinmail, fastidious Roman that he was, looked faintly disgusted. “He has moved an army into Dumnonia,” Farinmail said, wiping his still-dripping nose on his sleeve. “The question is, do we go to him or do we wait for him here?”

“Go to him,” said Condidan immediately. “We will lose the confidence of our men if we let it look as if he has intimidated us.”

Coinmail’s auburn brows were drawn together into a fine straight line. “I would rather not march through this weather. It is looking like snow.”

“I would prefer to wait for better weather also,” Condidan answered, “but Ceawlin has forced the action. His reputation is too great. If we delay in moving to meet him, it will look as if we are afraid of him. We cannot afford that. We have the greater numbers; if our men keep their hearts high, we will win. If they have doubts, the battle will be lost before ever it is fought.”

With deep reluctance Coinmail was forced to agree. He hated to admit to Ceawlin’s superiority in anything, but the myth of the Saxon’s invincibility in battle had spread even into Wales. They could not allow their men to begin to suspect that their leaders were apprehensive of facing the Saxon in battle. They would have to answer Ceawlin’s challenge.

On January 1, the day of the New Year, the combined Brit-Welsh force of Coinmail, Farinmail, and Condidan marched out of Glevum and headed south. It was snowing.

The sheds and barns of Dynas were filled with men. Ceawlin walked from war band to war band, speaking to the leaders, joking with the men, inspecting arms. Overhead the sky was gray, full of snow yet to fall. The landscape was all gray and brown and white: colorless and bleak. Ceawlin’s spirits were high. He had heard just that morning that the Brit-Welsh were coming south.

He did not intend to meet them at Dynas. Dynas was only the challenge. It was too far to the east to serve the purpose he needed. He wanted a victory that would ensure him the city of Aquae Sulis, yet he wanted to be on the road north to Glevum as well. He had decided the day after he arrived in Dynas to stand his ground at Deorham, a small market center six miles north of Aquae Sulis. There was a large field where on market day the wagons were set up; the fight on such a field would be fair and victory should go to the stronger force.

There was little doubt in Ceawlin’s mind that he had the stronger force. He was not quite equal in number with the Brit-Welsh, but large numbers of his men were seasoned warriors. Even many of the ceorls had fought before. Face-to-face, man-to-man, he thought he was superior.

The last of his forces to ride in were the Atrebates under Gereint. Two hundred and seventeen of them, ranging in age from fifteen to fifty. Ceawlin’s heart swelled with pride to see them. He had protected their lands, fed them in times of famine, stood as a shield between them and their enemies, been their lord. He felt now that their loyalty to him was a sign of his destiny: to be king of both Saxon and Briton. To be Bretwalda.

On the morning of January 2 the West Saxon army moved out of Dynas. Ceawlin and Crida, with their eorls beside them, rode at the head of the marching men. Over each band of thanes and marching ceorls floated the banner of the eorl whom they served. At the head of the whole, carried by a thane on a great bay stallion, floated Ceawlin’s banner of the white horse. By late afternoon they had traveled the twelve miles to the field of Deorham. There was as yet no sign of the Brit-Welsh, so the West Saxons lit cookfires and settled down to wait.

It was cold, but Ceawlin had seen to it that food was plentiful. The men were in good spirits, and after the dinners were eaten, Alric, sitting close to the fire to keep his fingers warm, began to play. At a little distance from the harper, around another fire, sat Ceawlin and his eorls.

“My scouts say they are camped but five miles north of here,” Ceawlin said. “We will rouse before light and take up battle positions. I do not desire to be surprised by a dawn attack.”

Grunts of assent came from all around.

“The battle commands will be as follows,” said Ceawlin, and there was sudden, absolute silence. “I will hold my own hall thanes and the Atrebates as a reserve. When I see which way the battle is going, where the enemy is strongest, then will I commit the extra men to the field.”

All nodded; no one spoke. This was a tactic Ceawlin had used before and it had always proved successful. It enabled the king to place his undoubtedly awesome powers where they were most needed.

“Penda,” Ceawlin said into the silence, “you will have the center.” This was no surprise, but still Penda smiled with pleasure.

“Yes, my lord,” he said.

“Bertred, you will take the left.”

Again, no surprise. Nods of acceptance.

“Crida,” said Ceawlin, “you will have the right.” Crida’s face lit like a candle; the rest of the eorls frowned.

“Ceawlin….” It was Ine speaking. “Is that wise? Crida is brave as a lion, no one doubts that. But he is inexperienced.”

“He is prince of Wessex,” said Ceawlin. “He will command the right.”

Silence. Then Wuffa said practically, “Where do you want me to be, Ceawlin?”

“With Bertred, on the left. Ine, you will lend your support to Penda in the center. The men from Wokham and Gildham will fight under Crida on the right.”

Nods all around. “Very well,” said Ceawlin. He lifted his cup of beer. “May Woden take them,” he said. His son and his eorls pledged likewise, “May Woden take them!” They drank, and then the eorls went off to see to their men.

They woke to snow. Not heavy, but steady. Thanes and ceorls unwrapped themselves from their cloaks, ate the hot porridge served up by Ceawlin’s cooks, and took their places in the line of battle. They waited for an hour, stamping their feet to keep warm, cloaks draped over heads and shoulders, their banners flying bravely in the drifting whiteness.

Then, from the far side of the snow-filled field, came the noise of marching men. The Brit-Welsh, following the call of their princes and their blood, had come to fight.

The two armies facing each other this snowy morning numbered slightly more than two thousand men, the largest force assembled for battle in Britain since Arthur’s victory at Badon a century before. And this coming battle on Deorham field was fully as crucial to Coinmail and his followers as Badon had been to their forebears. To lose was to divide the Welsh from the British in Dumnonia; to lose was to leave Dumnonia vulnerable to Saxon invasion; to lose was in all probability to say farewell to what remained of Celtic Britain.

The Brit-Welsh battle horns blew. Ceawlin’s battle leaders, on foot like the rest of their men, shouted the order for readiness. Crida stood under his personal banner, felt the snow stinging cold on his face, and listened to the singing of the blood in his veins. There were two lines of archers before him, and as the line of the Brit-Welsh began to move forward, Ceawlin’s archers fired once and then again before melting back into the ranks to allow the sword-wielding thanes to move to the fore. Incredibly, over all the noise of men and horns, Crida heard his father’s voice. He lifted his sword and ran forward, his men beside and behind him.

The two armies came together with a crash.

It seemed to Crida, as the white world began to turn red with blood, that the two enemies were evenly matched. Both lines of battle were holding their own; neither side seemed able to push the other one back. He did not know who was commanding the wing opposing him, as the whole of the Brit-Welsh force was fighting under the banner of the red dragon which had been Arthur’s emblem when he reigned as king.

He felt a blade glance off the chain mail on his shoulder and turned to return a blow that proved more deadly. Then one of his thanes was beside him. Crida set his teeth and began to press forward with all the force and skill that were in him. “Come on!” he shouted to his men. “Push them back!”

Ceawlin watched the battle from the saddle of his stallion. It was difficult to see in the snow, and it was a minute before he recognized that the deadlock was beginning to break a little on the right. Crida was pressing forward. The evenly matched battle line was showing its first crack. He had to move now, before the Brit-Welsh could recover.

“Gereint!” Ceawlin called. “A hundred men to reinforce Crida on the right!
Now!”
Then, as the Atrebates ran forward eagerly, “My hall thanes, to the center with me.”

“And me, Father?” said Ceowulf eagerly.

“Listen, my son …” Ceawlin dismounted and threw his reins to a groom. He had not intended to give Ceowulf any command, had intended actually to keep him out of the fight if possible, but now … “If you see our center and right beginning to overwhelm them, and if I am still in the midst of the fight, take the rest of the Atrebates and join Bertred on the left.”

He had a brief glimpse of glowing blue eyes and very white teeth and then he was gone, racing forward at the head of his thanes, to hurl himself into the battle. The ceorls at the rear moved aside to let him through; then he was well forward, his own thanes solidly beside and behind him. He caught a glimpse of Penda through the snow and knew where his front line was. Penda was always at the front. Crida was well before him.

“Follow me!” he shouted, and began to hew his way through the ranks of the Brit-Welsh, clearing a path for his men to follow. The fighting was so close that the snow fell on the men and not the ground. The Celts fell back before Ceawlin’s ferocious assault, and Penda, seeing this, pressed forward with renewed vigor.