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§ XXXIV

They came down from the
hills in the same easy, almost relaxed
style
that they had been pursuing since leaving the undulating trail of the Wall. The
Cymry, a combined hosting of Artoriani, men of Gwynedd and local men, hunched
against the iron bite of a salt-tanged sea wind that hustled in from the
distant coast, creeping between leather and metal armour, under wool or
animal-skin cloaks. As the rain that had seemed to
fall
continuously over these northern hills finally appeared to ease
they made their last camp five miles south of the Great River.

It was all intentional deception. They had
marched in closed ranks, bunched together, with the pack horses in the central
baggage lines led on short rein; men tramping shoulder to
shoulder, spear
jostling shield. Fewer tents were pitched around
wider spread fires, with men
doubling up to snatch a few hours
of
restless sleep. Age-worn tactics to fool those watching eyes into believing
there were fewer numbers than expected. Come
the
dawn crossing of the river, and by the blessed generosity of
Fortuna, Lot might never notice that Arthur’s ranks
had
depleted overnight.

Enniaun and Cei moved
with their men after the blackness of
night
had settled, and were long gone come the hours before
dawn when the remaining men were roused. Not knowing
when they might get the chance again, they ate a
sustaining
meal of porridge and wheat-bread, washed down with
barley-ale. Horses were muzzled and hooves muffled. Through the concealing
solitude of a moonless night they moved with the stealth of hunters approaching
wind-wary prey, aiming to ford
the river
during that mind-confusing time of pre-dawn when
the new morning is
neither dark nor light, night nor day. The
time
when long-waiting men are stiffened from the night’s
damp chill and are at their heaviest, with senses
hazy and
fallible.

Arthur drew rein where the thinning trees
opened out onto the spread of the river’s flood-plain, wide and flat on this
southern side, steep and well wooded on the other. He sat a while, one arm
leaning casually across Hasta’s arched white crest, staring ahead, looking as
though he saw naught but the ghost shadows of mist-shrouded bush and tree and
the darker stretch where the river ran.

Through the quietness
came the ripple and rush of water, the
river
was high with the rain, feeding down from the hills with the many gushing
tributaries. The woods smelt of peated leaf-
mould,
of damp earth and dew-sprinkled leaves and bark.
Ahead, the mist was rising, the air, fresh and sharp, as keen as a
whetted
blade; rich, invigorating smells driving all thoughts of half-yearned sleep
from a man’s early awakened mind. Arthur
had
planned this, surprise being a tactic he used often and used
well. For good
reason had stories of his Artoriani spread from hearth to hearth, into
chieftains’ Halls or peasant bothies alike. Tales of how Arthur and his
Artoriani would appear from aswirling mist, or rain-dripping woods on the crest
of a dawn
much as this. Conjured from
nothing, horse and man, spears
and
shields raised, their war-cry shrieking like the cries of risen spirits.
Seeming
a thousand, thousand men,
the storytellers said
with awe and a quick breath. White
horses, red;
flecked blood
and
foam. Glinting
spear and
shining sword, the blue blade of death! Aieee ...
a thousand
thousand they seem,
though
they number
but
the
nine of
a
hundred! Arthur ran his hand down the length of Hasta’s neck. The
stallion’s white coat glimmered in the faint light, the sparkle of
dew and mist turning the tip of each hair to a
silvered sheen. To
the east, the sky was tinged with a first, faint
glimmer of the
coming day. A half-smile
twitched to the side of the
Pendragon’s lip. He reached up his hand,
tightened the strap of his war-cap. Well had he encouraged the telling of those
tales! Well did he use the discipline and harnessed nerve of his men,
and aye, the useful shoulder of a hill or the
slope of a woodland,
and the eddies of a river’s dawn mist!
He signalled to Gweir, standing at Hasta’s head,
for the muzzle to be slipped and the hoof muffles to be removed.
Behind,
the soft rustle of movement as other shield-bearers
obeyed the same command, or men dismounted to do their
own. The
task finished, again Arthur nodded to the boy. ‘Go now lad, back to the
baggage-holding behind the rearguard. Battle is no place for a lad so green
behind the ears.’
Gweir glanced to his Lord,
pleading with his eyes, but Arthur
shook his head, jerked his thumb over
his shoulder. Reluctant, feet and heart heavy, Gweir went.

Night-dark sky was becoming tinged with
slow-spreading
fingers of pale, creeping
light. The drifting mist hovered
uncertain above and between the clumps
of alder and willow trees. Arthur signalled to advance at a walk; the horses,
spaced wide now to give the illusion, should anyone be able to see, of more
numbers than there were, held in tight check, stride kept short; riders’ breath
held, stomachs taut, the expectation at any
moment
of a sudden harsh shout from the far bank and the
mortal swish and thud
of shot arrows. Down through the mist, parting its caressing whiteness like a
ship’s bow wave, silent shrouded hoofbeats swishing through knee-high
morning-wet grass. Ahead, the black path of water, where the mist danced
thicker, tighter. The two leading Turmae of horse
eased into
the cold swirl, one above
the chosen crossing point to break the
force,
the other down-river to snare pony or man swept away. It
had begun! As
the pink-grey strip of light along the horizon broadened,
there still came no shout from the opposite bank,
still no
alarmed shadows moved. A few birds were rehearsing their dawn
song, tuning their voices as a harper sets his instrument. A vixen yipped
somewhere up-river, answered by the deeper
bark
of her mate. The arch of the black sky was forming the dark
blue-black
colour of an angry, newly acquired bruise. The foreguard of infantry, wading
with steady and measured pace, crossed without incident, establishing the all
important bridgehead, digging their trenches with all haste and speed, hunching
their wet-clothed bodies behind the thrown-up mound of mud and earth. Behind,
ranked along the far bank, mounted archers waited tense with arrows notched,
bowstrings and nerves taut.

Then it came, urgent shouts from the darkness
of the close-crowded trees ranged along the northern bank and the surging hiss
of sudden, uprushing movement, the first sigh of enemy
arrows skimming low, their deadly flight arching over and
down. The cries of wounded and dying men exploded
the quiet
stillness and Arthur’s men into a foam of action. Expected,
but none the less startling, attack and defence gathered momentum
with the swiftness of a single boulder tossed
down a rock-strewn
slope.

No matter how many
precautions, how organised, the
crossing of a river of
this width, depth and flow would always leave men open to attack. A river left
a man vulnerable, with nowhere to hide or run, the current dragging at feet and
thigh, hampering movement. A place to meet death, a river crossing.

The one satisfaction, it
was as Arthur had thought it would
be. Lot’s war-hosting
swept forward in a sighing rush from the steep wooded hills, coming like an
east wind from nowhere sweeping over a summer-ripe cornfield. But the dawn
crossing had been right, for Arthur’s men had achieved those first,
few,precious minutes to throw up a defensive line. As Arthur had intended, Lot had been caught unawares.

Horses belly deep in water plunged forward,
or tried to turn back, held in check by determined riders. Animals screamed in
pain or fear, or anger. Some fell as arrows
pierced, finding those
places that maimed with a burst of maddening
pain. Men fell too, the force of water sweeping them away, their hands
desperately clutching for a hold that was not
there. The first few were lucky, the down-river line of rope held firm by the
chain of
riders stretching from bank to bank caught them, bundled them
spluttering and gasping ashore, but then a horse, riderless,
maddened by pain and blinded by an arrow shaft
deep in its eye
socket, entangled with one of the stretched ropes.

The animal plunged, men swore as the line
pulled taut and
ripped through their hands.
The rope severed, curling back
with the sharp hiss of a loosed whiplash,
its sodden weight
adding velocity. Two men
were knocked from their horses,
both thanked God for the sense of extra
lines securing them to
their mounts, but
the barricade was broken, and the enemy was
swarming along the far bank
now, coming down from their hiding places among the trees and shadows, fighting
sword to shield with the British.

The centre of infantry, flanked by cavalry,
was pushing forward, battling for each precarious step across the churning
flow, the water coming at its deepest almost up to
their armpits.
A steady arrow-cloud hissed above their heads from their
own archers, forcing Lot’s men to keep low. The fore defence was swelling on
the opposite bank, scrambling up the steep slopes, as more and more infantry
ploughed across, fighting hand to hand. And still the enemy, some dazed, a few
sleep trodden,
were bursting from the woods,
spears raised as high as their war
song. Dawn had come and gone. The
sun, a ball of red-orange was rising, chasing away the last cobwebs of white
mist.

A
rthur sat
with his own Turma of men, watching. It would
be his turn to cross soon.
Was this fighting a bluff, or the real
thing?
Was it to be settled here at this river fording or were Lot’s
hounds to be called off at some moment, some time
soon, to run
seemingly with tails tucked low into ... who knew what? A
Picti spear cast in a wide arc above the reddening water, thudded into a
soldier’s shield. The man staggered, almost lost
his footing to the cling of rushing water, righted himself,
plunged
onwards. Arthur saw another well-cast spear knock a man from his horse, fall,
go down beneath the churned water. And another, and another.

Soon it would be time for the last of his men
to cross.

Were a wing of these northern wildmen to
appear on this
southern bank now ... Arthur
shuddered, thrust the thought
aside, yet unease tightened like a
clenched fist, deep inside his
belly. He
screwed his eyes across the stretch of water, scanning the standards of the
enemy, bobbing beneath the lush greenness
of foliage. Lot’s emblem was
the purple thistle that grew in
abundance on
these northern moorlands. He could not see it
... His heart lurched, his throat clamming dry and tight.
There it was! Near the centre! ‘Oh God, whether
you are pagan
or Christian,’ he
breathed aloud, ‘let my judgement not be
wrong in this!’ If Lot did not break; if he did not soon make a run up that slope, through those woods of oak
and ash and beech ... then
this campaign,
all he had built, would end here, at a butchering by a river, for there was not
enough room to manoeuvre on that
far bank. Already the fighting was
spilling over, back into the
water. His
cavalry were hampered by the slope, the press of trees
... come on!
Move! Make your pretence at running!
Five
out of the seven of Arthur’s scouts had slid easy into the
marching column late yesterday. Aye, they reported,
there
were archers and swordsmen waiting on the far bank, sound in
their ease, waiting at the ford; and aye, many
more were
secreted near a large clearing to the north. There was a woman
there too, they said, waiting beneath a spread-winged, raven banner. Arthur’s
stomach had churned at that. Sa, she was here then, Morgause.

A new worry knotted in
his throat. What if this was how they
had
been supposed to think? Could Lot know that Arthur had sent men so far ahead to
watch and report back? Then, had Enniaun and Cei made their crossings safe?
Were they even now working their way inwards from left and right flank,
drawing the net tighter, only to find Lot, too, had silently
moved his men under the cover of night to take Arthur at the
fording? Where in the Bull’s name, were those
final two scouts?
They had orders to
stay and observe throughout the night
hours,
to return in that last essential hour before dawn. They
had not come.

Could they have fallen to the same fate as
the unsuspecting
enemy Watch? All five of Lot’s men lay wide-eyed, unmoving,
with throats
silently slit. The story could read as easily the same
for Arthur’s
scouts.