Shadow of the King (25 page)

up almost two miles northward, where the ground was firm, suited for horse.

The two armies had met, fought. The Goths, thousands of men, skirmishing

half-heartedly, their slow, backward pacing unnoticed at first, unforeseen. For

all his experience and gift for fighting, Arthur could not oversee a whole battle-

field, not when the enemy had so many men dispersed. Steadily, the Goths

had drawn Arthur’s cavalry forward. No choice, once the strategy was realised,

but to follow, to go with them, trying, struggling, to break that slow step,

back-pace. Knowing the marshes, the vastness of this water-bellied wilderness,

lay behind Euric’s men. Marshland, where infantry could fight on foot, where

horses would be next to useless.

Arthur had never, save once, fought within marsh without it being him to

choose the ground, him to call the tune. That once had been his first fight, long,

long past, when he was a raw youth in service to King Vortigern. He had learnt

since then. Learnt never to trust the treachery of marsh and bog, unless it suited

his tactics. And this day, this long, sun-scorching day, it did not suit him at all. It

fitted well for Euric, and it was he, it seemed, who paid the harper to sing.

The Pendragon seemed almost not to care, but pressed forward, recklessly

trying to outmanoeuvre the enemy. The alternative was to turn and run like

whipped dogs—and that, Arthur could not, would not do. The Artoriani had

never retreated, save as planned strategy. To fall back now would be their

certain end, for already their numbers were dwindling, the horses tiring. To

retreat would be the end of them all. Huh! Was it not the end anyway? But it

was one thing to finish with honour, quite another with the defeat of shame.

1 4 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Not half of one mile to the east the waders and waterfowl went unconcerned

about their business of feeding. The geese, honking and clamouring their

annoyance, had taken flight in great skeins when one wing of Arthur’s cavalry,

led by Ecdicius the Gaul, had swung about in a brave attempt to cut any further

backward movement of Euric’s damned hoard. They had circled, the geese

screaming protest, only to land further off, to begin again their preoccupied flat-

footed dabbling among the wind-teased, whispering reeds and water grasses.

The sun was high, a bright, glaring ball against the vivid, heated blue of

a cloudless sky that swept as endless as the marshes into the distance. Since

sunrise had the battle flurried, swaying back and forth like the relentless sweep

of the tide. Two armies intent on savagery. Kill or be killed. With nothing, no

compromise, in between. So many already dead. Among the first, Meriaun,

Gwenhwyfar’s nephew.

Arthur’s horse floundered. He was a good stallion, a dark, polished-elm bay,

with bold eye and deep chest. A good horse, yet the Pendragon would rather

have had Onager beneath him, that bad-tempered, unpredictable bugger of a

chestnut. Onager, who could fight with teeth and heel as bravely and efficiently

as any soldier. A second time, the bay’s legs went from beneath him, and this

time he went down, his hooves skidding in the churned ooze of mud. Arthur

grabbed for the mane, saw, too late, an axe scything down, rolled desperately,

felt the whish of air as it thudded past, taking the bay’s head from its neck in

the one, savage, blow.

On one knee, the gush of horse-blood spouting, the mud thick and squelching,

Arthur raised his shield, deflected a second blow, though the pain from a sword-

slash that had lain open his arm from shoulder to wrist was ramming like a ballista

bolt. He knew, knew, this was the end. And he did not care. He thought he

would have minded when the end came. Minded losing, minded dying.

Already he was bleeding from too many wounds to count, from shoulder,

arm, and thigh. One more blow from that axe to his shield and surely his arm

would shatter as thoroughly as the wood. One more blow from that axe…

The axe did not come, for a sword was swinging from behind, the bloodied,

dulled blade forcing through the air…

The end. Arthur never knew the end of that battle, for it came from behind.

Unseen, almost unfelt. A great exploding end of sudden, brief, pain across his

shoulder, down his back.

A stunned nothingness that turned, slowly, slowly, from red to black.

Part Two

The Empty Loom

One

Oh Christ! Christ Jesu!” Over and over, with struggling, tortured

breath, Bedwyr repeated the oath, with every stumbling, exhausted step.

He fell, staggered again to his feet, pushed on, willing his trembling, aching,

legs to move; dragging his precious burden. “Christ, Jesu Christ!”

The trees were no more than fifty yards distant now, only fifty yards, and

the ground was beginning to rise sharply. They were clearing the feet-cloying,

mud-sucking pull of the marsh—yet it could have been one hundred and fifty,

one thousand and fifty. Fifty yards, fifty yards too far!

Like a child ineffectually swiping with a wooden toy, Bedwyr menacingly

waved his sword at one of the enemy approaching too near, his accompanying

snarl producing some little effect, although it was Mabon, striking out using the

king’s own great sword, that drove him back.

Illtud came forward, stumbling, as tired and bloodied as the others. He

could barely walk himself, yet he bent, took hold of the Pendragon, helped

Bedwyr carry the muddied and bloodied body. It had been Illtud who had

seen Arthur fall, Illtud who had screamed for help, had, in a flood of anguish

and fear, grabbed at the king’s sword and thrust it into the guts of the man who

had felled the Pendragon. Illtud who had then pulled his beloved king’s body

clear of the fighting with the aid of these last few standing men; Illtud who had

thought, in that last moment, to clutch up the ragged, stained Dragon Banner.

He wore it, tied ignobly around his waist, where it draped like a battered

beggar’s cloak. The sword he had passed to Mabon. For all his greater age, he

was the better swordsman.

Fifty yards. Fifty yards of firmer ground, but it was the solid ground of an

incline, an incline that would be as nothing to fresh, alert men, but this small

group trying their best to take their king from the field of battle was nearing

the limit of endurance. They had been more, for they had rallied to Illtud’s cry

for help, but their numbers had been cut down, falling to the axe or sword or

1 5 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

exhaustion. If you fell, it was unlikely you would get up again…Fifty yards.

Their one hope that Euric’s men were also spent, as weary, as bloodied and

drained. Doggedly they pursued, but few were coming nearer now, only the

occasional one who found some small reserve of strength, and the British were

proving a match with their cussed perseverance. For the British were deter-

mined that Euric would not have the body of the Pendragon.

Bedwyr, gasping for an ounce of extra, unfound strength, forced himself up

the hill of rough, tussocked grass. He caught Illtud’s grim expression, a young

officer who had served well these past three years within the Artoriani. Sweat

beaded through the smattering of blood and marsh-mud; mouth open, a face

masked with pain and distress. His own, Bedwyr knew, must mirror the same

grim image. He looked down, closed his eyes, not wanting to see the awfulness

of what had been Arthur, his beloved cousin, his lord and king. The matted

hair, grey skin, bruised and bloodied. The last thing they could do for him, the

last loyal thing: give him a peaceful burial. Christ Jesu alone knew what Euric

would do to a defeated king’s body…and he might not be dead. There was a

small, desperate hope that Arthur was yet alive, though the pallor and stillness

shrieked otherwise, and if those terrible wounds had not slain him then surely

this inglorious hauling and dragging to a place of safety would finish what the

enemy had initiated. “Christ Jesu,” Bedwyr prayed again, “let him still live, let

this not be all in vain!”

“Amen,” gasped Illtud, staring stoically ahead. Bedwyr had been unaware that

he had spoken aloud. Happen he had not, happen Illtud had been mouthing the

same despairing prayer.

Swallowing vomit that threatened to rise, Bedwyr turned his thoughts to

concentrating on tackling this incline. One step, another, and another. Once

they reached the protective safety of those trees, and night came…another step.

One foot, the other foot.

Behind, littered across this northern end of the stretching marshes, lay the

dead and dying, men and horses. The horses. The Artoriani’s fine horses, all

gone, dead, butchered. The only way that infantry might succeed over cavalry:

be rid of the horses.

Forty yards. Small groups still fought, desperate and exhausted, their blows

slow and clumsy, unable to let go, to end this thing, the madness too strong,

too powerful to release them into sanity, save through the ultimate finality.

Darkness would bring an ending, but few British would crawl from the mess

of that battlefield, the place of slaughter. Up on the slight incline, the small

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 5 3

group moved closer, each supporting the other, Bedwyr, Illtud, old Mabon.

Two Decurions, several unranked Artoriani. Save for those few who might-

live long enough to be protected by the hand of darkness, all that was left of

the Artoriani.

Thirty yards.

Bedwyr glanced ahead, caught his wheezing breath with a groan of disbelief,

of wretched despair. Saxons, well-armed, tall, fair-haired Saxons, ten and five

of them; running, war-cry screaming, axes swinging above their heads, coming

from the shadow of the trees, from where it was thought to be safe. Despairing,

the British closed ranks, Mabon coming to the fore, his legs planted, sword

raised. They would all die, here, now, rather than let the enemy take their

king. But it was Euric’s men who fled, who faltered, dropped their weapons

and ran with cries of alarm, scuttling for the marsh and the comforting shield

of their comrades.

Euric had lied yestereve as he talked to his army of this fight. Their superior

numbers, he had told them, would bring an easy victory. By the middle of the

day, he had boasted, they would be roasting meat and drinking fine wine in

celebration. He had said nothing of the British discipline, the British strength

and courage. Said nothing of the terror of those horses. If they had not managed

to reach the advantageous ground of the marshes in dignified retreat; if they had

not felt so acutely the cowardliness of turning and running…Ah, but Arthur

would never know that Euric had not planned the running away as strategy, that

it was pure chance—and fear—that had taken his men backwards towards those

treacherous marshes. Euric was not a man who studied strategy or cunning. He

was no great warrior, no great leader, but he had the luck of the devil, and he

had more, many more, men.

Incredibly, the Saxons divided, raced past the braced, upright huddle of the

British and swept down the incline like hounds chasing a scatter of rats, and

two women were coming, running, kirtles hitched to the knees. One Bedwyr

recognised, knew. He closed his eyes, willed the strength to stay in his knees,

but they buckled, he fell forward. Illtud too, he saw, was kneeling, and a few

of the others.

Mathild, tears streaming her face, put her hand under his arm, urged him to

his feet. “We must go, my lord, my small guard will not hold them for long.”

She kept her eyes from the one lying on the ground, from the man who had

lain and loved with her. The other woman, though, had gone to him, her tears

also falling, her black hair tumbling forward to hide the paleness of her skin.

1 5 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Bedwyr had never seen her before, knew not who she was, but obviously she

knew Arthur, for she spoke his name, took the coldness of his hand into hers.

Wept for him.

The Saxons were coming back, trotting up the hill. The Saxons whom

Arthur had freed, the men who had been taken into slavery by the Gauls, given

back their dignity and courage, given weapons and armour in return for their

sworn oath to protect Mathild of the Elbe and return her to her own kind.

“Come,” Mathild ordered, “They may yet be after us again. Let us be gone.”

She was capable, firm-minded. Not one of the men thought to do ought else

but obey. Two of her Saxons lifted the Pendragon and those last few yards, that

distance that had seemed so great before, was covered in a matter of moments.

It was over. The killing was over. Now the result was about to begin.

Two

They marched for two hours, the British exhausted, passing through

the threshold of pain, following without question where the Saxons led.

It was dark beneath the canopy of trees, but they had reached a wide, slow-

flowing, shallow river and turned along the path that ran parallel with its course.

The Indre, Mathild told them, it would take them to safer territory. They did