For King & Country (29 page)

"All the kingdoms of the Britons having been spoken for, I will now speak as Dux Bellorum. As you have heard, we face grave troubles from many directions and have lost two of our number to what most of us consider the least threat of all those facing us. With apologies to Strathclyde and Gododdin, who bear the brunt of Pictish hostilities, I must however agree that the greatest threat to the Britons as a whole people comes from King Aelle of Sussex and Cerdic of Wessex. Cutha came to us determined to provoke incident and succeeded. Meirchion, look well to your people, for I predict Cutha will take vengeance in blood on his return journey south."

King Meirchion of Rheged nodded, his expression grim. "I have sent men in every direction to warn the farmholds and towns, and pray that I am not already too late with the warning." Cutha had already been gone nearly two hours.

Artorius lifted a long, slim wand and used it as a pointer, stepping to the great map nailed to the wall. "The area of greatest danger lies here"—he pointed to the border where Glastenning and Caer-Durnac touched the border of Wessex—"north along the line of Caer-Baddan, Caer-Celemion, Caer-Mincip, and Caer-Lundein." The pointer swept from the Bristol Channel along a wide arc through Somerset, Dorset, and the Salisbury Plain, across through Wiltshire and Berkshire, and east to Surrey and the city of London.

"The so-called king of Wessex, Cerdic, sent his son Creoda with Cutha to demand a place in Rheged's council. If Creoda had been successful, the Saxons could have established a base of operations right here in Caerleul. From the borders of Rheged"—the pointer swept across an immense stretch of land beginning at the modern Scottish border and stretching all the way south to Wales and across to Yorkshire, fully half of the northern-midlands territory—"Saxons could have swept across in any direction they chose. This is the audacity we are faced with, the strength of Saxon greed."

Low murmurs buzzed like angry hornets. Even Concennus betrayed discomfort.

"The hill forts along this whole line must be refortified and quickly. Emrys Myrddin, I would ask you to ride south to Caer-Badonicus to oversee the defenses. The experience you garnered in Constantinople may well prove invaluable to us, erecting defenses at the summit of the hill."

"How can we be certain the Saxons will meet us there?" Concennus demanded.

Artorius favored him with more courtesy than Brenna would have shown under similar circumstances. "Because we will harry his flanks and slash his supply lines, forcing him to march west along his existing northern border, rather than north as he would prefer. We will shift northward as much of the grain and livestock as we can along the route of that march and torch what we cannot shift, to prevent Briton supplies from victualing Saxon invaders. The kingdoms of the north and the midlands must make up any shortfalls suffered by the areas put to the torch, to prevent suffering amongst those deprived of stock and food stores.

"By cutting their supply lines here and here"—the pointer flicked across the map—"we force the Saxons to scavenge off the land, and by moving and destroying supplies where they wish to go, we force them to scavenge in their own territory. And with all due apologies to Caer-Lundein," he added, "there simply isn't a great deal in Caer-Lundein to interest Aelle, not when Caer-Badonicus sits like a knife poised above Wessex, denying Cerdic the expansion he and his Saxon masters desire. They want the rich trading centers of Dumnonia and Cerniw. They want more than land, they want the ports that trade with Constantinople and Africa, they want Italian wines and silks from the east to cloak and gown their women."

Most of the men in the room glanced involuntarily toward Ganhumara, resplendent in her own silks. She smiled, preening under the attention. Artorius scowled and cleared his throat.

"Aye, the Saxons want silk, and they want amber and furs from the north, as well. They've already struck at ports along our eastern shores which can provide them control over that northern trade. They want the tin mines of Cerniw, to control the smelting of bronze which we sell as far away as Constantinople itself. And they will try with great desperation to take the iron mines of Rheged, Galwyddel, and Dunoting, which I am certain is the reason they tried to force our hand over Rheged's council. The Saxons need iron for weapons and the great iron mines of our northern kingdoms are rich plunder for them."

He glanced at Covianna Nim, who sat in one corner, not part of the high council, but present as representative of her own powerful clan. "I look also toward the safety of our master smiths, not only in the north, but especially those closer to Saxon-held lands. Glastenning Tor, whose smiths fashion fine Damascus steel such as my Caliburn, is a rich prize for men like Aelle." He drew his sword, letting the light glint off the sworls of Damascene pattern-welding in the blade. "Saxons have few swords at all and none so fine as those carried by the most common of British soldiers. Saxons give such blades as this mystical powers, having no smithies capable of producing such weapons and precious little gold with which to buy them."

He slid Caliburn home with a ring of steel.

"We know their strategic targets and why they must take them. What remains to be done is to bottle them up in the south and to do that, we must stop them at Caer-Badonicus. You have pledged your fighting strength, your sons, and yourselves. Return to your homes as quickly as you may ride and send your men to me. I will write out a plan of rendezvous and send it with each of you, that we may waste no time in forming up the march south. Emrys Myrddin, will you ride with the kings of Glastenning and Dumnonia to assist with construction of Caer-Badonicus' defenses?"

"Gladly."

"Then if there is no further business before this council, I suggest we move immediately to put our plans and resolutions into action. Cutha certainly will."

The priest who had opened the council hastily stepped forward to offer a final benediction, then the high council split into groups, neighboring kings meeting to discuss mutual assistance and movement of troops through their roads, while servants scurried like stirred-up ants to fetch baggage and alert the groomsmen that riding horses would be wanted within the hour.

Morgana remained seated, having made her own decisions about Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, and simply held her young sons close. Brenna watched in silence, torn by conflicting emotions as the Britons prepared for war.

The first report of disaster came before Ancelotis' manservant, Gilroy, had even finished packing for the journey back to Gododdin. Stirling, helplessly along for the ride in the unfolding political and military affairs of Britain, jerked around in startled surprise when a great bronze bell began to toll a clangorous alarm. An armed soldier appeared at the entrance to the council hall, moving at a dead run and escorting a boy of no more than thirteen, a runner who staggered with every stride. Mud plastered his clothes and ran in rivulets from sweat-soaked hair. "Attack," the lad gasped out, "attack by raiders near Long Meg and Her Daughters! They've burnt every farm within five miles of the standing stones!"

"The heart of Penrith!" King Meirchion snarled. "We should have hanged that Saxon bastard from the nearest oak! More's the pity you didn't cut his throat, Ancelotis, when you had him at your mercy, and host laws be damned. The Saxons certainly don't abide by them." He strode away, bellowing orders as the alarm bell continued to send its warning reverberating through the late afternoon air, the sound dropping through the open ceiling above the hearth like hailstones.

Artorius met and held Ancelotis' gaze. "I must stay here and prepare the campaign in the south. Meirchion could use your judgement and skill."

Stirling most emphatically did
not
want to leave Artorius unguarded, convinced as he was that the Dux Bellorum was the IRA's main target, but he didn't have much choice, since Ancelotis agreed at once.

"Aye," his host nodded, "I'll send riders to Gododdin to spread the word, to strengthen the forts and raise an army to send south. I'll take most of the
cataphracti
who rode with me from Gododdin and try to catch that Saxon bastard before he does more damage. Meirchion was right. I
should
have killed him."

Within minutes, Stirling found himself in the saddle once more, shouting orders to the narrow-lipped Sarmatian cavalrymen who had ridden with him from Caer-Iudeu. The combined
cataphracti
of Gododdin, Strathclyde, and Rheged thundered through the great fortress gates and left Carlisle behind in a sea of churned-up mud flung on house walls by nearly three hundred heavily armored horses. Stirling couldn't help the thrill of adrenaline through his veins, caught up as he was in the glittering midst of sun-struck armor, helmets, and spearpoints.

They followed the Roman highway south toward Penrith, a town deep in the heart of Cumbria, which Stirling had driven through on many a holiday. The Cumbrian mountains rose as a massive barrier to the west, lifting their craggy heads from the lowlands around Carlisle and marching straight south through the Lake District. It was less than twenty miles to Penrith from Caerleul's sandstone walls. At a gallop for much of the way, they covered the distance in just a few hours.

Smoke and ruin rose on every side as they neared Penrith. Farms lay scorched, with wildfires still spreading beyond villages that were nothing but smoking rubble. Livestock—cattle, goats, sheep, horses, and barnyard fowl—lay slaughtered in every direction while carrion crows flocked in such numbers, the sky blackened when they took wing, deafening the armored column with their raucous protests. Far worse than the livestock were the other bodies lying twisted in the late-slanting sunlight. Farmers cut down with cane knives or spears in their hands, women butchered in their kitchen gardens, skirts disarranged in violation inflicted before the killing blow. Children, rosy-cheeked boys and fair-skinned girls with their hair in long braids, had been hacked to pieces, gobbets of flesh scattered in ghastly splashes of blood.

The deeper they rode into the zone of devastation, the harder Stirling ground his teeth over rage. The Saxons, like the Vikings who would sweep down from the north in later centuries, were not averse to using the blood eagle, where a victim's rib cage was hacked open and his lungs yanked out across his back like hideous wings. Rage swept the length of the
cataphracti
's column. Everywhere the stench of blood and death permeated the air, thick with coppery blood, sickly sweet. The only sound was the massive clatter of horses' hooves on the stone road and the calls of the crows, interrupted in their grisly feast.

The village of Penrith still smouldered, embers flaring beneath the top layer of white ash, adding to the general stench a sickening smell of cooked flesh. At the head of the column, King Meirchion halted his horse and sat staring at the destruction for long moments, jaw muscles working and fingers knotted around his reins. Ancelotis joined him.

"You know the land better than I," Ancelotis murmured. "Where will the bastard strike next?"

Meirchion spat to one side, as though trying to spit out the taste of death itself. "He may follow the Roman road south out of Penrith, but I suspect not, as he's fired every farmhold between here and the great stone circle on the River Eden. If he cuts east between Long Meg and the Caldron Snow rapids, he could strike as far north as Wall's End, then follow the coast south to Sussex. If he fired the villages near Long Meg first, destroying Penrith last, he may have ridden south already, toward Merecambe Bay and the road that drives through south Rheged, into the Pennines, and south through Calchrynned and Caer-Lundein to Sussex."

Stirling superimposed Ancelotis' knowledge of the region and the oxhide map of the great council over his own mental map of England. "Whichever route he takes, he'll have to move fast, for he knows the
cataphracti
will ride hard to catch him. The borders of Wessex are closer than those of Sussex and Creoda rides with him. He could also reach Dewyr, south of Ebrauc, which would give him a Saxon haven far closer at hand and ships to return south without risking the long ride through Briton-held territory."

"We must split our forces then," Meirchion decided. "I'll take my own cavalry south, following the possible route through south Rheged. Take your own
cataphracti
and Strathclyde's to the east, toward Long Meg and Her Daughters. If he's raiding in that direction, you'll find evidence of it soon enough. If it's Dewyr he's heading toward, you'll have a hellish ride trying to catch him up."

On that point, both Stirling and Ancelotis agreed.

The column split, with Meirchion heading south out of the smouldering ruins of Penrith and Ancelotis riding hard east, with young Clinoch leading the men of Strathclyde behind him. Cutha and Creoda had clearly passed this way, for Ancelotis' path followed a swath of devastation sickening in its barbarity. It was nearly nightfall before they reached the headwaters of the Eden and the great standing stones of the megalithic circle known as Long Meg and Her Daughters. Smoke hung on the air, turning the sunset at their backs a lurid, blood-smeared red. The immense stones stood eerie watch above the countryside, with its squabbling, black-winged clouds of scavenging crows rising in drifts like charcoal mist in the long, slanting light. In the distance, they could hear the roar of water as the Eden gathered herself to tumble her way to the sea and the Caldron Snow rapids in the other direction snarled their way toward the lowlands of the south.

Beyond the sound of falling water, dark against the smudge of approaching night on the far horizon, smoke bellied up into the evening, clear evidence that Cutha was, indeed, riding east for Dewyr as hard as he could push his horses. The villages and farmholds in his path would have no warning before death burst in amongst them. Stirling ground his molars over the deepest and most savage anger he had ever felt in his life. Desperate as he was not to alter history, he could not witness such butchery and not hate the man responsible with a cold and knife-edged passion. Stirling found it difficult to bear, that by his failure to kill Cutha when he'd had the chance, Stirling himself had condemned these people to the ghastly butchery Cutha had gifted them with. The thought that he might already have changed history with an irrevocable failure to act haunted Trevor Stirling long after sunset, as they guided their horses deep into the smoke and shadows looming ahead.

Morgana waited for the first shocked hubbub to die down, then sent her sons with Medraut to begin packing for the journey home, and quietly took aside the young runner who'd brought the news. She poured a cup of wine for him with her own hands and guided him to a bench near the fire, gesturing for servants to bring hot food. The lad gulped almost convulsively at the wine, with a stark look in his eyes that Brenna McEgan had seen all too often, in the eyes of survivors after a bomb blast or a spray of bullets or a bottle of flaming petrol had set a block of flats alight. Both she and Morgana waited patiently for the lad to calm himself, to recover his strength and his wind, waited for him to begin eating the thick venison stew in his steaming bowl. At length, Morgana spoke, very gently. "When you are able, lad, I must know what you've seen."

He jerked a frightened gaze up to meet hers. "Isn't seemly t'tell a lady such things," he said, voice cracking with distress.

"I understand your concern. But I am a sovereign queen, Morgana of Galwyddel and Ynys Manaw, and my lands and people are also threatened. I must know the scope and depth of what our Saxon adversary is willing to inflict, before I can make decisions on how best to protect my people."

The boy thought for a moment, tears battling a hardened, old man's anger in his eyes, then he nodded. " 'Tis vile, Queen Morgana. They left alive not even one downy yellow chick in the farmyards. Burnt the fields and forests for miles, it was, and left the dead hacked into pieces. Men, women, infants in their cradles. 'Twas unnatural savage, what they did, and to every living thing that came in their way. I'd gone to the marshes to cut withies for me mother, when they came. Burnt the house and killed her and all my sisters, and me with nothing but a three-inch knife on me belt."

Tears welled up, impatiently knuckled aside. "I wanted to kill them, and would have tried, but if they were killing everyone the way they killed me mother and sisters, there would've been no one left to sound the alarm at Caerleul. So I lay in the mud with the marsh grass all round me 'til they'd gone, and ran from Long Meg to Penrith, to reach the Roman road, and everywhere I ran, there was nothing left alive save the crows." He hesitated, then asked in a voice breaking with youth and stress, "Did I do wrong, to lie in the grasses while me own family lay dying?"

Morgana smoothed the boy's lank, sweat-soaked hair back from his brow and placed a gentle kiss there. "No, lad. Hundreds of others may well be saved, because you hid in the grass to warn Caerleul. Thousands, perhaps, for once the
cataphracti
of the northern kingdoms begin the hunt, Cutha will be forced to fly ahead of our chargers, without taking the time to butcher every Briton whose path crosses his. 'Tis certain, God guided you to the wisest course, there in the marsh, and sent you with wings on your feet to speed the warning. Finish your stew, then, and I'll have a servant show you where to wash and sleep tonight. Were your father's people freeholders?"

The boy nodded.

" 'Tis good, then. I'll ask King Meirchion to look after you properly. If ever you need or want a place to start again, remember my name and come to Caer-Birrenswark at Galwyddel. I'll see that you receive a fine freehold."

The tears spilled over as the boy's eyes lost at least some of the starkness which had aged him so traumatically. "I'm that grateful, I am."

"And so am I." Morgana left him to finish his meal and found Queen Thaney, who was busy organizing an army of servants to help the kings and queens of Britain make haste for departure. Morgana passed along her request that the boy's courage and quick wits be rewarded suitably. Her stepdaughter's eyes misted. "Of course we'll take care of the lad, Morgana. Thank you for letting me know."

"I'll be riding for Caer-Birrenswark as soon as the horses can be saddled."

Thaney gave her a swift embrace and Morgana kissed the younger woman's cheek, then left her to her work. It was the task of only a few moments to ready her own things, find Medraut and her sons busy stuffing clothing into leather satchels, and arrange for her retainers, who rode as armed escort everywhere Morgana traveled, to prepare for the journey north. As she was looking for a servant to help carry their baggage out to the stable for tying to the packhorses, the minstrel Lailoken brushed past, murmuring, "Half an hour's ride north along the road to Caer-Gretna?"

She nodded, moving on without speaking.

When someone behind her began whistling a shockingly familiar tune, Brenna whipped around, startling Morgana with the force of her reaction. She peered into the throng of men and women jammed in the hall, unable to see who had been whistling that particular song.

What is it?
Morgana wanted to know, understandably perplexed at having her body hijacked in so public a fashion.

Realizing that she might well have given herself away by her own reaction, Brenna turned quickly and headed for the door, fighting hard to disguise her distress. That particular song was engraved in her memory, sung each July during the Orangemen's parades, commemorating a battle in the bloody seventeenth century. Bloody, indeed, as Irish Catholics had been slaughtered like pigs, hunted down in the fields for sport by the conquering English Protestants, with bounties offered on Irish heads, the same hideous sort of bounty the huntsmen collected for bringing in wolf pelts...

More than four hundred
years
of gloating later, the Orangemen still celebrated their victory in their "marching season" with parades through Catholic neighborhoods—parades received with much the same welcome as American Ku Klux Klan marches were received in the Jewish neighborhoods they swaggered through, exercising their right to free speech and assembly to rub salt in the wounds of their favorite victims. Every marching season, violence erupted between hotheaded Catholics who refused to take it any longer and hotheaded Protestants who had not yet tired of dishing it out.

No, Brenna McEgan was not likely to forget
that
song.