Saint Camber (14 page)

“That's hard to say. Alister Cullen is proud, as you know well, but he also cares a great deal about Cinhil, in his own way. It's a curious affection which has grown up over the past year or so. I think—I hope—that Cinhil senses that. God knows, he's going to have to learn to trust someone, if he's to survive.”

“Then God grant that this is only a temporary setback,” Camber replied. “Cinhil is frightened, and he's stubborn. I don't think he realized that he was dealing with another man almost as stubborn as himself.”

Joram chuckled, despite the gravity of the situation. “Aye, that's true. Alister
is
one of the more stubborn men I've ever encountered—almost as stubborn as you, at times.”

Camber laughed. “No one could be that stubborn. Not even your infamous vicar general. Speaking of which, here he comes, looking as grim as the Apocalypse. What ho, Alister?” he called.

Cullen spurred his chestnut up the remaining slope and drew rein. His blue surcoat was already spattered with mud, but he wore a surprisingly cheerful expression.

“Well, it's only a matter of half an hour or so now. So far as we can tell, her troop deployment is just as you said it would be—not a sign of treachery. One of our scouting parties had a minor skirmish with one of her patrols just at sunup, but neither side lost any men. If I didn't know that there was no such thing, I'd say this has all the shape of a classic battle encounter.”

Camber smiled grimly. “I didn't think she could know how much I'd found out. And there really wasn't time for her to change her plans too drastically and still proceed with the invasion now.”

“Just blind luck,” Cullen muttered. “And that's what it's going to be, all day. She still has us outnumbered.”

“How is Cinhil?” Joram asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Cullen sighed. “Avoiding me, whenever possible. Still, I don't think it's permanent. Certainly, he's brooding about this morning. His feelings were hurt. But he's in control. I think things will smooth out, once this is over.”

Camber clapped a mailed gauntlet to Cullen's shoulder and nodded. “That is welcome news, at least. As for the battle, is there anything special we should keep in mind?”

A battle horn sounded farther over on the ridge, where the king sat his horse between Jebediah and Bayvel Cameron, surrounded by his knightly bodyguard. Cullen gathered up his reins and smiled.

“Just keep your shield up and your head down,” he said, guiding his horse around them to head toward his own men, farther to the left. “Good battle, my friends. God grant we meet again, at day's end!”

With that, he was off, cantering easily toward the Michaeline cavalry assembled on the northernmost portion of the ridge. Below them in the plain, the infantry of Gwynedd was drawn up in orderly companies, beginning to move out in the gray mist at a smart pace. Cullen's Michaelines streamed down the hill and started heading farther north, to attempt a pincer movement.

Camber sighed and glanced south, at the smaller army of Earl Sighere, whose Eastmarch levies had caught up with them late the day before, then surveyed his own Culdi knights waiting patiently behind him for his signal. He and Joram would lead the Culdi levies today, each of them taking a command of cavalry and half the foot. Young Guaire had also brought a small force from his demesne at Arliss, but he had elected to place his men under Camber's command as well, that he might carry Camber's personal standard into battle at his side.

The young man approached as Camber turned in the saddle, a squire walking beside his horse and carrying Camber's shield. A Michaeline brother had brought Joram's shield, and the priest took it up as Guaire fell into place at Camber's left.

“Lord Jebediah sends ready to advance, m'lord,” Guaire said.

Camber took up his own shield—
gules
and
azure
impaled by a sword and coronet—and settled it into place over gauntlet and vambrace, then stood in his stirrups and raised his arm in acknowledgement to Jebediah, watching them from a quarter-mile farther south on the ridge. He glanced back at his men as he drew his sword, but they had already seen his hand signal and knew what it meant. Reins of anxious chargers were gathered more closely, feet set more squarely in stirrups, lances more firmly seated in stirrup rests, shields shifted on steel-clad arms.

Camber studied them for an instant, appraising that all were ready, then signaled advance and started down the slope with Joram and Guaire. The foot levies before him were already moving, banners stirring bright and graceful against the gray of morning.

Cinhil, too, rode down that slope, secure in helm and mail, the royal Lion shield of Gwynedd on his arm, a sword buckled fast at his side. But a battle mace was clutched in one mailed hand, resting lightly across his saddlebow—a weapon requiring far less skill on his part than a sword, should an enemy actually break through his bodyguard. A Michaeline knight bore the royal standard beside him, and the Michaeline grand master rode a little ahead with the best of his men. At Cinhil's back followed a dozen human knights of noble family, swords and lances gleaming in the wan morning light.

Silken banners moved sluggishly across the plain. Silken surcoats glowed like rich jewels in the subdued light, glittering against the damp green of spring-flooded foliage. There was little sound besides the muted drum of hooves and the jingle of harness and equipment as the troops advanced. The horses' hooves and the men's feet flattened the spring wheat of the Gwynedd plain and ground the good grain into ruin. The mud rose higher on the horses' legs, spattering their noble riders and dulling weapons' shine.

They seemed to ride forever at the walk and then at the trot, foot soldiers hanging on to the stirrups of their accompanying knights as the pace increased. But then, as the distance closed, the silence was shattered by war cries, and men and horses began to run, and the order and beauty of the morning turned to carnage as the first hail of arrows just preceded the initial clash.

The first engagement lasted nearly two hours; the second, more than four. After each initial shock, the fighting settled down to close-fighting melees, strategies and tactics all but abandoned in the chaos of hand-to-hand encounter. The plain turned to a sea of mud and blood and trampled bodies of men and animals as the two armies waged their battle.

The enemy which Gwynedd faced was of a mixed lot. Most were the warriors of Ariella's Torenthi allies, kin and vassals of her mother's family in the east, strangely alien in their rune-carved breastplates and fine-wrought mail and conical helmets embellished with silks and furs. Such men fought hard and grim, neither asking nor giving quarter, with no hint of mercy in their dark, narrow eyes.

Worse than these, though, in many respects, were the Gwynedd men who fought for Ariella: once-mighty landholders of the former Festillic overlords who had fled into exile for the promise of unearned lands and riches when their unthroned mistress should regain her crown. These had far more to lose than their Torenthi allies, for capture or defeat would bring certain retribution from the Haldane king now on the throne of Gwynedd. Such men battled wildly and took many chances. Better the quick death of the battlefield than what a just Haldane would deal to captured traitors.

The fighting went hard, on both sides. By mid-morning Camber had lost fully a quarter of his knights and nearly threescore men afoot, and by afternoon those losses had nearly doubled. He himself had two horses cut from under him, only to be remounted from riderless beasts of the enemy slain. Once, it was Guaire who came to his rescue, snagging the reins of a squealing bay mare even as he struck her rider down and trampled him under the hooves of his own gray, the while keeping Camber's banner aloft. He shielded Camber and kept the trembling animal steady until Camber could scramble out of the mud and swing into the saddle. Another time, an anonymous archer in the livery of the royal guard helped him capture a loose sorrel stallion, when his valiant little mare had sunk beneath him with her throat thrust through by an enemy spear.

Camber even saw Ariella once, though he was never able to win close enough to threaten her. Surrounded by an escort of twenty heavily armored knights, she rode among the rear lines of her army in armoring befitting any male war leader, her slender body encased in leather and mail, dark hair coiled tight beneath a crowned steel cap. Several times she attempted to bring magic into play, but it was too risky in such close combat, and her tentative ventures were either too destructive to her own men or could be easily countered by the Deryni among Cinhil's men. After a time, she abandoned arcane assaults altogether, instead attempting to inspire courage and enthusiasm among her men by her mere presence in the rear of the lines. She wore no weapon, and the fighting never really approached her person.

The full heat of battle never really touched Cinhil, either, though he did manage to bloody his mace a few times, when occasional foot soldiers would break through his guards and threaten his person. But Joram and his men, early separated from Camber, fought hard and with heavy losses, as did young James Drummond and Jebediah and the bulk of the Michaeline knights.

Alister Cullen, too, sustained heavy losses among his Michaelines, though he held his own well enough. When, by late afternoon, the tide of battle had finally shifted in favor of Cinhil, Ariella's forces appeared to be in ragged retreat. The Torenthi troops, with little personal stake in the battle other than lives, abandoned the field to Ariella's exiles and beat for home, leaving the Gwynedd men to fend for themselves. Cullen and his faithful Jasper Miller and a handful of other Michaelines had harried a smaller troop of stragglers into the edge of a wood and there cut them to pieces, taking no prisoners. They were wheeling to rejoin the main mop-up parties on the plain, a few of them nursing minor wounds, when Jasper suddenly gasped and pointed toward the trees.

“Is that Ariella?”

Cullen turned in his saddle, shading his eyes to see more clearly in the murky wood, then set spurs to his mount with a hoarse cry. His men turned to follow at a gallop, soon crashing through dense underbrush to confront a cornered quarry.

Ariella's handful of knights, a flash of Healer's green among them, turned and formed a solid line to shield their mistress in this last, desperate encounter. Ariella had shed her armor in favor of lessened weight, and huddled almost childlike on the big dun war-horse, wrapped only in a thin mantle of white wool over her white shift, her face tense and anxious beneath a tumble of dark gleaming hair.

“Surrender, Ariella!” Cullen shouted, pulling his horse up on its haunches as his men formed a matching line. “Your army is routed. You cannot escape. Surrender, and pray for the king's mercy!”

“The king's mercy?” Ariella retorted. “What care I for that?”

“There is no hope of escape,” Cullen repeated. His horse plunged under the restraint of the curb, and he controlled it with his knees. “Surrender now, and avoid yet more meaningless deaths. Your cause is lost.”

Ariella did not speak, but suddenly the glade filled with the glow of Deryni shields being raised by all of Ariella's men. Coruscating brilliance surrounded them as they charged, the power as quickly countershielded by Cullen's Michaelines, as they took up the challenge and spurred forward as well. The glade echoed to the screams of men and beasts, rang with the clash of weapons on shields and energies being launched and parried.

The horses were among the first casualties. Grim-faced warriors, desperate to gain any advantage in a battle which could mean life itself, struck men and animals without compunction; aimed especially for the horses in the first seconds of combat—for a knight unhorsed, even a Deryni one, faced grave odds when thrown afoot among mounted men.

Cullen fought like a madman, wheeling his charger in desperate circles, trying to protect as many of his men as possible and to inflict as much damage to the enemy as he could, before he, too, was unhorsed. A man from either side and several of the horses were killed outright in the first clash of power. From there it progressed to a grim, hacking battle, shouts giving way to screams and the clang and thud of weapons striking shields and flesh.

Jasper Miller killed two of Ariella's seven before he, too, was slain; and the man who killed him was, himself, struck down by another Michaeline's avenging sword—and that man fell to the sword of Ariella's Healer, who was acquitting himself appallingly well for one of his calling.

Cullen, though unhorsed after a few minutes, fought valiantly, taking several dangerous wounds and giving many more, until at last he alone stood in the glen, blocking Ariella's only escape route like an avenging angel, his dripping sword held two-handed before him in guard.

One of his Michaelines still moaned feebly to Cullen's left, and the mortally wounded Healer was trying pitifully to crawl toward his mistress, one arm severed at the elbow and dangling by a shred of muscle. Other than those two, only Cullen and Ariella remained upright and reasonably functional.

Ariella herself was still mounted, but her stallion was plunging with terror at the noise and the smell of blood, nostrils flared and eyes white-rimmed. It was all she could do to keep her seat and still hold the animal on the side of the glade away from Cullen and his sword. Her mantle had fallen back on her shoulders with the exertion, and her hair tumbled loose down her back like a second cloak. She was not unaware of the visual impression she presented as she brought her mount under trembling control. She tossed her head pridefully as she leveled her glance at Cullen.

“You fight bravely, Vicar General,” she cried. Her horse snorted at her voice, finally calming enough to stand fidgeting beneath her. “I could yet pardon your treason, if you will swear to serve me faithfully.”

Cullen stared at her in disbelief. “Swear to serve you? Are you mad? You speak as if it is you who have had the victory. You are my prisoner, not I yours.”