Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (73 page)

Only Ambrosius had sent an encouraging
answer.
‘Leave
the
groaning South
to me, Pendragon,’
he had
written. ‘A
belly-full of
wind
needs
a strong, unpleasant-tasting
purge.
I wish
you
all the
speed
and success of
the apothecary’s vile potions, nephew!’
Dismounting, the men took their horses’ reins and
began
walking, Arthur among them,
grinning slightly as he thought
on
his uncle’s brief communication. He had not decided
whether Ambrosius had been referring to Hueil or
the Southerners – but then, bellyache affected the rich as
commonly as
the poor. The difference was in who treated it. The fat physician with an air
of self-importance or the old, toothless healing woman who lived in the
tumbledown shack on the edge of the settlement? Both, Arthur thought wryly,
probably prescribed the same medicines, one would
be in a
fancy glass phial, the other
as it came, a root or leaves of a plant,
wrapped in a piece of old rag
to be infused over your own hearth-fire.

Ambrosius had changed his cloak for the
better, and Arthur was glad, though whether there was a reasoning behind it, he
was still undecided. His uncle intended to take command if anything happened to
the Pendragon, that was a certainty. To do it, Ambrosius would need the backing
of the men, Arthur’s
men, the Artoriani –
Ambrosiani? Did it have the same ring?
By seeking friendship with
Arthur, was Ambrosius looking to
his own interest?
Aye well, it was something worth considering,
when the time for idling
by that river allowed a chance for thinking of other things besides fighting.

Arthur did not want to
enter Deva; it was safer, but
restricted.
That camp up on the heights of Pengwern was the
last
time he could chance being within a confined space. He
needed freedom of movement to fight as his mounted men were
trained to fight. Hueil would surely fight before
turning
attention to Morgause? But then, he did not have the cavalry
that Arthur had. His men were the sons of
farmsteaders, warrior
men, the
militia of Caer Luel – infantry. Infantry were no
match for the
Artoriani, unless they were led well, by someone who understood horses. And
Hueil, once an officer of the Artoriani, did.

Casually, Arthur laid
his arm over his stallion’s neck, leaning
his weight on the horse’s shoulder. Onager’s ears
flattened
further back, but he did not move away or
kick. Arthur smiled
to himself, the old
bugger liked it really, this fuss and attention,
only he was too
mean-minded to show it. Unexpectedly, his
thoughts
wandered to the memory of Morgaine. Almost,
almost, he could have loved
her, in another life, another place. The subtle smells of her dwelling place,
woodsmoke, drying
herbs, clung in his nostrils,
evoking her fresh, childish
innocence. She was Morgause’s daughter, but
nothing like the
mother. The one harsh and
corrupt, the other timid, wanting
only to please. Ah, but then, that was
it, was it not? How much had the daughter wanted to please the mother? Of how
much
had Morgaine informed Morgause? Some?
None? All of it? She
had insisted, as Arthur had taken her
pregnancy-swollen body
and held her close,
that she had sent no word concerning him to
her mother. Arthur had almost believed her, almost. But even
if she had not, what had Brigid been passing
along the wind? He
had made a mistake
there, trusting that lying, two-tongued
whore. At least she would lie no
more, and she had not known of the child.

Checking Onager’s
over-enthusiastic stride, Arthur forced
his mind back to the matter of Hued. Ambition was as
dangerous as greed. What was his intention? Arthur knew
what he would do in Hueil’s position. When he had had the choice of the woman
he loved or pursuing the chance to become king, he had chosen a kingdom,
reasoning the first would come when he
had
the second. As it had, but then, Gwenhwyfar, for all her
strengths and ability, was no Morgause. With that
woman at his
side Hueil could obtain much. Too much. But he had to take
it first, if he could. Which is why, latterly, Arthur had kept the bitch alive,
why he had moved her to Deva, a more defendable fortress, and not as
faint-hearted as Caer Luel. He had kept her as bait, because he knew Hueil’s
first move would be to secure her freedom.

Except that Arthur had
not planned on Amlawdd coming
up, unchecked by
Gwynedd, behind him, nor Hueil moving at this time of year. Damn him, which was
why the bastard was doing it! Arthur removed his helmet, wiped sweat from his
forehead, closed his eyes. Hueil was
ex-Artoriani, he would not
blindly fall into a lure, even if the lure
was the witch-woman
herself. Arthur ran his
fingers through damp hair, his head
ached.
Morgause would not sit silent and wait on hope.
Messages had passed between them, gone north and south.
How, damn it, how? Arthur halted, issued the order
to
remount. Another thought nagged
persistently at the back of
his mind. Had Morgaine been the pivot of all
those secret sent words, or Brigid? And who else? Who else.

They saw the smoke, thick, black clouds of it
rising into the
low, grey winter cloud.
Hueil? Arthur sent the command for his
out-riders to advance, watched
them gallop ahead, held the Artoriani back in closed order. The excitement of
anticipation was rippling through the men and horses, the prospect of an
imminent fight adding that edge to an already
sharpened blade.
He drew Onager to one side, letting the marching column
ride
past, waiting for the baggage mules to
come alongside,
intending to speak
briefly with Llacheu riding there with Gweir
and other boys of a similar age, officers’ grooms most of them or,
like
Gweir, servants. The boys were armed, well enough to
defend the baggage were an attack to come, but were nominally
non-fighting youngsters who stayed well behind
the lines when
it came to battle. It had been a hard decision whether to
bring
Llacheu or leave him at Caer Cadan.
But one day he would be a
King and kings had to learn about war, not
stay safe-tucked at home.

For one quarter of a
mile Arthur rode beside his son, mounted on a fine bay horse – Llacheu rode
well enough now to handle a
larger, stronger
animal, though it was a gelding. A
stallion is a man’s ride,
boy. The
lad was excited, full of questions and anticipation.

‘We will be fighting, Da?’

‘
We?’ Arthur raised an eyebrow in his son’s direction.
‘We
will, aye.
You
will
not.’
Llacheu’s face became so crestfallen that Arthur laughed. He
reached
across to tousle the boy’s hair. ‘I need you here with the other lads. We lose
our baggage and we’ll have no tents to sleep
in, no
spare war gear and no cooking pots.’ Arthur nodded at
the
other boys, all of them sporting grins as wide as half-moons,
they were important, for
they fetched and carried, tended the fires and the needs of the men, and aye,
the wounded.

Riders were coming fast down the line,
heeling their horses into a gallop. Absently, Arthur completed what he was
saying to Llacheu. ‘I for one, will be wanting a comfortable bed and supper in
my belly this night, so mind you do a good job.’ He kicked Onager forward to
meet the men: a group of senior officers, a scout and a soldier he did not know.

Sweat-streaked,
breathless, the stranger urged his horse
ahead
of the others, hauled it to a halt as he came up to the
Pendragon. Barely pausing to salute he gasped his report. ‘Deva
Auxiliary-man,
Lucious Marcus Antonious, my Lord!’ Wasted no more on formalities. ‘Deva has
fallen to the Dalriads.’ A
rthur sat stunned,
his fingers clenched around Onager’s reins,
the horse tossing his head and fidgeting with the bit pulling tight
at
his mouth. The column moved past, the men silent as they
rode, the joviality of a few moments before
turned to sudden, grim
shock as word spread rapidly from mouth to mouth.

The Decurions brought
their horses to a standstill, their faces
questioning, disbelieving. One asked, ‘How can this be?’
Another,
‘Has Hueil so great an army he can attack a fortress and gain entry within such
a short passage of time?’
Lucious Marcus
Antonious answered, ‘It takes but a few men to take the strongest defence when
someone opens the gates for
them.’ A short, heart-beat moment of silence
as his words were
digested, then Arthur
cursed, his choice of words colourful,
even by his standards.
Who
else helps Morgause?
They rode the last
few miles to Deva as though the hounds of
death were baying at their
heels.

§ XXXV

The sun spread a bright
glow against a pale, frosted blue sky as
the
Artoriani approached the slight drop down to the bridge spanning the river. The
tide was recently out, and the mudflats along either bank glistened under the
residue of salt water.
Trading ships, moored
alongside the riverside warehouses, were burning fiercely, beyond salvation.
Pockets of fires raged within
the settlement that straggled between the
fortress walls and the
sluggish river.
Arthur held his stallion to a tight walk as he rode,
his escort
following onto the bridge. Searing smoke drifting on
the wind, the nauseating smell of burning caught in their
throats
and nostrils. Onager faltered. Trained to avoid stepping
on a fallen body, his ears flicked, uncertain,
awaiting command
from his rider’s leg, for the bridge was littered with
dead and
dying, the people of Deva, cut down
as they ran. Ears flat,
nostrils flaring, the stallion edged forward,
balked again at the
approach road leading up
to the gateway. So many dead!
Civilians;
women clutching their children, tradesmen, old
men, young boys. Men of
Deva and Arthur’s own garrisoned
Artoriani. A
soldier, dressed in the blue uniform of Deva’s
guard, staggered from the
watch-house doorway, his bloodied
fingers
reaching for Onager’s reins as he stumbled. The stallion,
already wildly
unnerved, attempted to side-step, but Arthur rammed his boot against the horse’s
flank, held him steady.

The Pendragon’s eyes met
with those sunken hollows of
horror that were the
soldier’s; he tried to speak but the blood of death spilt from his mouth
instead of words. Arthur leapt from the saddle, knelt beside him, cradling the
dying man, uncaring
who saw the grief on
his face. To die in such a way; this should
not have been! The fortress gateway leered open like the gaping
jaws
of some monstrous, bloodied beast.

Arthur laid the dead man down, stood slowly
and turned his
back on Deva, stared towards
the distant, cloud-misted
mountains of Gwynedd – where he had sent Gwenhwyfar.
He closed his eyes, tightly shutting out the scenes of so much bloodshed. Where
he had sent Gwenhwyfar! The Pendragon groaned, brought his hand over the
beard-stubble of his mouth
and chin, a
discreet cough at his shoulder jolting him back from
those mountains, where the gods alone knew what was
happening.

The Decurion, his voice sober, constricted. ‘Do
we ride in, my Lord?’

‘
Aye, you
and the escort.’ He mounted Onager. It did not
seem right for the day to be so bright and dazzling, not when so
many
innocents had done so much dying.

Were there enough hours of daylight left to
head north after
Hueil? Or should he plunge
west to head off Amlawdd’s scum?
Did
Gwenhwyfar need help? Arthur fought the worry aside.
She was safe in
Gwynedd, Hueil had gone the other way and
Amlawdd
was still a day to the south. He told himself again she
was safe. So why
this pricking along his spine, this constant need to look again at those
mist-floating mountains? Riding through the gateway, Arthur noted with a gloat
of satisfaction that the scatter of corpses here were not all Deva’s dead. The
guard had fought well, killing as many of the Northerners as they could before
the numbers became overwhelming. The gates had been opened: the scatter of the
dead,
the position of the main area of
fighting, pointed to the
obvious. It
needed only one person to lift the two bars, pull back
the iron bolts;
one devious person who could have got past the suspicion of the guards....
Arthur snapped his head around,
hauling
Onager to one side and was out of the saddle, dropping to one knee beside a
tumbled pile of Deva’s slain. A woman lay
with them, her throat cut.
Women were lying along the streets,
across
the bridge, in the gateway, the Northmen slaying as they
entered, caring only for the killing – but a woman
lying beneath
the bodies of the guard? And this woman? Here? Arthur
covered her
familiar face with a fold of her cloak, and
remounted. Questions, the whys and the hows, ran through
his mind. An answer was forming, grim, repulsive. Whoever had opened that gate
had to be someone the Watch-guard would never have suspected of treachery.