For King & Country (47 page)

"You know the drill," Stirling murmured. "Give it another quarter hour, to let them settle into sleep, then we'll begin."

Stirling walked the walls, studying the terrain below, the pattern of campfires, nodding to himself. Yes, they'd laid themselves out almost precisely as he'd expected. Silence had fallen over both camps now, as the frozen stars winked and glittered overhead, wisps of wind-torn cloud racing past. It was a wet wind, nonetheless, promising more rain off the cold North Atlantic—within hours, if Ancelotis were any judge of the weather.

The quarter hour passed swiftly, leaving Stirling's palms damp and his heart thudding with adrenaline. He'd made plenty of night sorties, both in training and actual combat, but pre-battle jitters were simply part of the package. He nodded to his men, whispering out the signal to begin. The Briton soldiers he'd trained so carefully in commando tactics began the raid by tying one end of an enormous ball of whip-thin, strong coradage to each of the several gates leading out through the outermost wall.

In groups of ten, they slipped out through those gates, each man letting the guideline slide through his fingers in the darkness. Stirling led one party toward the royal pavilion. When they reached the end of the first skein, some one hundred and sixty feet from the summit, the commando immediately behind Stirling tied the beginning of his skein to the end of Stirling's and they continued their silent descent.

Each band descending the hillside included one Sarmatian archer with a quiver of deadly arrows slung across one shoulder. As they approached the royal pavilion—which was not Stirling's goal, not tonight—they paused long enough for the archer to find and target the night sentry on duty outside the kings' tent. A soft slap of bowstring and a hiss of arrow's flight were followed by a muffled gasp of pain and the thud of a man's body striking the ground. Stirling was on top of him an instant later, cutting the wounded man's throat to finish silencing him. Blood, hot and terrible, flowed across his hands, which he wiped on his woolen trousers to prevent his grip on dagger and guideline from slipping.

Stirling signaled with one hand and they continued the perilous descent, down toward the flat plain at the foot of Caer-Badonicus. They tied ten separate lines to the end of the final skein, so that each of the commandos could find his way back swiftly, then split up, creeping low through the camp. Stirling's goal for the night was multifold, but his main target was the line of horses and supply wagons dimly visible as hulking black shadows at the edge of the Saxons' camp. They crept around tents where Saxons snored and turned restively in their sleep. Stirling would have given a great deal for a simple set of starlight goggles, but that kind of technology was sixteen centuries in the future, so he did the best he could with ambient starlight and the smouldering coals of the campfires.

The archer creeping along at Stirling's heels took down another sentry, catching this one through the throat with his deadly aim. The man thrashed down with a choked gurgle and went still after no more than two feeble kicks of his feet. Heart pounding, Stirling eased past the body, gaining at last the line where the Saxons' supply wagons had been parked for the duration of the siege. The draft horses had been tied for the night just beyond the heavily laden wagons. He held his long dagger in his teeth, ignoring the coppery taste from the blood of the Saxon he'd killed with it, and slipped open the satchel strapped to his back.

He lifted out one of the clay pots inside, upending its mixture of pitch, sulphur, tow, frankincense, and sawdust across the nearest wagon's contents, then crept to the next wagon in line, repeating the action until Emrys Myrddin's combustible compound had drenched the contents of ten Saxon wagons. That done, Stirling slipped around to the picket line of horses, hushing them as they whickered, patting velvety noses and thick-muscled necks. He cut the lines with his dagger, then slipped back to the nearest campfire, where he paused, waiting for the signal from the summit.

A moment later it came, as each of the teams tugged on their guidelines, signaling their readiness. Light flashed from the top of the watchtower, lantern light that glowed like a star in the inky darkness. Stirling grinned, then thrust his torch into the coals. It caught with a flare of red-gold light. Sprinting now, he ran from wagon to wagon, setting Myrddin's surprise alight. Flames roared in a great whoosh as the Greek fire ignited. Horses screamed, plunging away from the sudden spread of flames, running in panic, bolting with their cut tether lines across the great, dark plain.

Stirling let go a bloodcurdling yell and dashed back through the Saxons' camp, setting fire to tents as he ran. Wagons blazed for hundreds of yards along the Saxons' outer perimeter, spelling utter ruin for the besieging army. Grinning like a madman, Stirling fired more tents, gained the guideline, and shouted, "To the walls! To the walls, my bonny Britons!" Men came running through the blazing camp, Saxons milling in terror and confusion, Briton soldiers making a purposeful dash for the trailing guidelines.

"Move, move, move!"

Men scrambled past, climbing the muddy hillside. Overhead, the Saxon kings had burst out of their pavilion tent. Stirling's Sarmatian archer lit an arrow wrapped with oil-soaked rushes and fired high into the night air. The flaming missile whistled through the blackness and landed squarely atop the kings' tent. Fire spread in greedy tongues and rivers across the top of the cloth pavilion. Shouts of anger and panic spread through the group milling inside. Stirling's men climbed at a fast jog, bursting amongst the confused Saxons with whoops of savage glee. The kings scattered into the night, shouting for assistance.

"Leave them to run!" Stirling bellowed, urging his men back toward the summit.

Within minutes, they were safely back inside the walls, while below, fire blazed in a gaudy ring all the way around the base of Badon Hill. Cadorius was waiting to pound his back in delight. "By God's holy beard, you've done it! Look at them!"

Saxons were running in wild confusion, silhouetted against the blazing camp, trying with ragged, disjointed coordination to catch the scattering horses, to douse the flames consuming their supplies, their tents, and their caches of weapons. Britons, roused from sleep by the wild shouts below, were cheering in the night, whistling and laughing in open merriment. Stirling couldn't stop grinning, although he did pause long enough to order a trumpeter to blow the rally signal. Deep notes sang out across the hill fort's walls, a summons which brought Stirling's raiders running to report.

Of the fifty men he'd sent down in teams of ten, forty-eight had returned safely. One had been killed, his body dragged back by his comrades for proper burial. Another had been wounded and was receiving care from the camp's healers. The glow in his men's eyes closed Stirling's throat for a moment. In all his years of service to king and country, not one soldier had ever looked at him with such proud confidence in his leadership.
Go back?
a portion of his mind whispered to itself.
Go back, when I'm needed here and now?
Memory of the butchered women and children left to rot by Cutha and his Saxon cutthroats floated behind Stirling's eyelids. No. He could not go back. Not now. Not ever.

He hoped to God his family and his commander in the SAS would understand.

"I am deeply proud in your courage and skill this night," Stirling said in a voice that shook a little. "I have never served with finer men. It is my privilege and honor to fight at your side."

A roar went up from the watching Britons.

Princess Iona, cheeks wet and grey eyes brilliant in the firelight, smiled through her tears, then moved quietly away, clearly wanting to be alone with her grief. Stirling watched her go. Nothing he did, nothing these brave men did, could ever undo the damage the Saxons had already wrought. But they could prevent further butchery. Stirling swore an oath to God and whatever host of angels might be listening.

I will not fail these people. To the last of my strength, the last breath in my body, I will not fail them. This, I swear by all I hold holy.

Vow cast, Stirling saw his men well fed, plied with good wine, and then sought his bed, knowing full well the vengeance the Saxons would wreak, come the dawn.

Morgana had never been to Ireland.

When the Irish coast rose out of the stormy grey sea, frissons of mingled apprehension and excitement shot through her, while Brenna McEgan gazed at that coast with such homesick longing, it brought tears to their shared eyes. They arrived in a grand flotilla of Dalriadan warships, manned by every able-bodied
Scotti
farmholder and fisherman left alive. The disaster visited upon Dunadd had not touched the countryside, thank God, the farmholds being too scattered for Banning to have reached their vulnerable water supplies.

Enraged Dalriadans had answered the king's summons from miles around, gathering nearly three hundred strong to pursue vengeance. King Dallan mac Dalriada had insisted, however, that they sail first to Eire, to raise more sword hands from their Irish kinfolk. And so they had turned their prows west, across the narrow North Channel toward lands that one day would be called County Antrim and County Down.

Brenna had listened very hard to the conversation of the Irish sailors and soldiers on Dallan mac Dalriada's flagship. Her grandmother had taught her a fair bit of Gaelic. She'd forgotten much of it over the years, but listening to the
Scotti
clansmen, it began to return to her, although many of the words and most of the pronunciations were unfamiliar. By the time they sailed into the upper reaches of Belfast Lough, the broad estuary which speared some ten miles inland from the coast, Brenna was picking up whole conversations.

Tears prickled in her eyes again when Belfast rose out of the mists, a thriving settlement of several thousand, judging by the smoke curling up from cottage hearths. The achingly familiar profile of Cave Hill rose like a sentinel north of the town. Brenna had explored the hill during school holidays, catching a ride with older cousins who had licenses to drive. Five artificial caves had been dug into that craggy hill by Neolithic inhabitants, for what purpose, only those long-dead people could have explained. They'd seemed magical caves to Brenna and her cousins, three of whom had since died in the violent Troubles, two of them not even making it to their twentieth birthdays.

South of the town, some three miles from the harbor, Brenna could just make out the shape of the Giant's Ring, one of the most impressive ancient monuments anywhere in Ireland. Nearly six hundred sixty feet in diameter, the standing stones were enclosed by an earthen bank fifteen feet high and more than twenty feet across. The dolmen at the center stood guard over a Stone Age burial site. She wondered what the Iron Age Irish chieftains ruling Belfast village used it for? In later centuries, it had become a popular spot for horse racing.

A crowd had gathered at the harbor by the time Dallan mac Dalriada gave orders to drop the anchor stone overboard. He shouted across the water, greeting someone by name. A murmur of surprise ran through the onlookers as the Dalriadan king leaped over the gunwales into hip-deep water, wading ashore to clasp arms with a tall, stocky Irishman wearing a torque of high rank. Brenna listened closely as sailors ran a ladder over the side for the ladies to climb down into a coracle being rowed out to ferry them in.

"What brings you to Belfast?" the tall man was asking. "Trouble, by the look of it."

"Grim trouble indeed, cousin. All Dunadd is dead."

Shock washed white over the tall man's features. "Daghda help us, what's happened? Not plague?"

Dallan mac Dalriada shook his head. "Worse. Saxons."

The Belfast chieftain blinked. "Saxons?"

"Aye, Saxon dogs with treachery behind every false smile. But there is more news even, than Saxon plots against Irish interests." He turned to beckon Morgana, Medraut, and his daughter forward. "You'll remember my daughter?"

"Fondly." He embraced Keelin and kissed her cheek. "You've grown, child, lovelier every time I see you."

Keelin brushed a kiss across his whiskered cheek. "It is good to see you again, Bradaigh mac Art."

Brenna shot an intent glance in Bradaigh mac Art's direction. This was the Iron Age chieftain whose stronghold was still called MacArt's Fort in the twenty-first century? She had little time to ponder it, however, as Dallan mac Dalriada was beginning formal introductions.

"Cousin, my daughter has married this week past, in what may prove the most advantageous marriage in the history of our clan. It is my honor to present King Medraut of Galwyddel, husband to my child, and Queen Morgana of Ynys Manaw, sister to Medraut's late mother."

Bradaigh mac Art's eyes shot wide. He stared from Medraut to Morgana and back to Dallan mac Dalriada. "Have you taken leave of your senses, man?" he cried. "Married her off to a
Briton
?"

"I thank you for your gracious welcome," Brenna said icily, in near-flawless Gaelic. "I am so pleased that my nephew can lay claim to such well-mannered kinsmen."

A deathly silence fell across the Irish crowd. Bradaigh mac Art's jaw had dropped and even Dallan mac Dalriada started in surprise. Dawning delight shone in Keelin's eyes, then she swung back to face her father's cousin, firmly clasping her husband's hand.

"Your rudeness shames our clan," the girl said in a voice nearly as cold as Brenna's. "When you have recovered a civil tongue, I may be moved to sit beneath your roof!" She switched to Brythonic. "Come, husband, I will not stay on Belfast Beach and be insulted further by my own kinsmen."

She strode straight into the water and Medraut, glaring briefly at Bradaigh mac Art, followed, lifting her out of the waves and wading toward the ladder still hanging over the side of her father's ship. Morgana turned to follow, only to halt at Bradaigh's cry.

"Wait! Please forgive the insult to your honor, Queen Morgana, King Medraut. We have so long been enemies, the news took me by considerable shock."

Morgana swung back around to find the clan chieftain of Belfast holding out his open hand, cheeks stained red with embarrassment. After a moment's pause, Morgana stepped gravely forward to clasp the proffered hand. Calling upon Brenna's reacquired—if somewhat shaky—proficiency in Gaelic, she said, "It is my fondest hope, Bradaigh mac Art, that the sons and daughters of Ireland count Britons as kinsmen and allies from this day onward."

"Alliance does present intriguing possibilities," the tall clan chieftain nodded thoughtfully.

A moment later, Medraut had waded ashore and offered his open hand to Bradaigh. They clasped forearms in the greeting of equals and the Irishman offered apologies, one to Medraut and another to his young cousin Keelin, whose frosty gaze thawed somewhat at his obvious sincerity.

"Come up to the fortress, please, and tell me what's happened at Dunadd, that you've made alliance with Britons and speak of Saxon treachery."

Dallan mac Dalriada explained their grim news as they walked toward the great fortress rising up at the center of the town. Medraut glanced at Morgana and said in a low voice, "I didn't know you spoke Gaelic, Aunt."

Brenna twitched her lips as Morgana replied softly, "There is much you have yet to learn about me, nephew. Be thankful that our new kinsmen will never underestimate us again."

Bradaigh mac Art's hospitality, once stung into motion, proved cordial in every possible manner. The clan chieftain plied them with good Irish ale and steaming platters of roast boar, geese stuffed with apples, and fresh-baked bread, the dark Irish bread Brenna had grown up loving and had missed during the months in Beckett's lab in the Scottish Lowlands.

While they ate, Dallan mac Dalriada explained the monstrous act of destruction wrought by the Saxons' agent, Lailoken. "It is my intention, cousin, to sail with as many men-at-arms as I can raise by sunset tomorrow. All Britain marches to battle against these Saxon dogs. With Queen Morgana's help in securing safe conduct through Briton-held lands, I will lead an Irish army to strike the Saxons' southern flank. We'll take them by surprise and cut off their escape while Artorius and the Briton
cataphracti
smash them from the north."

Bradaigh tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. "Where think you this battle will occur?"

Morgana leaned forward to answer. "My brother, Artorius, plans to meet the Saxons at Caer-Badonicus, a fortified hill in the south of Britain. We have left more than enough troops to guard the northern and western borders," she added with a slight smile, "but Artorius will ride south with at least a thousand men under arms, or I very much misjudge Briton fighting strength. And there are many more already at Caer-Badonicus."

"More than a thousand men-at-arms?" Bradaigh echoed, visibly startled.

"Artorius," Morgana nodded, "is Dux Bellorum. Every king in Britain owes him allegiance, supporting my brother's battle plans with their finest troops. The Romans may be gone from Britain, but Britons are still finely organized under Roman structures of command. The Saxons will soon learn this at great cost."

Bradaigh tugged at his lower lip again. "And your request, cousin?" he asked Dallan mac Dalriada.

"Sword arms to increase the fighting strength of Dalriada. How many men can you send with me to drive these Saxons dogs into the sea and drown them?"

"By the son of Beli Mawr, I'll raise a hundred men to send with you by tomorrow night's tide, and fast ships to carry them. And I pledge upon my sacred honor," he added, glancing into Morgana's eyes, "no Irishman within fifty miles of Belfast will raise sword against any son of Britain nor raid British shores for plunder."

"I am glad to hear it. Medraut has already sent word through Galwyddel that the Irish of Dalriada are now their kinsmen and must be accorded the respect rightfully due a king's cousins."

Bradaigh mac Art raised his goblet, finely wrought from silver, in a toast. "To the alliance then, Ireland and Britain joined by blood and friendship—and victory over our mutual enemy, the dogs of Saxony."

The toast was drunk solemnly around the table.

Then Bradaigh mac Art called for runners to be sent out through the countryside, summoning every firstborn male householder to war. Brenna watched with a chill down her spine. It was now far too late to call back what she had set in motion. Then a rueful little smile twitched at her lips. It was, at the very least, a miracle of diplomacy. And a very good beginning.

A distant wail of rams' horns sounded far below, the sound carrying through the grey dawn, in a vast ring surrounding Badon Hill. Stirling drained the last of his breakfast ale and tossed away his cup, drawing his sword and taking his place among the men of Gododdin, with Cadorius' contingent on one flank and Melwas on the other.

"First rank, to your places!" he shouted, even as other Briton kings, princes, and high-ranking officers were bellowing instructions to their own men. Far below, another blast on the rams' horns sent hundreds of men rushing forward, spears and pikes held at the ready. Stirling saw no archers at all. But there were javelins in plenty, causing him to duck back down as the first wave of lightweight, sharp-pointed missiles came whistling across the walls. Briton shields went up in a clattering wall of quarter-inch oak. Javelin points thwacked into them, some embedding themselves deeply, others glancing off and skipping across the heads of the defenders to clatter against the stone walls behind their first rank.

At Stirling's shouted command, echoed up and down the Briton lines, a mass of iron-headed
pila
darkened the sky, hurtling down into the Saxons' shields. The soft iron heads struck, biting deeply into enemy shields, then bent under the weight of their own shafts, tangling one shield with another and tripping the foremost rank of attackers. Men went down in yelling confusion, stepped on and across by the men behind them. Another wave of
pila
whistled down, slowing the Saxon charge, but not stopping it. On they came, shouting from behind their shields, heavy spears tucked beneath armpits for stability in the charge.

Saxons and Britons came together at the edge of the outermost wall, with a shock of spears against shields and a roar of bellowing male voices. Men shouted foul curses and stabbed and jabbed with spearpoints, trying to pierce the overlapping walls of wooden shields on both sides of the thick stone barrier. When the second wave of Saxons hit the wall, driving back the defenders, trumpets sang out the retreat, sending Britons scrambling back toward the fourth wall. Even as the Saxons roared forward, Briton axemen were chopping through catapult ropes, sending gallons of sizzling-hot, melted fat soaring out over the walls. Liquid grease fell like rain across the Saxons' front ranks. Men screamed, dropping shields and spears to claw at scalded faces, beards, clothing. The Britons turned and surged forward with an unholy shout, driving the staggering Saxons back across the outer wall and leaving bodies piled underfoot.

The Saxons, shaken, retreated down the hillslope, pausing in the shelter of their wooden palisades. Stirling could hear the shouts of their leaders, kings and their
atheling
sons, high-ranking
eoldormen
and noble-birth
thegns,
exhorting their men to overcome such shameful cowardice and make the charge a second time. Stirling climbed to a lookout perch atop the innermost wall and peered downward, then grunted.

"Send word to Cadorius and Melwas, they're putting the
gewisse
Britons in the first ranks this time, rather than risk their own."

A glance back toward their own rear lines showed him the women busy tending Briton wounded, but there were far fewer than he'd expected after such a clash, which heartened him considerably and left Ancelotis jubilant. Then the signal horns called the charge again and the enemy's front ranks pounded up the hill once more. Any serious worries Stirling had, that they faced Britons this time, evaporated when the defenders struck with even greater ferocity than before.
Never underestimate the power of hatred, when a man stands face-to-face with a traitor,
Ancelotis grunted, scanning their lines from Cadorius's contingent on his far left flank to Melwas's on his far right
.