The Hallowed Isle Book Two (15 page)

Oesc listened to the hubbub of preparation with mounting frustration. In the past, he had tried not to mind when Artor rode out against the Angles or the Saxons. But Artor and Cai and even young Betiver were already making names for themselves as fighters, while he, as young and strong as they were, practiced his Latin and his archery. Even if he were freed, why should his own people accept a man with no experience in war?

He was in the library of the palace, helping Fastidius to sort scrolls, when a sudden draft set the lamp flames to flickering and he turned and saw it was the king.

“It is your arms you should be sorting through, not these scrolls,” said Artor, standing with arms folded in the doorway.

Oesc felt his cheeks grow red. He had never quite dared to think of the British king as his friend, but surely too much respect had grown between them for the other man to mock him.

“My lord, don't tease him—” said Betiver, appearing next to him. “Oesc, go get your gear—Artor wants you in his war-band when we go against Naitan!”

From red, Oesc knew he was becoming pale. Artor came forward and grasped his arm. “I could not ask you to fight your own folk, but the Picts are no kin to you, and I will need every man. And indeed, I would be honored to have the grandson of Hengest at my side. . . .”

Oesc found his voice at last. “I have fought beside you once already, my lord.” He rubbed the arm that had been broken in the fight, which still gave a twinge now and again when it was about to rain. “I will be glad to come.”

Betiver looked up at the red sandstone walls of the great fortress called the Petriana with a grin of sheer pleasure.
This
was Rome, whose mighty works none of the new tribes would ever equal. The Petriana was still the headquarters for the senior officer of the Wall command, and it was better cared for than most of the forts the Legions had left behind them. When he surveyed the massive gatehouse and the strong walls that protected the city of Luguvalium, a few miles to the south, he was certain that the Empire of the West would be restored, with Artor as Imperator.

First, of course, they would have to do something about this troublesome Pictish king. But Betiver had grown from spindly youth to warrior in Artor's service, and it never really occurred to him that his king could fail.

Certainly, with the army that was gathering here to support him, Artor must have the victory. They had filled up all the empty barracks within the fortress, and more were camped along the banks of the river. And even as Betiver turned back towards the Principia, where Artor, following tradition, had made his headquarters, he heard a horn call from the eastern tower. Another band of warriors was coming in.

By the time Betiver reached the king, they all knew who it was. Leudonus of the Votadini, having come south by the eastern route and then along the Wall, was bringing all the men he could spare from the defense of his own lands to fight with them. Gualchmai, the eldest of his four sons and Artor's nephew, rode at his side.

That evening they feasted in the great hall of the Praetorium, where once Artor's grandfather had ruled with Caidiau, commander of the troops at the western end of the Wall. If there were a few more cracks in the tiled floor and a few more nicks in the pillars, still, it was a noble room, especially when the flower of Britannia filled it, glowing in their tunics of crimson and ochre and green, with gold at their necks and wrists and gleaming on the hilts of their swords. Artor himself had honored the occasion by putting on the Chalybe sword. It made some people uneasy, but there was no doubt it added to his majesty.

Artor had suggested that Betiver and Cunorix sit beside Leudonus's son, reasoning that he was the most likely to understand how a youngster new to the court might feel. Not that young Gualchmai had any problem with self-confidence—he was big for his age, with sandy hair and the promise of his father's burly build. One saw the resemblance to Artor only in the set of his eyes.

“My father is the greatest king in the north,” he stated as the platters of boiled meat were being brought in. “Naitan Morbet is a sneak and a coward. If he had attacked Dun Eidyn instead of running around us, we would ourselves alone have been beating him already—”

“And saved the rest of us a very long ride,” Cunorix responded pleasantly. “It was kind of you to let us share in the fun.”

Gualchmai frowned, as if not quite sure how to take that. “I am hearing that my uncle Artor is a great warrior too,” he said a little more politely. “It will be fine to see him fight.”

“There are many fine warriors in your uncle's army,” Betiver continued in the same tone. “There is Cai, who was his foster-brother, and Cyniarcus, son of the prince of Durnovaria. Beside them sits Cataur of Dumnonia, who is a very mighty man.” He saw Oesc grimace at the name. Cataur had never ceased to hate the Saxons for killing his brother at Portus Adurni, and had made no secret of his opposition to Oesc's presence on the campaign.

“The men of the north are mighty too,” Gualchmai said stoutly. “There is Peretur son of Eleutherius, come in from Eburacum, and Dumnoval of the southern Votadini over there by his side. But when myself and my brothers are grown we will be the greatest warriors in Britannia.”

Betiver took a drink of ale to cover his smile. “How many brothers do you have?” he asked when he could control his face again.

“Gwyhir has thirteen winters, a year less than me, and wild he was that he could not come with us. But my mother would not allow it. If she could, I think she would keep all of us by her, but my father insisted, which he does not do often anymore. Aggarban is only ten, which is far too young for war, and Goriat is four and just a baby. But they are all big and strong for the years they have, and I have given my promise that the first of them who can knock me down shall have my dagger!” He patted the weapon that hung at his belt, a handsome piece of work with a cairngorm set in the hilt.

Later that evening, when Leudonus had taken his heir off to bed, Betiver found himself with Oesc by the fire.

“I am sure that Artor set me there so that the boy might have a friend among all these warriors, but believe me, that young man needs no reassurance.” He proceeded to summarize their conversation, hoping to get a smile. Oesc was a good fellow, but too often one saw sadness in his eyes.

“Where does it come from?” asked the Saxon. “Leudonus does not seem so overbearing a man.”

“Not now, I suppose, though I hear he was very ambitious when he was younger. And then there is their mother, who was trained on the Holy Isle. If we get to Dun Eidyn, maybe we'll meet her.”

Oesc nodded. “If we get that far.”

“You will get there—” rumbled a deep voice behind them.

There's no reason to be nervous,
Betiver told himself as he turned to face Merlin. But he came from a land where druids, if indeed Merlin was not something worse, were only a memory, and he never knew quite how he ought to react to the man. Oesc had stiffened, his face showing no expression at all, but then where
he
came from, every chieftain had a witch or wise man at his left hand.

“My lord Merlin—” he said politely. “Have you seen this in the stars?”

“I have dreamed of Artor standing on the Rock as the sun sets behind him.” The druid leaned on his staff, frowning. “You will fight Naitan Morbet, and pursue him.” The great beard, streaked with silver now, twitched as he smiled. “But I do not think I will ride with you. My bones grow too old for long marches with armies. Perhaps I will walk in the forest of Caledonia for a time, and refresh my soul.”

Merlin trying to be pleasant was even more unnerving than Merlin being grim, thought Betiver.

“Do you wish me to tell you if you will survive the battle? That is what all the other warriors wish to know.”

Betiver shook his head, suppressing a shiver. For a moment Merlin's eyes were unfocused, looking through him. Then the old man blinked, and that dark gaze fixed Betiver once more.

“What you do not ask, the spirits have answered,” he gave a bark of harsh laughter. “You will live long, and serve your lord to the end.” For a moment he looked at Oesc, frowning, then without another word turned and moved away through the crowd.

“How very odd!” said Betiver, trying to laugh.

“He is a dangerous man,” answered Oesc, but he would say no more.

With the Votadini, Artor's muster was complete. They moved out in good order past the fields of ripening grain, fording the rivers that emptied into the Salmaes firth until they came to the Stone of Mabon, a finger of rock set there by men of a time so ancient no one remembered their names, and honored ever since as the phallus of the god. In happier times it had marked the border between the Novantae and Selgovae lands, and the tribes had met on the flats beyond it for trade and festival.

Betiver took a deep breath of the brisk air, rich with the scents of grass and tidal mud and the salt tang of the sea. He had fought with Artor before, but this was different. They were beyond the Wall, now, in a land which had only intermittently accepted the yoke of Rome. He tried to pray, but the Christian god seemed irrelevant in this wilderness; he understood why someone had cast a garland of flowers around the Mabon stone.

He wondered how long it would take for the enemy to get there.

Any force moving down from the north with designs on Luguvalium must pass this way or take to the water, and the Picts had never been seamen. To the north, smoke hung like a dark smudge across the sky. The enemy was coming, and Artor's army took position to meet them—in the center nearly a thousand light infantry who had ridden to the battle and left their horses in the rear, and almost as many cavalry, armed with lance and sword, arranged in two wings to either side.

Betiver's mare stamped nervously and he patted her neck beneath the mane. His sword was loose in the sheath, his shield slung across his shoulder. He unfastened the straps of his round topped helmet to cool his head, then tightened them once more and changed his grip on the lance that lay along his thigh.

When were the Picts going to come?

Artor had taken command of the right wing, spreading his horsemen out in a curve across the rising heathland above the meadows. The warriors of his household were with him, except for Oesc and Cunorix, who had never learned to fight on horseback and were stationed among the foot fighters, mostly men of the hill country to the south of Luguvalium. Cador of Dumnonia and his seasoned troops held the left, on horses accustomed to the ocean, who would not panic if the battle pushed them into the shallows of the firth. And in the middle, Peretur of Eburacum commanded, backed by the band of Alamanni warriors who formed his personal guard.

Betiver had been in battle against Saxons, using the weight of the cavalry charge to break their line. He had never fought other cavalry before. Neither had Artor, he thought unhappily. They had all done practice fighting, but it was never the same.

Every time he waited for the fighting to start he hoped that this would be the time he learned how not to be afraid. The child Gualchmai, sitting his horse behind his father, was watching the road with barely concealed impatience. But he didn't know how it was going to be. Artor's face, as always, was a little pale, his eyes intent and grim. Betiver had never yet dared to ask him if he felt fear.

Would the Picts never come?

And then between one moment and the next, the skyline changed. Suddenly, not only the road, but the meadows and the farther hillsides were covered with moving dots. Metal flashed and flickered in the watery sunlight. They didn't seem surprised to see the British force awaiting them, but then they must have had scouts out, and he had heard that a Pictish scout could lie concealed in a clump of heather, and track a gull upon the breeze.

He felt hot and then cold. The dots were becoming tiny men on shaggy ponies. Most of the British had some kind of body armor—mail or scales of leather or metal or horn, as well as helms. The Pictish warriors rode with cinctured saddle cloths and only a few of them had helms. Many bore no more than a cloak or a sheepskin over their breeches; from a distance the tattooed beasts that spiraled all over their bodies made their skins look blue. But they carried stout shields, round or square and covered with bull hide, and long spears, and wicked looking swords. They seemed to be coming without order, but here and there a rider bore a wooden standard with a painted fish or bull or some other beast, so they must be riding in clan groups or bands.

Horns blared mockingly, answered by the bitter music of Artor's clarions. A shiver ran along the British line. Betiver picked up his reins and the mare bobbed her head, pulling at the bit. The clarions called again, and suddenly Artor's cavalry wing was moving, its line extending outward to hit the enemy on the flank and force them down upon the infantry's waiting spears. Ahead, he saw a larger standard with the elegantly executed image of a red stallion.

“Artor and Britannia!” cried the men. “Ar . . . tor . . .”

The shout tore through Betiver's throat. He dropped the rein on the mare's neck and shrugged his round shield down onto his arm; racing alongside the other horses, she needed little guidance. Without his will his arm lifted, lance poised.

And then the enemy horsemen were before him. A lance flew towards him and he knocked it aside with his shield, he stabbed, struck something and gripped the mare's barrel hard with his knees as he pulled it free.

“Ar . . . tor . . .”

Thought fled, and with it, fear, as Betiver was engulfed by the fray.

By afternoon, the battle was over. Oesc was glad to mount again, for what had been a fair meadow that morning was now a trampled wasteland, and blood ran in streams to redden the sea. He had come through the fight without much harm, though there was a slash on his thigh that made walking painful. The pony whuffed uneasily as he guided it back over the battlefield, calling the wagons to pick up British survivors and dispatching the more badly wounded of the enemy with a merciful thrust of his spear.