Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (76 page)

He risked a glance, was
surprised to see the glinting sparkle of
blue,
blue sea stretching behind the brown march of trees. The hills of Gwynedd
seemed so near from up here.

A dagger sliced through
the thick padding of his sleeve,
blood oozing through
the torn and split material. He twisted away, swung back, used his sword;
another man before him, plunging a double-headed axe downwards, sending it
thudding into Arthur’s raised shield, splintering the wood, a jarred wave
of pain quivering up Arthur’s wrist and arm. His
foot slipped on
loose shale, his legs slithering from beneath him. He
tried to
steady himself with his sword arm,
dared not drop his shield, as
again the axe fell, shattering the wood.
But the axe blade was
caught! Arthur, on
his knees, dropped the remainder of the useless
shield and brought his sword up, two-handed, thrusting the blade
into the man’s belly, pushing all his weight
behind it, watched the
man crumple, topple forward and tumble down the
slope.

No time to draw breath, another axe, and he had
no shield
now. The Pendragon’s fingers were
becoming sticky with sweat
and the
trickle of blood that came down his arm. His vision was
blurring, sweat pouring into his eyes, the feel of
blood
pounding. Fighting uphill, every
inch higher, another inch
won. But how slow the progress, how much
blood, how many dead or dying? They would never make the ridge, there were just
too many of Hueil’s men, too many, and too impossible to fight on, uphill!
Sounds came from behind, an odd cadence that jarred
against the battle rhythm, that swept
forward and up. Hooves
on rock,
neighing, the war-shout from men lower down the
slope renewed, rising. It took a while to notice it, to be aware of
it
above the tunnel vision of fighting that which was in front of you. There came
a creeping awareness that Artoriani and Northmen alike were moving aside, a
ripple in the danced movement of traded blows, a faltering hesitation.

And the horses were
there, running free, unsaddled, no
bridles, ears flat,
teeth bared as they were driven upwards. A
rthur
shouted as Onager came past, the big horse’s eyes rolling
white, scared,
as he scrambled riderless into the confusion and
rising panic. With his left hand, Arthur reached out, grabbed
the
animal’s mane and was carried forward, dragged almost,
onward, up. Onager was blowing, snorting breath steaming
from his widened nostrils. Others of the
Artoriani, men
whooping and shouting
victory, were doing the same, using the
brute strength of their horses
to barge a wedge straight through
Hueil’s
men, who were scattering or falling beneath hooves that
struck against
rock and bone, pounded into soft flesh.

A Dalriad swung at
Arthur, but he took hold tighter of
Onager’s
mane, his fingers gripping into the neck muscles of the
crest,
kicked out with his boot, connecting with the man’s jaw,
sending him backwards, out into the nothingness.
He did not
see the man fall, for the last few yards were ahead! Onager
heaved his shoulders, thrust with his powerful
hindquarters and
was up, over the top, over the ridge, and galloping. It
was easy to mount, to alter the grip on the mane and leap, bend forward
over the stretched neck and feel the exhilaration
of speed as the
horse moved, fast, through the Northmen, who were
running,
fleeing from these animals with
bared teeth, whose riders
slashed with their long cavalry swords at
heads and shoulders
and backs, the horses
responsive to the pressure of leg and
thigh. They were used to this, the
sound and smell of battle, of obeying leg commands only, for no man could use
reins while
manipulating shield and spear
or sword. The panic was easing,
the horses settling under control of a
rider.

The wind was keening its own battle cry over
the flat grass
moorland, through scattered
trees, as the men of the North
fled, a dark shadow of heads bobbing,
arms pumping. Among
them, the banners of
Hueil and Morgause. Somewhere, she
must also be running – but Arthur had
no time to look, no time to search, for some of the Dalriads, braver men,
older, wiser,
were regrouping, turning to
fight. Men who not so long ago had
fought
beside Arthur against that same woman who was
running for her life,
somewhere ahead.

It was finished easily,
quickly and without mercy. Those who
had
run got away; the horses and men were too tired to pursue. Weary, Arthur called
the command to stand down and dropped
from
Onager’s back, feeling his legs quivering from the
unaccustomed effort of gripping a horse bare back. He led him by the
forelock through the litter of dead, dying or wounded, back to the lip of the
ridge where men were coming, making an end to the
Northern stragglers,
many men, not of the Artoriani. And a
woman.
She clawed her way over the lip of the ridge, her sword red, streaks of blood
and sweat on her face, her copper-gold hair
blowing free, its braiding
long since come unbound, her smile
broad, as
she saw Arthur walking towards her, his own clothing
and face and sword
as grimed and stained as hers.

‘And whose idea was it,’ he said, stepping up
to her, taking her hand to help her, ‘to let the horses loose?’
Gwenhwyfar
grinned. ‘I would like to take the credit,
but...’
She
was interrupted as a man clambered up from the slope, his breath coming in
gasps, as much blood and dirt on him as everyone else.

‘
It was my
idea to send the horses up. I thought it might
create a diversion,’
Amlawdd said coming forward, grinning from one ear to the other, his sword
outstretched, hilt first, in a gesture of peace. ‘Your woman persuaded me that
it would be the better option to ally with you.’
Arthur did not know what to say. He leant his weight against
Onager,
looked from one to the other, could not find enough energy to ask one, damned,
single question.

Through the blood and
dust spattering her face, Gwenhwyfar
was
smiling sweetly. A warning sign that she was about to do or
say
something Arthur was most definitely not going to like.

‘
In
exchange for alliance,’ she said, with her eyes sparkling —
she was most
definitely up to some mischief — ‘the Pendragon will agree to give an equal
share in whatever Amlawdd desires to ask for.’
Wiping his face with his hand, Arthur did little to improve
his appearance, succeeded in spreading the grime
around
further. All he really wanted
to do was go back down that hill to
their made camp, find his tent and
go to sleep for the next few days. Na, make that months. And here he was,
standing at the edge of a battlefield playing damned silly games!
Amlawdd had sheathed his sword, was standing arms
folded,
legs spread. ‘Do you agree, Pendragon?’
He was going to regret this. Arthur nodded, too weary to
think
the thing through. Stood, too stunned even to draw his sword as Amlawdd
immediately replied with:

‘Then I claim your wife.’

§ XXXVIII

Several thoughts galloped through Arthur’s
mind almost simultaneously: he had not heard right; Gwenhwyfar was mad to have
planted the idea in this turd’s addled brain; and, most explicit, he would slit
Amlawdd’s throat before ever agreeing!
The
day had been long, tiring and the touch of death had been a
little too
close down his neck for comfort, components that did not make for an easy
temper or humorous mood. Arthur took several steps towards Amlawdd and prodded
him, none too
gently, in the chest with the
tip of one finger. ‘You ally with me,
frog feet, or I kill you. Those
are my terms.’ He turned on his heel and stormed away, muttering dangerously
beneath his
breath. Several men, intending to
approach him for further
orders, scuttled off to find their Decurions
instead.

The sun that had shone so hopefully all
morning had been outmanoeuvred by banks of cloud hurtling in from the east,
herded before a wind that threatened worse to come than this
grey, overcast afternoon. The wounded were many,
not as
many dead as expected, though
the numbers would rise through
the
night and the next few days. Of the horses, a few were lame,
nothing worse. It had taken a while, and much
cursing, to
round them up. War mounts were trained to stand when their
riders were tipped off, the reins falling loose,
but running free in
a mass of
galloping excitement was another matter. Arthur took
Onager out for an
hour or two, persuaded a few of the more
rebellious
horses back. They could not pursue Hueil without
the horses. Not that
Hueil was going to get far, for Arthur had
set
his best scouts on following the Northern bastard’s trail. Na,
he would
not get far. Nor would she.

Then there had been the
men to see to, as Arthur always did,
going
around the wounded, laughing, encouraging, a gentle
word
for those badly hurt. His own wound was tended late in
the afternoon, when the medical orderlies had finished with the
more
serious needs, and then he had to inspect the wounded horses ... the list went
on.

The smells of supper
cooking were becoming more enticing,
but things had to be
done before a man could fill his belly. Arthur clenched his teeth and gripped
his sword pommel for
self-support. This other
thing would have to be outfaced at
some point. The Decurions and
officers would be waiting for him by now to discuss this day’s course and plan
the morrow’s; no surprise to find Amlawdd sitting with them, wearing that same
inane grin. Gwenhwyfar also, sitting among the circle of waiting men, Llacheu
beside her. Arthur glanced at her. She
looked
beautiful, had taken time to braid her hair, wear her
jewels, a fine
gown. Her eyes were dappled with that swirl of familiar tawny gold, and her
smile, as he entered the circle and took his place next to her, was more
radiant than any sunburst after a summer storm. The Pendragon raised one
eyebrow, squinted through the other eye at her. What was she up to? Amlawdd was
full of intention to speak, but Arthur was
determined
not to let him, not yet. There were important,
more pressing matters to
deal with first, like what they were going to do about Hueil.

One of the scouts had
returned, keeping constant informa
tion flowing. Hueil’s
scum had not run far, had come together to lick each other’s wounds and rejoin
their strength when they realised the Artoriani were not pursuing. Rarely was
an issue settled in one fight, but Arthur had no intention of letting this one
drag on.

‘I want Hueil dead. If not on the morrow,
then the next day.’ He glowered around the circle, watching his officers,
judging their feelings. Was satisfied to read the same objective. He
altered the mood slightly, lightening to humour. ‘A
peaceful
life at Caer Cadan is more
preferable than farting around in
these
miserable hills.’ Several officers chuckled. ‘I have a mind
to return south as soon as we can – now let us
plan how that can
be achieved.’ The light was fading, the days still
short, nights long, spring
not yet strong
enough to chase the darkness. Two Turmae were
sent off to ensure Hueil’s
rabble stayed where they were, the lesser officers sent about their business.
Only the Decurions, Meriaun and Llacheu remained with Arthur, and those few officers
were curious about a wild-fire spreading rumour concerning Gwenhwyfar and
Amlawdd. Arthur’s stomach was growling. The bowl of cold porridge he had eaten
at dawn this morning had emptied from his belly long since.

‘I have no intention of agreeing,’ he stated.
He was sitting
cross-legged, his sword
across his lap, folded his arms to emphasise
his point. ‘My wife will
not become Amlawdd’s whore.’ Gwenhwyfar briefly touched his arm, her eyes
sparking annoyance. She put two fingers across Arthur’s lips, silencing
his rising anger, mouthed so that Amlawdd would not
see,
‘Trust me!’ Turned her dazzling
smile on the other man. ‘Do you
agree to share me as wife?’ Amlawdd
shouted, ‘Aye!’ Arthur glared, growled a fierce, ‘Na, I do not.’

‘
Then
there will always be fighting between you.’
Gwenhwyfar spoke
matter-of-factly, almost indifferent to
Arthur’s
rising hurt and anger. ‘You must accept this, Arthur,
or Amlawdd will
take the men he has brought you and return south.’ She looked him square in the
eye. ‘And I will go with
him.’ That came as
a shock – to both men. ‘I will not stay with a
husband who shames me by
going back on my sworn word.’ Arthur began to bluster a protest, but Gwenhwyfar
silenced him. ‘This is what I say. I shall be wife to both of you, for half
and half a year’s turn. I shall be with one while
there are leaves,
showing full-green
upon trees and with the other when there
are none to be seen. To this
you must both agree, and then one must make his choice.’ Both men sat silent,
although there was a small ripple of interest around the men sitting in the
circle. Amlawdd chewed his lip, considering the proposal, Arthur’s glower
deepened. It
was almost dark, but the trees,
their silhouetted branches
leafless
against the clouded sky, were clear enough to see. Oak,
ash, alder, elm:
the woodland trees, winter dormant. ‘I agree,’ Amlawdd announced, with a
confirming nod of his head.