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§ XXXI

By the early afternoon
of the next day, drenching rain had eased
to
a pattering drizzle, then stopped altogether, leaving a dull,
leaden sky pressing heavily over brooding hills
and rain-sodden
trees. Ground
squelched beneath hooves, becoming churned
into caking mud which covered
horses’ legs and spattered their bellies and riders’ boots. The biting wind
from the north-east
had veered. It still
blustered like some crusty, foul-tempered old
gentleman, but had, at
least, lost some of the jagged bite.

Arthur rode with deceptive ease in the
saddle, the leather
creaking with a
soporific rhythm. One hand rested on his thigh,
the other held Hasta’s
reins with the lightest touch, his body
moving
at ease with the horse’s dancing stride; the animal, with
head high and
ears pricked, was as fresh as he had been at the
beginning of the day, though they had covered many miles
since the
rain-wet dawn. Behind the Pendragon, a few men of the patrol talked quietly
between themselves, their voices no
more than
the rustle of wind in the trees. They had seen or
heard no sound, other
than that of nature, all morning. There seemed nothing out of place in this
narrow, peaceful valley.

Hasta snatched at a
branch, stripping the leaves as he passed, letting the thing swish back as he
let go. Raindrops cascading in
a shower over Arthur
found their way down his neck and he
swore
under his breath. The horse, chewing contentedly flicked
his ears at his rider’s voice, then halted,
abrupt, alert, ears
pricking, blowing nostrils scenting the wind.
Alarmed, Hasta
snorted and attempted to duck
sideways, brought to an
immediate
halt by pressure from Arthur’s heel, calf and
tightening of reins.

Arthur flung his arm wide to signal his men
to halt. Instant stillness; silence, save for the steady drip drip of several
days’ rain from tree and bush. A crow somewhere cawed once, aharsh, lonely call
that when stilled left the place eerily quiet.
Hasta snorted again and Arthur laid his hand reassuringly along
the
horse’s neck.

Wolf?
he
thought, his own ears and eyes, all senses, alert. Animal
wolf
or human
wolf?
Ahead, the trees thickened and the deer trail they had been following
curved sharply to the left
around a tumble
of boulders that had slid down the steep incline
of the valley, piling in a straggled heap at the bottom. The
landslip
must have occurred years past, for vegetation had reclaimed the hillside and
jumble of rocks. One or two sapling
trees
were pushing a determined way through gaps between the
displaced
terrain. Over his shoulder, Arthur caught the soft movement of bows being made
ready, could almost hear the
thud of hearts
pumping a mixture of apprehension and
excitement.

The patrol had been routine up until now,
almost a pleasant
day’s ride. Scouts
yesterday had reported no activity this side of
the Roman road. There
had been no sightings of the small,
roaming
warbands from Lot’s gathered army for two days. Who
was ahead?
They waited long minutes, expecting at any moment
the
swish and thud of an arrow, or a blood-chilling, attacking war-cry.
Lips compressed in grim decision. Arthur drew his sword, the blade making a
soft, menacing hiss as it eased from the
sheepskin-lined
scabbard. He touched his heels to Hasta’s
flank, and the stallion, as
unnerved as the men, lifted his head and whinnied, a shrill, unexpected sound
in the tense silence. Arthur’s body jerked with taut surprise and jagged the
iron bit. Hasta’s tail swished at the sudden pain, his head tossing, ears
flattening along his skull, angrily danced
sideways, crab-
stepping.

Hoofbeats coming at a
fast gallop! Then a savage, fiercesome
yelling,
and from around the concealing bend came four riders with swords drawn, mouths
open screaming their war-cry – Artoriani scouts!
Hasta shied violently; several of the patrol horses swung away
snorting,
frightened by the apparitions coming from nowhere and making such a terrible
noise.

‘
Sweet
Jesu!’ The foremost scout cursed, desperately hauling
his mount to a
skidding halt. The animal plunged, almost went
down. The three others, a neck’s length behind, swerved to
avoid the leader, one rider catapulted over his
mount’s
shoulder, lay winded in the churned ground, a second grabbed
hold of his horse’s mane, valiantly attempting to
remain seated. Two of Arthur’s patrol were unhorsed. One sprang immediately
to
his feet, the other, face chalk pale, lay with his leg bent beneath him, the
bone shattered at the thigh.

‘
We took
you for Northern curs!’ one of the four riders
explained through panting
breath, scrambling, embarrassed, from lying half across his mount’s neck into
the security of the saddle.

Arthur had steadied Hasta and was swearing
profoundly, the curses riddled with explosive anger. ‘Call yourself scouts?’ he
yelled. ‘You incompetent curs, whore-son imbeciles! You deserve not the name
Artoriani! Dung-midden whelps – if we
had
been a raiding party you would have your guts split open by
now!’ The
Artoriani scout before him reddened, to hide growing
embarrassment said over-quickly, ‘We were riding hard for
camp –Lord Enniaun is a handful of miles over
yonder, coming
up from Caer Luel.’ He twisted around in the saddle,
pointing back up the heavily wooded valley. ‘His men were riding easy,
well in the open, making no attempt at
concealment.’ He
frowned
momentarily. ‘Why have they taken so long to join us,
my Lord?’ Arthur’s
head came up, eyes squinting keenly against the sudden burst of brilliant
sunshine, his body tense with anticipated excitement. If his own men were
asking questions ... !
Lot’s army, having
swept south as far as Eboracum, carving a
bloody trail of murder and destruction, had retreated northward
again, lying nearer their own hunting runs, leaving
only
scattered warbands to watch for Arthur’s coming. Lot knew of the
Pendragon’s whereabouts and his every move – Arthur had made no attempt at
concealment. They were marching in easy
stages
into a baited trap. Lot wanted a fight with Arthur,
needed to win if he
were to hold the North as his own. The
Pendragon
had gone along with the pretence of innocence
these past weeks, appeared
seemingly fooled, heading blindly into waiting destruction – had deliberately
delayed because he was waiting for Enniaun. And at last he had come! With his
young men of Gwynedd eager to blood their new spears, and with the older men,
men who, when young, had hunted as the
Votadini
over these same high, windswept hills and along these
same deep,
tree-cluttered valleys. Men who had an intimate knowledge of these northern
lands where the wind swept as
sharp as a dagger’s
blade. Land over which once, the great Lion
Lord, Gwenhwyfar’s father, Cunedda had ruled, before
Vortigern
forced him south to Gwynedd.

Enniaun’s war-host had
marched leisurely and conspicuously up from Caer Luel, giving Lot’s scouts
ample chance for a good
look at their strength
and numbers. Except the scouts had seen only what they were meant to see. Were
unaware of a band of
hand-picked men who had
followed the hidden routes,
travelling
by night and following the wolf runs through the hills
and the secretive
deer trails along the wooded valleys; circling with stealth around and up into
the North. Behind Lot and his waiting host.

The Pendragon, despite his air of good humour
and indifference, had been growing more anxious with each nightfall, had expected
Enniaun, at the latest, yester eve. If Enniaun’s secretive band of men were
discovered then all would be lost; Lot must not know that Arthur was aware of
what lay ahead,
must believe that the
Pendragon was overstepping himself, was
too cocksure of his past
successes. ‘You have spoken with my Lord Enniaun?’ Arthur’s question to his
scout was edged with the sharpness of a new-whetted blade.

A second scout shook his head in answer. ‘Na,
Sir, we but
saw him and his men in the
distance. We showed ourselves and
they signalled reply.’ Arthur nodded
vague approval and swung Hasta round. He rode to the injured man, watched a
moment as a comrade axed
two sapling trees
and stripped the branches to fashion a
stretcher.
‘See him comfortable, and you two,’ Arthur indi
cated two men, ‘stay here
with him. We’ll collect you on the way back. I ride to welcome Gwynedd.’ He
grinned suddenly, showing white teeth against weather-browned skin, his eyes
wrinkling with delight. If his own men assumed that Gwynedd was coming up
direct from the Wall, then Lot too, would, with Fortuna’s blessing, assume the
same. He dismounted, went to
the groaning
cavalryman, laid his hand, concerned, on the
young man’s shoulder, said, ‘Easy lad, we shall not be long
away.’
The Wall, with the exception of Caer Luel to the west, had
long since been abandoned as a military viability
– there simply
was not adequate funding or men to patrol it efficiently.
The
wealthy towns, like Eboracum and Lindum,
with their pompous
Governors backed by the bigotry of the Church,
refused to
supplement the pay and keep of a
permanent garrison of
Arthur’s rough-voiced and equally rough-mannered
men, choosing instead, to raise their own local militia in times of threatened
trouble. That had, it seemed, proved insufficient.

North of the Wall the territories had been
abandoned by Vortigern for the same untenable reasons, left to rot under the
shifting power surges of petty overlords, Saex,
British, Scotti or
Picti leaders who came and went as often as the wind
changed.

The scattered
common-folk, the sheep-herds, the poor
farmers,
the wolf and deer hunters, the few surviving traders,
cared little who ruled over this desolate, uncared-for land. They
scratched a living from one harsh winter to the next and prayed
that
whatever present warrior band was besieging Dun Pelidr,
they would leave the farmsteadings alone. What did it matter to
a poor man who occupied the royal place? Tithes
had to be paid
to whoever decided to call himself lord.

Arthur had not been
surprised at Lot’s rise to power. Once
the
father had died, it had been inevitable that the son would
grope for an ambition held long in check by an
old man who had
advocated fealty to Rome. Would seek to become Lord over
more than one poor, wind-burnt estate. These abandoned lands of the Votadini
were ripe for the harvesting, waiting for a man to emerge to wield the scythe. Lot was a bull-head of a boy
turned to an ox of a man,
thick of muscle, and in Arthur’s
opinion, of sense. But with someone
behind him to guide the
sword arm, someone
nurturing the seeds of greed into fruition, a
man who could achieve
much. Especially if such a man had a wife named Morgause.

Riding down the valley to
meet Enniaun, Arthur found
himself
thinking profoundly of Morgause. Witch, he called her.
Witch-Woman.
The thought came, was dismissed, but came again: was it Lot he was so anxious
to face and defeat, or
Morgause? So many
evils had she put upon him, so much of her
vile scent still clung, like the lingering stench of midden-muck,
even
after all these long years.

As he approached Enniaun, Arthur raised his
hand in salute and welcome. Spurring Hasta to gallop the last few yards, he
leapt from the saddle as they came up together, Enniaun too, jumping from his
horse, arms outstretched, calling a greeting. Embracing, the men held together
a moment, close in kinship and affinity; pulled a little apart to exchange wide
grins and a hurried, most private word.

‘
It is
done?’ Arthur asked, his eyebrow rising slightly with the
anxious
questioning.

Enniaun playfully
cuffed the Pendragon’s shoulder, beamed, ‘A trap is none so dangerous when you
carry a stick with which
to spring it!’

§ XXXII

Concentrating, lips
parted, eyes wide, Llacheu stealthily
brought the two carved wooden horses from behind a stool
leg.
He waited an agonising moment, then letting
loose a fierce,
piercing yell, plunged them
forward, one in each hand, stumping their legs on the stone floor, making
clicking
hoofbeat sounds with his tongue. ‘Charge!’ he screamed as he
brought the horses crashing forward into his
brother’s lined row
of crudely carved Roman soldiers.