Columns of smoke smeared the horizon beyond sweeping forests as the army crossed the head of a steep valley which marked Rheged’s border with Gododdin. The warriors had left Caer Ligualid in high spirits, men beating marching time with spears on shields and singing war songs to pass the long day humping their gear and supplies across Rheged’s mountainous terrain. But the first signs of smoke sent the men into a sullen, silent trudge along a goat path as they descended into the valley basin. All men knew what those smears meant, and none more so than Balin of the Two Swords and his handful of survivors from lost Bernicia. Dewi led the black cloaks in a sad song to remember their fallen brothers and dead families, and the warriors of other kingdoms hummed along to the tune, all men fearing that Bernicia’s dark fate could one day be their own.
They camped that night beside a glassy-surfaced tarn at the valley’s northern end, where Arthur, Ector, Balin, Kai, Malegant, Nimue and Idnerth sat beside a fire with a brace of rabbits roasting slowly on the flames.
‘This is where the march becomes treacherous,’ said Balin, usually the last man to speak amongst the army’s commanders. ‘The Saxons are loose in Gododdin. That is the way they fight. They’ll raid and ravage and then muster for battle once King Letan and his warriors emerge in numbers, seeking revenge.’
‘Will they not make straight for Dunpendyrlaw and try to take the fortress?’ asked Idnerth. ‘Or lure King Letan out into the field to fight? If the Saxons want Gododdin, they must capture its fortress and kill its king.’
‘The Saxons want to draw them out. They don’t want to lay siege to Dunpendyrlaw or any of Gododdin’s other strongholds. If they settle in for a siege, the Saxons must find food, ale or water for three thousand men. They want open battle where their greater numbers can deliver a swift victory. They will commit atrocities in the field, horrors whose tales will sail on the wind to Gododdin’s warriors and its king and provoke them to leave their fastnesses to fight, to stop the rape, murder and enslavement of their people. We must scout the land ahead carefully, or we could come from a forest and stumble upon hundreds of Saxons baying for blood.’
‘The Saxons owe blood to their gods,’ said Nimue. ‘Woden, Týr and Thunor demand it of them. Balin is right, Ida or Octha, whoever commands, will let their war band loose on the people of Gododdin to slake their thirst for blood and plunder. Riders will scour the countryside in search of Gododdin warriors, and only when it is time to fight will the army become one. Then, they will look to crush Gododdin with one hammer blow, kill King Letan and Prince Gawain and Gododdin becomes a Saxon kingdom.’
‘How do you know this, gwyllion?’ asked Malegant, making the sign of the cross across his chest. All the Christian warriors feared Nimue with her shaved head, the oddly glimmering stones set into her teeth, her black staff and painted face, though many of them now carried her elf stones for luck.
‘I know because I sailed across the narrow sea on their ships, I once healed a wound in Octha’s thigh, and I sacrificed beasts to the gods for battle luck. So, though I am an Irish servant of the old gods, I know the Saxons well.’
‘You are a Saxon sorcerer?’ spat Malegant, rising to his feet in anger.
‘I am no Saxon. I serve the gods and Merlin. I can weave a charm to bring you battle luck. Should you wish it?’
‘I’d rather roast my balls on that fire, gwyllion.’
‘I don’t want to see your balls,’ said Kai, and the others chuckled, breaking the tension, ‘so let’s carry on with the discussion.’
‘So, we march carefully,’ said Ector. ‘No man here is new to war or fighting. We are in lands where an enemy could wait for us at every turn. Gododdin is as mountainous as Rheged in these parts, but it changes to lower plains and meadows in the east. So, we stick to valleys as we march, but keep to the slopes so that we do not yield high ground to the Saxons should they come upon us. Valleys give us access to water and grass for the horses. We do not camp on high hills, but on hillocks and knolls which give us a view of the surrounding country.’
The leaders all nodded at the sense of Ector’s words, and then Balin stood, staring out into the northern night. ‘They are out there,’ he said wistfully. ‘We must combine our forces, or the Saxons will pick off Owain’s warriors, then King Letan’s forces, and then our own. Alone, we cannot win. We must bring them to one decisive battle.’
‘But they outnumber us?’ said Kai.
‘We either fight them in battle, yield Gododdin to the Saxons, or let them destroy us as we march.’
‘Balin is right,’ said Arthur. ‘We must find Owain and get through to King Letan. No doubt Prince Gawain and Bors are readying for battle, somewhere in Gododdin’s hills and valleys. I will ride out in the morning with my ten men and head for Dunpendyrlaw. Malegant, your riders should scout ahead of the army and look for signs of Owain.’
Arthur realised they all looked to him, and none of the captains disputed his plan. He had spoken more to suggest what to do than as a command, but the only responses were respectful nods. The time had come for war. All Arthur had worked and strove for since the day he had left Caer Ligualid in what seemed a lifetime ago led to this moment. The fate of Britain hung in the balance. If he failed, if Britain failed, then it would become a land of Saxons, his people slaves or worse. He looked out into the night. A few of the brightest stars fought their way through a dusting of dark cloud to shine in the heavens beside a low crescent moon, as curved and sharp as a blade. Arthur returned to Llamrei and fed the horse a handful of oats before bedding down for the night under his cloak. It was a long, sleepless night filled with fitful tossing and turning as he pondered the ride through enemy-infested Gododdin, where he could run into the savage enemy at any turn. He remembered the dread strength of the Saxon champions he had faced at Dun Guaroy, their brutal size and skill and the ease with which they had bested him. Arthur could not close his eyes without seeing Octha, Ida and his sons Ibissa and Theodric, their cruel faces dripping with malice and violence. Redwulf too haunted him. It was time to find them and face them, and the thought made Arthur shudder.
21
Llamrei picked his way through dense bracken, and a covering of fallen twigs and rotting leaves crunched and cracked beneath the horse’s hooves. Arthur ducked his head between creaking boughs as he rode through a dense woodland of oak, rowan and birch trees, a day’s ride from Ector, Balin, Kai and their army of spearmen. Arthur’s ten riders trailed behind him, and five riders who had joined his forces on the road north swelled their numbers. Young men eager to be part of the fight against the Saxons. They rode in grim silence. Earlier that day they had passed through a ravaged farm, corpses bloated and stinking in the ruins, yet more evidence of devastating Saxon raids. A bloated cow had lowed painfully in the farm’s pasture, its belly distended and in desperate need of milking. It had hurt Arthur to give the order to leave the slaughtered folk as they lay, but there was no time to stay and give the dead the respect they deserved. Arthur had to reach Dunpendyrlaw and bring the disparate Briton forces together before Gododdin fell.
A clearing opened up where the forest rose steeply to the north and fell away to a broad meadow with high, wild grasses to the east. A flock of birds burst suddenly from the treetops in that pasture, where an ancient oak sprawled in the bright space, and beyond it a clutch of birch trees reached for the sky with spindly, grasping limbs. Something spooked Llamrei, and the horse reared a little, and then veered to the right. Arthur leant forward and shushed soothingly into the horse’s ear and stroked his muscular neck to calm him.
‘There’s something in those trees,’ Arthur said to his men. ‘Hold here.’ The forest canopy hid them from the bright clearing and its high grasses swaying on a gentle summer breeze. Llamrei bobbed his head and snorted, and Arthur stroked his ears. Undergrowth cracked, branches shifted and a line of warriors emerged from the northern woods, men with long hair and beards, and strips of dyed cloth woven into their braids. Each carried a shield bearing the stag of Gododdin, and at their head stalked a huge man, shaved head glistening, and a long-handled Saxon war-axe resting upon his shoulder.
‘It’s Lord Bors, and the men of Gododdin,’ Arthur said warmly, happy to see the big warrior healed and hale after the wounds he had taken in the escape from Dun Guaroy. Arthur’s men laughed with relief that the force was Britons, and not the dreaded Saxons. Arthur clicked his tongue and was about to ride from the trees and greet Gododdin’s champion, when a voice from behind checked him.
‘Arthur, wait,’ said a woman’s voice in alarm, surprising Arthur. Lunete’s voice. ‘Look, there are warriors in the trees.’
Arthur’s head swam. He wanted to turn and rage at Lunete for sneaking away from Caer Ligualid again, but she was right. Shadows shifted in the trees across the clearing from where the birds had flown moments earlier. More of Bors’ warriors trudged into the clearing until there were fifty spearmen in the open. A dog burst from the eastern trees, a hugely muscled beast, barking and slathering as it hurtled towards the men of Gododdin. Llamrei shook his head, the dog’s bark and stink unsettling him.
‘Saxon war dog. It’s an ambush,’ Arthur said through gritted teeth. A clearing surrounded by dense forest was the perfect position to launch an attack. ‘Lunete, do not move from this position, or I’ll send you back to Caer Ligualid in chains. The rest of you, on me.’
An arrow sang past Arthur’s head, loosed by Lunete from the back of her horse, its white goose feathers whistling as it tore through the air and vanished into the distant trees. A man cried out in pain from those shaded eastern boughs, and then a blood-curdling war cry sounded. A Saxon war cry. Lunete slid from her saddle, hooded cloak still drawn up about her raven-black hair. She stuck a handful of arrows into the earth before her, knelt, and loosed them one by one towards the enemy. Arthur dug his heels into Llamrei’s flanks, and the horse set off, cantering through the trees while Arthur’s men followed.
Saxons burst from the woodland, howling as they charged towards Bors with seax blades drawn and spears in their fists. More war dogs bounded towards the Britons, and as Arthur rode between the trees, Bors killed the first Saxon with a mighty sweep of his war axe. Arthur nudged Llamrei right and led his men deeper into the woods, as the crash of iron, wood and bone cracked from the clearing like lightning as the two war bands came together. The hooves of his men’s horses clattered through the leaf mulch, and Arthur turned again, driving his horsemen to where the Saxons had burst forth. Figures moved between the trunks. A Saxon holy man pranced with two long-haired scalps in each fist, bawling at the Saxon warriors in their harsh tongue. Arthur leapt from Llamrei’s back, dragged Excalibur from its scabbard and pulled his shield from the horse’s back.
‘Attack the bastards from the rear,’ he growled at his men and set off through the trees at a flat run. He clattered the holy man across the head with the flat of his sword. To kill a man beloved of the gods, even Saxon gods, was to invite their ire and so Arthur knocked the shrieking shaman to the ground instead. As he ran, Arthur quickly touched the bronze disc at his neck, and Guinevere’s silver pin at his belt for luck, for all warriors need luck in battle.
‘For Britain!’ Arthur bellowed, and a tangle-haired Saxon hanging at the rear of the fight turned, eyes wide with horror to see a tall man in chain mail, carrying a bright sword and an iron-shod shield, charging at him. Arthur crashed his shield’s heavy iron boss into the man’s face and heard bones crack. He left the man to fall and swung his sword across the skull of another Saxon and then he was amongst them. A sharp-toothed war dog leapt at him, its jaws wide and poised to crush his bones to ruin, but Arthur battered it away with his shield and the beast squealed and ran away. In the chaos of battle, Arthur could not tell how many Saxons ambushed Bors’ war band. His only aim was to take them by surprise and induce panic with an attack on their rear.
‘Shield wall,’ Arthur ordered as the Saxons grew thicker about him. Many had turned, hearing the shrieks of the two men Arthur had attacked, and they howled to see an enemy force behind them. They had thought to ambush Bors’ men and have a great slaughter but found themselves surrounded instead. Arthur paused until his men formed up around him. Hywel overlapped his shield with Arthur’s, and another warrior did the same on his left side. They advanced using the Saxon tactics Arthur had learned in the north and drilled into his men until it became second nature, an organised shield wall with spears bristling. The Saxons themselves had abandoned any sort of organisation, so hungry were they to charge into the ambush and spill Gododdin blood.
A big-bellied Saxon hurled himself at Arthur’s shield and died with Hywel’s Roman spear in his throat. More Saxons turned to attack Arthur’s small shield wall, but as they did so the Gododdin men found gaps, and the roar of Bors the champion rose above the din of battle as he killed his enemies with his mighty war axe. A war dog tore out a Gododdin man’s throat in a gout of dark blood, and men shrank away from its ferocity. A Saxon hooked the tip of his axe on the lip of Arthur’s shield and tried to yank it down, but Arthur braced his knee against the shield’s lower edge and the seax which came for his undefended throat instead rang off the shield’s upper iron rim. Arthur slid Excalibur’s blade across the shield rim and punched its tip into the axeman’s eye, twisted the blade, and as hot blood splashed across his face, he swept the sword down to cut open the seax wielder’s arm. He was a golden-bearded man, and his blue eyes clenched tight shut as Hywel drove his spear point into the man’s belly.
Resistance before Arthur’s shield wall vanished as the Saxons broke and ran for their lives. One Saxon fell with one of Lunete’s arrows in his back, and the men of Gododdin were before Arthur, hacking and slashing at the fleeing Saxons.
‘Arthur!’ came Bors’ deep voice. ‘Is that you? By great Maponos’ hairy balls, but I thought they had us there. Well met, lad, well met.’
Arthur dropped his shield and took Bors’ brawny arm in the warrior’s grip. The fight broke up around them as the Britons chased down the routed Saxons. Three war dogs ran across the meadow beyond the fighting, sniffing the grass and barking at the carnage. One group of four Saxons remained, shields locked around a tall man who wore a shining helmet topped with a plume of black raven feathers. The helmeted man wielded a sword and snarled at Bors’ men, who surrounded him and the last of his warriors.
‘We have brought men to fight the Saxons,’ Arthur said, catching his breath after the skirmish. ‘I’ll tell you more when this is over.’
Arthur marched towards the man in the helmet and Bors ordered the Gododdin men to stand down. The tall Saxon strode out from behind his men’s shields, glanced at Bors and then Arthur. He drank in Arthur’s expensive chain mail and his sword. Only the wealthiest lords and most successful warriors went to war so richly garbed, and he levelled his sword towards Arthur in challenge. He saw a chance to kill a warlord, and so earn the favour of his brutal warlike gods before he died.
‘I’ll kill the Saxon turd,’ said Bors and hefted his bloody axe.
‘He challenged me, and the men saw him do it. I’ll fight him.’
Bors nodded and shrugged, and men moved aside to let Arthur and the Saxon fight. He was clearly their leader in his fine helmet, white fur-lined cloak, and his sword had silver wire wrapped about its hilt. He snarled and launched himself at Arthur with a flurry of wild slashes, but Arthur easily parried them. The man was no swordsman, and Arthur swayed aside from a wide chop and punched Excalibur’s pommel into the Saxon’s nose, stunning him. The Saxon paused as blood squirted from his ruined face, and Arthur drove Excalibur’s point into his stomach, twisted the blade and wrenched it free. He dropped to his knees, holding in his entrails with his left hand. The stricken Saxon lifted his chin and Arthur slashed his throat open in a swift cut.
