Excalibur, p.1
Excalibur, page 1
EXCALIBUR
BOOK 1 IN THE ARTHUR CHRONICLES SERIES
PETER GIBBONS
For Mike Duggan. Who kept a lad on the straight and narrow.
Now when his youthful strength had increased, and a noble desire for command burned in his young breast, he remembered the valiant deeds of heroes of old, and as though awakening from sleep, he changed his disposition and gathering bands of followers took up arms; […] when he had devastated the towns and residences of his foes, their villages and fortresses with fire and sword, and gathered together companions from various races and from all directions, [he]… amassed great booty.
FROM THE VITA SANCTI GUTHLACI, WRITTEN BY THE EAST ANGLIAN PRIEST FELIX IN THE EARLY EIGHTH CENTURY
CONTENTS
Map
The Great Sixth-Century Kingdoms of Britain
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
More From Peter Gibbons
Acknowledgements
Glossary
Historical Note
About the Author
Also by Peter Gibbons
Warrior Chronicles
About Boldwood Books
THE GREAT SIXTH-CENTURY KINGDOMS OF BRITAIN
After the collapse of the Roman Empire in 400 AD, the legions left Britain to descend into a place of constant, brutal warfare. By the sixth century, the island is ruled by fierce kings from behind crumbling Roman strongholds and menacing hilltop fortresses. The south-east and western kingdoms have fallen to marauding Germanic invaders known as Saxons. The Saxons are a warlike people from across the sea, first invited to Britain by Vortigern, a weak king of a small kingdom, to aid him in his wars against the rival kings of Britain.
Rheged – Located close to Cumbria in modern-day England. Ruled by King Urien from his seat at the Bear Fort. Warriors of Rheged carry the bear sigil upon their shields.
Gododdin – A kingdom in Britain’s north-east, close to modern-day Northumberland and East Lothian. Ruled by King Letan Luyddoc from his fortress Dunpendyrlaw. Gododdin’s warriors march under a stag banner.
Dal Riata – Kingdom on Scotland’s west coast, covering what is now Argyll.
Dumnonia – Ruled by King Uther Pendragon. Dumnonian warriors march to war with a dragon sigil upon their shields. Located in Britain’s south-west, mainly in modern-day Devon, Somerset and Cornwall.
Gwynedd – Ruled by King Cadwallon Longhand. Located in north Wales and Anglesey.
Elmet – Ruled by King Gwallog. Located in the area around modern-day Leeds, reaching down south to the Midlands. Elmet’s warriors wear the lorica segmentata armour and red cloaks of the Roman legions.
Bernicia – Lands lost to Ida, the Saxon conqueror. Covers what is now south Northumberland, Tyne and Wear, and Durham. Its warriors once fought beneath the proud banner of the fox.
Deira – Lands stretching along much of Britain’s west coast, which fell to Saxon invaders in Vortigern’s Great War.
Lothian – Ruled by King Lot, encompassing what is now southeast Scotland.
Powys – Ruled by King Brochvael the Fanged. A large and powerful kingdom in what is now central Wales.
Pictland – Lands occupied by the Picts in Scotland’s north.
Demetia – Lands in the south-west of what is now Wales. Ruled by King Morholt and his Irish warriors who took the kingdom by force.
Gwent – A kingdom between the Rivers Wye and Usk, in what is now south Wales. Ruled by King Tewdrig.
1
540 AD, BRITAIN
A blood-coloured sun crept above jagged treetops as three mounted warriors and twenty spearmen left the Bear Fort on a frosty spring morning. Long shadows crept through grasping boughs to dapple the land in dark shapes and a shallow mist lingered on the forest floor. A wild storm had thrashed the stronghold for a day and a night, howling across its spiked walls to soak through men’s cloaks, breastplates and tunics, so the warriors marched in grim ranks with damp clothes clinging to their skin like shrouds. Hooves and boots crunched through the undergrowth, leather belts, bridles and armour creaked, and the men grumbled about the early start as they marched with ash-shafted spears resting on their shoulders and breath billowing from their mouths in great clouds to mist the chill air.
‘The next man I hear complaining gets a thick ear,’ barked Ector, his voice gruff and as menacing as the snarling bear painted upon his shield. He was their comitatus, as the Rome-folk would have it, the leader of the war band and King Urien of Rheged’s champion. Ector was fearsome, a huge man with hands like shovels. He wore a coat of shining chain mail and carried a long sword in a fleece-lined scabbard strapped to his thick leather belt. Ector’s face was broad and as hard as mountain rock, his forehead jutted like a cliff, and his chin was wide and strong. Scars ran across his broken nose and cheeks, and he was as fearsome to look upon as a winter storm. His forearms were so thick with death rings that they tattooed his entire arms dark blue. When a warrior killed an enemy in battle, he tattooed a ring around his forearm in memory of the slain man’s warrior spirit, and Ector had run out of room upon his arms many years ago.
Arthur shifted on his horse and lifted his spear for a moment to ease its weight on his shoulder. He rode because he was Ector’s foster son, and the marching spearmen cast resentful glances at him, their judgement burning Arthur like a whip. This was Arthur’s second march with Ector’s war band. The first had come two weeks earlier when the war band had marched south to collect overdue render from farms on the southern edge of Urien’s realm. Each hide, or farm, in Rheged owed Urien one tenth of their farm’s surplus. If the render was not delivered, the war band would go to collect it, and Ector’s visit was never gentle.
‘We might get to fight this time,’ said Kai, Ector’s son, Arthur’s foster brother and friend. He leaned over so that Ector would not hear and grinned at Arthur. Kai and Arthur had both seen seventeen summers, but Kai was both taller and wider across the shoulders. He had hair the colour of a rusted blade and green eyes like his father. Kai had his father’s face, but it was as yet unmarked by battle, and his beard was as sparse and wispy as Arthur’s. ‘I will earn my first death ring today.’
‘Hopefully,’ Arthur lied, forcing himself to smile. Arthur and Kai had trained with weapons since the time they could walk. Ector and his brutal captain, Huell, taught them the thrusts of the spear, the cuts of the sword, knife fighting, the bow and the war axe. Arthur could fight, and he loved the sword, but he had never killed a man.
‘Pick up the pace there, bastard,’ Huell growled on Arthur’s flank. He glanced down at the stocky warrior, whose scarred face was as wrinkled and hard as a boar’s back. The grizzled warrior snarled at him and spat into the undergrowth. Arthur rode whilst Huell marched, and the veteran of countless battles hated Arthur for that. Huell hated that Arthur slept beneath warm furs in Ector’s household, he hated that Arthur was an orphan who shared Kai’s privileges. Arthur’s legs hung loose at the horse’s belly, so he dug his heels in and clicked his tongue to pick up the roan mare’s pace.
They followed a mud-slick path through the thick forest. Wagon wheel ruts ran deep to either side and the track stank of horse shit and wet earth. Arthur’s mare kicked up clods of mud and he stifled a laugh as Huell cursed behind him. Blackbirds sang in the boughs, and a robin trilled somewhere in the canopy of green and brown. Fresh leaves filled branches, and the sunlight punched through them in shafts of light to create shifting shadows in the mist. The forest smelled of the storm, damp and heavy like a wet dog. Bluebells and wildflowers spattered the sides of the path with a wash of cover.
By late afternoon, the war band rested on a high crag, a jutting cliff with a view into a sprawling valley where woodland gave way to fields separated by ditch and hedge. Farmers were busy finishing sowing their furrows, bringing animals to green pastures after long winters and shearing their sheep for wool.
‘Bastards are down there somewhere,’ said Ector, glaring down into the valley. A river cut through the lowland, meandering and glistening like a blue snake. Thatched farmsteads shone like gold amongst the fields, and Arthur looked across the valley with his keen hazel eyes but could see no sign of an enemy.
‘There’s no smoke,’ said Huell, spitting as he so often did through his missing front teeth. ‘Wherever there are raiders, there’s smoke.’
‘They are probably sleeping off a long night enjoying stolen ale and beef,’ said Kai, and Ector grunted without taking his eyes off the shining river.
‘A farmer in the fields said they were at the old villa. We’ll be there before nightfall.’
‘If they are still there,’ said Ector. ‘They’ll know we’re coming. All men know that to raid Rheged means death. Urien suffers no attacks on his land. Even the bucellari know that. If they have any cunning in their masterless skulls, they will be long gone by now.’
‘If they had the cunning of a turnip, they’d not have raided Rheged. Any bucellari this far north have come from Bernicia, or Deira. Bucellari bands of masterless men fighting for any lord who can pay them must have come from beyond that frontier. Maybe they’ve grown tired of fighting the Saxons in the east and fancy themselves some easier prey.’
‘Bastards picked the wrong prey this time,’ said Ector. He rested his hand on his sword’s leather-wrapped hilt. ‘We march to the villa and kill any man we find there.’ He turned and the heat of his gaze fell upon Arthur and Kai. ‘You are men now, full grown and ready to fight. Your place is with the war band, so today you’ll fight and kill. You know how. This is what we do. We serve King Urien, fight his wars, and kill his enemies. We collect the render owed to him, and he provides us with land, men, silver and glory. If you can’t fight, you can’t stay in my service, son or not. So, kill and soak your blades with blood so the men can see it. Earn their respect. I gave you both spears and knives and horses to ride, so earn them, too.’
‘Your father and I started with nothing. Everything we have, we won by the blade,’ Huell snarled, and he slapped his sword hilt for extra emphasis. ‘The first time I fought, I carried a rusty dagger. I killed two men that day and have been a warrior ever since. Don’t let me catch you shirking, bastard. You’ll fight today or I’ll drive you out of Rheged myself.’
‘Enough. They know their duty. Let’s march.’
Arthur swallowed hard and glanced up at his spear’s sharp point. Father Iddawg had told him it was not a sin to kill an enemy, to kill an innocent man was murder and God looks kindly on those who uphold the king’s peace. Arthur worried about that. Father Iddawg was a pious man and Ector’s priest. He lived on Ector’s estate and ate his food and saw to the souls of Ector’s men and their families. Arthur had prayed and asked God, and the old gods, for aid many times. Countless nights he had prayed to know who his mother and father were and why they had abandoned him, but God never answered his prayers.
‘If I have to hear one more story about Huell and my father fighting for King Uther in the Great War, I’ll gouge my eyes out,’ said Kai once the two old warriors had left to join the men.
‘Do you think you can do it?’ asked Arthur.
‘Do what, gouge my eyes out?’
‘No, kill a man?’
Kai shrugged. ‘We have no choice. That’s our life now. Besides, these are wicked men. Bucellari are mercenaries without honour. You heard the farmer in Urien’s hall. These men have killed women and children and razed farms to the ground. They deserve to die.’
Arthur nodded and followed his friend back to their mounts. Fear curdled his belly and Arthur did not share the meal of oatcakes and ale. All the men in Ector’s war band were hard men, killers and professional warriors. Ector himself was the champion of Rheged. Many said he was the greatest warrior in all of Britain. Ector never lost, not even on the practice ground. Kai had come close the last winter, almost landing a strike with a wooden sword, but Ector had recovered and thundered a fist into Kai’s belly to win the bout. It was time to become a man, and Arthur hoped he was brave enough. Kai could do it. He was fearless and a fine warrior with every weapon. He beat Arthur in most practice bouts, and Arthur himself was skilled with sword and spear. In his heart, Arthur was not a violent man. He liked to listen to the bards and their stories, to dream of heroes and legends and of the Rome-folk and their mighty empire. He enjoyed weapons, especially the sword, and the physicality of the practice yard. Every lesson Ector and Huell had taught told Arthur that to kill was his purpose in life, he would be a warrior and protect Rheged from her enemies. But to rip a man’s life away, to pierce his flesh with cold iron and send him screaming to the afterlife, that was different to hitting Kai with a wooden sword or a spear.
The war band reached the villa as the sun set behind them, washing the land with a dim light the colour of gold. Their spears cast long shadows like the claws of a monster upon lush green grass as twenty-three warriors crouched behind a gorse thicket. They peered at the ruins of a sprawling villa, its white stone walls crumbled, and red tiles which once covered its sloping roof littered the ground. The villa was another remnant of the mighty Romans who had ruled Britain for hundreds of years and then left in the time of Ector’s great-grandsire to leave the land littered with memories of their greatness and riven with violent anarchy without law or legion.
‘How many?’ asked Ector. He crouched with his sword drawn. Its steel edge gleamed, and its blade caught the twilight to reveal the strange smoke in its metal. It was a magnificent weapon, given to Ector by Uther Pendragon for his services in the Great War against Vortigern and the marauding Saxons. Arthur could not take his eyes off the sword. He hoped to own such a weapon one day, the weapon of a champion. Arthur carried a spear and a long knife, and he would continue to do so until he killed a man and gained better weapons, or his lord rewarded him with them.
‘Thirty men,’ Huell said, his flint-hard eyes squinting at the men lolling in the villa’s courtyard. They had made a fire from rotting roof beams and lolled about it, laughing and drinking ale from clay jugs. They were rough men, bushy bearded, with dark eyes and darker laughs. Three women mewed and wept as the bucellari mercenaries passed them around the fire. The women, stripped naked, had terror-stricken faces drawn long by fear and suffering. A nest of spears and shields were neatly piled in a corner, while six tied horses stood beside the rubble of a fallen-down barn. The bucellari wore wool tunics and dark cloaks, a handful wore leather breastplates, and none wore the heavy chain-mail coats which separated the lords of war from the rest of the warrior caste. Ector and Huell each wore a heavy mail coat, made from tiny, interlocked rings of iron which protected them from neck to groin.
‘We’ll do them now whilst they’re drunk,’ said Ector, and Huell grinned wolfishly.
‘A rider!’ hissed a spearman. Arthur turned; spear lowered. He licked at dry lips, thoughts flashing through his head. What if it was enemy riders? Perhaps the enemy had surrounded them?
A figure approached from the treeline beyond a wild meadow, the same direction from which Arthur and the war band had marched moments earlier.
‘Bloody fool, girl,’ Ector cursed, but Arthur smiled because the figure was not the enemy.
It was Lunete, Kai’s younger sister. She came with a bow slung over her shoulder and a quiver of arrows at her belt. Her dark hair fell about her slim shoulders, and she raised her chin in defiance as Ector and Huell waved frantically at her to duck down before the bucellari mercenaries saw her.
‘I warned you, girl,’ Ector said through gritted teeth as Lunete crouched between Arthur and Kai. ‘I’ll marry you off the moment we get home. You’re going to get yourself killed!’
‘I can’t let you two have all the fun whilst I spin yarn and listen to the wives talk of weaving and babies,’ said Lunete. She ignored her father, blue eyes prideful and her raven-black hair shining. Lunete unslung her bow and tested the string, and Arthur laughed at her brave impudence. She was Ector’s favourite, the apple of his eye, and he doted on her wild savagery. Lunete’s upbringing should have focused on spinning yarn, weaving clothes and tapestries and becoming a good wife. But she was wilder than either Kai or Arthur, and Ector indulged her, training her to fight with bow and spear and allowing her to ride and live with his men.
‘Don’t get in the way, pig-nose,’ Kai whispered, and Lunete punched him on the arm. She hated that name, earned because of her snub nose, and Arthur laughed again at the fond rivalry between brother and sister. It masked his fear momentarily, but Huell readied the men and the gnawing heat in Arthur’s belly returned.
