Shadow of the King (101 page)

need send his men in again, to charge up the hill, set their tiring strength on that

damned wall of men and shields a fourth time. Cerdic must have lost as many

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 0 9

men as he, for the British bowmen were skilled at their craft, and the damage to

the front line must be taking its toll of wounded. He must come around behind

the Saex, break their courage and solidity.

Cerdic stood to the rear of his shield-wall to be safe, but near enough to be

seen by his men, to be a part of this ragged business. His hearth-guard were

gathered close, their shields already prickled by British arrows, their Saxon short

swords and heavy, sharp-bladed axes prominent, ready. Just in case, they told

him, although they assured him with nodding heads and wide, confident grins

that the wall was strong, would not waver. “Let the Pendragon set his horses

at us, let them tire themselves coming and recoming up that hill if that is what

they wish to do. We will be here to meet them, and send them away again!”

This battle was going well, better than the last disaster against his father. Cerdic

closed his eyes briefly. Woden forgive him, but that battle at Portus Chester had

been an experience he would not wish to face again! He had been unprepared

then, minor skirmishes, raiding, the defence of one’s own stronghold—ah, all

that was different from this, the real, whole, bloody thing! He wiped sweat

from his forehead; he was four and thirty years of age, already his hair was

thinning on top—gods, but he hated all this! He resisted the impulse to step

backward as a man, tumbling from the affray, fell, blood and spittle gurgling

from an arrow through his throat. Vomit rose in Cerdic’s throat; he swallowed,

forced himself to ignore the man’s open, staring eyes. So many of his Saxons

were already dead or maimed but, as they had said, the shield-wall was holding.

He had good officers now, experienced men like Port and his sons, and the

two newcomers, Stuf and Wihtgar, men who knew their job and did it well.

The Saxons had every chance of victory, high reward had been promised to

all those who survived the day. And for those who died in glory, an honoured

welcome by the gods.

If the shield-wall held and if his ships were unopposed at the landing place

along from Caer Morfa. Cerdic planted his feet wider, eased his sword from

its scabbard. The three ships would bring his Saxons in behind the Artoriani,

cut off their rear, trap them. Cerdic shouted encouragement to the men

ahead of him as another charge by the Artoriani began to come up the hill

towards them.

Arthur had judged it time to change tactics. It was obvious the wall of men

and shields up on top of that hill was not going to fall as things stood. To

damage a solid structure you needed to weaken its least strong point. He sent

the horses in again, relying on the strict discipline of the Artoriani and their

6 1 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

superb ability as horsemen and soldiers. A fighting machine that could take into

account every required nuance of strategy.

The horses jog-trotted, easing into a hand canter, facing the wall head-on.

They would gallop, release into the energy of the charge within the last twenty

or so yards only, for the high ground was taking its toll of energy and impetus.

The bowmen would hold their flights of arrows above their heads until the

last moment, until the horses sprang into their full, powerful pace. The Saxons

were ready, braced, their spears bristling from between and beneath the line of

shields, their structure immovable, again awaiting the impact.

The line shuddered, wavered, almost toppled, for the horses had changed

direction in mid-gallop a few yards from the shields, a manoeuvre fantastic to

watch, brilliantly completed. Within those few strides the Artoriani wheeled to

left and right, their charging, strung-out line compacting into two groups, the

pace barely pausing. The Saxons staggered as the assault hit hard at each wing,

where the more vulnerable stood, where the line was thinnest, least protected,

and the Artoriani hammered through, breaking the line of men as easily as if

they were nothing but a stand of golden corn. Saxons ran to defend their flank,

the centre stretching, less densely packed. And another wave of Artoriani came

up the hill at the gallop, straight for the thinning centre, leaving no time for the

Saxons to regroup, to rethink. A swift assault executed by a man who had spent

more years at war than his son and his Saxon officers combined.

The hearth-guard clustered tighter around Cerdic, the fighting rapidly

swelling to hand-to-hand, infantry against cavalry, sword clashing against

sword, an axe blade, glinting in the sun before it swooped down, was raised

again, bloodied, ragged with sinew.

“Do we withdraw?” Cerdic yelled, frantically signalling his guard closer.

“Nay, my lord, we can fight them off!”
Woden protect me!
Cerdic’s mind shrilled,

How can we fight off this many!

Arthur was ready to send in the reserves, the last two turmae of Artoriani and

the bowmen, their weapons exchanged for the sword and spear. He had Brenin

gathered on a tight rein, his hand lifting to signal the move forward. A galloper

burst from the trees behind, causing Brenin to rear and plunge; Arthur brought

him around, cursed. A courier, face bloodied, an arrow quivering deep within

his horse’s flank.

“Sir!” he shouted, anxious, near to tears, desperate. “They are attacking Caer

Morfa—three ships, many men. The stronghold is in danger of falling!”

Fifty-Five

All timbers were of oak, the palisade, the Hall, dwellings, only the

roofing, the reed thatching, burnt with a fury. They raked down what

they could from the Hall and the more important buildings. Dwelling-places

could be re-built, roofs re-thatched. Lives were the more important, and the

need to secure the gateways. If the Saex broke through…

Gwenhwyfar smiled encouragingly at Archfedd. Both knew the smile and the

encouragement were false. Gwenhwyfar had seen enough of battle to know this one

was desperate and that Caer Morfa was screaming its death chant. Her daughter had

never seen fighting, not skirmish or raiding, close up. Aye, she had witnessed the

aftermath, the pain of the wounded, the keening for the dead, but this, the despera-

tion of having your home, your family and friends, your land, your life threatened

by the attacking forces of savagery, this was new to her. New and terrifying.

They were in the Hall—roofless, for the thatch of the highest roof had been

among the first to catch beneath the fire-arrows. As with any stronghold under

siege, it was to the Hall the women and children came, to the Hall the men

brought the wounded. “Da will come, will he not?” Archfedd had asked, an hour

or so past as she had patched a minor arrow wound to Natanlius’s shoulder.

“If he can, he will,” her husband assured her, placing a light kiss on her

forehead before he went out again to join his men at the palisade. “I have sent

word, three of my best men; one will get through to the Pendragon, I am sure.”

Comforting words of hope. For himself as much as her.

Archfedd had glanced at her mother for confirmation. She had resented

Gwenhwyfar coming from Caer Cadan so hurriedly yesterday, saying tartly she

could look to herself and her family. Was so glad, now, she had her mother’s

strength to shore up the sagging spirits of all those within the Caer. Including

her own.

“If he can,” Gwenhwyfar had agreed. “Aye, your father will come if he can.”

Knowing he would not because he fought with Cerdic those few miles away,

6 1 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

up where the marshes washed against the rise of high ground, up where the

open sky dipped to meet the wind-browsed trees of oak and ash and elm and

beech. Up where he might himself be lying dead.

Gwenhwyfar finished bandaging a man’s leg. The arrow had plunged

deep, but fortune had been on his side: it was a wound that would heal.

Movement behind her, she knew it would be Ider. She turned, brushing hair

from her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a bloody streak smeared

along her forehead.

“I need more bandaging,” she said, starting to walk to where the children

were rolling strips of linen. She indicated he was to walk with her.

“Well?” she asked after a while and a while.

Ider’s hand was gripped tight on his sword pommel, his expression grim. He

jerked his eyes towards another group of children, younger, sitting huddled

with a few of the women. Among them, three boys, babes, the eldest a handful

of weeks short of his second birthing day; for the second child, this was the day

of his first full year in the world of men. They had planned a feasting for him,

with honeyed cakes and pastries shaped into animals. The third, aye well, he

was nought but three weeks into life, his only concern the milk that warmed his

belly and the love of his mother’s arms. Grim, Ider said, “We ought consider

them. Look to their safety.”

Archfedd’s sons. Arthur’s future heirs.

Gwenhwyfar stacked a bundle of bandages in the crook of her arm, rubbed

the cheek of the serious-faced little girl who had handed them to her. “Be brave,

sweetheart.” The girl smiled back at Gwenhwyfar, trusting her. She liked the

pretty lady with the soft, calming voice, did not like the noises penetrating into

the Hall. Her Da was out there, Mam had said, fighting to keep them all from

the knives of the Saxons. Gwenhwyfar made her way to the far end of the Hall

to where wounded men patiently awaited the attention of the medical orderlies,

Ider at her side. She wanted no one to think she was in earnest discussion.

“Is it desperate?” she asked.

He nodded. “It is. Half? One hour? If help does not come, the gates will

not hold.”

She piled the bandages with others, asked where she might help next.

What to do? Wait or go? Was there any choice? Gwenhwyfar knelt beside

a young lad. He could be no more then ten and three summers. He had burns

to the side of his face, his arms; most of his body was charred and reddened,

the skin blistered and peeling. He was in great pain, yet he smiled at her. “The

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 1 3

Pendragon will come soon, will he not? And when he does, I would like to see

him beat the balls from their arses!”

“When he has finished with Cerdic, aye, he will come to our aid.”

Gwenhwyfar took his left hand in hers, held it, a small part of him that was

whole and clean. She sat there for a few, long minutes, easing his pain by letting

it flow into her. She was glad he would not know she had lied to him.

Ider tore a tapestry from the wall, its edges charred, its bright coloured hunting

scene smoke-blackened and spoilt. His teeth bit into his lip as he covered the

dead boy with its once splendid glory. No lad in the spring of his life deserved

to die in such a way.

Gwenhwyfar remained on her knees, looking nowhere in particular, looking

everywhere around that Hall, at the wounded men and the frightened women

and children. They would be safe, the Saxons were not generally known as

mindless butchers. The able men, that would be a different matter, but a man

knew his destiny when a fight began. For herself…She mattered not. She had

lived her life and when death marched nearer, you almost came to welcoming

its shadowed presence. Archfedd and her three born sons, though, what would

Cerdic have done to them? Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes, her hands clasped in

brief murmur of prayer. What barbarism would be expected of a son who took

an axe to his mother and to the woman who had borne him his son?

“Can we get them out?” she asked. Ider held his hand to her, helped her rise.

He nodded, once. “Natanlius wishes it. As do I. We will open the gates and

allow you to run.”

She wanted to scream no; she wanted to insist her place was here, with these

women and their precious families. Wanted to, but did not, for above being a

woman and a mother, she was a queen, and her duties lay beyond the caring for

one isolated stronghold. She need put the safety of the king’s grandsons above

all else.

“See to it,” she said. “We will be beside the gates, as soon we can.”

“Not long,” Ider answered, setting his hand on her arm, his anguished eyes

meeting hers. She knew then the plan did not involve him coming with her.

He repeated, “Do not leave it too long.”

She touched his face with her hand, a caress that would say so much more

than any word. “God keep you,” she said, and walked quickly away. There was

too much to do, in too short a time. The grieving would have to come later.

Fifty-Six

They took the swiftest horses, Gwenhwyfar her grey, Archfedd a

chestnut descended from her father’s Onager. With them, a turma of

men, thirty in all. It would deplete the numbers holding the Caer, but it would

not hold much longer. Thirty more men for Arthur, assuming he was surviving