For King & Country (15 page)

Stirling sighed. It was going to be a
long
year.

The distinctive scent of woodsmoke drifting on the early morning air tickled his nostrils before Stirling actually saw the source. As the road curved around the shoulder of a mountain, that source finally glimmered into view. Tiny fires dotted the grassy verges where the stone road stretched away through the predawn gloom. There was no village, which was what Stirling had expected to see, just hundreds of tiny cook fires where enough people to outfit a small army had camped beside the highway.
Was
it an army? More of Artorius' men? Or maybe warriors beholden to the king of Strathclyde, whoever that might be?

As dawnlight strengthened and they neared the first encampment, Stirling realized this was no army at all, but ragged bands of refugees, hundreds of them, mostly on foot. A few tired-looking ponies pricked ears at the approach of the
cataphracti
's battle horses. More than a few women screamed and scattered for the forest, carrying small children, while their menfolk hunted for weapons. Who in the world
were
these people? The men were heavily tattooed, giving Stirling the answer even as Ancelotis snarled.

Picts!

The painted people.

Whole clans of them, driven southward by invading Irish. How the devil had they gotten past the line of watchtowers and mile forts along the border? Had they overwhelmed some isolated garrison, murdered the men on duty, and flooded across? Morgana, whose husband had just been murdered by Pictish invaders to Gododdin, went ashen in the grey dawnlight and young Medraut snarled out a string of oaths, gripping the pommel of his sword with a whitened hand. Covianna, riding close to Stirling's horse, followed his stare. Her glance softened into one of pity.

"With the
Scotti
invading from Ireland," she said quietly, the word
Scotti
translating into "brigand" in Stirling's mind, "the Irish are pouring more men and settlers into Dalriada, so these poor wretches have nowhere to go. Their Pictish kin in Fortriu won't give them land—Fortriu has enough trouble, holding its borders against the Irish. Strathclyde doesn't want them, any more than you do, in Gododdin." Covianna sighed. "Most of them want nothing more than passage to Galwyddel, I'll wager. We Britons have long since conquered the Galwyddellian Picts, of course, but it's a better destination for them than many I could name. Galwyddel has need of fighting men loyal to the Britons, if the queen of Galwyddel—and the Dux Bellorum—have the wisdom to gain that loyalty." Covianna glanced at Morgana, then back to Stirling. "If Artorius would grant these wretches safe passage, a place to settle, and a little training, he would gain several hundred infantry to defend the western coast against the Irish."

Her tone hinted most clearly that Artorius would do no such thing, particularly since his sister had just been widowed. At least, he wouldn't without a good deal of prompting from his allies—and Stirling realized abruptly that Covianna wanted
him
to argue the case to the Dux Bellorum. Her take on the situation made sense. A great deal of sense, both politically and from a military standpoint. Who better to throw into the breach against Irish invaders than desperate refugees who already hated the Irish bitterly? It would certainly save Briton lives. The trouble was, Stirling had no idea whether or not those lives were
supposed
to be saved. Anything he did out of the ordinary might change history, defeating his whole purpose in coming here. It was hellish, not knowing what he could and couldn't safely
do,
particularly when the soldier in him recognized a militarily sound solution to multiple problems. Ancelotis, whose brother lay in an early grave, also remained silent, for perfectly understandable reasons.

Covianna's eyes went as chilly as the morning wind off the distant Atlantic. Artorius was shouting commands to the
cataphracti
officers when a rumble of thunder rolled into their awareness, from further down the Roman road. A living thunder, Stirling realized abruptly, hundreds of horses at the gallop. An instant later, an immense body of heavily armed Celtic cavalry swept across the farthest visible Pictish camps, laying waste in a charge that struck the Picts like an earthquake. The newly arrived army drove the men back with brutal force, hacking down any who offered armed resistance, setting fire to ragged possessions, driving off weary ponies and scraggly herds of Highlands sheep.

Artorius shouted, "Attack! They're trapped between Strathclyde's men and ourselves! Cut them down where they stand!"

Stirling bit his tongue to keep from protesting. He had no right to protest—even if he'd dared risk changing history. Artorius led a second devastating charge that smashed into the desperate Picts, a hammer blow against the anvil of Strathclyde's forces. The Picts reeled, struck back desperately with pikes and arrows and spears, spitting the horses more often than the men, so that riders went crashing to the ground beneath their thrashing, pain-crazed mounts. Stirling had no choice but to follow Artorius' lead; for him to take any other action would amount to treason in the face of the enemy. The
cataphracti
of Gododdin roared into battle at his heels, even as Stirling struggled to free his heavy sword from its scabbard.

He managed to draw the sword and attempted a few ineptly clumsy swings with it, endangering nothing but his own horse. His mount clamped its ears back and went stiff-legged in a battle maneuver that nearly unseated him. In utter desperation, Stirling yielded to the fierce mind sharing brain space with his own. Ancelotis, clamoring for control of their actions, took over instantly, which left Stirling in the eerie position of passive observer while his body hacked and hewed and cut down men in a broad swath of destruction.

It was over within minutes. The
cataphracti
hunted down the last of the Pictish men through the forest and butchered them before herding the women and children across open fields toward the Roman road. Stirling found himself trembling with fatigue and shock. He clutched a filthy, gore-stained sword and blood dripped down his armor. He felt sick with the brutality of it, even after the combat and death he'd witnessed in Belfast. It was not at all the same, shooting a man or seeing someone blown to bits by a terrorist's bomb as it was gutting someone on swordpoint at arm's reach. Killing with a blade was far more personal, both for the man killed and the man doing the killing. He found no honor at all in riding down and slaughtering refugees who were all but helpless.

Ancelotis reacted to this with cold rage.
Look you there, Stirling of Caer-Iudeu, and tell me again that yon barbarians were helpless!
Men of the
cataphracti
were down by the dozens, wounded horses screaming, riders hacked to death by enraged, desperate men. Artorius himself had dismounted to kneel over one such fallen man. A boy in his mid teens, freckled and fair, with thick, copper-colored hair visible beneath the edges of his helmet, had crouched over the fallen man, as well, his distress so deep, it was clear the dead man could be no one but the boy's father. When Stirling caught a gleam of gold at the boy's neck—and at the fallen warrior's—he realized with a deep chill that a king had fallen in this battle.
Another
king, dead at the hands of Picts...

Ancelotis groaned aloud and spurred his horse closer, providing Stirling with a name.
Dumgual Hen of Strathclyde, may the saints help us... .
Stirling slid out of the saddle in time to hear the boy cry, " 'Tis
my
fault! Mother charged me to watch his back, and I failed him! Artorius, what am I to
do
?"

Artorius laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Take him home. Bury him with honors and give your mother what comfort and courage you can. No man could have guarded his back any better than you, lad. The pikemen took his horse down so fast, no one could have reached him before the bastards had cut his throat. You tried valiantly, lad, as did I."

The boy's tears tracked messily down his face, but Artorius' words had clearly eased at least some of his wild grief and guilt. The Dux Bellorum hesitated, then added heavily, "Strathclyde's council of elders must name a new ruler, lad, and quickly. Do not be distressed, Clinoch, whatever their decision, whether they confirm you now or name another to hold Strathclyde until you are ready. I will cast my vote in your favor, for I saw how well you fought this day, and I know you to be a steady and wise lad, with the nerve to do what must be done. But your councillors must act in the best interests of your people, just as the councillors of Gododdin have named Ancelotis to the throne until Gwalchmai is older. You must vow to aid them however you can."

The boy's head snapped up and his face washed white beneath its dusting of tan freckles. The full import of his father's death struck with devastating force as it came home that he might well be called upon to take his father's place as king—or, perhaps even worse,
not
be called.

Ancelotis slid to the ground and strode across to clasp Clinoch's arm in a grip of equals. "I grieve with you, Clinoch, and with all of Strathclyde. Your father will be sorely missed. But," and he, too, laid a hand on the boy's trembling shoulder, "your father has trained you well. My sword and men are at your call, should you need us. I pledge to defend Strathclyde if defense be needed in this time of confusion and grief. But you
will
avenge him, Clinoch, just as I will avenge my slain brother, this I swear by all that is holy."

Suppressed weeping shook the boy's young shoulders as he met Stirling's eyes, his own reddened and wet. "Yes," he said harshly. "I will have heads for this!" Then, visibly struggling to recall the courtesies, "Forgive me, I had not heard the news of Lot Luwddoc."

"Nor could you have, and him slain not two days since. We're bound for a council of the northern kings at Caerleul, a council I'm thinking you will attend as an equal, for I, too, will speak in your favor, Clinoch son of Dumgual Hen."

"I thank you for that," the boy said, bringing himself under steadier control.

Artorius said quietly, "Come, Clinoch, we must bear him home to your mother at Caer-Brithon, then ride for Caerleul as if all the demons of hell were at our heels, for the Saxons have challenged the sovereignty of Rheged itself."

Clinoch's breath caught as he stared into Artorius' angry grey eyes. "Challenged Rheged? Are they
mad
?"

"Only with greed. You're needed, heir of Strathclyde, as you have never been needed in your life."

"Then we will sing my father's funeral dirges in the saddle and leave him to be buried by my mother and younger brothers. Strathclyde can ill afford the number of orphans the Saxons would gift us with."

"Well spoken," Ancelotis nodded.

They lifted Dumgual Hen's body, placing him across the saddle of a riderless horse and bound him there securely for the king's final journey. Dumgual's own mount lay dead at Stirling's feet, chest and ribs pierced by long, broken pikes which had brought both animal and king down to destruction. Clinoch recovered his father's sword and cleaned the blood from it, then sheathed it in an ornate scabbard decorated with silver and strapped it to his own horse before vaulting into the saddle.

Soldiers of the
cataphracti
were recovering their dead, as well, while others stripped weaponry from the Pictish men they'd slain. So far as Stirling could see, the Picts had nothing else of value that would tempt the Briton cavalry to loot. The sight sickened him, however, worse than Belfast. Without food or supplies, the surviving women and children would starve. Surely Ancelotis and Artorius could see the risk posed by ravenous marauders desperate for food to put into their children's bellies? The Pictish refugees were heading disconsolately northward, not even permitted to bury their newly slain along the verges of the Roman road. Carrion crows were already circling overhead, waiting their chance.

As Stirling struggled back into his own saddle, he caught snatches of conversation from the Celtic cavalrymen, angry mutters about heathen Picts who refused to die properly on their own side of the border, who came in ravening bands to kill Celtic royalty. Covianna Nim, Queen Ganhumara, and Queen Morgana had remained well clear of the battle, although both queens clenched swords and Morgana's fingers were white from the strength of her grip. The women reined their horses nearer and Ganhumara edged her way over to Medraut, who had rushed into the battle with Artorius and Ancelotis and sat staring bleakly at the heir to Strathclyde. The boy's sword dripped with as much gore as any other Briton's.

Ganhumara spoke too quietly for Stirling to catch the words, but he found Morgana gazing narrowly at her nephew and Artorius' wife. Stirling realized with a start of surprise that Medraut and Ganhumara were almost exactly the same age. The look Medraut gave the young queen rang alarm bells at the back of Stirling's skull, a look of compounded misery, grief, and hopeless love.

The murky and complexly shifting political nightmare into which he'd been so abruptly thrust deepened another degree as the full import of that look sank in. Morgana's nephew, a potential heir surely, to
someone's
kingdom given his family history, was helplessly in love with Artorius' beautiful young queen. And the look—and touch—she gave in return were far more tender than any he'd seen her bestow on her husband. Deeper and deeper this disaster grew, and Stirling had no idea how to navigate his way through it.

They set out again, riding steadily south in a massive column, Gododdin in formation behind Ancelotis and Strathclyde in formation behind Prince Clinoch. The drizzle which had plagued them through the night thickened into an hours-long downpour which soaked through Stirling's wool cloak and ran in chilly runnels down the neck of his cuirass, soaking tunics and trousers to the skin. The wind blew mercurial sheets of rain across the road, slashing horses and riders alike. Stirling was used to patrols through the worst sorts of weather, but never on horseback and never after an exhausting and sickening battle from horseback, and certainly never faced with the prospect of no central heating and no tea—not even coffee—to warm him at the end of the grueling day.