Shadow of the King (68 page)

raised his arm, and they had moved forward. From walk into jog-trot, pushing

immediate into a canter—and the release into gallop.

Aesc, they did not kill. They did not treat him kindly, but he was spared

death. At least for now, until the Pendragon could decide what punishment to

mete him.

Aelle, the Bretwalda, was running, although he would not go far. The road

to Vicus was closed to him; he could only head into the woods, where the

dogs would sniff him out, or along the Way, where the horses would ride

over him.

It was to last throughout the day before it was ended, a day of harrying and

following, of moving in, encircling, attempting to thrust into the wedge that

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 0 9

Aelle’s men formed whenever the horses came too close, a day from before

dawn to after sunset of determination, sweat, and exhausting energy. A day

that had followed two of fast riding and another fight a few miles down, along

the road.

There was another skirmish beneath the place where the white horse galloped

in her endless race against the wind. Fatigued, despairing, unable to go much

further, Aelle ordered his men to make a stand. They would fight, kill as many

of these British as they could before meeting Woden themselves. It would be a

brave death, an honourable death for his fine men.

Many died at that place, more of the English than the mounted, elated British,

but it was a fight of honour, and the men were buried with their weapons in

one grave to mark the respect that each side felt for the other.

When Arthur and his queen returned to Badon with Aelle led like a dog by a

chain around his neck, stripped naked, with leather thongs twisting tight into his

wrists, Ambrosius greeted them beyond the gates cleared of the dead, the dying

and the wounded. Nothing could be done to clear or hide the ground that was

churned and scraped. The blood still puddled in the ruts, spattered against the

stonework of the arch, the solid wood of the gate. The smell lingered, too: the

smell of blood and death and grieving.

Ambrosius stood, head erect, proud. Arthur rode Onager forward,

dismounted, went to greet his uncle, unsure what to expect, uncertain what to

say. Ambrosius talked for him.

“It is with regret I cannot return your kingdom to you as it was when you

left it, but I can at least let my heart rest that it is indeed returned to you, and

not delivered up to a Saxon.”

“I thank you, Uncle, for taking care of my people and my land while

I have been gone.” Arthur reached forward his hand in offering of peace.

Grateful, with relief, Ambrosius took it. He had expected a sword to bring

his justified end, a torrent of curses and reprimands; had not expected this,

Arthur’s forgiveness.

As they shook hands in greeting, Arthur noticed something glint at his feet.

He frowned, bent, picked up a brooch, saucer-shaped with a mask of eyes and

mouth indented on it. The Saxon brooch of rebellion.

He looked at it a moment then leant forward and pinned it to Ambrosius’s

shoulder. “Wear it,” he said, “to remind you always of this day, and,” Arthur

quietly indicated the graves being dug on the slope below the ramparts “and of

who was lost.” He sighed. He was tired, every muscle in his body ached, every

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nerve-ending was screeching to be eased or scratched or bathed. He itched, he

stank, his belly needed filling, his bladder emptying.

Gwenhwyfar came up beside him. Ambrosius caught his breath at sight of

her, as begrimed, as bloodied as her husband. He stammered a greeting, added,

speaking of Arthur, “You found him then?”

Gwenhwyfar nodded.

Ambrosius allowed a small, weary smile. “I am glad. Perhaps now I can see

to the running of my monastery and my school. My work is with the kingdom

of God, I think, not the kingdom of man.” With his eye he sought dismissal.

Arthur gave it.

“Go in peace, nephew,” Ambrosius said, making the sign of the cross. “Go

in the peace of God.”

“Peace?” Arthur echoed. “How long will peace last? There is another Saxon

we may yet need to face.”

Ambrosius’s eyebrows lifted.

“Cerdic,” Arthur answered. “My son Cerdic.”

“Ah,” Ambrosius mused. “Cerdic.”

The burying was begun. The Saxons they took to the byre that would burn

and send souls to Woden; the British they lay in Christian graves, clustered

beneath the ramparts of Badon.

In one of them lay Cadwy, who had tried to fight so valiantly to keep the

Saxons from entering his fortress, the fortress he had held in bravery and honour

in the name of Gwenhwyfar, wife to the Pendragon.

Part Three

The Remnant

One

March 476

The ship’s prow nosed into the reeds, carried forward by the heavy

roll of the incoming tide, the flurry of movement rippling through the

stems, whispering, as if unseen fingers were stroking a harp’s finely tuned

strings. A moorhen paddled away from the wooden keel that loomed dark and

high, her scolding at this sudden intrusion vociferous in the empty stillness of

the early morning.

Cerdic was the first to leap ashore. He plunged into the knee-high water,

thrust his way to the firmness of land, head back, arms wide, exultant, trium-

phant. He had brought his ships across the sea to this isolated British inlet that

was his mother’s held land, would soon be his own. Four other keels jostled their

formidable way into the reeds, disgorging men who hauled at the mooring ropes,

their voices loud against the quiet of the murmuring breeze and the flurry of

anxious bird-calls. The women and their children came after them, hesitant and

uncertain in this unknown place that was, from now forward, to be their home.

Drawing his Saex, the short sword of the Saxons, from its sheath, Cerdic held

the weapon before him, its blade glinting in the bright sun of this, the first day

of the Roman month of Mars. The month dedicated to their god of war. More

significant to Cerdic and those first few men wading up out of the reed-lapping,

incoming tide, this was their own special day of the calendar week. Woden’s

day. Cerdic held the weapon by the polished wood of the rounded pommel,

held it high above his head, and called upon his god, his creator, his ancestor,

to grant his blessing and favour.

“Woden!” he cried. “Hear me, hear your son, Cerdic!” The men and women,

jostling their children before them or holding the younger ones in their arms,

straddling their hips, gathered behind their lord, almost two hundred people in

all. Some of the men also drew their swords, others held high their spears or

shields. The boy was brought forward to stand beside his father. He would see

his sixth birthing-day this year, too young to be at the forefront, assisting with

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the business of the gods, but this was to be their land now, and one day Cynric

would be their leader.

He must be here for this, their coming, the names of father and son linked

together in the tales that would be woven around this day.

“Be with us,” Cerdic called to the sky, aware they all watched, attentive and

expectant. “Woden! Give us courage and endurance to make what we will of this

land. Grant us aid to build our homes and plant our crops, let our women bear us

sons, give us daughters who will bring us the union of husbands and allies!”

A cheer soared behind him as the men and women proclaimed their approval

and echoed his prayer. They had elected to come with Cerdic, these few,

abandoning what remained of their old home along the Elbe to start again. A

new life, a new beginning.

Cynric was proud of his father, excited at this great adventure. The sea-

crossing he had not liked, for his stomach had heaved as much as the roll of the

waves, but now they were ashore and the motion of the craft was leaving his

legs, he was again starting to enjoy himself. Although he understood little of

what was happening. Someone had fetched the white kid from one of the ships,

set it down before Cerdic. Cynric watched, interested. His father had taught

him the importance of sacrifice.

“Woden!” Cerdic cried again, “And Thunor! As this blood spills on this

ground before me, then so shall the blood of any who dare oppose me spill!”

He lowered the sword and drew its sharpness quickly through the bleating

kid’s throat. The red blood streamed, puddling in the dew-sparkling grass, the

animal’s legs kicked, its eyes rolled into the blankness of death. He slit the belly

open, lifted out the guts and entrails, the steam and stench rising together into

the sea-tanged air, the gulls, whirling overhead, crying and swooping, already

sensing an unexpected meal. No twisted growths or black evilness there! Cerdic

turned to the men, those behind the first row craning and peering to inspect

the offal. “The portents are good!” he cried, letting the mess slide through his

fingers to lay beside the blood-soaked carcass. Cynric wrinkled his nose, took a

half-step backwards from the foul-smelling, slimy stuff.

“Woden!” His father raised his voice, tipped his face up to the spring-blue

morning sky, “Woden, be with us!” They cheered, and raised their voices to

the skies, setting the waders and shorebirds wheeling and calling in alarm.

Then they set about bringing one of the ships up from riding the shallows,

left it beached, forlorn, and desolate, lying on the tall reed-grass, a ship so

graceful and beautiful when on the sea, clumsy and inelegant on land. They

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 1 5

stripped it of all that would be of use; the oars and sail fashioned into makeshift

tents to provide shelter, the wooden benches, the water barrels, ropes; all they

left was the hull and the single mast.

Cerdicesora, they agreed to call the place, this lonely stretch of coastal marsh-

land along the southern coast of Britain. Some, a few, went off to hunt duck

and to catch fish, the children sent to gather fuel for the fires. Most of the men

set to felling the trees for the strong barrier of a palisade fence would need

be erected before nightfall. If the British came to drive them away then they

would fight, but the women and children, the goats, sheep, cattle and pigs they

had brought across the sea would need protection. If the British let them alone,

then so be it. They had come in peace to their new home. At least a peace that

would last a while and a while. A handful of men, some young, some old, could

not yet take on the might of the Pendragon.

As evening fell, the mead jars were passed around, and Cynric sat beside

his father, sharing the pleasure and euphoria.
Ja
, it had been a good day! Dusk

descended with the delicate, twilight shading of a clear-skied spring evening.

The stars beginning to murmur their presence, subduing the day into what

would be a frosted night.

It was then that they burnt the ship, the one they had heaved up onto the

land. An offering to the gods. Tomorrow, they would clear more trees, begin

the permanent building of their settlement, but this day, their first, was the most

important, this day of their coming, and it needed something special, something

ultimate to mark its ending. They stood in silence as they watched it burn,

watched the flames wander at first, then run and twist into leaping, engulfing

spasms that roared and cracked and shouted. The screaming and pleading of the

four women slaves, brought from their old home for this purpose, had ceased

with the uprush of fire and dark smoke. With pleasure and pride, Cerdic’s

people gave the craft to their gods.

Never again would they see what was left of the trading settlement on the

Elbe River. Many had wandered away soon after Mathild’s passing, those who

had resented Cerdic’s coming, disliked his taking of authority; then, for three

years in succession the floods had destroyed their homes, washed away the

new-sown seeds or sprouting corn. Men had drowned with their families;

cattle, goats, and sheep were lost to the rapid spew of water that had engulfed

the banks and swamped the low-lying land. The water-bloated bodies and the

stink of mud! And then last year, after the floods had receded, the Franks had

come raiding for what little was left.

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They could fight, but for what? For sodden timbers? Drowned pastures,

shattered keels, and abandoned hopes? Nay, better to try for something worth

the taking. And Cerdic could offer that. There was land that ought to be his,

land that boasted fertile fields and hoarded riches of gold and precious jewels.

Let the Franks overrun the mudflats of the Elbe! Cerdic could offer a better

place to the Saxons. Britain.

They stood in silence and watched as their craft was taken by the gods. With

the guidance of Woden’s hand, they would build for themselves new homes,