Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (33 page)

Wounded, appalled, sickened, the British
tried to pull back,
to seek escape,
stumbling and crying, but they found no exit, for
the men of Lot’s host
were all around, save to the rear, where
their
own men were still coming, heedless, mindless of the
death that awaited
them.

Arthur had no time to
show emotion of either extreme,
neither
pity nor anger. They had been told, warned. Nor had he
time
to think or plan. His intended action was gone, in ruins. If
he was going to save any of those irresponsible
fools, he would
need to move fast.

A barked, short command and the trumpets
sounded. Two
Turmae, at a gallop, swung to
either side, spreading their line as
they
reached the thickening trees; they burst beneath the
foliage, hacking up
into the overhang of branch and bough, chopping at the legs and arms of
concealed men tossing spears and arrows; hacking a path through undergrowth and
bush, weaving in and out of sturdy oak trunks and slender birch, around
obstacles as if making the steps of some grotesque
mounted dance. Following in their wake, others of the
Artoriani
on foot, their horses left back down the hill with the rearguard as planned,
marched forward, line upon line, steady
marching,
swords slashing, daggers piercing. Rescue and
revenge.

Incredibly they were smashing through the
ambush, rolling
foward, driving the men of
the North before them; Lot’s
warriors and his allies were giving ground;
slow, reluctant,
fighting as cornered prey,
inch by painful inch, but giving
ground to Arthur and his desperate men!
Those outer
mounted wings kept the thing tight, contained, cramped in the clearing, with no
way ahead, no escape behind.
‘We
must
contain
them,’ Arthur had
insisted. ‘If Lot
breaks and comes up behind
us in
the heavy
woodland, we’ll be finished, every
last
man and horse of
us. Keep close
formation,
press
forward,
leave
nowhere
for
him to manoeuvre – let their own weight of
numbers
and
choice of location loose on them.’
Arthur was
glad that he knew in advance of that bluebell-scented clearing .. .

They needed to form a mounted wall all
around; there were
not enough men to make the
noose, tighten the rope and fight
at the same time. Where was Enniaun?
Cei? Close, hand-to-hand fighting now, sword and dagger, fists, teeth, feet.
Heads butting, fingers gouging, the situation desperate. The cries and
screams of wounded men and ponies; the
all-pervading,
constant shriek and stench
of death with the raised voice of war
song.

Arthur could only see what was happening
within his own small group of men, had no idea how things were going even a
few yards beyond, save for the sway in the rise
and fall of sound.
It was never easy to fight effectively in the confine
of small
space – it was up to each
individual officer to command his own
men,
up to each man to make instant decision, to fight and
move as he saw
fit. But Arthur had faith in each and every one of his prized Artoriani. Of Morgause
and her raven banner, no sign – but then, in this crush and shove, neither
could he see Lot’s thistle. She had been here last night, was she watching
from some concealed place of safety? Or had she
slipped quietly
away as the Painted Ones took position, to let the men
do the fighting? Morgause had not trained to use the weapons of war,
she had been Roman born and bred – but born as the
rotten
apple in the barrel.

A Picti rose up, seemingly out of the ground
beside Hasta’s feet. The stallion leapt sidewards, crashed into the solid trunk
of a gnarled, aged oak tree, crushing Arthur’s
leg. With his
other boot, Arthur desperately kicked the horse forward,
saw Cabal leap at the yelling man, the great dog’s teeth tearing into the soft,
vulnerable flesh of the throat; but another was there, a
dark Picti with the swirling blue tattooed
patterns on his
cheeks, across the nakedness of shoulders, arms and
chest.
Arthur saw Cabal crumple, fall, and
hauled Hasta around,
anger and hatred
blazing. ‘Ca ... bal!’ He swung his sword
down at this savage who held a
dagger dripping dog’s blood in
his hand, and
the warrior moved with lithe speed, crouching
low as the horse plunged, thrusting his dagger hilt-deep into the
horse’s
chest. The world was spinning, slowly rotating. Hasta was pitching, head going
down, legs collapsing, Arthur was rolling across the stallion’s neck, falling
towards a clump of bluebells that were somehow not yet crushed or bloodied. His
leg felt heavy from where it had been
slammed against the tree,
his breath
knocked from him by the suddenness of the crashing
fall. He saw the
Picti, the red-bladed dagger scoring down, feltfire sear through his shoulder
and down the length of his left arm, saw so much death spangling the gay
patches of bluebell blue.

§ XXXVII

Someone was above him,
whirling a spear, screaming nonsense
words of furious
abuse. Other voices, joining, shouting. Arthur was aware of these sounds
mingling with the swish and sigh of what seemed one moment like an incoming
tide, the next, the movement of the trees shuffled and agitated by a rising
wind.
And before his eyes, a blur of red on
a purple-black oozing mist;
he felt hands under his armpits, dragging
him backwards. He wanted to say no, leave me, let me rest, I’ll be all right in
a moment. But the words would not come.

They put him down, his back against a trunk,
covered him with a cloak. Arthur blinked sweat from his eyes. His war-cap
and shield had gone but his right hand still
gripped the hilt of
his sword, he would not let go of it, kept its firm,
reassuring comfort nestling against his finger and sweating palm. The
fuzziness of blurred vision was fading, his left
shoulder and arm
were quite numb. When he glanced down, the ripped
sleeve of
his leather-padded tunic was a
wet, dark mess. A boy was
leaning over
him, concerned, very pale, very frightened. ‘I’m
all right, Gweir,’
Arthur croaked, ‘just give me a while to gain breath.’
When he next had the strength to raise his head, open his
eyes, the fighting had swept up and over him. The
clearing was
emptying, save for the bloodied mounds of dead men and dead
horses. There were sounds coming from the
trees on the far side,
of men dying,
and a new, braver sound of men cheering victory.

Arthur struggled to his
feet, pushing himself up with his
sword.
His leg ached, it would be bruised from thigh to calf, but
at
least the bone was not fractured. He handed the weapon to Gweir, grinned at the
boy, whose colour was flushing back to his cheeks as the fear of his Lord’s
imminent death faded. ‘You still here, boy?’ Arthur said, ‘I’ve not forgotten
the beating I
promised you, you young
whelp. Your orders were to stay with
the baggage.’
Gweir grinned back at his Lord. ‘As well I did
not, or you’d be
dead!’ Another voice, deeper, gruffer. Ider, the messenger
from
Eboracum. He clipped his palm around
Gweir’s ear. ‘Hold your
tongue, cub!’ Arthur swayed a little, the ground
rising and falling before him, then steadied, the dizziness passing. He managed
a few steps, though his leg trumpeted against it, his eyes looking straight
ahead past the dead bulk of Hasta and the matted, bloodied bundle that had once
been Cabal.

Ider said something. He
heard the voice, did not listen to the
words.
The boy Gweir disappeared, returning a moment later leading a riderless black
hill pony. Its ears were flattened, eyes
rolling
white with fear, blood was spattered on its right
shoulder. Ider wiped
at it with his hand, found no wound. ‘It’s
his
rider’s gore,’ he said, holding the animal steady while
Arthur tried a
second attempt to mount.

‘My legs are about as useless as a babe’s.’
He laughed with a strange, light-headed humour. He managed, struggling, to get
upon the pony’s back, sat swaying, his left arm
hanging useless.
Ignoring the reins his right hand clutched a handful of
wiry mane to stop himself from falling.

Ider led the pony into the clearing, across
the straggle of
crushed bluebells, stepping
over or around the dead, walking to
meet
Artoriani emerging from the trees across the far end. They
wore broad
grins like battle honours on their blood-smeared, sweat-streaked faces, were
laughing, raising spear and sword, proclaiming triumph.

As he came up to him,
Arthur regarded the Decurion of Blue
Turma who,
interpreting the Pendragon’s familiar questioning
expression as praise, launched, delighted, into his report. ‘Lot’s
men have burrowed their way out and have
fled with tails
tucked well atween their backsides.’ Added, with
swaggering
confidence, ‘We are pursuing,
Sir, but hold little hope of
finding many in these words.’ His grin, and
that of the mengathering behind him, broadened. ‘They were like rats caught in
a trap my Lord Pendragon, when Enniaun and Cei swept in from the north. They
threw down their weapons and ran – or tried to, for they’d nowhere to run to,
save the spear tips of Gwynedd and Red Turma.’

‘And your own Blue Turma was so exhilarated,’
Arthur drawled, coolly, ‘by the salt taste of blood, that they left their King
for a whelped brat of a slave and an untried lad from
Eboracum to defend?’ His explosion of anger gushed, ferocious,
with
those last words, biting hard, deep in its contempt.

The Decurion’s face flushed scarlet, the beam
of triumph instantly gone. Several men exchanged glances or hung their
heads, others shifted uncomfortably from foot to
foot. ‘And
Lot? What have you done with him?’ Arthur asked, his anger
cutting harder for the sarcasm behind the question.

The Decurion faced his
lord direct not bringing further
shame
by giving in to the pounding desire to look away, to curl
up, to shrink into the ground. He stamped to attention. ‘I
believe men are looking for him, Sir.’

‘
I believe
is not good enough
Decurion!’ Arthur’s bark ripped across the clearing with the force of a hurled
hunting spear. ‘I want him alive – if he does not already lie dead.’

‘
Sir!’
The Decurion brought his arm smartly across his chest,
his fist striking
the breast of his tunic in the traditional Roman salute, and turned aside,
halted as Arthur said:

‘Decurion, apart from that one, shall we say,
oversight, I am proud of you and the men this day.’ He took a slow breath,
fought the pain and rising nausea, glared through
squinting eyes
at the boy Gweir
hovering anxiously at his side. ‘And you boy,
will receive your
manumission. After Ider has tanned your backside raw.’

§ XXXVIII

Faces floated,
hovering through a feverish mist of red pain. Faces, coming and going,
sometimes the same face, sometimes
a different one. Once he thought he heard someone
scream a long way off, another time he lay half-awake drowning in the swirl of
clinging fog, listening to the sound of a woman’s tears.

Arthur jeered at himself, conscious even in
that half-life
between dream and reality
that no woman would sit crying over
him. Laugh happen, aye, there was
many a woman who would
laugh at his death,
but na, never cry. Strange, this semi
conscious existence between the
real and unreal, where sense mixed with the ridiculous. And beside him,
whenever the dark pain-mist cleared, someone lifting his head, coaxing that
bitter-tasting liquid down his throat. Next time, when he woke
next time, he would tell this medical orderly how
like a
woman’s hands his were ... He
swallowed the mixture
gratefully,
for it brought sleep that eased the pain. The sleep he
welcomed, but not
the dreams.

Why did they always drift into dreams of
Gwenhwyfar? Summer days. A breeze sighing through the trees; rivers, cool and
rippling. Gwenhwyfar beside him laughing and teasing.
Walking together; riding. Her copper hair cascading on a pillow
as they made love. Gwenhwyfar ... he opened his eyes.
Had
he heard a voice? Was that
movement? The tent was dim,
almost dark; light flared suddenly, casting
a grotesque, leaping shadow as someone adjusted the lamp’s wick. He was still
dreaming then, a strange dream though, this one.
Arthur
moved, caught his breath, an
audible hiss clenching sharp in his
teeth. The figure turned and walked
to him, her tread rustling on the rush-strewn floor.