Shadow of the King (67 page)

never see.

One hour before dawn, when men drowsed at their most languid and when

senses drifted with the slow turn of the night, the litter of hearth-fires with

their bundled accompanying sleepers had died to glowing embers, the muttered

conversations, muted laughter shrinking as more men rolled into their cloaks or

sought the shelter of rough-pitched hide tents. One hour before dawn.

Ambrosius stood, awake, unwell, unable to find the comfort of sleep, staring

into the blackness of that night. The land curved darker beneath a lighter sky. It

fell away steeply on this side from the well-protected watch-tower, while on the

other side of the fortress the dips and undulations rolled from the high ground,

vulnerable, down to meet the spread of woods and pastures. He knew how many

Saex were dreaming of battle-glory around the red glows of so many fires. Knew

where Aelle and Aesc had erected their swaggering tents among the encircling

army. They even had whores down there, those heathen Englishwomen among

the men, so sure were they of their position, of the outcome. Ambrosius turned

his head to the south. Bedwyr would not have come, not even to Badon. But

Geraint, why had he not come? Again, as he had done so often these past many

hours, Ambrosius asked his God why help had not arrived.

4 0 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“Am I to end here then, Lord, so despicably? Is this to be my punishment for

the sin of pride?” He bowed his head, had to accept the Lord’s will but, Christ

in his mercy, that acceptance was so hard to achieve!

A light, chill rain began to drizzle, not enough to bring the water they so needed;

would even a good rainfall be enough? Not now, it was too late. Everything was

too late. All he ought have done, those he ought have listened to, heeded!

The sounds came as if the wind were rising, swaying through the trees, a

nondescript shush of sound, gathering momentum, swelling, growing as the

daylight drifts unnoticed at first from darkness into pale dawn. Movement, a

soft uprush of shadows darting, light flickering, voices, low and unnoticed.

Ambrosius watched, gazing intently at the camp spread in a pocked melee

against the night-dark land. He frowned, concentrated his sight into one area.

What was that? What? Lord God in all His greatness!

Ambrosius leapt down the stairway, running, his heaving belly quite forgotten.

The watch-guard, weary, several wounded, turned, puzzled, to watch him,

whispering between themselves. He was shouting, raising the fortress, calling

for the officers. Men came running, many half-dressed, scrabbling into boots

and tunics, buckling on armour and helmets, carrying spears, swords, bleary-

eyed from sleep. Were they under attack? From what quarter? Where?

Excited, speech gabbling from his panting breath, Ambrosius could only

point, indicate beyond the walls. Cadwy was there, limp-hobbling, shoving his

way through the confused crowd.

“Father, what is it? What is happening?” He set his hands to the older man’s

shoulders, almost shook him in his urgency to know what was wrong, anxiously

surveyed the men already running into positions of defence along the rampart

walkways. There came no sound from beyond, none of the usual baying and

howling of attack, no torrent of abuse, hurl of flame-lit arrow or wind-swishing

spear. If they were under attack, where was the noise, the bestial clamour for

blood? He made out one or two words from his wheezing, coughing father,

heard them but did not understand.

“Attack?” he repeated. “The Saex are under attack?” He sounded as if

he were addressing his young son, querying some infant’s imaginative story.

“Attack?” he said again.

Ambrosius, wiping at the spittle on his chin, nodded vigorously, waved his

son to go see for himself.

Cadwy needed no second urging. Ragnall had come from their chamber,

her hair loose, unbound, a thick cloak tossed around her night apparel, the

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 0 5

darkness shrouding the disfigurement of her face that so few people, save for

strangers, noticed now. She called for a cloak to cover Ambrosius, placed her

arm around him, led him to the warmth of the in doors. The man was shivering,

his teeth chattering, eyes bright with what could well be a new fever setting

in. Delirium? She glanced at her husband, but he was already away, his crutch

moving wildly as he thrust his way to the stairway and the ramparts, officers and

men crowding with him.

The cheer boomed through even the thick, oak-solid walls of the Hall. An

exultant ululation of rejoicing, of freedom, of new-given life. Ambrosius smiled,

swallowed another of the spoonfuls of warm broth Ragnall was offering him.

“The Saex,” he said, eyes twinkling, finger raised, “are all in panic. Someone

scatters them with blade and fire.”

“Who?” Ragnall asked, as the cheering of Badon’s small population, gath-

ering to see what was happening below in the darkness, swelled in voice and

joy. “Who comes?”

“Geraint?” Ambrosius ventured. “It could be Geraint.”

Ragnall was squatting on her heels before him, the bowl in her hand, the

spoon forgotten, dripping broth. She met her father-by-law’s excited eyes,

matched them with her own eagerness. “Or Arthur,” she ventured, in almost

a whisper as if to say the name aloud would chase this avenging spirit away.

“Could it be Arthur?”

Ambrosius touched her hand with one finger. “I hope so, child, in the name

of our God, I do hope so!”

The horses came in at the gallop, bringing the corpses of the watch, some still

kicking the last of their life-thread as they were dragged like meat skewered on

the spit. Some riders wielded sword or club, others carried fat-spitting torches

that were tossed inside the openings of tents. The hearth-fires, and the sleepers

curled beside them were deliberately trampled. Difficult for a war-horse, trained

not to tread on a body lying on the ground, but obey they did, for Arthur’s

horses had always been as disciplined as the men when it came to battle. Fire

too, held no fear for these brave-hearted creatures, nothing could stop one of

the Artoriani war-horses, save for its rider’s hand on the rein or a spear clear

through the heart or jugular.

The screams, the panic flared and grew along with that rising blaze of fire.

Unprepared, swilled with wine and mead, sated from the comfort of a warm

whore and the belief the fortress would be theirs come the morrow, the English

barely fought back. Those camped nearer the rampart walls stood greater

4 0 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

chance, for the alert had given them time to arm themselves, to form rank, to

fight back. Aelle stood within his shield ring of thegns, bellowing orders, calling

to his sons who fought their way to join him. What had happened to Aesc of

the Cantii he knew not, nor had he time to ponder long on the matter; he was

fighting for his very life, or already gone to join the gods. Either way, there

was little, at this moment, Aelle, Bretwalda, Lord of all the Saxon kind, could

do about it.

Dawn brewed, reluctant to face the dull, persistent drizzle the bleaching light

casting over what had been not two hours before, a besieging camp-place. The

coming of light showed tents ripped or fallen, many smouldering, with bodies

scattered around. Men huddled, weeping, dying. Blood; dismembered limbs.

The horror of carnage.

It was not over. The cavalry, the riders, were beating the Saxons back, but

the English had made formation now, a solid wedge, impregnable, determined

to survive. It was the Pendragon, the British could see that now, from the

vantage-point of the high ramparts, they could see the Dragon Banner as it

dipped and swayed. Several times, men would point and shout, “There! There

he is, on that brute of a chestnut!”

“Arthur. Arthur has returned to save us!”

When he was certain with his own eyes it was indeed the Pendragon, Cadwy

had the gates ready to be thrown open and formed the men, those still able

to fight—and God’s praise, there were many of them, some bandaged, some

limping, one with his face half-torn and hacked from an unlucky stopped arrow,

another without a hand, one without an eye, serious, hard-borne woundings,

but still they came to form up into line, still they wanted to be a part of this

glorious thing that was happening. It was, surely, to be a battle that would

be sung about to the children of their children’s children, and they did not

want their sons telling that their father had done nothing save nurse a bloodied

wound in the Hall of Badon while the Pendragon rode to victory outside.

The gates swung open and the men marched out, clamouring the battle-cry

to add their weight to Arthur’s men, Arthur’s three hundred men who had, in

that one, astounding, triumphant charge, slaughtered more than nine hundred

of the English.

Seventy-Seven

Aelle and four, five hundred of his men stood firm, their wedge

formation as solid as the trunk of a mature oak, back-pacing steadily,

foot by foot, giving ground to the Artoriani but not giving men or lives. Then

there a came a disturbance from the rear, men were pouring from the fortress,

cheering, spears and swords raised, come to join their comrades—but met by

Aesc of the Cantii instead!

Somehow, later, he said by the protection of Woden himself, Aesc had

fought his way clear of the British, managed to scramble around, attempted to

link with Aelle. They saw the fortress gates open, unprotected, and changed

direction and tactic as easily as a hawk pulls from a dive. Aesc drove hard for the

fortress, fought like a man crazed to win his way in, and almost managed it.

The fighting at the gates was furious, bloody, and soon over; but Arthur had

to call some of his men away, ride hard to intercept and deal with it and once

his own formation was distorted, it gave chance for Aelle to break and run.

The Saxons headed for the easy path of the road, intending to head to the

Via Ermin, then swing east for the relative safety of Vicus, that they called

Wickham, the Roman settlement.

Arthur cursed as he felled a fair-haired brute coming at him open-mouthed,

screaming abuse and baying for blood. A bay horse was beside him, rearing,

blood gushed from the man’s crushed skull as he came down, Gwenhwyfar’s

sword finishing what the hooves had not completed. She had kept close to

Arthur throughout, her horse Onager’s shadow, fighting alongside him, blow

for blow; his Cymraes as he affectionately called her, a tribeswoman of the

British. Her father had taught her how to fight, how to use sword and shield or

spear, her father and her brothers, some of whom were now dead and passed to

the Otherworld, the kingdom of God’s heaven.

That slow ride through the darkness, and then the waiting for all the muffles

and rags to be removed—how Arthur’s heart had pounded, how his stomach

4 0 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

had churned with the vomit of fear! This was to be a battle. No skirmish, no

pandering bickering. Close on two thousand Saxons were laying siege to the

fortress of Badon. He had a few less than the three hundred, given the dead and

wounded and those left behind to patrol Vicus.

Gwenhwyfar must have known his thoughts, must have held some sharing of

his apprehension, for she had spoken, her voice no more than a whisper in the

concealing darkness. “They may be many more than us, but we have the night

and surprise as our allies. And we have the horses.” Aye, the horses. Unless

they made firm, rock-steady formation, few infantry could survive against well-

ridden, well-managed horse.

Almost, just as he had been about to give the arm signal to move forward,

Arthur had nearly turned, nearly rode away. The fear had risen up within him,

choking his breathing, clutching his throat, screwing his belly into a heated

knot of twisting pain. He had pulled the rein, urged with his heel, had swung

Onager’s head, but he had turned in Gwenhwyfar’s direction and she had

saluted him, touching the hilt of her sword against her forehead. She could not

be seen clearly in the darkness, but he had known how she looked.

Her cloak was green plaid, the different greens of the natural world woven

together in the traditional patterns: light, spring green against the darker, mature

colour of summer, the mellow of autumn and the sleeping green of winter.

Green to heighten her eyes, show the copper-gold of her hair. At her throat,

she wore the golden torque of her royal rank, and on her left hand, his ring, the

ring he had given her as a marriage gift. Nothing else adorned her leather tunic,

save for the gleaming bronze of buckles and the silvered pommel of her sword.

Her reassuring smile and her apparent calm had stopped him from fleeing,

had rekindled the courage that had began to warm in him at Vicus. He had