Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur (56 page)

Drystan breathed again.

They came up to the banks, and Drystan jumped out of the galley to help pull it to shore. "Women and children and those unable to fight in the ships!" he yelled over the roar of battle. "Soldiers to me!"

He turned to Aircol next to him, both of them ankle-deep in river mud. "Get them north to Vertis. They should be safe there." He couldn't help adding under his breath. "At least for now."

Aircol gripped his shoulder and Drystan looked into the light eyes that reminded him of Yseult. "You will come out of this battle alive, Drystan. I — know it somehow."

Drystan stared at Aircol as he turned, directing the refugees into the war galleys, there on their little island of peace in the middle of the battle, protected by the river, the men of Glevum, the fortress, and Manawyd's reinforcements.

Aircol's forefathers had come from the island of magic, and he had the look of the Old Race. If Aircol saw his survival, Drystan was inclined to believe it, as illogical as that seemed.

When the people of Glevum were safely on the ships and heading north, Drystan gathered the Demetian fighting men around him. The warriors of Glevum were sorely outnumbered and needed any reinforcements they could get, even unmounted. "To the west gate, men!"

It looked very much like a suicide mission, but he took all the confidence Aircol's words gave him into battle. He needed it. As they came around the side of the fortress, they could see the defenders of Glevum between the west gate and the southwest corner, fighting between the bodies of their comrades. It looked as if a third had already fallen in the short space of time since pouring out of the fortress to provide a distraction so that their women and old and young could escape.

Drystan and his men joined their ranks, exchanging bow and arrow for sword and shield. It seemed a hopeless situation, but they held their position, the narrow bit of land between Roman wall and river. Some of the fighting was even going on in the water, and he waded forward, Kurvenal at his side, to join the muddy fray. A Saxon charged him with an ear-shattering battle cry, water splashing round his feet, but Drystan parried the blow with his shield and gutted his attacker, all in the same move. The Saxon fell, adding more red to the muddy, bloody mess at their feet.

Drystan did not know how long he had been fighting until he noticed the sun begin to inch its way towards the horizon. His feet were cold and wet and the stench of blood was thick in his nostrils, but battle madness was upon him; he noticed little beyond the sword in his hand and the enemy out to kill him.

During a brief respite between attackers, he looked around. Their position had not changed, although their ranks were thinning. And it seemed every Saxon killed was immediately replaced by another. His sword arm ached, his shield arm ached, he had cuts and bruises all over his body; all afternoon he had been killing the enemy almost by rote, with some kind of energy beyond that of a normal man. The men beside fought with the same unnatural energy of battle fever, the fixed, intent expression that went with it on their faces.

The color of blood was beginning to seep into the sky to match the tones on his hands and everywhere around him, when the ground beneath his feet began to shake. Drystan glanced up the incline past the fortress to see what seemed a huge herd of riderless horses come over the summit, dozens of hunting dogs at their sides.

It looked like the Wild Hunt.

At the front of the pack, Drystan thought he recognized Arthur's hound Cafal. And then Cai, Master of Horse, appeared at the top of the incline, tall and blond and broad. Arthur always traveled with extra mounts when his troops had to move fast —and now Cai was sacrificing his beloved horses.

The herd came thundering down into the scene of the battle. Drystan didn't know if the Saxons had any such myth as the Wild Hunt, but the charging horses sent them running from the dangerous hooves. Many Saxons stood their ground and fought off the beasts with spears and arrows, but most ran for cover.

Drystan gave the whistle taught to all who trained in Caer Leon, both man and horse. Some of the nearest horses not totally crazed by the mad dash into the midst of the Saxons perked their ears and turned, galloping through the fleeing, scattering Saxons to the corner of the fort Drystan and his compatriots had been holding.

"Take a mount!" Drystan yelled. "Let us drive the invaders back into the sea!"

He grabbed the bridle of a roan mare and pulled himself up into the saddle, while Kurvenal took a gray gelding next to him. It felt so much better to be on the back of a horse again, above the melee.

No longer wading in bloody mud.

"Britannia patria!" he cried, filled with new energy and new hope. He urged the mare into a knot of Saxons fighting the cavalry on the incline, followed by Kurvenal, Owain, and the others he had been fighting next to on foot only moments before.

Surrounded by cavalry, the group of Saxons had little chance. But dusk was falling, and soon the figures around him would become shadows — they would barely be able to recognize who they were fighting, foe or friend.

"To the river!" came a frantic call. "The Saxons are retreating!"

Drystan whirled the roan around and galloped down the incline. A longboat was being pushed into the river. Leaning in the saddle, he jabbed his sword into a Saxon back. Half the boat was already in the water, and he urged the brave mare forward into the water. The Saxons needed both hands for the job of getting the boat afloat and were easy pickings for an armed warrior on horseback. The men of Glevum beside him made short work of the enemy.

"That is one longship that will not return to Ceint," Drystan said with satisfaction.

Kurvenal nodded. "But there are too many that will."

Their mounts up to their fetlocks in river muck, Drystan and his men watched helplessly in the growing dusk as a dozen longboats headed south and west on the Sabrina River.

With the enemy in flight and the battle fever leaving him, Drystan slowly became more aware of how his whole body hurt; a deep cut he had taken on his left forearm throbbed dully. Joints he never before knew existed ached. The coolness of fall was in the evening air, but not enough to mask the scent of blood and death. He had never been involved in a battle of this magnitude — compared to the slaughter he had experienced today, the battle of Caer Guinnet had been child's play — and he was reluctant to turn from the view of the fleeing enemy to the scene of the battle, to learn which of his friends and compatriots he would never hear laugh again.

At least Kurvenal was beside him.

Drystan turned around. Ruan was still among the men at his back, and Owain had survived as well. But Tuthal, Gerenhir, Flavius — he saw none of them. He drew a deep breath. Men who had thundered down the hill with him at the battle of Caer Guinnet, eighty against eight hundred, they had survived those odds, but not these, individual combat in the river muck.

Beyond the dirty, bloody, tired men who had survived, he saw a sea of bodies. He wondered what other bad news it held.

* * * *

"It was a victory, Arthur," Myrddin said. "The enemy retreated."

"Yes, all the way to Abona, still in the
heart
of British territory in the west, far from Ceint," Arthur replied, pacing, always his way when thinking or agitated. "And we can do nothing about it because we are so weakened."

They were in the large audience chamber of Madoc's villa north of Corinium on the road to Glevum. The fall rains had started early, and the courtyard was no longer a pleasant place to gather. The villa was a sprawling complex with more than enough room for all of the injured of the battle of Tribruit to recover, and in gratitude for saving Owain and rescuing Glevum, Madoc had opened it up to Arthur's men.

Drystan repressed a sigh, knowing full well what was making Arthur more agitated than usual: Bedwyr and Cai had both been sorely wounded in the battle. "The Saxons too are weakened," he said. "While we lost four hundred, they lost two thousand. The rains have started and they will surely not march again before spring."

Arthur didn't stop pacing. "They have a base now here in the west."

"But this battle has proven that we British kings
must
support your army, no matter where our kingdoms lie," Arthur's half-brother Madoc said, and the look he shot at his son Owain as he spoke was full of remorse. "We can surely muster more men before spring than they, especially with the enemy in our midst. Think, Arthur. Saxons in Abona are not good, of course not, but they threaten a number of kings who thought the only danger was from Erainn raiders interested in no more than stealing riches and hostages."

Owain spoke up. "My father's right, Arthur. The threat from the Saxons ... there's no comparison. They want conquest, not just loot. You can
use
that. With the news of what happened on the banks of the Sabrina and the Tribruit, supporters will flock to you."

Arthur paced, silent, his hands clenched behind his back, his head bowed. "And what if Cai and Bedwyr do not recover from their wounds?"

"Do you doubt my healing skills?" Modrun said lightly. She had come from Caer Gwent to take over the care of the wounded.

Finally Arthur stopped pacing and turned to Ambrosius's daughter. "Of course not, Modrun. But even you must admit that it does not go well for Cai."

Drystan had been gazing at a fine mosaic on the floor of the room in order not to become dizzy watching Arthur's rapid movements. The mosaic was a dance representing the seasons, and directly beneath his feet, Winter was dressed warmly and holding a hare in his fist. Now he looked up, into Arthur's eyes. "They will recover. I've taken more serious injury and survived. And they are both more stubborn than I."

At least that made Arthur smile. "You have the luck of a cat, Drystan. How many lives do you think you have already used up?"

Drystan shrugged, chuckling. "I've lost count."

The smile disappeared again. "But if I no longer had them by my side —" He turned away, not finishing the sentence.

There was a brief silence at Arthur's semi-public display of emotion, more than just a reflection of his dependence on his two most important generals.

"By Spring, they will be by your side," Myrddin said gently. "They are sore wounded, yes, but I have great confidence in Modrun, don't you?"

Arthur kept his back turned for a moment. They were all silent, waiting, respectful. It was almost as if the bastard general truly were High King.

Finally Arthur faced them again, no sign in his expression of what he had just battled with. He nodded, looking from one to the other of them. "Myrddin is right. And none of you has deserted me yet."

Drystan saw Arthur's older half-brother Madoc look down at the mosaic now, uncomfortable with this praise. It was true he had not deserted Uthyr's bastard, but neither had he come to his aid before his own territory was attacked.

"To desert you would be to desert Britain," Myrddin said. "You will see, others will rally to the banner of the Bear after this victory."

Arthur brushed this aside with an impatient gesture. "What victory? Octha and Aesc both escaped, there is a force of Saxons at least a thousand strong at the mouth of the Abona River, and our forces are decimated. I see no victory here."

Drystan found he could be just as impatient when the only hope for Britain gave in to self-indulgence. They needed Arthur as his normal, confident self. He rose and strode forward to take his relative and leader by the shoulders. "Then open your eyes, Cousin! With less than a thousand men, we put an army at least three times our size to flight. We took back Glevum, saved the women and children. We prevented the Saxons from moving forward on the Sabrina River, into the heart of British territory."

Arthur shook off Drystan's hands. "And what of Londinium?"

"Yes, we lost the city, but there was no battle and no victory. The people fled. But
this
was a victory, a victory I need and you need and the people of Britain need. And in the spring, we will need more victories. Which is why we must use the time while the Saxons are recuperating as best we can, so we can defeat them in the next battle and the next — as long as it takes until they return to their little kingdom of Ceint."

Behind him, he heard Modrun's light laugh, and a muttered "Bravo," from Owain.

Arthur stared at him for a moment, and finally he smiled again. "Thank you for the scolding, Cousin. What say you, where should we start in our preparations to drive the Saxons back from where they came?"