Arthur Imperator (7 page)

XIV Taken

Guinevia
sensed danger, a prickle at the nape of her neck, a brightening of the light around her, a heightened awareness of the sounds of the forest where her carriage horses plodded nearly silent across the pine-straw-padded track way.

She
was on the third day of her journey into northern Wales and was suddenly, uneasily, aware that her escort of four troopers had been halved. That morning, as they forded a moorland stream, all four soldiers had mustered to heave the carriage free of clinging mud. One of them had stepped on a loose rock and stumbled. At that exact moment, the carriage wheels had come free and lurched forward. One ran over the man’s foot, breaking a couple of small bones. The man had fallen sideways, wrenching his knee so badly as he fell that the joint swelled up like an apple. 

The
sorceress had debated continuing the journey with the half-crippled man riding in the carriage, but she needed it for the child and his nurse. Already, with its passengers and the supplies she had loaded for Myrddin – preserves and herbs, sacks of good grain and seed vegetables – the horses had been struggling, and the worst of the journey was to come. Adding a big man to their load would not help matters. Instead, she had opted to send the fourth trooper back six or seven miles to a hamlet where he could hire a carriage to carry his injured companion to a refuge. The uninjured soldier could follow on by himself to catch the party before they reached the wildest peaks.

So
the guard on the little group was smaller, and Guinevia suddenly felt in danger. She called the group to halt, scanning the forest around them for the threat she intuitively knew was there. It was about the worst thing she could have done. A whirr of arrows lanced out of the undergrowth. Two struck the first trooper in the thigh and ribs, a third smacked wetly into the other soldier’s throat. Moments later, a handful of wolf-howling bandits burst from the greenery, the reins were dragged from Guinevia’s hands and the two troopers were hacked to death as they lay on the ground. The ambush was as bloody as the dispatch of a pig by a butcher, and as shockingly swift and deadly.

Guinevia
never did remember much of what happened later. She had a blurred recollection of being hurt, time and again, by men; a vision of pleading with a brigand not to kill her child and a recollection of stumbling through the forest, wrists tied to the tail of one of the carriage horses. Whatever had happened, and she did not want to recall it, would give her unknowable nightmares for years, despite whatever she did or whatever release she pleaded for with her gods. Her clearest memories began many hours after the brigands wrenched her down from the carriage, when she surfaced to consciousness in a cattle byre. The nurse was wiping her face, cleaning away crusted blood with a moistened scrap of her torn skirt, and Guinevia could hear cattle moving restlessly beyond the wall. “We are in a bad place, my lady,” the girl, red-eyed from weeping, said, “we have been through terrible things but we are at least alive. I think they now mean to sell us as slaves. How can they do that? Can you stop them?”

The
sorceress struggled to sit up as the girl supported her. Her head hurt, her limbs ached and her eyes and mouth were sticky. The croaking voice that emerged surprised her. “Where is my baby? Where is he?” The girl gripped her forearm. “They have him, one of their women has him. I think he’s safe, for now. And I never told them who you are…” 

Guinevia
was so dazed and in shock she had no comprehension of what the girl said. She struggled to her feet, the byre seeming to sway around her, and stumbled against the rough door. Barred. She pounded on it and screamed. The girl tugged at her arm. “Don’t, my lady, don’t,” she whispered. “Stay quiet. Don’t remind them we’re here. They are rough men. They have used us both, and cruelly. Just rest for now, just make yourself better.” Grasping at the enchantress’ sleeve, she tugged her gently back: “Look, have a sip of water.”

Guinevia
shook her head. “I must get my child,” she muttered. “We can get out of here.” At her urging, both women fumbled and felt their way around the walls and hoof-trodden muck of the floor until they found a rotted board. They pried at it until it gave, pulled out another and were outside, crouched low under crisp, cold starlight. 

“That
way,” the sorceress said, trying to conjure a cloaking mist. Her vital energies were exhausted, and the gods did not hear, so the two captives moved, crouched low, across the stinking yard towards the rough slate building where they could hear the mutter of voices. As they got closer, the yellow rays of rushlight that shone through the wooden door became a quadrangle of illumination. They flattened to the mud, and froze. A man stepped out, fumbling at his trews. The two women lay, shadows on the ground, and caught his feral stink as he walked a few paces away from the threshold.

Guinevia
had one arm outstretched where she had instantly stilled, and the man’s nailed boot crunched across the top joint of her smallest finger. The bone snap was audible, but the man was pissing now and did not hear, and Guinevia stifled the cry that the jolt of agony had caused. The nurse was less courageous. As the urine spattered about her, she whimpered and half-rose. The startled man seized the girl by the nape, yelled alarm, and others stumbled out of the door. Both women were quickly manhandled back to the byre, where a disgruntled brigand was now posted in the cold, as guard. 

The
effort had drained Guinevia, and she allowed the nurse to lead her back to the straw pile where they had been lying. She slumped, sipped from the wooden bowl of water the girl put to her lips, and drifted into an exhausted doze, gently murmuring for her child. Moments passed, then the enchantress sat upright and declaimed in a surprisingly strong voice that caused the guard to growl a warning. “Nicevenn and Ogmia, do not desert me now,” she said loudly. “Myrddin, send to Arthur.” 

Something seemed to shake me awake, and I looked to see a sleek, almost luminous white rat moving slowly across the corner of my sleeping chamber in Chester. My hand went for to the dagger under my pillow, but I consciously stayed the movement. I had seen this white rat before, at critical moments in my life. Now I was about to understand.

The
Rat had been there when, as a boy, I ran from my father’s killers. It had crossed my path as I ran through the trees. It was there on the day I opted to join the Roman Army, and I had remembered that other day in the trees. I’d seen it when I escaped death at the collapse of King Mosae’s citadel wall, and it had been dropped into my path by a hawk, a tremendous augury of good fortune witnessed by the troops, as I rode into Eboracum to be acclaimed Imperator.

The
creature seemed to fade away, and I felt the urgent need to sleep, although my mind was churning. Almost at once I went into a trance-like doze. An image of Guinevia was before me, and she was holding the Rat, offering it to me. A series of scenes flashed through my mind. Here was Myrddin, tall and dark and ominous, standing illumined against a dance of ancient stones. His eyes seemed to drill into my brain and I understood he had sent the Rat to my Guinevia as her powerful familiar. 

A
series of images rolled by. Here was the Rat that I had not noticed, at the times when it had been present but unseen. Here, it crouched in a corner as I was commissioned by the Emperor Carus, and here it was at the moment in Bononia when I heard of the scroll that led us to the lost Eagle. It was there in the Scots temple when Guinevia sacrificed a man, a gift to the gods that may have saved my life, as the next day I was captured and nearly executed. The images continued. The Rat was also an unseen witness on the day I opted to become Arthur, and tie myself closer to Britain; and it was there preening its whiskers on one of the cairns that marked the trap that destroyed the Romans at Dungeness.

It
was coming clear. This could not be a natural creature that had been in Britain, Belgica and Rome, then in Gaul, and Pictland and Eboracum and Dungeness. It seemingly had been present at every point of great importance in my life. Now, for no reason I knew, another hinge of my history was turning and the Rat was here as its herald. 

I
sat up abruptly, fully awake. Guinevia. My enchantress was sending me her cry. Something wicked was happening, it was undoubted, as definite as if she had walked in herself to tell me. Across the chamber, the Rat was calmly viewing me, eyes glittering redly. Guinevia, or Myrddin had sent the messenger and I could not delay. 

I
was off the cot, stamping out into the courtyard, calling for Cragus, Allectus, the guard captain and horses. My big hounds Axis and Javelin, whose gaze had slid over the Rat without reaction, were at my heels whining. We had ground to cover and an enchantress to find. On a thought, I turned back, rummaged in Guinevia’s clothes chest and pulled out one of her scarves. The scent might be needed.

It
was the work of an hour to make the arrangements, brief Allectus and Androcles on emergency measures should the Saxons come, arrange a corps of couriers to race messages back and forth and to arm and equip a half-century, 40 pony soldiers, to ride with me. I selected a couple of grizzled
decurio
cavalry commanders to take charge of the horses and men and instructed them that we would be travelling light and fast, so to bring remounts and forage nets. It would be spears and swords only, no shields. What I planned would involve no defensive wall but an unexpected strike. I also commanded three scouts to go ahead at once. They would make better time than our whole troop, and would be less threatening when it came to questioning locals along the way. It could save us a day or more, critical time if my enchantress’ life was endangered.

I
had debated with Guinevia over her route to Myrddin’s holding, and had urged her to take the easier, longer coastal road that ran west, then to turn south and climb the passes to his mountain eyrie, but she had stubbornly insisted on the shorter, direct route southwest from Chester that rose over the moors. Now, I thanked her obstinacy. At least I knew her path, would be able to follow her tracks.

We
left at wolf light, shivering in the cold, but I was shivering more at what I might find, and I vowed agonizing death to any wrongdoers who may have harmed my lover or my small son. Sol began to rise at our backs as we cantered west, his rays burning off the mist and warming us, but they did not remove the chill I felt inside. I gripped the hilt of my war sword Exalter and rubbed its iron for luck. Axis and Javelin loped tirelessly alongside, tongues lolling. I thought grimly that I’d feed them the beating hearts of any brigands who may have bruised mine.

It
was after two days hard riding before we came across useful knowledge of Guinevia. It came from a shepherd guarding his flock high on the moors. He had hidden behind a rock at the sight of our troop, but the dogs found him and the troopers brought him to me after a few moments’ questioning. He talked after receiving both threats and a coin, and told of seeing armed men leading several pack horses and two women bound and tied to the tails of horses with riders. “Five men, lord,” he told me. “Two mounted, with the women walking behind, three leading the pack animals.” No, he had seen no soldiers, just mountain men with spears and bows. Two of the men, the ones on horseback, had worn helmets and had swords. 

That
told me much. Few men owned swords. Only soldiers, and well-equipped ones like our own, had them. Two horses, two swords, two helmets. Sounded like plunder. Where, I wondered had our four troopers gone? Had the mountain men been able to kill all four from ambush? It seemed unlikely, especially with only five mountain men to take them on, and the two swords said much. Guinevia’s raeda had been drawn by two horses, and that too supported my guesswork. The shepherd could tell me little more than the direction the bandits and their prisoners had taken, and when. They were less than one day ahead of us. I split the column into three, to separate and search as we rode, and ordered a rendezvous at dusk.

Three
hours after we left the shepherd, one of our advance scouts found me. He had spotted the bandits and had slipped away unseen. We changed direction and cantered on. We’d find them after dark, when they lit a fire. But we did not.

XV Channel

Grimr
was disgusted. By the time the force he’d detached to find new ships had returned, Web had been joined by more Saxons, a sizeable contingent of well-armed battle Jutes and a Frisian king with a savage-looking war band of his own. At no time had the Suehan held a numerical advantage that would have given him a chance to seize control from Web and the others, and the gathered Saxons now comprised a considerable fleet. Their intention was to take and hold some of the mineral-rich land in the southeast of Britain and to use it as a beach head for further incursions and expansions.

Of
itself, that seemed to Grimr a fine plan, but he was disgusted to find that he was no longer leader of anything and had been ordered to take a place at the oars of his own longship. About the only thing he could do that was positive was to persuade enough of his own men to join him on that ship, in hopes of breaking away from their new Jute and Saxon masters.

So
the invasion fleet sailed down the coast of Gaul in brave style, before striking west for the mouth of the Thames and skirmishes with the Britons. Grimr noted morosely that Web had opted to command his own old ship, one where he now occupied a rower’s humble bench. About all he had of his old chieftain’s life, he thought, was his dagger, his crossbow and his memories.

The
fleet was closing on the British coast when an autumn storm blew up out of the northeast and scattered the fragile longships. In an hour, the weather went from brisk to terrifying. Green waves shaped like pyramids towered over the vessels, the straits turned into a white-foamed millrace and the steerboards required the muscles of three men to hold them. Web, whitefaced with fear, chose to run before the wind, and turned down-strait. Dusk fell with only two other ships in sight, and Web ordered the exhausted oarsmen to rest, opting to continue under bare poles with the westbound tide.

Dawn
broke with all three ships still miraculously in sight, and they pulled together for a council. Sailing back into the gale would be difficult, arriving days or weeks after the Danes had scorched the countryside would be especially dangerous for a small group such as theirs, when the Britons would have rallied. The Jutes opted to do some raiding of their own. 

Grimr,
eavesdropping on the shouted ship-to-ship debate, saw a chance, and joined in. He called out that there were gold mines in Siluria, north of the Severn Sea, and rich monasteries and churches, too. It tipped the balance, and the raiders kept on west, to round the land’s end and head for the territory of the Welsh.

Meanwhile,
in the north of that territory, the brigands still held Guinevia. They had spent the night at a farmstead, paying the suspicious owner with food from the captured packhorses, and had moved on westwards. A bandit who had stopped to relieve himself spotted the glint of weapons on the open country behind them, saw one of Arthur’s columns and alerted his chief, a blue-chinned villain called Moel. He assessed the situation and rightly guessed they were being hunted, so turned his group aside and into uplands where forests would cloak their travel.

That
night, the group camped in a shepherd’s stone bothy and Moel called for Guinevia. “Your child is slowing us,” he said in his sing-song accents. “I should kill him.” In fact, he had no such intention. The child would bring a good price at the slave pens of Menai, where he also planned to sell Guinevia and the nurse. The sorceress, exhausted and battered, rallied. “I am a Druid!” she exclaimed. “I will curse you and yours to the end of days. I will bring worms and corruption to your eyes, molten fire to your vitals and the pains of Nicevann to your heart! Harm one fingernail of that boy and you will swim in boiling tar in the deepest pit of the Underworld. Do you comprehend what I am saying to you?”

Moel
goggled at the bruised, bloodied woman standing before him who was displaying such power. A man’s height above her head, a small cloud of white mist was forming, sure sign of magic being worked. His eyes were wide in fear and he was grasping for his dagger hilt when one of the other brigands began yelping and clutching at his hand. The man had stolen Guinevia’s silver pentagram ring and was wearing it. As the sorceress called in her magic, the ring began to pulse and glow, and became as hot as a branding iron on the man’s finger. A stench of burning flesh spread as he struggled the ring free and ran for the stream to dunk his scorched hand.

Guinevia
limped across the bothy and slipped onto her finger the discarded ring, which still pulsed with light. “Where are we now?” she demanded.

“Not
far, lady,” said the awed Moel, “not far from Menai where the Romans had a camp.”

“Tomorrow,
I will ride there, unfettered,” she commanded. “When we are safely there, I will give you silver for our lives. If you do not agree, I will consign you and your kin to unspeakable agony and terrible horrors.” She turned away before he could speak. “You,” she pointed at one of the brigands, “bring my child to me.”