Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (80 page)

Hueil’s men stood, feet planted,
determination set, their fire
fuelled by
the screaming encouragement of their Lord’s golden-haired woman. Where one man
fell another stepped in his place
–and
they were moving forward, gaining ground. The river marsh was dropping behind,
receding with the lifting mist. Hueil paused, briefly loosened his helmet
straps, wiped the
sweat from his forehead, took a breath. He could win
this! He could! The Pendragon too, was acutely aware that Hueil was close to
victory. Not for ever could he keep throwing his horses in, trying and trying
to break that solid wedge of unyielding men. He must get them to run, to break
the mass. Together, Hueil’s
formation could
stand all night and all the next day. Broken,
the cavalry could finish them as easily as scything barley-corn.

He watched a heron trail
slowly across the grey-dusted,
cloudy
sky. For all their corn feeding, the horses were lathered,
breathing
hard, many wounded from arrows and spears. The
men too had suffered, but men could go on fighting when urged,
not
horses, only so much would they take before beginning to balk. There could only
be one more charge. Only one.

He sent his messengers to call in Ambrosius,
Meriaun,
Amlawdd and Bedwyr. A hasty
conference: the men and horses
would
appreciate the respite, the chance to draw breath,
bandage wounds, adjust armour and weapons. But so
too would
Hueil. Time to change the balance. The birds were already
beginning to circle in from the sand and mud-flats, the geese
crying mournfully as they passed overhead, back to
the
grasslands from the shallows that were deepening with the
flood-tide. Once the water came in, Hueil would be safe from rear attack, the
horses useless. This one last try, to get Hueil’s men to break.

§ XLIV

As the mist cleared, the women could see;
indistinctly, but
enough to watch what was
happening, for their camp was
pitched on ground higher than the flat
river plain. The view spread in a panoramic scene, the great arch of sky, the
mist-
hazed, incoming sea, acres of marsh
grass and reeds, dotted with
only the occasional wind-bent tree. And
beyond, the dark, smudged line that was the beginning of the northern forests.
Gwenhwyfar did not sit with the women, she stayed by the ringed protective
fence of staves of the camp palisade, stood watching, one step beyond the
palings, her position setting her
that one
step nearer the war-game. Her fingers were curled tight
around the
pommel of her sword, clutching tighter until the knuckles turned white, her
eyes never leaving that blur of
movement
spread across that wide, wide expanse of grassland,
where moved, like a
played board game, the battle pieces. The
banners,
the standards; bright coloured, glinting in the diffused
light of
reflected sea dazzle. The great squared formation that was Hued, his banners
ranged tight in the centre. Ambrosius’s Chi Rho to the western boundary,
Meriaun’s at the east, Bedwyr north, and the Dragon, bold, emblazoned,
proclaiming
its lord to the south. Mixed with
them, the colours and
emblems of the individual Turmae. Red, Blue,
Yellow. Their effigies silver gold in the occasional glimpse of sun. A boar, a
bear. The Sea-Goat, the Ram .. .

Ider was watching also, standing on the
opposite side of the unshuttered gateway, standing, much as Gwenhwyfar,
watching the sway and shift of battle. His was the command of the camp, this
rag-tag of boys and women, a command he had accepted reluctantly, half angered,
mumbling and muttering
against it. Until
Arthur himself had told him the reason for it. ‘I
need
someone
to
see
to my son and my woman.’ lder accepted the
reason, but
resented it. To stand and watch, helpless, while his comrades fought and died,
to be down there, to be using his shield and his spears.... Gwenhwyfar’s scream
cut across his thoughts, he saw her pointing, saw her sword coming into her
hand, and watched horrified as she began running,
hair and
cloak flying, screaming something, some wordless sound of
brutal anguish.

Ider stood, his throat clamped, body frozen. ‘My
God!’ The words repeating over and over, ‘My God, My God!’ That last charge,
the horses had not veered away, but had pressed closer, the men fighting their
way through the spears
and swords and axes
of Hueil’s men, and then Arthur was down!
They saw, watching from this slight hill, his banner waver as his
men
crowded close to where their Lord should be – and then suddenly, inexplicably,
they were running, galloping, fleeing the battlefield. The Artoriani, Meriaun,
Bedwyr, all of them, streaming away southward, with Ambrosius plunging from the
west, his men thigh deep in swirling incoming tide. ‘My God,’ Ider gasped
again, ‘we’re defeated!’
A boy dashed past,
carrying sword and shield, legs pounding
as he raced after the figure of
his mother slithering down the
slight
incline. Sense returned to the stunned Ider with a
startling thump. He yelled orders for his men,
those few men of
the Turma left as guard, and plunged after Gwenhwyfar
and Llacheu, leaping at the running woman as he closed on her,
bringing her down in a rough tumble of cloak,
legs and hair, his
arms
tight around her as they rolled, she spitting and lashing out, cursing him,
calling him all the names she knew. Llacheu
was
on him, astride his back, beating with his fist, the flat of his
sword. ‘Leave
my mother be! Leave her!’
Ider shrugged him off, pinned Gwenhwyfar beneath him, holding her hands,
knees on her legs. ‘What can you do? You
can’t
help, you can’t save him! One woman, one child? Where
is your sense?’
Tears were streaming down her face as she tried
to push him
from her, then surrendered, his sense at last reaching her.
He released her, helped her to her feet, embarrassed at his action.
She put her hand to his chest, leant against him,
only a
moment, her eyes shut, controlling the tears and the feat.

‘
If we are
to help, we must do so clear-headed,’ Ider
explained, his arm around her, holding her close, his chin
against her hair. How many, many times had he
wanted to hold
her against him, feel her body beneath his hands – but
not like this, not like this! He let her go, moving her gently from him, turned
her around to take a look again at their men fleeing the battlefield. The
Artoriani defeated, running.

‘We need to prepare for when Hueil’s rabble
come this way.’ Ider stated it as fact, for they would come. The Northern army
would come looking for the women, the provisions, weapons.
They would not find Gwenhwyfar or the boy. For
that also was
Ider’s orders, given
personally by Arthur.
Were I to lose, Ider,
make them
safe.
Either
way, make them
safe.

Unconsciously, as they barred the gate and
began issuing orders to those who could to arm themselves, Ider touched his
dagger. The blade was sharper than a winter’s midnight frost.
Either way, make them safe!
The Pendragon had not said
specifically, had no need, for Ider had
understood his meaning,
had bowed his head and accepted the orders to
stay with Gwenhwyfar and the boy. With nowhere to run, a quick, sharp blade
wielded by one who cared could be the only assurity of
safety. Ider watched Gwenhwyfar organising the women, bit his lips as he
fingered that dagger. Could he do it though? Could he
take her life? He
took a large breath, set himself to placing theboys, armed with whatever they
could find along the palisade. Aye, he could do that for her.

The marshlands were emptying, abandoned to
the birds and the litter of corpses and wounded. The Artoriani were going to
the south, fleeing for the narrow stretch of shallow ford across the river,
horses and men bunching, desperate to reach safety.
Hueil’s army was closing, their screams of rabid triumph
drowning
the cries of the gulls. At least they had passed by the
camp, drawing the mob away. But they would be back when the
killing
at the river’s crossing was ended.

It was just visible, that crossing, just.
Gwenhwyfar paused, isolating her panic, to watch the inevitable ending, her
brows drawing into a depression of concentration, of quick, rapid thinking.
Gwenhwyfar knew the tactics of war as well as any
officer, probably better than some, for she had the unique
privilege of an insight into the thoughts and
ideas of a war-lord
gifted in the achievement of fighting. She had
shared Arthur’s
dreams, his plans, victories
and losses. Gwenhwyfar alone knew
what lay behind the austere blank
expression that Arthur wore as a mask. Her sudden smile startled Ider who had
come up
beside her, intending to offer
comfort. She spun around,
clapping
her hands, realised he was there, flung her arms about
him, kissed him,
a resounding smack on his lips, was whirling away, laughing.

Astonished, Ider looked to where she had been
watching, shook his head. Some madness of grief? She laughed louder at
his intense puzzlement, pointed to the ford,
spelling out for him
what was happening.

‘See? There’s Onager, to the left, a way from
the banner, I’d
recognise that brute even
from several miles distant.’ Pointed to
the right. ‘And there’s Meriaun, his flaxen-maned chestnut is
as distinctive as Onager. They are not
withdrawing, Ider! They
are luring Hueil into a trap. See,’ she swept
her hand to the far side of the river, ‘they are not crossing the river!’
Ider studied the spread of land. Saw indeed, that
the
Artoriani were drawing into
ranks, lining along the banks to
this side of the river. Hueil’s men
were plunging forward, unaware, expecting to finish the massacre while their
enemy
struggled to cross the narrow confine of the fording place. ‘Jesu’s
love!’ he
exclaimed, ‘Ambrosius has taken a wider track west –
has come behind
Hueil’s men, the Northern bastards are
trapped, they’ll be slaughtered like pigs come the autumn
feast!’
And then he yelled a screech of battle triumph, taking
Gwenhwyfar’s hands and dancing her
round, the both of them laughing, wide-mouthed, victorious, hugging and kissing.

Llacheu’s shout of alarm broke the euphoria.
He lifted his sword, indicated the knot of men heading up the rise direct for
them, led by a horse whose rider carried a banner that cracked
and belched in the wind of their passing. The raven
banner,
and behind it a woman whose
gold-sun hair tossed and
streamed, whose mouth was open screaming
encouragement.

‘Get to the horses,’ Gwenhwyfar bellowed at
her Turma of personal guards, running herself for her saddled stallion, Ider
fast at her side. ‘You,’ she pointed towards a
group of bewildered
women, ‘open enough of the gate to let us out –
replace it as soon as we are through.’ She swung around to others. ‘For the
rest, you must look to your own defence.’ The fear that had already been
skittering through the camp, wreaking its stagnant breath, had staggered a
moment with the
swift charge of hope, flung
itself back in all its triumph now that
actual horror was rapidly
approaching. One woman lunged
forward, her
face contorted, a weeping girl-child clinging to her
ragged skirt. ‘We
do not know how to fight!’
Gwenhwyfar shook
herself free of the clawing fingers. ‘Every
woman knows how to fight. You have your own weapons, your
nails
and teeth and knees and feet. Use what you have if you cannot use a billet of
wood or the flat of a spade.’ Taking up a light war spear and mounting her
horse, she swung towards the gate, where women and some of the boys were
hauling down the hastily erected barricades. Llacheu was
suddenly beside her, mounted on the horse his
father had given
him. He stared hard at his mother, challenging her to
send him
back. Her heart, the mothering part
of her, had the words on
her lips,
Stay! The warrior part, that recess of her that had come
down through the women of the tribe, the spirits of
the past
who had fought and died alongside their men, parried hernatural
fears, took them square on the boss of the shield and thrust them aside.

The word stay came, but not as Llacheu had
expected. ‘Stay with Ider. Whatever happens, Llacheu, stay near Ider.’ Smiling
her pride at him, Gwenhwyfar handed her son the spear she carried, drew for
herself, her sword, a lighter weapon than a man’s, more suited to a woman’s
hand, but none the less, as deadly. And they were cantering for the gateway,
not yet quite cleared, jumping their horses over the last of the logs and
branches, turning sharp on landing, heading down the rise of ground. A turma of
Artoriani, galloping to meet the hurl of Northmen who thought they had the
victory of battle safe on their backs.