Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (32 page)

Someone was shouting his
name. Arthur turned Hasta,
cantered
fast to meet the Blue Turma Decurion, the last
remaining,
save for the rearguard reserve.

‘We are ready to go, Sir.’ Arthur nodded. ‘No
sign of those last scouts?’

‘
None, Sir.
I have seen Lot’s banner over there.’ The
Decurion ducked his head in the direction of the far bank,
pointed
with his spear.

‘As have I,’ Arthur replied, setting himself
deeper into the saddle and mustering composure into his tone. ‘The man who
titles himself King of the North has chosen to
fight personally at
the river. That is fine with me. I shall have his
end the sooner. Come, it is time we joined our companions!’
Arthur whistled Cabal; the dog ceased his
meticulous
scratching at some irritant
behind his left ear, and raising
himself, ambled to stand at Hasta’s
near-side foreleg.

Unexpectedly,
Gwenhwyfar’s face flickered before Arthur’s eyes. Angry, impassioned. ‘Why
take
Cabal?’
she had chided. ‘He
is
too
young, too
raw. You expect
over-much of his loyalty, as
you do of
all
who
walk
within
your shadow.’
Too
young? His right ear was already scarred from some dogfight and two bitches had
borne his pups. The dog whined, not understanding the delay. Untried he might
be, but he came
from a line of warrior dogs,
and recognised by instinct the scent
and sound of battle. Arthur
unfastened a loop of rope from his belt. ‘Ah,’ he said, leaning from the saddle
to thread it through Cabal’s bronze-studded collar, ‘it is hard enough to leave
my woman behind. How could I leave you also, my young friend?’ The Pendragon
swivelled in his saddle, cast a weather-eye
over
the drawn ranks of the waiting rearguard. The mist had full
lifted now,
the sun, shining briefly through parting cloud to
show a flicker of blue-washed sky. Faces stared out at him, boys
mostly,
younger sons of chieftains, the shield-bearers. Boys. Among them, to Arthur’s
sudden rise of annoyance, Gweir. Damn the lad, what was he doing there?
He stood, clasping Arthur’s third-best spear, for
all the world
as though he were some seasoned warrior. Little fool! A
smile gathered to Arthur’s mouth. Little fool. He flashed a grin at the
Decurion by his side, round to the last waiting
men, Blue
Turma, the King’s Turma of Artoriani.

Arthur urged Hasta down
the muddied bank into the
turbulence of water,
with Cabal close at the horse’s shoulder,
the
length of rope keeping him from being swept away. The dog
was
immediately swimming strongly, his head lifting high, tail floating like a
rudder, air snorting through his black, scarred nose.

‘Mithras,’ Arthur gasped as Hasta plunged,
swimming also, ‘this water’s bloody cold!’

§ XXXV

Somehow they were across. Somehow, Mithras in
his wisdom knew how, they were pressing forward, over the open space
beyond the bank and up into the trees, pushing Lot’s men back,
gaining ground. Under foot and hoof the earth was slippery,
churned with mud and blood. No time to guide thrashing
hooves away from wounded and dying men; those who could not drag
themselves to safety found themselves trampled.

Arthur fought within his
King’s Turma, joining the right
flank
as they rode up out of the water in a vain hope to turn the
Northmen up-river into the wide sweep of a bend. Close
behind
the Pendragon rode his
standard bearer, clench-jawed,
attempting to keep the
Dragon high, but the trees came low
down
the slope on this side of the river, and branches snared its
tubular shape and flying streamers, catching it
like some
snarling pack of
bared-teeth animals. There were two un
disputed rules of battle: obey
orders, and ensure that the King and his banner did not fall.

A shout from the left of centre. The infantry
had broken
through the hard-held wedge of
Northmen and Picti. Only
briefly could Arthur afford to take in the
situation, to cast a quick, experienced eye over the sway of battle, the
knotted groups of men, the strew of the dead. He swung his sword two-handed,
almost absently, at the neck of a Northman, his blade slicing through bone and
sinew, blood spurting in a thin fountain of red stink. Others of Lot’s men were falling back, heading away up the slope, ducking beneath trees, turning to
run ... a shout went up among the British militia-raised
men,
a lifting and swaying of uncast spears and raising of shield and
sword, axe or staff. A tossed shout of triumph that scuttled
through the overhang of branch and leaf. Lot’s
banner was
seen, bobbing and weaving away up and over the slope, men,
Northmen and Picti, were starting to run, dodging
through
the trees, bent low, heads
and shoulders crouched ... The
sun was one hour high in the sky, the
fighting had been brief, too brief.

Arthur breathed relief, they had guessed
right then. Lot was feigning a retreat, though it did not take much of a fool
to see they were not fleeing in terror, but running easy, unhurried, drawing
Arthur’s men forward. Not a single Northman was discarding his weapons, or
scrambling, terrified for his life, to safety. They almost trotted, one or two
even turning to wave
their swords and shout
abusive taunts. The British must not yet
follow the wolf into his lair ... despatch these last men, snatch
a few short moments to gain breath and wipe
bloody hands and
swords, then they would dismount, leave the horses here
along
the bank and under the trees with the
rearguard and ... what
in the Bull’s name!

‘Gweir,’ Arthur yelled, outrage darkening his
face. ‘You
whore-son whelp! What are you
doing across here!’ He spurred
Hasta into a flying leap, came aside the
boy thrusting like a raged bull-calf at a Picti twice his height. Arthur’s
sword felled
the
man; glared down at the lad, who stood panting, beaming up at his Lord.

‘
I’m followin’ orders, Sir.
You told the rearguard to make all
haste
across the water when you had them on the run!’ He
pointed with Arthur’s
third-best spear, its blade spotted with
blood,
up through the trees. ‘And they be a-runnin’ Lord!
Runnin’ like a scared
hare afore the fox!’

‘And when,’ Arthur asked, ‘were you
authorised to become part of the rearguard? I’ll have the hide off your back
for this
disobedience, lad!’ Arthur roared
the reprimand through
panting breath, needing to turn attention aside
from the boy, to
cut down two painted men
coming at them from the right.
Cabal launched himself at one, teeth
bared, snarling. Arthur plunged his sword into the other.

He glanced again at the centre and cursed
vehemently, all
thought of Gweir forgotten.
His officers and men of the
Artoriani
were standing firm, beginning to dismount, picket
the horses as ordered,
but not the untried men of the militia! Curse and damn the whelps – may the Hag
of the Underworld take the cur sons! He damned knew this would happen!

‘Hold hard!’ Arthur bellowed, casting his
command after the stream of British taking to their heels after Lot’s fleeing men. Hasta wheeled, his head tossing, feet dancing, foam flecking back to
splotch Arthur’s iron-studded leather tunic. The King
turned to his Signaller who, like the standard bearer, was
sheltered by a knot of soldiers whose sole
function was to
protect these two
vulnerable men. ‘Sound me the stand!’
Arthur shouted. ‘We must not
thrust ahead in a rag-tag rabble!’ The call sounded from the trumpets, taken up
further down
the line, sounding again and
again, ‘stand hard ... stand hard
...’
But these young British men were not drilled to instant
obeyal of Arthur’s commands; they were
cattle-raiders, hunters,
craftsmen –untried, easily excited, easily led.

A hand touched Arthur’s thigh, fingers
gripping a moment, jolting his attention. He sucked in his breath, raised his
sword,
stopped short as he recognised the
blood-smeared face of one of
his missing scouts. ‘Where in the name of
Mithras have you been?’ he roared, the anger at the stupidity of the British
militia
spilling over at this man. ‘Never
mind– make your report, hurry
man, ‘tis urgent!’ Arthur was leaning from
the saddle, gripping the scout by the shoulder.

‘Lord,’ the man panted, his own hand resting
on Hasta’s
shoulder, leaving a streak of
other men’s blood there on the
white
coat. ‘We found ourselves pinned down by a band of Picti
who chose to
rut with their camp whores close where we were
hidden – we could not move until dawn.’ He took a breath.
‘Then I had to fight my way to you! As my Lord Enniaun
reported, the men here at the river are but a part of the main
body; t’other side o’ this hill, deeper into the
woods, the rest
wait in ambush. If we pursue unchecked, Sir,’ he
glanced,
nervously, uneasily, at the
cheering and yelling British, ‘we will
be slaughtered, Sir.’
Arthur swivelled to face his Signaller. ‘Do not
stop sounding
the stand until I give
orders to the contrary! Decurion!’ He
kicked Hasta to move, the enemy,
who moments before had been swarming thick and deadly all round were thinning
fast,
only a handful left, too involved in
hand-to-hand combat to
turn and run.

Arthur yanked Hasta to a halt beside the
mounted Decurion, ordered, ‘Send a rider to each chieftain – they must hold
here and regroup.’ He swore colourfully as he looked towards those
young men, chieftains’ sons, brothers, cousins. ‘Forget
it.
Cancel that last order. It’s too late.’ The Pendragon lifted his
hand, let it fall hopelessly, uselessly, cried, ‘Damn them, damn
them to hell! They’re chasing like untrained pups
on a false
trail!’
Close to despair,
Arthur ordered the re-form. As the
trumpets changed their signals, the
Artoriani responded without question, forming lined ranks within three beats of
a heart. Those dismounted vaulted their horses, nudged into line. Eyes,
all eyes on Arthur the Pendragon, their King.
Discipline,
instant obeyal of
orders. Drill, drill and more drill; manoeuvres
practised over and over
and over, until man and horse could perform a given command in his sleep. The
raised militiamen were almost gone, away up the hill, lost among the trees,
whooping their fools’ victory.

§ XXXVI

The carnage beneath the overhang of crowding
trees was something those men who survived that grey, mist-dripping morning
would take a long while to forget.

Chasing the retreating
Northmen, the British had full
forgotten, or
disregarded, the danger and the warning. And the
orders. Did not realise until too late, far too late, that the
willow and alder trees climbing the slope on the
northern side of
the Great River were giving way into the denser, thicker forests
of lowland oak, ash,
elm and birch.

Lot
had planned well, was pleased with his cunning. He ran with his warriors at an
easy lope, spears and weapons carried low, heads bent, breath and muscles
pumping, running north
west together as a
pack. A hunting pack, luring instead of
chasing along a scant-seen track
where the red deer trod – and suddenly they were upon a clearing, stretching
away between
the patrol of trees; a natural
arena, echoing a Roman
amphitheatre
where gladiators fought and died upon the
bloodied sand. Only this was covered in an ocean of blue flowers, and the
spectators lay in wait, hidden among the
dappled shade of breeze-murmured leaves. Waited in held-
breath
silence for their comrades to come rushing through, and turn.. .

The scent was rich; a heady, potent smell as
strong as last
summer’s fermented wine, a
tranquil sea of brilliant blue, etched against the surrounding dark and
pale-green, wind-
teased, silvered or variegated foliage. And running
behind the
Northmen came the British,
cheering, for they thought they
had
them trapped. Then with the swiftness of a swooping hawk,
the calm became ragged, the bluebell flowers
became trampled
and squashed, and the still silence foamed into a raging
shout, with the sudden uprush of the storm. White bulbs, shredded
stalks, scattered leaves. Bluest blue and sweet
scent, stained
and gored by red and stink.