Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (36 page)

‘I would have the boys near you. Find them
some corner
where they will not be in the
way. Stay there. Whatever
happens, Cymraes, stay inside.’
Gwenhwyfar gave the briefest nod of
acquiescence. ‘I willlook to them, husband.’ She started again down the steps.
No
need to add more. She knew well what
Arthur meant. Better for
their sons to die quickly, painlessly by her
own blade, than fall into Lot’s hands should things not go well.

On impulse, Arthur jumped after her, took
hold of her wrist, swinging her back to him. He kissed her, once, lightly, on
the lips. The boys are important, but so are you. Stay inside Gwenhwyfar,
please.’ Their eyes met, thoughts and meaning passing unspoken between them.
Flakes of snow settled on her lashes. ‘Is that an order?’ Arthur dropped her
wrist, shrugged one shoulder. ‘Na,’ he sighed, ‘I ask it. If Lot defeats us ...
‘ He could not finish, he could not put those numbing, terrifying thoughts into
words.

Gwenhwyfar touched his hand with her fingers,
a soft smile
tingeing her face. He could see
her eyes shining in the faint
glow from the smoking torches, tawny gold
against brilliant
green. Her smile broadened.
‘I will obey you. This once,
anyway.’ Arthur smiled back at her. ‘Glad I
am that I have you with me, Gwenhwyfar.’
She
kissed him. ‘Glad I am to be here.’ Then she whirled
away, hurrying into
the snow. There was much to prepare, and little time to do it in.

Arthur ran back up the steps. Cautiously, he
moved to the fence and peered over. Nothing, save white snow against black
night. Nothing to see, but there was a feel, a
vibration, a
knowing that there was something there ... instinct.
Enniaun came up behind him, he too peered cautiously over the top of
the defences. ‘There was nothing seen, nothing
heard, just a
blur, a hint of moving
wind and rippled grass. Shadows
scuttling in the night-dark. Something’s
out there, we do not
know for certain what.’
He chuckled. ‘It could well be a
wandering herd of cattle or horse.’
Arthur pulled back from the fence. ‘Na, the
gut-feeling is too
strong. Lot’s out there.’ He sucked his lower lip
between his
teeth, thoughtful. He ought not
to have reprimanded Cei in
such a harsh manner. The man was becoming an
oppressive
bore of late though, with his
moralistic lecturing on the
Christian God and his over-cautious, unasked
advice. Into the
darkness he said, ‘I
apologise Enniaun. I am angry with you and
Cei because I am angry at myself.’ He turned with a grin,
offering his hand in friendship. ‘It’s not easy
to yell at yourself.’
Enniaun took the hand, clasped it firm between his
own.
Grinned also. ‘Your disagreement with
me, Arthur, I can
shoulder. Your quick temper is a thing we are all used
to.’ He
spread his hands, ‘But how in the
realms of all Hell I am going to
obtain
my sister’s forgiveness for letting my tongue wag I know
not!’ Arthur
clapped the big man’s shoulder and began to descend the steps. ‘Forget it, I
suspected anyway,’ he chuckled. ‘I notice
when
her woman’s courses do not come, and her spewing into a
bucket of a
morning!’ He reached the flat ground and walked with a long stride in the
direction of the picket lines of horses. Tossed over his shoulder, ‘I love her
too much not to notice.’

§ XLIII

Attack came an hour before dawn. There was
nothing of their
coming at first, just a
shadow behind the light swirl of snow and
a swift, uprushing sigh of
movement.

They ran with notched ladders that spanned
the wide ditches and reached the height of the palisade walls, their spears and
arrows humming through the darkness, some flaming an arc of
fire that caught and spluttered. Despite the wet,
the wind
fanned the smouldering
thatch, but the Pendragon had
expected it, had men ready to form a
bucket chain while others tore down the burning roofing, forking it to burn
ineffectually in a piled heap. And all the while the attackers came dodging and
weaving through the hail of British flights of spear and
arrow – if there was any surprise that Arthur was
ready for them,
Lot’s hosting showed no concern of it. They poured over
the outer defences, laying their ladders against the walls, climbing and
scrabbling swiftly; where one man fell, another took hisplace. Lot’s men of the
North faught spear to spear alongside
the
Picti warriors, who were semi-naked, even in this cold swirl
of winter, their chests, arms and shoulders
patterned by the blue
dye pricked into their skin. Single-minded men who
knew that this time, they must have the victory.

The Artoriani fought them
off, this initial wave of attack;
sent them melting back
into the first-touch light of dawn. The snow had ceased, but the wind still
shouted across the hills,
shuffling the wet,
white, bloodied stuff up against the fort’s
walls, into the ditches and
covering over the scattered dead.

Arthur tugged loose the
straps of his helmet and wiped sweat from his face, peered cautiously over the
ramparts at the bodies
lying
in the red, snow-muddied slush, then down into the
fortress
below and along the walkway. His nose and mouth
curled in distaste. Too many of his own men dead or wounded.
Not enough of the enemy. He did not pause
over-long, but
hurried down the steps, two at a time, jumping the last
three, calling his officers to assemble within his private quarters.

Three did not come. Two dead, one wounded.

‘We have several choices.’ Arthur, his arms
folded, back straight, legs slight apart, came straight to the point.

They stood, or squatted around the unlit
central hearth,
cramped together in the
confined space. The King’s timber-
built Hall would have been more
appropriate, but the medics were busy there with the wounded.

‘One,’ Arthur ticked his thoughts off on his
fingers, ‘we stay within the fort to beat off each attack, our numbers growing
weaker with each onslaught. Two,’ he spread a second finger,
‘we hold out as best we can till nightfall then
attempt to
withdraw.’

‘
What?’ The
response was instant, outraged, angry. ‘Run
with our tails tucked atween
our legs!’ Enniaun’s voice was the loudest, indignant, horrified at the
suggestion.

Arthur ignored the
rumble of protest to what would never be
his decision, tapped a third finger. ‘Or three,’ he
paused for
quiet listening to resettle, ‘we go out
and meet them.’ Again, voices rose as they discussed the suggestion, tossing
the two choices – the second was automatically deleted – back
and forth. While none were under any illusion that
Arthur
would, in the end, do as he saw best, they recognised that the
Pendragon was willing to hear them out first; it was for that he was so loyally
followed, so respected.

‘
We could
hold out for many days,’ one Decurion said,
pitching his voice above the
general squall of the others. ‘We have more than adequate water and food.’

‘For ourselves, aye,’ someone else added, ‘but
not for the horses. We have them safely picketed along the night lines,
grain-fed and well watered – fortunately – but
daylight normally
sees them grazing outside.’

‘Then the three choices become the one,’
Meriaun remarked cheerfully. He rubbed his hands together eagerly. Several men
grinned at him.

‘
They must
be expecting such a move,’ Cei pointed out
blandly, his pride still bruised from Arthur’s tongue-lashing.
But
damn the man, why did he have such a knack of being so contritely apologetic
without the need of saying a word? How many times had Cei vowed that Arthur’s
temper had flown its last in his direction? How many times had Arthur won him
round? The Pendragon was bewitched, no matter how many wounds he inflicted, he
always followed through with some
magical
salve that had Cei wagging his tail in obedient loyalty.
Damn it, Cei
loved him.

He happened to glance up, caught Gwenhwyfar’s
eye. She was sitting with her legs curled beneath her in the shadows of the
fur-covered bed. It was not that Cei begrudged her being with them, it was the
principle. A campaign was not the place for women. There would always be a few
of the men’s wives,
hardened army women, and
the whores of course. They
appeared
as surely as flies gathered around a rotting carcass. But Gwenhwyfar was no
sewage-spawned baggage. Cei sighed. Was
it because he always felt so
uncomfortable in the presence of Arthur’s Lady? She too, was caught within the
Pendragon’s
enchanted spell that bound those
who loved him tight to his
side. And Arthur loved her. All his love,
aside from that of a
father’s love for his
sons, went to her. There was nothing left to
give back to Cei, his
cousin, his foster-brother.

Gwenhwyfar had looked
away, was throwing a fur around her
shoulders. It was
chilly in the room, with the hearth-fire gone out.

‘If they are expecting us,’ Arthur said, ‘we
must ensure they
do not have the chance to
prepare a reception.’ He was
enjoying himself. This was his constant
dream, to lead his men to fight, to outwit the other man. To win. ‘And I expect
we can come up with one or two little tricks that will scare the blue off their
snow-white skins!’

§ XLIV

The noise, the shouting and clamour from the
battlements, was rising as the second attack, coming an hour later, gained
momentum. Arthur, momentarily glancing at the sway
of
fighting up there, swung up onto
his horse and settled his thighs
under the two forward pommel horns, his
buttocks against the rear two. Agitated by the sounds and smells of fighting,
the
animal’s ears were flat upon its skull,
a mean look in the rolling
whites of its eyes. But then, Onager was a
stallion whose ears were permanently flat back, whose teeth were always bared
or snapping at some unfortunate who ventured over-close.

An uneasy love-hate
relationship existed between the
Pendragon
and the chestnut horse. He was a magnificent beast,
taller than usual, measuring a little below six and ten
hand-
spans to the withers, and with a depth of
chest and solidity of muscle that showed all too clearly his immense strength
and
power. Unfortunate that he had the
temper of a wounded rogue boar and the kick of a wild ass. Arthur had named him
Onager,
calling him for the powerful
Roman catapults that were
renowned for their dangerous kickback after
firing. He was a
good horse in battle, with
courage to equal his height and
stamina, but unreliable with people, and
his stubbornness of self-will was as unmovable as his rider’s. For this, Arthur
had always chosen Hasta in preference, a horse who put his heart and soul into
doing his best to please. Arthur had wept over the loss of his favourite horse,
one night when the summer heat
sweltered
relentless, even through the hours of darkness. He
had thought
Gwenhwyfar to be asleep and the pain of his
wounded
arm blistering and pounding had awoken memories of
that fight in the clearing, memories of loss. Had
it been the
pain, or the frustration at being bed-bound while his wound
healed, that had caused the deep feeling of
despair to wash over
him? He missed Cabal, his young fool of a hound
too. Even now, his fingers would feel at his side for the brindled head that
was no longer there. For Cabal too, he had shed tears. Gwenhwyfar
had held him like a child while he sobbed aside the
pain,
cradling his sorrow,
soft-stroking the loss from throbbing
temples and aching throat, and her
tears had fallen with his. They could share this, the sorrow of lost animals,
but not the death of a son. Sometimes, the pain ran too deep.

Arthur tightened his
hold on the reins as he felt Onager raise
an
off-hindleg and strike out. Someone behind hissed, cursed. Arthur turned his
head to see Meriaun rubbing his thigh.

‘God curse that damn monster of yours,
Arthur!’

‘Did he catch you?’ Meriaun stepped back to a
safer distance. ‘Na, I know better
than to
get over-close! My grandsire ought have had the
whore-son gelded as a
foal.’ He studied the animal’s handsome
head
beneath the flat ears and rolling eyes, the perfect
conformation, added,
‘Yet, I see why he did not.’
An officer
approached, wary of the horse’s stamping rear
hoof, stopped a few yards
short. ‘All are ready, my Lord.’ Nodding, Arthur peered at Cei, standing ready,
a frown of
concern on his face, before the
Hall, Enniaun beside him. With
that
familiar expression of left eyebrow raised, right eye
narrowed, Arthur said, almost flippantly, ‘I leave
the fort to
your command then, Cei.’ Cei saluted. His voice was thick,
cracked slightly as he answered. The outcome of this day will be sung to the
children of our children.’ Arthur returned the salute. ‘Aye. Let us pray the song
is one
of victory not defeat.’ As his heel
nudged Onager forward into a
walk, he
said over his shoulder, ‘If things go badly, do what you
can to pull
out, Cei. I trust you to see well to our men.’
Cei choked down a sob of despair. He liked it little that
Arthur
was to be riding out without him; but someone needed to remain in command on
the inside, and here it was, one of
those
rare, embracing compliments that Arthur could so
casually toss aside to
breach any gap of anger or irritation.