Authors: M. K. Hume
‘Modred is, as always, ostentatious,’ Artor noted. ‘All he lacks is a sign that says, here lies the king of the traitors. Please fire your arrows here!’
Artor turned his back on Modred’s army dismissively.
‘That huge army does not rest, does not sleep. They drink, dance, boast, gorge and even squabble in their separate companies. How can such a huge, undisciplined body of men fight together? There is our edge.’
At first light on the following morning, Bedwyr, Pelles and the other captains of the western army joined their king on the same low knoll. Across the river, they saw an ant heap of furious activity that made the High King shake his head.
‘Squabbling warriors eating red meat in the mornings, women in the bivouac with the fighting men, children running through the cooking fires. Modred’s army is a rabble.’
Bedwyr looked upstream and saw a small contingent of Brigante warriors washing in the shallows, collecting drinking water and even relieving themselves in the river without concern.
‘They’re fouling their own nest!’ he exclaimed.
‘Yes, and ours. Warn the men to avoid drinking river water.’ Artor’s face appeared almost serene under his oak-leaf crown. Uncharacteristically, he was dressed in gilded armour and he was carrying a brilliant scarlet shield, whose golden bosses and ornamentation glinted in the rising sun.
Artor faced his captains. ‘We spoke last night of a feint across the river to tempt the Brigante to attack us in force, and that is what we shall do. I intend to lead my personal guard in the feint, for Modred won’t stir off his arse for anyone but me.’
‘So that’s why you’re tricked out like a fairground whore,’ Bedwyr said. ‘You wish to make yourself a colourful target.’
‘Exactly. He must recognize me.’
‘But you’ll be in deadly danger,’ Pelles protested. ‘Allow me to take your place. I’m partial to golden armour, you mustn’t be at risk. It’s an audacious plan, and it could work, but not if we lose the Warrior of the West.’
‘I thank you for your offer, Pelles, but my mind is made up. Modred will not risk himself for anyone but the High King, of that I am sure. Even golden armour couldn’t disguise the fact that you’re close to a foot shorter than I am. And I shall need you with your archers. I predict that Modred’s undisciplined rabble will pour over the shallows to become part of the kill, once they have me on the run. Each of his warriors will want to capture me as their prize, alive or dead, and collect the price that Modred has put on my old head. A hail of arrows from your archers, Pelles, will add to the chaos and increase my chances of survival.’ He smiled at his companions. ‘Then, my friends, Modred’s forces can be crushed utterly. Once Modred’s men cross the river, our positions are reversed and his force will be vulnerable.’
Taliesin heard the thin, high cry of a bird and looked up. A barred peregrine hawk hovered high above Artor’s camp. The bird still wore its winter raiment, and its outspread wings were scarcely moving in the light breeze. Taliesin felt a cold sensation on the back of his neck, a superstitious recognition that the peregrine was the symbol of kingship. He raised one hand to shield his eyes from the sun, wondering if the gods had sent this bird as proof that Artor’s cause was just. But when he looked again to where the hawk had hovered, it had vanished.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING
The day glittered with a thin dusting of heat over the sky. The warmth wasn’t unpleasant, even in heavy armour, but men felt sweat bead lightly on their brows as they set about the many tasks that armies require to thrive. Foragers were about, seeking out game to augment their rations; other warriors cut grass for the horses or filled wooden pails, downstream, to water the beasts; wood must be collected for cooking fires, and for miles around the bivouac, the land must be forced to give up its bounty for the belly of the beast. The mundane task of digging latrines was so critical to the health of the army that a team of men was tasked with doing nothing else but oversee sanitation.
Artor’s captains, however, had other preoccupations. One by one, they volunteered to take Artor’s place as decoy. The High King simply smiled and shook his head.
‘You all have a role to play in this, and you must stay with your men. I could find a warrior to match me in build and height but the man in charge of this raid must think on his feet - or his horse - and I am that man. I don’t intend to sacrifice myself for Modred’s pleasure. We only have to engage and hold for a count of ten.
As always, Artor was coolly practical. His personal guard, consisting of fifty superbly trained fighting men, was utterly loyal to him, if for no other reason than their familial relationship with him. He had no illusions about what his planned feint would cost in the lives of his bastard sons. They were dear to him and he grieved at the sacrifice to come, but the cruel circumstances of civil war demanded implacable and unpleasant decisions. Besides, when he died, any new king was likely to kill all of his kin, illegitimate or not, to secure his position.
Artor gathered his captains in the campaign tent, and they were soon bent over a large vellum chart, scanning every detail of the strategy that Artor had devised.
A small scratching announced the presence of a red-haired boy in the tent’s entry.
‘Ah. Ector Minor.’ Artor smiled indulgently. ‘Come forward, young master, and join us. As we talk, I’ll explain to you how a map works.’
Bran’s son was a tall, sturdy boy who was blessed with a powerful upper body inherited from his paternal grandfather, Llanwith pen Bryn. His carrot-coloured hair curled in wild spirals and he possessed brilliant green eyes that seemed to see clear through anything, or anyone, that caught his attention.
‘I can sketch the position of the enemy companies on this vellum as if I was a hawk flying high above them. Can you see how a map gives us an advantage?’
The boy gazed at Artor with cool intensity. He nodded, and Taliesin knew the lad had immediately understood the concepts involved.
‘A map allows a war chief to plan what he might do,’ Ector said. ‘He can see where everyone is, on both sides, and he can change his mind if his enemy does something unexpected.’
Artor grinned delightedly. ‘Excellent, Ector. A leader need never be taken by surprise on the battlefield if he is clever.’
Artor introduced each of his war chiefs - including Bors, the dour Dumnonii king, who rarely smiled under his shock of thick black hair. He had strange, lambent grey eyes. Having only recently inherited his throne, and as a man who had avoided the courts of power, Bors was something of an enigma. Artor explained the histories of his captains to Ector, and acknowledged Bors as kin through the High King’s mother, the fabled Ygerne. Each man bowed seriously to the boy, as if he was an equal.
Ector blushed, but his eyes never dropped as he politely greeted each king and war chief by name.
Artor’s plan could be a triumph of calculated risk, Taliesin decided. Artor saw the whole pattern of the game, like the hawk, while his captains only understood their part upon the board.
Little happened during the course of that afternoon.
Across the ford, Modred’s large, sky-blue leather tent drew every eye but, other than exchanging catcalls and scornful insults, the enemies did not engage.
At dusk, all but the sentries were stood down to take their rest. Stars filled the clear velvet skies with little pinholes of white light, like holes stabbed in a blackened curtain.
‘For the time being, we’ll leave Modred to wait and worry,’ Artor explained. ‘Even that cold-blooded traitor is capable of anxiety while he waits for his destiny to unfold.’
Wrapped warmly in thick furs, the king fell asleep sitting bolt upright in his campaign chair. Ector slept in a pile of furs near the tent flap, while Gareth watched over him.
Gareth’s silver, uncut hair was bound with bands of plaited brass, so that it hung below his waist in a thick rope. His face was a little lined under his deep tan and his body had stiffened so that the limber elegance of his youth was a lost memory, but his appearance was deceptive. Like his grandmother, Frith, Artor’s first foster-mother, whom he now resembled, Gareth was as strong as an oak tree. And as watchful and wise.
Earlier, Artor had charged Gareth with his new and difficult duty.
‘You cared for Licia when our world was young, Gareth, and you still have some years left to you.’
‘Aye, King Artor, my god continues to spare me.’
‘I am entrusting my great-grandson to your care. In the years ahead, Ector will need you to guard his back and offer him sound advice. His relationship with me, should he become High King, will put him under threat, so he will need someone who knows and understands the corruption of court life. He’s not a playful boy, so he needs someone who will treat him seriously, but love him for himself.’ Artor gripped Gareth’s shoulder affectionately. ‘Besides, you know all the old histories. You lived through them, so who better to make Ector into a man.’
‘But Artor, shouldn’t his father fulfil that duty?’
‘Of course, but his father will be too busy saving his lands to guide the boy’s path. Promise me that you will serve me for the rest of your life in this matter.’
Gareth had bowed his head in acquiescence.
Few Celts slept deeply that night.
The morrow promised blood, and any warrior who could count knew that Artor’s army was vastly outnumbered. Yet the air was sweet with the scents of early summer, and the rain that fell before dawn was light and soft. The warriors were convinced that they were embarked on a war hallowed by God, whoever that deity might be.
Artor rose before dawn stained the sky and was soon dressed in full battle gear. He immediately called on Odin to prepare for a special mission to humiliate and goad the enemy forces into taking precipitate action. Warriors began to wander just out of bowshot range and performed sundry crude actions towards the Brigante camp. They bared their backsides, or their privates, made rude gestures and shouted complicated descriptions of their enemy’s mothers.
The army of the west waited stiffly, utilizing the discipline of well-trained troops for most of that day until, late in the afternoon, a large Brigante warrior rode out into the shallows of the river and shouted out that he was the appointed envoy of Modred.
‘Find out what the Matricide wants, Bedwyr’, Artor ordered crisply.
Obediently, Bedwyr trotted his horse over the dried grasses and broken reeds on the margins of the river, until its hocks were buried in green water. A gentle breeze played through the bulrushes and disturbed the dragonflies as they skipped out from the waterweeds.
‘Bedwyr stands for Artor,’ the Cornovii shouted. ‘So talk.’
The Brigante warrior was large, hirsute and humourless. Bedwyr noticed that his battle gear was clean and well-oiled, and he wondered where the warrior had received the scar that cut across his cheek and distorted his nose.
‘My king, Modred, demands that Artor relinquishes the field to a younger man. He insists that the High King must retreat from our lands, or else he’ll be humiliated and killed in battle.’
‘Words, words, words!’ Bedwyr shouted back derisively at the Brigante warrior. ‘If you’re so confident, come and fight, traitor! We’re here! We’re ready to fight you! The murdered citizens of Deva call out for revenge.’
‘Your men are cowards who hunker down by this river,’ the Brigante warrior countered as he jerked on his horse’s reins. The animal bridled and snorted. ‘We challenge you to come over and fight!’
‘Perhaps when the Brigante tribe finds its nerve you might come to your High King and give your justification for your treachery and betrayal. You murdered fellow Celts! Artor demands an explanation; we demand to hear a reason to justify such a crime! You outnumber us, so the gods of war will surely stand with you if your cause is just.’
Then, as an afterthought, and because the Brigante’s voice was familiar, Bedwyr threw out one last barbed challenge.
‘I know you, Brigante! You stood with Artor at Mori Saxonicus when we were all young. How have you come to this pass, to serve a man of Modred’s mettle? We who stood and died at the shield wall were true brothers. How could you betray us?’
A red stain of embarrassment flushed the warrior’s face, causing the scar to stand out like a fresh white wound.
‘I am Brigante, and Mori Saxonicus was a long time ago!’ The warrior spat, and then raised one clenched, armoured fist. ‘Look for me in the coming battle, Arden Knife. My name is Cadwy Scarface, and I remember the past, and old sins, as if it were yesterday.’
Bedwyr cursed and lifted his sword so it flashed in the afternoon light.
‘How could you forget the blood of King Luka, hero of a hundred Brigante battles? How can you ignore that Celt will fight Celt on these fair fields because of your king’s greed? Modred does not have the endorsement of the Council of Tribes, and he isn’t even a legitimate heir. Your forces killed the peaceful, neutral traders of Deva just to lure out the Ordovice king. How can you justify what you have done?’
Cadwy Scarface flinched as each word pierced his armour of arrogance.
‘Will you ask King Bran to allow you to settle in his mountains when the Saxons come knocking on the walls of your towns and villages? Or will you take ship for Hibernia? Better still, will you grovel and promise to serve the Pictish kings, your allies, when you flee over the Wall? If these horrors come to pass, remember that Bedwyr, King of the Forests of Arden, warned you that there are consequences for treason.’
Bedwyr laughed at Cadwy’s flushed, angry face, then wheeled his horse and cantered back to the High King. His mouth smiled, but his mind wept for the warrior he had stood with in the shield wall at Mori Saxonicus, although all he remembered of Cadwy in those bloody days was a pair of grim, brown eyes under a battered, iron helm.
‘Their ragtag rabble are all huff and puff, without substance,’ he reported to Artor. ‘Modred is posturing for the benefit of the Picts, but they won’t attack us, regardless of their rhetoric. Cadwy Scarface was used for parlay only because he is a warrior with a stern reputation, but the words of Modred are base coinage. Many of his men have fought and bled alongside us as brothers in our cause and my heart shudders at the thought of slaying fellow Celts. But Modred has left us with no other choice.’