The Sword of the Spirits (16 page)

Eric turned his horse's head away. He said:

“All this may well be true. I bid you farewell, then, Luke.”

“You will not bring your army south to join us?”

He smiled. “I was mistaken. You have no need of help.”

“And the alliance you offered me?”

“Farewell, Luke.”

I rode with him a little way. “Will you fight against me?”

“Am I a fool?” he said. “I have seen your victory.”

S
ALISBURY OPENED ITS GATES TO
us in shock. I put a garrison there and moved on. I left forty men and that was more than was needed; because I left twenty Sten guns with them. I had no fear of an uprising after the army had gone.

We took the road to the east. I had not intended to attack Romsey but their army came on us as we crossed the valley of the Test. They aimed to take us by surprise, riding out of the shelter of woods as we approached the river and clearly hoping to drive us into it.

They appeared to have some success at the outset. Their charge broke through our flank, and I heard their cry of triumph: “Romsey! Romsey!” But the flank had given way on my instructions. Our Sten gun troops were in the center. They had no time to dismount, but they wreaked a fair havoc from horseback. The attack crumpled and broke. Those that were not brought down scattered and fled to the woods from which they had started.

Our own horsemen pursued them, killing many, but I called them back by bugle. The victory was decisive enough; and a rabble fleeing back to the city served us better than unnecessary slaughter. It would be easy enough to take Romsey, and other things came first. The road to Winchester lay open.

The banners of the army that rode out of the woods had all been yellow and black, and there were no men of Winchester among the fallen. This meant that Romsey had freed itself, or been set free by Harding and the rest. But although they must have heard by now how we had destroyed the army of Salisbury, they had still ridden against us
alone rather than wait and join with Winchester.

Cymru spoke of it. “These are a strange people. Out of resentment, you think? But we are foreign and invade their lands. Does it not make sense to combine together when there is a threat to all?”

I tried to explain the way of it to him, but with small success. He could not conceive what it might be like to live as a citizen of one free and independent city amongst many, to nourish rivalries through generations. He came after all from a single city, an oasis of culture and prosperity surrounded by lands that were savage but offered no threat. There were no divisions among the Wilsh, or none that mattered.

Cymru shrugged. “Well, it serves our purpose. Though if all their cities sent their armies against us together, I do not think it would make much difference. This is a mighty weapon you have given us, Luke.”

I looked at the mound of death beside the river.

“Mighty indeed. Nothing can stand against it.”

“I have one regret.”

“What is that?”

“That we lose you when you regain your city.”

He had said fulsome things about me in the past,
as the Wilsh commonly did; but now he spoke from the heart.

I said: “There will be commerce between us. I shall visit you in Klan Gothlen.”

Cymru shook his head. “It is a long journey. And you will be well occupied here. But no man may command another's destiny. It is enough that we share this mission. We shall take your city for you and avenge the insult that concerns us both.”

•  •  •

It was raining as we came down into the Itchen valley, a feathery drifting rain that slowly soaked to the skin. We rode past the water meadows where on a summer's day—so long ago but less than a year gone by—Edmund had played the lute and sung to Blodwen while I rode from them, foolishly content. Now the fine rain washed over the grass under a weeping sky of gray.

Our scouts reported the army of Winchester ahead of us. They had drawn up west of the river in ordinary battle array. I said to the scout who told me:

“Are you sure of this? Their full army?”

“We have covered the ground well, Lord. I think
if there was a single man in hiding we would have found him.”

I did not doubt it: the Wilsh made cunning scouts. Still it was hard to believe. They would have heard what happened to the warriors of Salisbury and Romsey. Surely they were not such fools as to stand in the open and wait for us to attack?

And yet when we came within view of them my heart was moved by the sight. The troops were set out in classic fashion, each with its banner of blue and gold: Captains, standard-bearers, lancers with their spears at rest, and behind them the swordsmen. It was a brave challenge to those who came against them—a challenge to battle in the old way, right arm against right arm, steel against steel: honor an equal prize with victory.

For a moment I was tempted to accept it, and to lead my Wilsh horsemen into the charge. But too many things had happened, and too much was at stake. I kept the horsemen back. The Sten gunners were already quietly moving into position on high ground to the east. One of the high-roads of our ancestors ran there. It had been a railway once and
steam engines had pulled carriages along it, taking people to far places at many times the speed of a galloping horse. Now it was overgrown with bushes and trees, and gave good cover.

They could still have attacked us while the Sten gunners were taking up their places. It would have made no difference in the end, but as with the men of Romsey they might have gained an advantage at the start. But they did not move. They were waiting until our own disposition was complete. According to custom we should sound a bugle to show our readiness. Then they would attack.

Why did they do this? I wondered. Out of folly? It might be so, but they were men I knew, and knew to be hard-headed. Nor could I think they would really believe that I would accept the challenge to fight on equal terms. If I had not spared Salisbury and Romsey, who had done me no real harm, why should I spare them?

I think it was more from resignation and despair. They could see nothing facing them except defeat; but at least they would go down in ancient fashion, fighting as the armies of Winchester had fought for
generations. Perhaps it was folly, but it had grandeur in it.

My Sten gunners were ready. I made a sign to the bugler. He sounded the call and it was answered. A quarter of a mile away the line of horsemen began to move toward us.

This time I had told the Sten gunners to hold their fire until a command from me, as shown by a second blast on the bugle. The bugler rode at my side, ready for my word. In front of us the line came on, through the drizzling rain; from a walk to a canter and so to full gallop.

When they were a hundred yards from us they would be not much more than fifty yards from the gunners, thereafter moving away from them as they closed with us. It was that moment I was waiting for. I watched the distance narrow, the word ready in my mouth. When the line drew level with that stunted tree . . . I knew it well, had climbed it as a boy. The horsemen thundered on. They approached the tree; they reached it. I tried to cry my order. Ice blocked my throat and would let no word pass.

They rode in savage fury and their battle cries
shattered the sky. I tried to speak again, and failed again. If they smashed into us with this impetus the Wilsh, I knew, would not withstand them: no horsemen could. Even at that moment I felt a pride in them.

They were not much more than fifty yards away. I could see the faces of men I knew: Blaine, Nicoll, Stuart. And in the center, mouth open in a yell, Edmund, who had been my friend. It was then that the ice cracked. I spoke, and the bugler blew, and at the first savage note my tongueless giants stammered out their hate.

Dozens fell but the rest came on. The guns could only fire for a few moments or they would rake us too. The line was full of gaps but it reached us. Then everything was forgotten in the clash of sword on sword.

I remember little of the battle itself. I do not know who I struck down, nor how many, nor who it was that gave me the thrust in the shoulder that all but unhorsed me. I do not know how long it lasted. Time has no meaning in a battle and this was a battle of the old kind, the last such there would ever be. All was slash and counterslash, cries of men in pain or triumph, the snort and squeal of
horses, nerve-wrenching scrape and clang of steel, the wetness of rain and sweat and blood . . .

They drew back at last. Late though the command had been, the guns had taken dire toll of them before they reached us. Only desperate courage had enabled them to come to grips with our horsemen after that. They broke and scattered and fled under the shoulder of Catherine's Hill to the distant East Gate.

I did not take my men and ride after them, but let them go.

•  •  •

The surgeon came to see to my wound. I told him it would wait, dismissing him with anger when he persisted. I walked between the bodies of the fallen. Some of the Wilsh were unfamiliar to me but there was not a face among the dead of Winchester I did not know. Barnes I saw, and the trooper who had taken my arm when he arrested me in my brother's name. Foster, whom Hans had come near killing in the barracks on the night of the victory feast, lay sprawled on his back—now truly dead. I saw Edmund's brother, Charles, with his head in a bloody puddle, eyes staring in surprise.

And I saw Harding. There was no mark on him, either of bullet or sword, but his horse lay dead of bullet wounds beside him. Harding's head drooped at an unlikely angle. He had been thrown when his horse fell, I guessed, and broken his neck. I looked long at him. He had always been a slight man and now seemed very small, a child grown old. I felt no pity, but no joy either.

There was another body near. A bullet had caught him high up on the forehead, making a single blackened hole through which his life had ebbed. It was Wilson, my father's oldest companion, who had refused a Captaincy from him but taken it from me; not because he wanted the honor but to protect me better. Wilson, the one Captain who had voted against the rest when they condemned me to exile.

I looked and turned away. I would have howled like a dog but the ice was back in my throat. I stumbled through the rain to where Cymru and the surgeon waited.

•  •  •

Greene and Ripon were two of the three who came to parley: the third was Edmund.

I received them sitting beside Cymru, with Snake
in attendance also. I offered them cakes and ale.

“It is a good brew,” I said. “It was made on my father's farm, not half a mile from here. But I can give you ale from your own farms if you would prefer it.”

“We want no ale,” Greene said. “We seek to know your terms.”

“That is easily done. I want nothing but my own: my city and the bride who was given to me by this her father.”

“A city is not something that can be given,” Greene said, “except by the will of its citizens. This is well known in civilized lands. Your father first seduced us from that course by taking Petersfield, and under your rule we strayed still further into error. We are paying for it now and know we must pay heavily. But we will not yield our freedom.”

Cymru said: “And my daughter? Will you yield her, to her father?”

It was Edmund who answered. “A free lady may not be given up, any more than a city may. If she wishes to come to you, she will. No one will force her.”

Cymru stared at him with black anger. “Your
comrade talks of seducing, but what of you? You, who ate my bread, seduced my daughter from your Prince and friend. And do you chatter now of freedom?”

Greene said: “This gets us nowhere. We acknowledge defeat. We will say nothing of the way the victory was won. We will pay you gold—all the gold we have in the city. Our wives will strip the rings from their fingers to give you. Take your ransom, and let us live in peace.”

I shook my head. “We want no gold. No more than the gates of the city. One gate will do. And the Lady Blodwen restored to her father.”

“To her father,” Edmund said, “or to a man she hates?”

It told me only what I knew already but the shaft went home. The wound in my shoulder was nothing to it.

Greene said: “You will get neither. And our walls are high. Prince Stephen, Edmund's father, saw to that.”

“In the end you will yield,” I said. “It does not matter to us whether it is soon or late. The suffering is on your side.”

“You will starve us, then?” Greene said. “We have wheat and cattle. When they have gone we will kill our horses and eat them. And after that we will hunt out rats for our suppers. And after that if we must starve then starve we will. But while there is any strength in our arms you will not come into the city.”

“Brave words,” I said. “But the promise is easier made than kept.”

They were ready to go. Cymru said to Edmund:

“A message for my daughter.”

“What is it, sire?”

“Send her her father's curse.”

Edmund bowed. “She is too gentle to return it to you. But I do it for her.”

They sent the Wilsh soldiers who had been Blodwen's bodyguard out to us. We kept the siege all summer. Kluellan, guided by Snake, proved an excellent quartermaster. We fed off the city farms first; then sent our troops to forage far afield. It was still no easy life, especially compared with the luxury of Klan Gothlen, and I was surprised by how well Cymru and the Wilsh nobles endured it. I had thought there might be mutterings, talk of abandoning it all, but there was none.

Much hung on Cymru himself of course, and his purpose did not waver. When I spoke of it once, he said:

“We have come a long way, Luke. Too far to abandon a purpose so nearly won.”

If the paralysis had not gripped my throat when the command to fire was needed, or if I had pursued them as they fled toward the East Gate, our victory would have been sealed already. We both knew that but he had never charged me with it. I said: