‘We are bloody fools,’ grumbled Huell, though he seemed pleased enough to march beside Arthur. Becoming a one-handed, pitiful figure who rode whilst other men marched was humiliating and had stripped away all of Huell’s brashness and warrior pride. So he marched with his wounded arm still in a cloth sling, but at least he marched with purpose.
‘Who is Arawn?’ asked Redwulf cheerfully. He held a spear taken from one of Balin’s men, though the black cloak had been reluctant to hand his weapon to a Saxon.
‘An old god,’ said Arthur. ‘Lord of Annwn, the underworld.’
‘I hope this plan of yours works,’ said Kai, ignoring the Saxon. He peered down the valley towards where the Saxon column marched in the distance. The enemy followed the valley’s contours, and they were so far away, beyond a hill littered with rocks and boulders, that it was conceivable that Arthur’s small band marching from the high forest had not seen them.
‘It will work if we do it right,’ said Arthur. ‘The Saxons hate us. Their very name for us means slave. So, the Saxons believe themselves superior to us, that we are a worthless people. They believe their gods encourage them to take our land, that we cannot fight as well as they, and so they will attack us because they can’t help themselves.’
Redwulf grunted at that truth, and Arthur shifted his grip on the fox-painted shield he had borrowed from Dewi in temporary exchange for his larger Saxon shield. They reached the brook, its water running fast down the hillside, leaping over slick rocks and pebbles. Arthur turned his back on the Saxon column, and his band did the same. They kept their shields slung across their backs to make them as noticeable as possible, and Huell dipped his left hand into the cool water and splashed it on his face. Kai scooped up a handful of water and threw it at Arthur, and the rest of the young warriors laughed and followed his lead, so that before long they were ankle deep in the fast-flowing water, kicking it at one another in huge splashes, laughing and chasing each other through the water.
Arthur risked a half-glance over his shoulder, and three Saxons pounded up the hillside towards them. They paused, staring at Arthur’s men with hands over their eyes. The three men waited for what seemed like an age. He held his breath, worried that his plan would fail, but one of the Saxons turned and waved to the column so that forty Saxons in furs and leather marched up the hill towards the forest.
‘Here they come,’ said Arthur. ‘Wait. Stay calm and do not turn around. When I give the order, we run for the trees as fast as we can.’
The men nodded and continued with their playful splashing. Arthur crouched by the brook’s edge as though he filled a skin with water and glanced nervously over his shoulder. The Saxons were so hungry for the fight that they broke out into a run up towards the Britons. Arthur ignored the gnaw of fear in his belly; his plan was working, and as the Saxon warriors came on, they saw a chance to kill a band of raiders and if Arthur timed it correctly, then there would be a slaughter on a Bernician hillside. He waited until he could hear the clank of their axes and spears against shields, until the sound of their boots upon the wild grass rumbled like distant thunder. He stood and turned, feigned mock surprise at the Saxon approach, and stumbled backwards into the brook. The cold water sloshed about his boots, and Arthur grabbed Kai’s shoulder as though alerting him to the enemy approach.
‘Turn now, men,’ Arthur said, ‘look at them but do not run yet. We have to let them come closer so that when they charge, they do so in broken formation. Wait for it.’
His men followed Arthur’s orders and stumbled about in the water, gathering their weapons and shields as though they were incompetent warriors. The Saxon scouts were closest and a warrior with a red beard stretched ahead of the rest with long, loping strides. He thought to make a name for himself, to be the first to strike at the inept Britons. Arthur hefted his spear, took two steps forward, levelled the point and threw it just as he had countless times on the practice field at Caer Ligualid. The spear soared high, and the red-bearded man slowed his pace, gaping up at the arcing spear point, but he could not react in time and the spear flew down towards him impossibly fast and its leaf-shaped blade sliced through his belly and dropped him to the grass. The Saxon wailed in pain, clutching at the weapon embedded in his midriff. His blood soaked into the grass, and the Saxons behind roared with anger, and their run turned into a furious charge.
‘Now!’ Arthur called to his men. ‘Run for the trees!’
They turned and fled, but as Arthur ran beside Kai and Huell, he noticed one figure had not left the brook, and he turned and saw Redwulf running in the opposite direction.
Arthur paused. ‘Redwulf!’ he roared, and the Saxon turned to him. Redwulf spat towards Arthur, turned, dropped his trews and showed his bare arse. Oathbreaker. Arthur was stunned. He had protected Redwulf when Balin would have killed him, he had allowed Redwulf to live and march with the war band, Redwulf had sworn an oath to Arthur and to break an oath was to discard a man’s honour, casting him as low as a beast in the ditch. But there was no time to contemplate that betrayal now, because two score wild Saxons hurtled up the hill towards him. They came for blood. They had seen the scar of smoke on their borders and knew that Britons had raided and killed a Saxon settlement.
Their fallen scout screamed in pain from Arthur’s spear in his guts and they came to kill. Arthur ran as though he had wings, flying across the grass like a hawk. Huell had fallen behind the rest, struggling to run in his weakened state, and listing to his wounded side.
Arthur grabbed Huell around the waist and dragged him onward. ‘We are almost there. Keep going,’ he said. The trees were only twenty paces away, and some of Arthur’s men had already reached the safety of the spears within the dense treeline. The Saxons bellowed with rage, and Arthur risked another glance over his shoulder. Two of the Saxon scouts were close, so close that Arthur could see the whites of their furious eyes and knew in that horrifying moment that he and Huell would not make the trees. The Saxons were upon him, axes in their fists and hatred twisting their bearded faces.
12
Arthur pushed Huell towards the trees where the war band lay hidden. Huell stumbled forwards and wrapped his good hand about the gnarled trunk of an elm tree.
‘Go,’ Arthur said. He swallowed the knot of fear in his belly, ripped his long knife free from his belt, and turned on his heel. If he was going to die, it would not be from a wound in his back. The two Saxon scouts were mere steps away from him. The first man came on with flowing blonde hair and a look of joy on his face as he brought his axe back in a wild, wide overhand sweep. Two steps and Arthur could smell garlic on the man’s breath, and he ducked around the axe, dragged his seax free from its sheath at his lower back and in one fluid motion Arthur whipped the blade across the charging Saxon’s stomach. The man tottered a few more paces and fell to his knees, but Arthur kept moving and he brought his knife up to parry the second warrior’s seax which came for his neck in a wicked thrust.
Their blades rang together, and the Saxon barrelled into Arthur, his running weight driving them both to the grass, where they rolled together, grunting and gasping as each tried desperately to strike the killing blow. The seax blade sliced across Arthur’s forearm, but his own blade found the Saxon’s groin, and Arthur drove the seax home, twisting it savagely. The Saxon made a high-pitched mewing sound, and he stared at Arthur with watery blue eyes, and Arthur looked away as he ripped his blade free in a wash of thick blood. He sprang to his feet, heart pounding in his chest at the sight of the Saxon war band racing towards him. Arthur raised his arms out wide, a bloody blade in each fist, and he roared at the Saxons to come and die. The madness was upon him, the war-rage, and suddenly he felt no fear. His plan had worked, and two Saxons lay dead. Arthur saw Redwulf amongst the charging horde, the young warrior was gesticulating wildly at a shaggy-haired man with white fur around his shoulders, but the bigger man ignored Redwulf, though the oathbreaker did his best to warn the Saxons of the trap which lay ahead.
Arthur set his feet, believing he must die as forty bloodthirsty Saxon warriors charged at him, howling their hate. In those desperate heartbeats, he wondered if Ector would be proud of him, if they would bury him or leave him to rot on a hillside in Lloegyr where crows would peck at his dead eyes. Strangely, he wondered if Queen Igraine yet lived, and if Lunete was safe in Caer Ligualid. Screaming faces descended upon Arthur, bearded axes, spears and seaxes coming to tear open his flesh and slash him to bloody ruin. Arthur made ready to attack the first man, a tattooed warrior with an enormous axe held in two hands. But in that darkest of moments where Arthur thought death had come for him, warriors surged from behind. Howling men came hurtling past Arthur like a great tidal wave, crashing into the Saxons with a sickening crunch of steel, wood and flesh. The monstrous figure of Bors barged Arthur aside, as the champion of Gododdin tore into the Saxons. His shield threw two of the enemy from their feet and Bors’ spear ripped a man’s throat open with such force that it almost tore his head from his shoulders.
The battle was short and brutal. Arthur killed two more men in that fight, and the Saxons were defeated the moment Bors and Balin of the Two Swords emerged from the trees to meet the ragged Saxon line with their own controlled charge. A dozen Saxons escaped, fleeing down the hillside and into the valley beyond. Redwulf was one of those men, and his betrayal left a bitter taste in Arthur’s mouth. The Britons cheered their victory, and Kai and Arthur celebrated together. Kai embraced him, and the two young warriors laughed at the sheer joy of killing an enemy who had come to kill them. Survival and victory were intoxicating, like too much ale drank at a feast, and Arthur’s head swam with it. A large hand dropped onto Arthur’s shoulder, and the giant figure of Bors stared down at him, his wide forehead spattered with blood.
‘Well done,’ he said solemnly, the usual loud joviality gone from his deep voice. ‘What is your name again?’
‘Arthur.’
‘Who is your father, Arthur, if it was not Ector?’
‘I do not know, I am an orphan, raised by Ector of Caer Ligualid.’
Bors nodded, and then the bronze disc at Arthur’s neck caught the big champion’s eye. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘It was a gift, lord, from Queen Igraine of Rheged.’
‘A gift from a queen, and Queen Igraine at that. She is my cousin; did you know that? God help me, but that boar Urien treated her terribly. She deserved better, so fair and so kind. Take care of it, Arthur, for it is a fine gift from a noble woman.’
‘Yes, lord,’ Arthur said, resisting the urge to tuck the disc behind his jerkin so that nobody else would see it. The gift made Arthur uneasy. He did not know the queen and had only been in her company for one awkward night at Ector’s request. Yet it brought him comfort, and more importantly, whenever he touched it, the dragon-etched disc brought him luck.
‘You did well today.’ Bors tapped Arthur’s forehead with a thick finger. ‘Cunning in war is as valuable as a hundred swords. If you have it, use it. Never be afraid to speak up. You killed those two Saxons where another man would have carried on running in fear. Men will follow courage, lad, they will follow a brave man into battle. Even if it means their death, a brave leader will incite them on to great deeds. Remember that, and I will remember your name, Arthur.’
‘Yes, lord,’ said Arthur again, unable to find any other words, so filled with pride was his head and heart.
‘Now. You have the right to strip the wealth from those Saxon bastards you killed, so take their weapons, their armour and whatever else you can find on their stinking corpses.’ Bors clapped Arthur so hard on the shoulder that he almost fell over.
Balin’s black cloaks and the warriors of Gododdin busied themselves stripping the dead of anything of value, and they encouraged Arthur to take what he had won through combat from the men he had killed. Kai did the same, and grinned broadly at an ivory-hilted knife he took from a flaxen-bearded Saxon and a handful of chipped, thin Roman coins he found in the same man’s belt purse. Arthur found the men he had killed, their faces still, flesh white and marked with crusted blood. Flies already buzzed about their eyes, and one of the dead Saxons had voided his bowels in his death throes and the stink, mixed with the iron stink of blood, was sickening. A pair of dead eyes stared at him, and there was innocence there, and fear. Arthur felt guilty then, ashamed that the dead men would never see their wives, children, mothers or fathers again. Then he remembered what Ector had said about mercy, and he thought of how many Britons must have died under the slain men’s blades.
The other warriors watched him, and though he could hardly bring himself to touch the dead Saxons, he had to take his right. It was expected, and to not take what he had won in battle would show weakness, so he took some hacksilver and a new belt studded with copper buttons, and also a breastplate of hard-baked leather. The armour stank of stale sweat and horse, but it was armour, the precious sign of a warrior of reputation. It wasn’t the chain mail of an elite champion, but it was armour, and Arthur shrugged it on over his jerkin. A commotion at the brook caught Arthur’s attention, and he followed Kai down to where a knot of Gododdin men and black cloaks pushed and shouted at one another.
‘What’s all the bloody noise about?’ asked Bors, striding into the midst of the disagreement and hurling men aside with his mighty arms.
‘There’s a half a dozen prisoners here, lord,’ said a Gododdin man, ‘and these black cloaks say they must wait for Lord Balin’s command before they agree what can be done with them.’
‘We don’t take orders from Gododdin sheep shaggers,’ said a black cloak with hard eyes.
‘Set them free,’ came the hard voice of Balin of the Two Swords. ‘All men know I don’t take prisoners, but these men are different.’
‘Different how?’ said Bors, sticking his thumbs in his belt and puffing his chest out. ‘A Saxon is a Saxon.’ The Gododdin men reared up at the black cloaks’ insult, hands dropped to weapon hilts and the tension made Arthur shift his feet uncomfortably.
