Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (30 page)

Shouting as loud, Gwydre
protested as his men were swept to
each side by Llacheu’s
scything hands. ‘You didn’t give me a chance to fight back!’

‘
That’s
the point of battle,’ Llacheu retorted with a knowing sneer. ‘Do not give the
enemy a chance to attack you first.’

‘Well it’s not
fair!’
And they were fighting, the toys forgotten, both boys
tumbling
over and over, fists and feet hammering at each other,
the battle game suddenly
for real.

Nessa, hurrying from
her sewing, tried to pull them apart and
screeched
as teeth sank into her arm. Enid ran to separate the boys — and Gwenhwyfar came
into the room, her arms full of white cloth freshly cleaned and collected from
the fullers. The
fight stopped, the boys
backing from each other hurling
accusations; Nessa was crying and
scolding both at once and
nursing her arm; Enid was standing, hands on hips, also
scolding.

Enduring the combined noise a moment only,
Gwenhwyfar shouted for quiet. It settled reluctantly, lumbering like a rock
fall. Gwydre had the last mutter.

‘I do not care who started it,’ his mother
retorted, sweeping across the room to lay the cloth on a table. ‘I want to hear
no more of it.’

‘But he ...’

‘
I was only ...’ the boys tried together to explain.
‘No more!’
Llacheu hung his head. ‘Na,
Mother.’ Gwenhwyfar raised an eyebrow at her other son. Gwydre
glowered — looking for all the world like his
father — climbed
down, reluctant, from his anger. ‘Na, Mother.’ Showing
her arm, Nessa expressed her indignation. ‘Look what they did to me, the
heathens!’ Inspecting the bruising, Gwenhwyfar crooked her finger at the boys,
made them stand before her. ‘Which one of you bit Nessa?’

‘He did,’ they said simultaneously, pointing
at each other.

‘Then you will both be punished. You will not
ride this
afternoon.’ Turning her back on
them Gwenhwyfar unrolled
the cloth.
There was more than she needed here but it was good
cloth, worth its buying. She measured with her
fingers,
planning with her eye. Aye, a dragon embroidered in scarletred,
decorated with gold thread ... it would make a fine new banner for Arthur. She
sauntered to the unshuttered window,
peeped
out. The boys were standing gloomily, Llacheu chewing
his lip, Gwydre
trying not to cry. ‘What a shame,’ she said, ‘the
first afternoon it has not rained.’ Again she looked out, her eyes
going
north to the fuzzed line of distant hills. Did the rain fall where Arthur was?
Had the two armies yet met ... was Arthur all right ...

Come with me, Gwen.

No.
1
am not yet
ready to face more
dying.

Yet was it any easier to not know what was
happening, up
away beyond those hills? He
had sent only one letter to her
three.
She sighed, a slight sound. That was unfair, he would not
have the time
to write. Too late for regrets; she wished she had gone with him. But then,
life was stitched together by regrets.

‘
What will
you do if Morgause is there?’ she had asked Arthur,
curled against him
in bed the night before he rode away north. He had not answered immediately and
when he did it was with uncertainty. ‘Hang her?
Behead
her? 1 don’t
know.’ Llacheu had come to the window, was looking where his
mother watched. His hand slipped into hers, gripped
tight.
‘Will there be much fighting, Mani?’

‘
I expect
so.’ She forced a smile for him. ‘Your da is almost as
keen as you when
it comes to fighting.’
Her
son grinned back at her, ‘And almost as good!’ She laughed. ‘Aye, almost.’

§ XXXIII

The Artoriani. A
brotherhood of nine hundred permanent,
élite
cavalry under the direct command of their King, Arthur, the Pendragon.
Professional men doing a professional job.

The marching camp had
swelled with the arrival of
Gwynedd, the newcomers
settling their weapons and personal bundles around their own fires to the
western edge, billeting their horses to their own picket lines. With the
gathered
infantry, the local militiamen, the
number of fighting men
came close to three thousand. The Cymry, the
Companions. Arthur was aware they might not number enough, but he held one
advantage, now that Enniaun had come.

It was evening, time for the nightly gathering of officers and
allied lords to
discuss details of the morrow. The rain had begun again, pattering softly on
the oiled leather of Arthur’s command tent and a slight wind outside found
holes and openings to cram
through,
causing cross-draughts and currents that fanned the torches and braziers,
trailing the smoke in crazy spirals.

‘
I
suppose,’ one of the older Artoriani officers asked, ‘it would
be too much to hope that Lot will not be able to hold his men together much longer? As much as I would regret a
wasted
march, it would be somewhat agreeable
to find they have
gathered their
spears and gone home to hearth and women
folk.’ But the men who, beyond
the King’s tent, settled themselves
to sleep,
rolling themselves into blankets and under cloaks,
eight men to a tent
would have been disappointed, had that officer’s words came true. Hearts were
high, even through the
drizzle of
fine
rain,
tempers good, the mood expectant, excited.
They were to march in earnest come morning; no more
paddling around among these mire-drenched,
mist-bound hills.

Enniaun accepted beer from the boy Gweir,
pointed to a parchment map spread across the table, cleared for once of Arthur’s
accumulated muddle. He moved a broad finger up the
line representing the long sweep of the Roman road, stabbed his
nail into a point slightly to the west, where
crudely drawn trees
were marked. ‘Here,’ he said, with a hint of
finality, ‘the hills that we now occupy drop down to the flat plain of the Great River. To the north bank, the first fringes of the Caledonian
Forest
stretching from
here,’ he ran his spread fingers a long way
up the map, ‘into the
highlands.’ He folded his arms across his chest and for emphasis, stepped one
pace back from the table.
‘Lot waits for us one mile north of the river, within the cover of
dense woodland.’

‘
How
many to his name, my Lord?’ That was Hueil from Alclud. ‘Did you see enough to
estimate?’
Enniaun, a
deep frown of concentration etched beneath his bush of red hair, pondered a
reply. He regarded Arthur, who
stood with
hands resting flat against the edge of the table,
steady eyes answering his hesitant gaze. The
Pendragon nodded
once, giving permission for him to continue.

‘
It is my
guess,’ Enniaun spoke slowly, thinking as he formed
the words. His eyes flickered around the allied
Lords and
officers of the militia gathered men, assessing their courage.
They led good men, whole-hearted loyal to
Arthur, but they
were not disciplined
Artoriani, some held no experience of a
real fight. Cattle raiding,
minor squabbles, the odd skirmish — what was that to full battle? ‘Close to
five thousand.’
There came a series of low,
unbelieving whistles. Those who had been at the back, leaning against the tent
poles or squatting
by the braziers, came alert to attention, stepped
nearer those grouped around the table. The older and wiser among them shook
their heads. That was a lot of men to fight!

‘Their numbers may be many, but I doubt their
hearts are as
strong, or their skill as
great.’ Meriaun spoke plain, hands
tucked beneath his armpits, legs
spread wide. His father had been Cunedda’s eldest-born, butchered as an example
against rebellion when the North, in support of Uthr Pendragon, rose
and lost to Vortigern. It was some small portion of
personal
pride this, the reclaiming of a land that ought, one day, to
have been his own.

Taking his hands from
the table, Arthur stood back, eyes and
thoughts
on the map spread before him. The road stretching north; high, open moorland;
thick-wooded valleys. Almost reverently, he reached forward to touch a drawn
line that meandered between the position of their present camp and the
great mass of the Caledonian Forest. ‘The Great River.’ He
spoke slowly, his mind working with the gift of battle genius. ‘We
need to cross it. We could head for the coast,’ his finger stabbed at the wide
estuary, ‘but there it is wider, with marsh and mudflats. Also, a long ride
east. The same applies if we go west, upstream, save the width will be negligible.’
He paused, his hand hovering, mind tumbling with ideas, most instantly
rejected. ‘For a fording port we need the middle reaches, ahead of us.’ He
brought his finger back. ‘Neither too high, nor too
low, and aware that from here,’ he indicated the point, ‘the
current is tidal.’ He chewed a split fingernail. ‘Which
means we
ford the Great River where Lot wants us to.’
Cei cleared his throat, bent to peer at the map,
his bottom lip jutting out. ‘They are holed up in those north-bank woods now,
but will they not come down to meet us when we
are at our most
vulnerable?’ Many nodded, that seemed most likely.

Arthur lifted a corner of the map, retrieved
a thin stick of charcoal, and carefully marked in their route northwards. ‘We
marched at an easy pace.’ He was thinking aloud, planning.
‘Coming along the Wall and crossing the hills, to
here.’ He
circled the position of
their present camp and tossed the
charcoal, catching it, holding it
between curled fingers. ‘We made no secret of our passing, and have not hurried
our pace.’

‘Watched all the while.’ Cei’s disapproval
was rancid in his throat. ‘We ought to have shown them our strength afore this.’
Arthur’s reply was indifferent. ‘Our archers and scouts have
picked off more of their men than they have ours —
and with less
heat than losing our tempers would achieve.’

‘
Aside
that,’ Hueil spoke, coming forward, a slight swagger of
self-importance
to his step, ‘we needed to give my Lord of
Gwynedd’s
chosen scouts time — and adequate diversion — to
ride north and back
undetected?’

‘Precisely.’ Arthur acknowledged the young
man’s observation. He had hopes for Hueil.

‘
You ought
to have informed us of what Gwynedd was up to,’
Cei remarked gruffly.

‘Must all my decisions be accountable to you
then?’ Arthur reacted with quick anger, facing Cei broadside on.

‘Na!’ Cei shouted back. ‘But oft-times I
wonder why I am
honoured with this empty
title of second-in-command! Command
of
what? Hollow evasions and hidden secrets.’ He stood square
before the Pendragon, arms animated with annoyance,
adding for
good measure, ‘What if you had been killed? What then?’ He
dropped his hands, raised one slowly, imploring. ‘God’s truth, Arthur, what is
it? Do you no longer trust me?’

‘I suggest,’ Enniaun said, coming around the
table, diffusing
the rise of temper by
pointing back to the map and the matter of
tactics, ‘that I take my men
along this valley here and circle
around
through the trees, to come up behind Lot. With luck,
he will not suspect
such a move, believing us unaware of his position.’ Arthur turned his back on
Cei, the slight squabble immedi
ately
forgotten, passed over as nothing serious. ‘My guess is that
he will
attack at the river crossing, but he may lure us into the woods where our
Artoriani will be at a greater disadvantage.’ Cei, although smarting, was
studying the river lower down.
‘What if I
took two Turmae to cross here? I could circle from the
right flank. With
Enniaun coming from the left ...’

‘
That would
split us into three — four with a rearguard
reserve.’ Arthur rolled the
suggestion uneasily around in his mind.

‘
It could
be the end of us should Lot decide to make a full fight
of it as we ford
the river,’ Meriaun observed.

Arthur nodded. ‘That is
my thought also.’ He spread his
hands, a grin of
expectant pleasure erupting on his face. ‘But that is a chance we shall have to
take.’