Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (79 page)

She leant from the bed, extinguished the lamp
on the side table, her smile satisfied that the choice had been a right one.
Leofric was indeed a good man, but proud men were
so quick to
put blame on their
women! Three wives, numerous mistresses?
Ah, Winifred knew of them, had
paid well to know of them. Not one had carried his child.

Ja, if she had to take a husband to secure
manhood for her son, and to strengthen him for when he challenged his father or
that Gwynedd bitch’s brat then one who was empty of seed
would be the more preferable.

§ XLII

Two scouts arrived within
the hour of each other, from the
North, where Hueil was
becoming restless, and from the South where an army with the banner of the Chi
Rho was approaching. Arthur posted an extra Turma of men to keep high-profile
watch on Hueil and decided to deal with the South
himself.
Only one man could be following a banner of Christ.

Although early morning was well established,
Gwenhwyfar was taking a rare chance at lazing abed. Both messages had
come direct to the King’s tent. After the
delivering of the
second, Arthur raised an eyebrow at his wife, who was
lying
with her arms behind her head, staring
at a vague spot along the
ridge-pole. ‘Pity
you’re not dressed,’ he said, feigning dis
approval, ‘we could have
arranged a reception committee.’ She was up and dressing before he finished.
Chuckling, Arthur ducked out and ordered the horses made ready and returned
inside. He could not resist taking hold of his
wife, wearing only
her under-garments.
Half serious, Gwenhwyfar batted him
aside, complaining that he had asked
her to hurry.

‘It’ll take a while to saddle Onager, you
know how tetchy he is.’ He began unlacing her breast band.

‘How long is "a while"?’ Arthur had
the band off, his hands taking its place over her breasts, his face nuzzling
against her neck. ‘Long enough,’ he murmured.

They waited where the
Roman road crested a slight rise, sat
their
jiggling horses, watching the column, half a mile distant, swing nearer, seeing
the men raise their heads, the occasional pointing hand. They had been seen,
then, recognised. Arthur glanced up at his banner, tossing proud in the wind
that had calmed with the sunrise but was spirited enough still to bring
Gwenhwyfar’s beautiful dragon to life. How
impressive it must
be from a distance! The brilliant red and flashing gold
leaping and darting against the billowing white. He allowed himself a
self-congratulatory smile, leaned across the space
between
them and took Gwenhwyfar’s hand, squeezed her fingers.

‘
You ought
not to look so smug,’ she said, her own expression
as proud and
delighted as his. ‘I would almost think you were gloating.’ Arthur pretended
shocked horror. ‘Me? Never!’
Her lips
pursed, a chastising shake of her head. ‘Don’t you try
to convince me
you had all this planned, Pendragon.’ He squeezed her hand again, ‘I knew
Ambrosius would see sense and join with me one day.’

‘Liar.’ They were laughing as a man detached
himself from the column, spurred his horse forward, the smiles still on their
faces as he approached nearer, reined to a trot, walk and halt, made formal
salute.

‘
I was
wondering,’ Ambrosius said casually, almost as if they
had unexpectedly met while on an afternoon’s
exercise,
‘whether you could find use for a few extra men?’ Arthur
surveyed the column, counted the number of infantry
in the first quarter, made a mental calculation. Ambrosius
would
march in strict Roman formation. ‘Mithras, Uncle, have you brought me a Legion?’
he jested.

‘
I wish I
could have, Nephew, but, as you are so fond of telling
me, the days of
those numbers of available men have gone.’
Extending
his hand in less formal greeting he added with a twinkle
of laughter, ‘You will needs be content with five
Centuries. I have
gathered all the Militia men along the way. Shaming
them into coming, those who refused your first call to arm.’ Arthur took his
hand, eyes alert, mind already planning how to deploy them. ‘I think I can find
some small use for four hundred men.’
To
Gwenhwyfar’s surprise, Ambrosius offered his greeting to
her, his smile
warm and genuinely friendly, Uncharitably, the thought what
is he gaining
from
this?
came to her. Did it matter?
He
was here, with all these men. She blushed then, as red as the
dragon
fluttering beside Arthur, for, drawing their horses aside
to salute the column as they marched past,
Ambrosius candidly
announced the reason.

‘
I came
because I have limited military experience, Pen-
dragon. If I am to lead when you are gone, I will need more than
book
learning to be effective.’ He held his hand palm outward to acknowledge the
standard of the first Century pass by. ‘You will teach me, Pendragon.’ Arthur
saw Gwenhwyfar opening her mouth to make sharp retort, surreptitiously
signalled her to silence. He couched his own answer politely. ‘I was hoping
this campaign would be a short one, Uncle!’ Ambrosius formed a stern
expression, then saw what Arthur
meant and
relaxed into another smile. ‘No, lad, 1 did not intend
to sound so pompous!’ And to Gwenhwyfar, on Arthur’s
far
side, he offered, ‘I trust, in
all sincerity, my Lady, that it is your
son who follows our Lord King. I merely plan for possibilities.’
She
inclined her head, wanting to believe him. But not quite achieving it.

§ XLIII

Arthur’s men moved up from the south during
the afternoon.
Artoriani, the élite cavalry,
Ambrosiani, the infantry,
Amlawdd and the men of Deva. The cohorts
swaggered up the Roman road taking an easy pace, wedging Hueil against those
already outflanking him to north and east. He had nowhere to run. To the west
lay the estuary and the marsh, clustered with birds, facing with plumage puffed
into the cold eye of the venomous wind: pied oyster catchers, lapwings with
their call,
kee-wi
kee-wi,
plovers,
curlews, and always the geese, floating in
grunting groups or grazing at
the marsh-grass.

Bedwyr rode beside Arthur. Directly behind them
were the
men of Deva who had the brown
stains of blood on their tunics
and the new wounds to their bodies. Men
who needed to rid
themselves of those
memories of treachery, thirsty for the work
that needed to be done.

Hueil had manoeuvred as far eastward as
Arthur’s hovering Turmae allowed, siting his men on the firmer ground inland,
reluctant to be pushed to where the winter-high
rivers
meandered and split into the broken places of the sea-strand.
They were impatient, his men, some angered, more, bitter and
grumbling. Hueil had promised them an easy
victory, glory and
riches for all, but all they had was this
wind-tagged, desolate marsh wading beneath a grey-clouded, sullen sky. In
comparison, the woods to the north seemed friendly, alluring. Beyond
those trees tarried the hills and tracks and roads
that led homeward. Some had attempted to go, murmuring plans
between
themselves, slipping away under the night cloak that
hid moving shadows. A few, the lucky ones, blundered into the
bogs,
their water-blown bodies found drifting on the next tide.
Of the rest, the Artoriani allowed no one through.
The
deserters were butchered and
hung from the march of trees that
formed
a border between the marsh and the forests that ran
north into the high
hills.

A
rthur
played a war of nerve, a softening of courage. When the
one day passed, and then the next, Hueil guessed
the Pendragon
was playing with them,
as a cat would dab and pat at a mouse, let it
run, capture it again. Morgause wanted to be gone, wanted to be
tucked safe in the far, far North. She urged they
take their chance
and charge the northern patrols, declaring that even
the fastest
horse could not do much against
a solid body of men, but Hueil
argued her down. Once in those woods, he
would not keep his
army of frightened men
together. Short of heart, they would melt
into the trees and simply go
home. There would not be another
fight.
Without a victory, no matter how small, Hueil would never
again be able to bring all these men of the North
together. So they
stayed out on the edge of the marshes, where the
rivers that
descended from the hills of the
north and east and south split into
channels and runnels before rippling
into the sea. Stayed and waited for Arthur to come, and told the men that they
had a chance, a good chance, of winning.

The night hearth-fires spread across the
darkness of the sea-
tinged marshes, and the
sound of Hueil’s men talking or singing
drifted in the calm, salt-damp
air. The wind finally eased, then
ceased,
blustering out to sea at dusk with the ebb tide, giving way at dawn, to a
white-pawed mist that shrouded the marsh with a cobweb cloak of wraithing
shadow. Hueil raised his
banner high and
brought his army into the square formation
that could, as long as they stood firm, resist any cavalry charge.
Morgause
he put at the centre with the banners and standards,
ordered her sit her horse and give courage to the men. They sore
needed their blood warmed, and the Goddess on Earth
so
vividly among them might grant enough heat to outpace the strength of
the Artoriani.

Arthur would have preferred better ground
than this, but to have let Hueil run further north would have brought a longer
campaign, and these open, flat lands were preferable to the
confine of the trees. For the both of them this
was a gamble. To
either side could the roll of the dice fall.

Gwenhwyfar retained her smile until the last
man rode from camp, the lines and lines of cavalry; Amlawdd’s men untried,
untrained; the infantry militia, Ambrosius’s men. The jangle of
bits and harness, the chink of metal, creak of
leather. The smell
of horse sweat and dung, the excitement, the
overshadowing
anxiety. The clench of fear
knotting her stomach as she
watched
them, watched him, go. She stood with Llacheu in
front of her, hands on
his shoulders, she with a smile for the
men,
he, laughing and waving. Both wishing them well,
wishing them, all, keep
safe.

Arthur had set camp on
higher ground along the last edges of
the
trees, a hand-span of miles from where the grass-land river marsh began. The sounds
began to drift across the reeds and wind-hissing grass, distorted by the
distance and echo of the great vault of open sky. Indistinct sounds of horses
and men screaming, the clash of sword and spear on shield, a moulded, jumbled
mulch of noise.

The army women stood, some arm threaded
through arm.
Others sat, squatted, hunkered
on their heels, in groups or
alone. Waiting, their heads raised, senses
alert, listening and imagining. Knowing what was happening among that vague,
mist-shrouded blur of movement that was their
menfolk,
surviving or dying.

The boys, the grooms,
the smith’s lad, youngsters not yet old
enough for shield-bearing or the rearguard, employed
their time
sharpening their own crude weapons,
fashioning spear shafts,
sharpening arrow
blades and daggers, mending harness or tents.
They too waited and
listened, but they were the men of the
morrow,
they could not show their fear naked, like the women.
They hid their
worries beneath a frenzy of tasks and errands.
Kept hand and mind busy. But they listened, all the same, to
the
distant rise and fall of the battle song.

The mist cleared into a mid-day haze over the
sand bars and
mudflats of low tide, where
the birds gathered in their
hundreds, anxious about their search for
food before the water
should come again,
oblivious to the matter of men a few
hundred yards away. Hueil was aware
that he had a chance of winning. Again and again, Arthur’s cavalry had come in
to the
charge, the arrows of both sides
coming first in a hissing wind of
bright-tipped malevolence, and then
the spears, their sound deeper, more haunting, the blades shrieking as they
hurled towards the bringing of death or wounding. Again and again,
the horses veered aside as Hueil’s close-packed
lines stayed firm
held.