Camelot, p.13
Camelot, page 13
A man stepped out from their ranks, wearing the white skull of a monstrous bear over his head. He carried two axes, pointed them both at Arthur, and roared at his warriors to attack. They came on in a mass of flailing weapons, and Arthur met them without fear in his heart. A blade cut deep into his thigh, but the pain was nothing compared to the terror he felt in his heart, the knowledge that too many of his men died to Lothian and Pictish blades. Men he needed to fight against the Saxons, men who lay dead now on a northern plain, far from Aelle, Ida and the other Saxon warlords waiting for him in Lloegyr.
Another blow rang on Arthur’s helmet, and for a heartbeat the world went black. He tried to take a step, but his wounded leg buckled, and he dropped to one knee. A great cry went up from the Picts and another blow hammered into Arthur’s back. He parried an axe with Excalibur, but hands grabbed his wrist and tried to wrestle the god-forged sword out of his grip. Arthur clenched his teeth, feeling death’s shadow close, chilling, beckoning him to the afterlife, his mission to unify Britain and restore that which was lost disappearing beneath a Pictish onslaught. Just when all seemed lost, when Arthur was sure he was about to be overwhelmed by his enemies, a powerful force appeared beside him. A force so large it seemed to blot out the sun.
‘Get up!’ Lancelot growled as his sword cut the hand from the man grasping at Excalibur. ‘Get up, damn you!’
Lancelot charged into the mass of blue warpaint, hate and war axes. He was head-and-shoulders taller than any Pictish warrior and they fell back from his shining mail, his monstrous physicality and his skill. Arthur roared like a beast and surged to his feet. He turned and lay his back against Lancelot’s and together they moved, blades whirling, and the Picts fell back from them as Arthur and Lancelot carved them up like gods of war. Cavall barked and leapt from the shield wall, the great war dog bounding into the Picts. He leapt at a painted warrior and dragged him to the ground, fangs ripping at the enemy’s arm. Arthur’s leg and body ached dully, reminding him that wounds leaked blood there, but his rage kept him moving and kept Excalibur swinging.
The Picts fell back from them, and Lancelot cast his enormous arm around Arthur’s midriff, holding him up. Arthur glanced along the battle line and the entire line of Picts had fallen back twenty paces, leaving a swathe of their dead where they had thrown themselves at Arthur’s shield wall and died. A man faced him, the warrior with the bear’s skull helmet.
‘Challenge,’ he barked in heavily accented, guttural Brythonic pointing both of his axes at Arthur, a gleam in his pale eyes. He wore his beard long and unkempt, and his face and body painted almost entirely with blue woad. A dozen women warriors stood about him, harsh-faced women with braided hair, knives in their hands and slingshots at their belts. The message was clear: the bear-man was their leader, and he challenged Arthur to fight and decide the day.
‘If you die, your men go home,’ Arthur said.
‘If you die, your men throw down their arms and submit to me.’
Arthur swallowed and nodded acceptance.
‘Let me fight him,’ Lancelot said, but Arthur pushed his friend backwards.
‘You saved my life. Go, take Bors and reinforce the Lothian flank. Keep Lot at bay.’
‘If he kills you…’
‘I know. Go.’
Arthur turned away from his friend. The risk was monumental, the lives of every man under Arthur’s command at stake. But with Lothian and the wild Picts arrayed against him, there could be no other victory. The Picts could dog Arthur’s every step south, picking off his men in ambush, night attacks, killing his foragers so that by the time he reached the safety of Gododdin his army would be cut to pieces. He had to kill the leader of the Picts so that his men, and his dream of Britain, could live. But if he lost, if his wounded leg failed him, or if one of those axes hacked Arthur’s life away, then his men would become slaves to the Picts, laid open to their torture or sacrifice. It was an impossible decision, but that was why Arthur was Pendragon, to make decisions where other men would crumble and quake.
The bear-man raised his axes, and his warriors fell back to create space to fight. To Arthur’s right, the battle with Lothian raged, and behind him Arthur felt the eyes of his men boring into him, watching him with desperate hope. He grimaced and limped forward. Arthur refused to look at his wounded leg. Blood seeped from the wound there, running down his thigh, calf, and into his boot. His head rang from the blow to his helmet and his body throbbed.
‘The power of the gods is with you!’ came Merlin’s voice. Arthur turned, and Merlin rode Llamrei along the line of shields, his amber-tipped staff held aloft. ‘Neit and Arawn give you power. You are the Pendragon!’
Arthur gripped Excalibur, feeling Merlin’s power flow through the blade and into his arms. Llamrei’s hooves pounded the battlefield, and such was the druid’s reputation that the Picts cowered from him. Fear showed in the bear-man’s eyes, and he licked his lips, axes dropping as he gazed upon Merlin, astride the great white stallion. Arthur charged, using the moment to strike, letting Excalibur absorb the pain in his leg and his desperate fatigue.
The bear-man came to meet him, axes swinging and teeth bared in the maw of his beard. He was a head shorter than Arthur, muscles long and taut on his slender frame. He wore grizzly scalps about his neck on a leather thong, blonde, brown and black hair with scraps of yellowed flesh clutching to the roots. Arthur feinted low and lunged high with Excalibur. The Pict misjudged the reach of Arthur’s sword and drew too close with his deadly axes, so that all Arthur had to do was a flick of Excalibur into the painted man’s gullet. He quivered there for a heartbeat, fear and knowing in his eyes and cold iron in his windpipe. Arthur turned his wrist and tore out the bear-man’s throat. He pivoted at the waist, turned, whipping Excalibur around in a quick arc. Blade met skin, bone, ligament, and then emerged from the bear-man’s neck. His painted, bear-skulled head toppled to the floor, and the Picts wailed as though it were the end of days.
‘Behold!’ Merlin called, and rode Llamrei across the kneeling ranks. He shook his staff and let Llamrei wheel around, stomping the battlefield. They cast their eyes down before the magnificent horse and the druid as though a god has descended upon a noble beast to walk amongst them as blood flowed and their leader died. ‘Arthur Pendragon and Excalibur, sword of the gods! He is your king, the king of all kings! Your gods curse you for rising against him, beg their forgiveness, beg their forgiveness of your Pendragon!’
The Picts fell to their knees, gaping at Arthur and Merlin with terrified faces. Cavall came to Arthur’s side, his mouth stained red with enemy blood.
‘Who speaks for you?’ Arthur called.
A woman rose from her feet, offering her knife to Arthur with both hands raised and head bowed. ‘I am Ethne, of the Elk people,’ she said. Her hair hung in long braids, her nose broken in some distant fight. She wore a skin across her body and leather leggings over calf-length boots. ‘He was our chief, our lord.’ She pointed at the headless man. ‘We were his targaid, his shields.’ She used the ancient word, the words the Picts shared with their Irish cousins across the sea. ‘Now, we are yours.’
‘Tell your people to fall back. You will fight no more this day. Have them go back to the highland villages but warn them that if they fight against me again, I will fill their country with fire and death.’
‘Yes, Ard Rí, high king.’ She bowed deeply, called to her people, and they backed away from the battle. Their once fearsome and furious war fury shook from them. Merlin rode about them, urging them back and calling to them in their own language.
‘That was too close,’ said Lancelot. His armour, hands and face mired with blood and filth. All about them lay the dead and the dying, and Arthur steeled himself for one more push.
‘Find Bors,’ he said. ‘Swing about Lot’s flank. Full attack.’
Lancelot hurried to the rear, and Arthur limped through the press of his men to the front line. He stepped across men clutching bloody wounds and corpses of black cloaks, Rheged and Gododdin warriors. Men moved out of Arthur’s way, bowing their heads in reverence. They had seen Arthur fight the Picts and defeat their warlord and now they stood aside and let their dux bellorum face the Lothians.
By the time Arthur reached the front rank, the battle had broken away from a shield-wall clash. The Lothians already found themselves outflanked by Bors and Lancelot, and King Lot had formed two defensive shield walls, just as Arthur’s men had done to face the Picts.
‘Sound the carnyx,’ Arthur said as he found Dewi, Hywel and Malegant at the front.
‘We have them, lord,’ said Hywel, his Roman armour dented and his short sword crusted with enemy blood.
‘Yes, lord,’ Dewi said, and went to find the trumpeter.
‘Lord Arthur, please? They are there for the taking,’ Hywel continued, but Arthur raised a hand to quieten the Elmet man.
‘Enough blood,’ Arthur said, having to tear the words from his exhausted body. ‘Enough death.’
Arthur walked from the front rank and the Lothian men roared and shouted at him, shaking their spears and axes. King Lot stood in the second rank, a lurid cut upon his face and dead warriors all about him. The carnyx blared its long, shrill note and Arthur held Excalibur up by the blade, hilt raised high into the air to show that he wanted to parlay with the king of Lothian. All fighting ceased and the Lothian men shuffled backwards, shoulders slumping and cheeks blowing, relieved by the momentary respite.
‘King Lot,’ Arthur called. ‘You are beaten. You have, what, three hundred men left who can fight?’
Lot stalked from his men, his armour and clothes ripped and his face pale and taut.
‘My son is dead,’ Lot said. He wiped blood from his face onto his forearm. He seemed dazed, his eyes vacant beneath the white paste now smeared with crimson.
‘A lot of men have died this day.’
‘He was a fine boy. Strong. Even-tempered.’
‘Now he is dead.’ Arthur spoke harshly, stepping towards Lot. ‘We can finish this battle, if you wish. Your allies, the Picts, are cowed. I can order my men to charge and will kill every last one of you. It will cost me men to do it, but I will give the order as a lesson to others who attack their high king.’
‘He had a young wife. And a little girl.’
Arthur sheathed Excalibur and pulled the stone sceptre from his belt. He banged its curved end into Lot’s chest, hard, and the king snapped to attention and locked eyes with Arthur. ‘If you do not surrender and kneel to me here, now, I will slaughter every Lothian man upon this battlefield. When that’s done, I will loose my men upon Bedegraine without restraint. I will let them vent their anger and fury at the loss of their shield-brothers upon your people until not a soul remains in this godsforsaken place. Lothian will be no more, a place of myth, a story told by mothers to frighten misbehaving children.’ Arthur held King Lot’s gaze, though he surprised himself with the threat.
King Lot’s face twisted as he felt a pang of pain from his wounds. He nodded and dropped his weapons, and then knelt to Arthur. Arthur lowered the sceptre, and King Lot kissed its cold stone. ‘I swear to be your man, you are Arthur, Pendragon of Britain and the men of Lothian will march whenever you call.’ Lot spoke quietly, his pride and anger broken, leaving a shadow of the man who had stood before Arthur only a day before.
‘Good. Now rise. We shall need food and ale, and my men will sleep under your roof this night whilst we treat our wounded. When we march, your second son will accompany me as surety of your oath.’
Lot opened his mouth, and it moved silently as though he half objected, and half understood what must be. Then he nodded.
‘If you raise an army against me again,’ Arthur warned, ‘your son’s life shall be forfeit, and I shall return with the warriors of every kingdom of Britain and turn your kingdom to ash.’
And so, the battle of Bedegraine was over. Arthur limped to the rear of his army, wounded leg throbbing, and waited until he was out of sight of both Lot and the Picts, and then he fell to the ground. Lancelot and Dewi dashed to him, and Hywel called for ale. Cavall whined and licked at Arthur’s hand, and he fought to remain conscious.
‘How many men did we lose?’ he asked Dewi, and the stalwart captain bowed his head.
‘We haven’t counted yet, lord,’ he said. ‘But the fighting was fierce.’
‘Aye.’ Arthur sat and Hywel handed him a skin of ale which he drank from, the liquid washing the dust, mud and blood from his mouth. ‘Too many have fallen.’
‘Fetch Merlin,’ Lancelot ordered, and Hywel hurried away. ‘Did you mean that, your threat to Lot?’ he asked, leaning into Arthur.
‘No,’ Arthur lied. The threat was necessary, and in truth, he had meant the words after stepping over the bloodied bodies of his men. It had been an unnecessary battle, a waste of life. Arthur wished he could close his ears to the sound of injured men wailing. It sounded as if Britain itself shrieked at him in mournful, woeful grief at the loss of so many men needed to fight the Saxons in spring. Men’s blood leaked into the moor, and Arthur lay back and stared at the sky. Snow began to fall in fat, drifting flakes which landed cold and wet upon his face.
12
‘What do they want?’ Arthur asked, staring over Merlin’s shoulder at the dozen Picts waiting for him across the hall.
Merlin cut the catgut thread with his knife and bound Arthur’s leg wound tight with clean cloth.
‘That will need cleaning daily. I will do it myself for the first few days. It’s clean now, but if the spear, axe or whatever pierced your leg was filthy, you might lose that leg.’ Merlin fussed at the pouches hidden in the folds of his tunic and cloak, and at the small leather bags hanging from his belt. He flicked his chin towards the Picts. ‘They were the Pictish warlord’s bodyguards, his sworn shields. You killed him. They are yours now.’
‘I don’t want them.’
‘You have no choice. They are women, in case you hadn’t noticed, given into their warlord’s service by their fathers and sworn to fight to the death to protect him. That duty passes to whoever slays their lord in combat.’
‘They didn’t protect him very well in yesterday’s battle.’
‘That would be a good point, if you were discussing the matter with a child. You fought their leader in single combat. The Picts are like the Irish, they have ancient rites that must be respected. They are sworn to you now. Keep them. They may come in useful. You need all the blades you can get.’
‘How many men did we lose yesterday?’
‘Too many. Your man Dewi has the final count.’ Merlin examined the various bruises and cuts across Arthur’s arms, head and torso. The cut across his scalp was almost healed, and Merlin smeared it with a foul-smelling ointment. ‘You should really do better to avoid enemy blades.’
‘Do you have any other pearls from your vaults of wisdom?’ Arthur grimaced as Merlin pressed his thumb into a purple welt on Arthur’s back.
‘Yes. We can’t linger at Bedegraine for long. We must march for Gododdin.’
‘There are little enough supplies here, that’s for sure. But the men are tired, and they need a few more days’ rest. Let wounds heal a little, let the men recover their strength. Besides, there’s snow on the ground.’
‘There are too many men in this place,’ Merlin snapped, and fixed Arthur with his grey eyes. ‘Dawdle here, and before long, men’s bowels will loosen, and they’ll die of the shitting sickness. Is that what you want?’
‘Obviously not.’
‘Then heed my advice. I will travel ahead to Dunpendrylaw and have King Letan prepare provisions for your men. You can return to the south, stopping at every hall on the way. Secure their commitments for men to march in spring and use your position to keep your men fed.’
‘Very well. What news of the south?’
‘Nothing. Yet. As far as I know, no fresh ships have been mad enough to attempt crossing the narrow sea in winter, and the Saxons are quiet. Preparing. I have another important matter to deal with.’
Merlin strode to a corner of King Lot’s hall where a pitiful figure crouched against the wall, more like a collection of rags than a man. It quivered and covered its head with its arms as Merlin approached. The figure peered from between its hands. It was Peithan, Lot’s druid. Merlin spoke to him in a strange, deep voice. Peithan rose, gazing into Merlin’s eyes as if transfixed by them. His jaw hung slack, and he wavered, hanging upon Merlin’s every word. When he was done, Merlin clattered Peithan once across the head with his staff, and Lot’s druid collapsed to the floor again and fell into a deep sleep.
‘He won’t give us any more trouble,’ Merlin called cheerfully. ‘To Gododdin!’ He swept out of the hall in a bustle of flowing cloak and tunic. The room seemed somehow darker after Merlin’s departure.
Arthur sat back on King Lot’s throne and waved the dozen Picts towards him. Despite a night having passed since the battle of Bedegraine, they still wore their woad paint and their war gear. The paint was cracked and creased, and their clothes torn and filthy from battle. They approached slowly, with downcast eyes. Each wore a sling at her belt, two curved knives, and a Pict war axe in a loop at their right hip.
‘Ard Rí,’ said the woman who had spoken to Arthur on the battlefield. She was short with blue eyes and flame-red hair tied in tight braids. Her broken nose made her face seemed slanted and she carried four dried scalps around her neck.
‘I hope those came not from my men, Ethne?’ Arthur said, pointing at her grisly necklace.
‘They did not. We are your targaid now. Your shield. We were all raised to the blade from the time we could crawl. Each woman here fights as well as any two men.’
Arthur cuffed at his tired eyes. ‘Then guard this hall whilst I inspect my wounded men.’
Ethne clapped a fist to her chest and each of them stamped their right foot twice down upon the ground. Arthur sighed. He wanted no part of their commitment to serve him. The Picts had almost destroyed him, and the thought of how close he had come to defeat made Arthur feel queasy. Using a spear for a walking stick, he stood up from the throne. Arthur groaned as he bent to pick up a cloth sack, which he slung over his shoulder. He limped slowly to the back of the hall, where forty of his men lay on straw pallets. It stank of blood and death, putrid and festering. Arthur found Dewi there. The captain knelt beside a pale-faced man, holding his hand whilst the man sweated and shook his head from side to side.
