Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (75 page)

Two hundred men, most
already drunk, were unaware of
what had hit them.
Taken by surprise, without arms or armour to hand, badly led, poorly organised,
they had no chance even against only thirty horsemen of the Artoriani.

There was not much
killing, Hueil’s allies surrendering
before the Artoriani
had chance to draw breath for a second charge, throwing their spears and axes
to the ground, holding their hands high, fear and horror paling their faces,
disbelief hammering their minds. Amlawdd had placed himself before the hosting’s
standards, he and a few of his loyal men. Dry-mouthed, horrified, he offered up
his sword to the woman mounted on a red-coated stallion, her own sword tip
hovering
too close to his male equipment for
comfort. Was this the
woman he had
wanted for his own? The woman who had
seemed
so perfect, so desirable? Gods, he would never be able to
sleep at night
for fear of what she might do with that blade! He swallowed hard, tried an
affable smile, which she ignored.

Meriaun was supervising rounding up the men
and women,
herding them into the centre of
the camp, the Artoriani
helping themselves to weapons, armour, anything
that looked worth the taking, including the women.

For a long moment, Gwenhwyfar sat on her
horse, staring at Amlawdd, considering what to do with him. The attack, the
whole event had been instinct, reaction. Arthur
would
probably yell at her, say she had behaved foolishly, taken an
unacceptable risk, but the chance had been too great to miss!
As always in hostile territory – and peaceful too
after that attack
near Lindinis –
Artoriani scouts had ridden ahead, had reported
the camp, the slovenly
lack of care, no out-guards, few men on watch. It was like landing a pike with
a bent brooch pin! She had two choices now, run the bastard through or send him
home, humiliated, mutilated. Na, three! A slow smile spreading across her
cheeks, Gwenhwyfar brought the sword across her lap. ‘I can kill you, Amlawdd,
which I would like to do, or cut off your hands and take out your eyes, which I
am capable of doing. A waste though, both of these, when my husband, your Lord
Pendragon, needs men to fight behind his
dragon
banner.’ Her smile increased and she put away her
sword, swung her legs
from the saddle and dismounted.

Gwenhwyfar walked up close to Amlawdd,
savouring his
stench of fear that stood
proud with the sweat and darting eyes.
‘We could form an alliance
Amlawdd, you and I, for Arthur.’
She circled
him, noting how his anxious eyes swivelled to
follow her.

He swallowed,
hard. ‘Alliance?’

‘
Aye, your men and your
spears fighting for the Pendragon, not against him.’ Now that the possibility
of a painful death seemed to be receding, Amlawdd’s bravado began to return. ‘Hueil
paid me, promised me much for my services.’ The smile quirked around Gwenhwyfar’s
mouth. Services?
She had to stretch up
slightly to whisper in his ear. ‘Ineptitude,
Amlawdd, is a more fitting
word.’ She stood again before him, looking him up and down, assessing him, then
took a long, dramatic step backwards, flourished her arm in a southerly
direction.

‘
You can
go, Amlawdd. Take this pathetic rabble of
imbeciles with you. The people
of Britain will hear of how I, Gwenhwyfar, wife to the Pendragon, with thirty
of my men, thought your blood unworthy of my sword.’ Her green eyes, swirling
with a sparkle of tawny-golden flecks, met his. ‘Or .. . we can come to
agreement, Amlawdd.’
And when she told of
her terms, Amlawdd’s fear evaporated,
his disbelief altering to that of
amazed wonder. So Hueil was
offering the
Pendragon’s wife when victory was claimed? God’s
wondrous truth, if he
had known Gwenhwyfar’s terms before
this, he
would have been licking Arthur’s boots without
comment!

§ XXXVII

Morgause stood with the wind streaming her
hair, holding her
raven banner, proclaiming
her freedom and triumph, her
presence, up there on those cragged heights
mocking and challenging.

The valley rose steep, awkward to negotiate,
up in front of
Arthur and his men. The
Pendragon squinted up at the rocks
and crags, deep shadowed or golden
bright beneath the new-rising sun. The sky was cloudless, a perfect spring
morning,
though the air was crisp. Birds
were twittering, busy at the first
stirrings
of nest making, flowers were poking their winter-sleepy
heads through the greening grass. A
perfect-looking day on
which to die. He
would not waste a wager on guessing Hueil had
placed Dalriadian archers
up among those rocks. He beckoned his own banner forward, took the shaft pole
in his hand and walked Onager to stand alone, clearly seen, before his men.

Morgause saw, for her arm came out, her head
back. Arthur
could not hear, not from this
distance, but knew she was
laughing. He raised the banner, holding it
high above his head for the bitch-woman to see. Gwenhwyfar had worked him this
banner, the red dragon, proud on a white
background. His
banner, the Pendragon’s banner.

A horse came up, halted a few paces behind.
Arthur turned
his head to inspect the
returning scout’s expression. The
answering, brief, shake of his head,
made Arthur’s frown sink deeper.

‘
Nothing?
No sign?’

‘
Nothing, my Lord. We
scouted the few miles you asked of us. There is no movement, no riders coming
from Gwynedd.’ The scout shrugged. ‘Neither is there anything of Amlawdd. They
could be anywhere, the woods are dense behind us.’ He gestured helplessly in
the direction he meant. Only the road to Deva ran clear, a swathe of open land,
empty sky. ‘Were I to have more men, we could scout a wider arc ...’ Waving his
hand dismissively, Arthur shifted more comfort
ably
in the saddle. He could not spare more men. Could not
spare any men. He
handed his banner back to its bearer. ‘I can
no
longer spare you either. Form a flank watch — I need to know
as soon as
either of them approaches.’ The Pendragon sounded calm, in command of the
situation, the unknown. Where were Gwenhwyfar and her brothers? To where had
Amlawdd disappeared? And how in the Bull’s bloody name, were they
going to fight Hueil in this damned impossible
ground? Only by
the smile of Fortuna would they win this one.

Wheeling Onager about,
Arthur cantered back into the
cover
of the trees, crowding close to the rising ground of Hueil’s
chosen place. The baggage mules were secured half a mile
back,
the men waiting, spread out under the shadow
of the bare-branched canopy, seeing to their war gear, their horses, puttingan
extra edge to dagger or sword. Several called cheerily to
Arthur as he trotted by; they were to fight within
the hour, when the Pendragon was ready. Nothing had been said, no
orders passed; it was a thing known, a soldier’s
born instinct, an
awareness that set the brotherhood of the Artoriani
apart.

Gweir came immediately to his Lord as Arthur
dismounted,
Llacheu at the servant’s heels,
both boys grinning as broad as an
oak tree’s spread. Both were wearing
leather fighting gear and brandishing spears.

Arthur wanted to laugh
at sight of them. He loosened
Onager’s girth,
refastened a flapping strap on the bridle and
handed
the horse to his groom. ‘And just where,’ he said
turning to face the
two boys, his fists settling at his waist, his voice deepening to sound the
more serious, ‘do you think you two might be going, dressed like that?’ Llacheu
had more nerve than Gweir, he was Arthur’s son, could get away with more than a
serving lad. ‘We thought it
would be an idea
to help guard the mules, Da. We can do a
better job properly dressed and
armed.’

‘
I
have men to do the work of men.’

‘
Which
is why you need the boys to see to the pack mules.’
Arthur did laugh at that,
caught neatly in his own trap! He ruffled Llacheu’s hair, on sudden impulse,
squatted down and
clasped the boy to him,
felt Llacheu’s arms go around his
shoulders
with the same fierce need. The lad buried his face into
Arthur’s neck,
held back an urge to cry, Be
careful,
father, I love
you!
The
words would not come, stayed caught in the boy’s dry throat. But Arthur knew he
thought them, for he squeezed the
boy
tighter, a brief acknowledgement of words and feelings that
were too
precious to put into speech.

‘Stay with the animals, son, and wait for
your mam.’ Arthur unclasped the boy’s hands, moved his own grip to Llacheu’s
shoulders; held him at arm’s length, eye meeting
eye, searching
deep to emphasise the importance of what he said next. ‘I
need you to look after her, Llacheu, for beyond you, Gwenhwyfar is all I have
in this world to love and trust.’
The boy
licked his dry lips, again unable to speak, aware that
were he to talk,
the words would come in a rush of tears and
thudding
fear. The moment’s spell was broken as Arthur
winked, stood, turned to
his men, the officers gathered in a semicircle awaiting orders. With one last
grip on the boy’s shoulder Arthur laughed, said, so that as many as were near
could hear, ‘Enough of this idling, my lads! Let us be up and
doing – when we are finished, we can laze on our
backsides.’ He
fastened the straps of
his helmet. ‘Supper tonight will be
venison stew I believe.’ He grinned
as the men of his Artoriani cheered. They all knew that many of them would be
having no need of their supper come dark.

Llacheu watched his father walk away, the men
following, filtering their way through the trees. He had Blaidd with him,
his dog, and Cadarn, his mother’s. They lay
together, a few
yards away, indifferent to the coming and going of the
men,
Cadarn, resigned to his mistress being
away, lying asleep, head
stretched
out on his paws. Blaidd yawned noisily, his brown
eyes fixed on Llacheu.
The lad clicked his fingers and the dog ambled to his side, groaned in ecstasy
as the boy rubbed that certain delectable place behind his ears.

Now that the movement of men was gone, the
horses could
be heard chewing grass, shaking
their heads, stamping their
feet. The woods were full of them, tethered
to the set picket ropes or hobbled. For although the Artoriani were cavalry,
fought on horseback, were unbeaten on horseback,
no mounted
man could ride and fight his way up that steep-sided valley.
They went on foot, feeling naked without the
reassurance of
their mounts between their knees. As Hueil intended.

The Pendragon allowed
himself one final look at that
woodland
as he set foot on the incline. If he were Amlawdd, he
would approach soon, come up out of his sheltered hiding
among
the trees and take the horses before smashing into the Artoriani rear, catching
them like rats in a trap. Arthur had left
enough
good men down there to ensure that did not happen,
but that meant not so many of them were about to
lay assault to
the problem ahead. Where was Gwynedd, damn it! As
expected, the faces of archers appeared from behind the few scrub-stunted
trees, boulders, rock overhangs, their skin showing white against the darker,
natural colours of rock orwinter-dull scrub. His own archers were skilled,
loosing their arrows as soon as targets were seen, making every aim count;
this was precision work, unlike the approach of
two armies on a
battlefield where arrow or spear was launched as a mass,
to
inflict as much damage as possible
amongst ranked men. These
were
individual targets and Hueil had the advantage, for
Arthur’s men were
climbing, exposed, shields covering their
heads.
Not easy to scrabble up and over rocks one-handed. The
thud and jolt of
arrows striking his own raised shield made
Arthur’s
wrist and shoulder ache, the shields of men around
him bristled with shafts, like grotesque hedgehogs,
but not
many arrows were making
their intended targets. There was the
occasional
cry as one pierced thigh or leg, but the cavalry
shields were larger than an infantry man’s, made particularly so
to
give extra protection across a horse’s shoulder or flank.

They were on the steepest part of the rise,
climbing higher; not much noise, save the grunt and pant of men’s breath, the
whine and thud of arrow or spear, an occasional
scream or
sworn oath. Half-way up it became hand-to-hand fighting: a
desperate struggle to keep a secure foothold;
cover with shield,
thrust with sword
or dagger and remain balanced on a slope that
threatened to slide from
beneath your feet. Arthur was fighting
instinctively,
not thinking or planning, body, arms, legs,
hands, just doing. Part of
his mind was back there, way down the slope in those woods where the horses
were, and his son. Where his wife should be.