Arthur’s mouth flopped open, but he had nothing to say. The thought that he might be the Pendragon’s and Igraine’s son had grown secretly in his dreams, never quite forming, not allowed to blossom or grow, but always there. He had hoped that it might be true, that he was not an orphan after all, but something more, something better. But he was just Arthur, the orphan, son of a dead mother and forgotten father. He touched Igraine’s bronze disc at his neck, hoping that its luck would still hold. The carnyx blared long and loud, sounded by Balin’s men to signal that the army should form up for battle. Men glanced nervously at one another and took mouthfuls of ale or mead. Some pissed where they stood, and others closed their eyes, whispering prayers to the gods.
‘Find Lunete for me,’ Ector said, pulling Arthur into a tight embrace. ‘Dead or alive, she must be brought home. If I die today… well, I love you, son.’
Arthur breathed in Ector’s smell and pushed his face into his foster father’s muscled shoulder. He wanted to tell Ector that he loved him too, to thank him for being such a good father, but as is too often the way with men, the words were left unsaid. They stared deep into each other’s eyes, and Arthur pulled away to join his men. On the way, he grabbed Kai’s arm in the warrior’s grip and clapped men he recognised on the shoulder. His heart pulsed, heavy like a stone, hurt that it should be Ector and his men who must face the Saxon champions and pin them in the river, and Ector’s words about his birth rang around his skull like a bell.
Nimue waited for Arthur, a goat held tight in her grip, and as he approached, she cut its throat with a curved knife and let the beast drop. The horses whickered at the smell of blood, but Nimue grinned, the stones in her teeth shining and her painted face bright with delight. The goat bucked on the grass, soaking it with arterial blood, and Nimue threw her hands up with malevolent glee at whatever she saw in the blood spatter.
‘The augurs are good,’ she crowed loudly so the men could hear. ‘The gods are with us today!’
Men cheered, even the Christians, and Arthur climbed onto Llamrei’s back. He strapped on the helmet taken from the Saxon he had killed, its raven feathers standing proudly from the helmet’s crest. Arthur hefted his heavy Saxon shield and drew Excalibur. He dug his heels into Llamrei’s flanks and cantered before the army of Britons. He recalled Dun Guaroy and the fear and terror of that terrible fortress, and how he had learned that pretending to be brave was bravery itself. Arthur held Excalibur aloft so that the men could see its shining blade. He was no fool, and knew the warriors of Dumnonia, Rheged, Elmet and Gododdin knew of its legend, and of his own, so finely crafted by Merlin. Arthur realised he could embrace that legend, use it and strengthen it. They cheered as he rode along the line, encouraged to it by Bors, Balin, Idnerth, Malegant and Ector, who each stood with their own warriors. The war cries rose like thunder, and Arthur let it wash over him, banishing all thoughts of Igraine, Uther, Octha and Merlin. There was no need for Arthur to talk, the leaders of each company bellowed at their men, and the army came together in a mass of shields and spears, men who came to fight for their loved ones, for their country and for freedom, and who readied themselves to face the horror of battle.
Arthur let them all see Excalibur and rode back to his own men. He sheathed the ancient blade and took his spear from Hywel and led his riders away from the army. The carnyx sounded again, metallic and monstrous, and the army roared. Llamrei’s hooves threw up clods of mud, and Arthur rode in a wide arc around a hummock covered with bracken and coarse brush. The Saxons’ horns blared, and though he couldn’t see, Arthur hoped the enemy took the bait and marched to meet the advancing Britons in the river. A crunching thunder crackled across the rolling plain, and Arthur winced. The two front lines had joined in slaughter, shields coming together with murderous force as men stabbed, slashed, cut and tore at each other. The sound of battle raged, and Arthur drove Llamrei into a gallop, fear gnawing at his insides. What if Ector could not hold? What if the line broke? Arthur would find himself behind the enemy, alone, a battle lost, and his friends and family slaughtered.
His riders kept close about Arthur as they emerged from behind the hummock. Battle raged on their left and the sheer size of the Saxon army took Arthur’s breath away. So many men, clad in fur, leather and iron, the number of spears so vast that their staves moved like a forest pushing inexorably towards the river. The Saxon flank stretched to the edges of the Britons’ line, protected by the stream’s obstacle. Balin held the left and Bors the right, and Arthur trusted those two men and their warriors to hold. A Saxon pointed at Arthur and shouted, but his comrades ignored his warning, so intent were they on the battle’s front.
Space opened up to Arthur’s left, and he brought Llamrei about behind the enemy lines. A clutch of Saxon women screamed, huddled by leather tents as Arthur rode past. He galloped through smoking, ash-blackened campfires, broken shields and empty ale skins cast aside where the horde had camped. Then the enemy rear was before him, a broiling mass of spearmen, shouting and shoving at the men in front. Arthur reined Llamrei in and leapt to the ground.
‘Kill!’ he roared to his men as they dismounted and hefted their heavy Saxon shields and spears. ‘We must smash them, crush them, show them how men of Britain fight.’
Arthur didn’t wait for the shield wall to form up around him. His men would do that just as they practised every day. Arthur let rage overtake him. He let go of control and snarled, levelling his spear and charging at the enemy. He had always harboured a hope that his parents could be important people, felt that a secret destiny awaited him. Igraine’s gift and Uther’s revelations had only stoked that dream. But it was a dream made of straw, a castle made of sand, Merlin’s creation. Arthur roared like a wild animal, and frightened faces turned, staring open-mouthed at his fury. Arthur drove into them with his shield braced against his shoulder. The Saxons cried out as the heavy iron boss smashed bones and threw them out of the way. Arthur killed a man with a spear thrust to the throat, and the iron stink of blood mixed with the cloying stench of leather, sweat, soil, ale, garlic and fear. Just as Bors had said, these were the shirkers of the Saxon army, the men who lurked at the rear, and Arthur killed them with contempt. He drove his spear into the small of a warrior’s back, ripped it free, and lunged again into the back of an enemy skull. Arthur was amongst them now, surrounded by Saxons, who twisted and pushed to get away from his murderous anger.
More Saxons turned, and Arthur stabbed his spear into a warrior’s belly. The man screamed in pain and the spear became trapped inside the dying man. Arthur let it go, drawing Excalibur and hacking into the Saxons like a demon. His men came behind him in their organised shield wall, the tactic Arthur had learned from the Saxons. Their spears lanced out from behind overlapped shields and the Saxons fled before them like sheep. Arthur clove his way forward, until he was five ranks deep in the enemy lines, and then a big man turned to face him, a scarred-faced man with drooping moustaches. He caught Arthur’s sword blade on his shield and lashed out with his spear, the tip scoring across Arthur’s cheek and ear like a fiery whip. Arthur raised his shield to knock the spear away and slashed open the moustached man’s throat with Excalibur’s point.
More men turned to face Arthur’s charge, and these were not frightened men. They were roaring, scarred warriors who organised themselves into a rearguard to keep Arthur’s charge at bay. Three of them bullied Arthur back with their shields, and he shuffled in between Hywel’s and Cadog’s shields to join the shield wall. More Saxons turned, and there was confusion in their ranks. Arthur spied Ida’s eagle standard only ten paces away from him as he cut a man down with a sweep of Excalibur’s edge across his eyes.
‘Forward!’ Arthur cried, and his men obeyed. They pushed into the enemy, driving the line of men before them backwards, shields pressed together so that the fight became a shoving match. The Saxons backed into the men behind them, who faced the opposite way, and more men turned away from the front line. A cry went up from the Saxon front. Arthur felt their line buckle, and he hoped it was Ector carving into them like the champion he was. A big man bullied his way into the Saxons facing Arthur, his golden hair shining and his blue eyes as pale as a winter pool. It was Ibissa, son of Ida, come to see what disrupted the Saxon rear. Ibissa grimaced at Arthur, noting his fine helmet, mail and sword, and he pushed his men out of the way, gesturing for Arthur to come and fight with a blood-soaked axe in his fist.
‘Don’t do it, lord,’ said Cadog in his left ear. ‘We are driving them backwards.’
Arthur could not refuse the challenge. He marched out of the line and charged at the big Saxon, hoping that if he could kill their prince, the Saxons would panic and crumble. He lunged at Ibissa, but the big man caught the sword on his shield boss, the ring of it jarring Arthur’s arm to the shoulder. Ibissa swung the axe, and it chopped into the rim of Arthur’s shield, the force of the blow like a horse’s kick. Arthur stumbled backwards and Ibissa hauled on his axe, which had become embedded in Arthur’s shield, and ripped the shield from Arthur’s grasp. It clattered to the earth: a field churned to mud by a thousand boots. Ibissa snarled, his axe trapped in the fallen shield, and Arthur swung Excalibur to rip the hulking Saxon’s throat open and spatter his men with their dying prince’s blood.
A great lament went up from the Saxons, and Arthur laid into them with Excalibur held in both hands, hacking and slashing like a wild man. Arthur had killed Ida’s son, and the joy of battle pulsed through him, strengthening him, making him feel unbeatable. Arthur charged again, but more Saxons closed in about him, the press of their bodies making it impossible to swing his sword. A man’s hot breath washed over Arthur’s face, stinking of stale ale and fish, and a spear smashed into the Saxon’s cheek, crushing his face and splashing blood over Arthur’s beard. He could not move, and the enemy snarled and spat at him, stamping on the corpse of their fallen prince so desperate were they to strike at Arthur and his men. The eagle wing standard rose above Arthur, a voice cried out in anguish and rage, so loud that it rose above the din of slaughter. The Saxons about Arthur melted away, some cowering, others thrown aside by a dozen enormous men. They were battle-hardened Saxon champions in furs and mail and at their centre lumbered King Ida, the Saxon conqueror, come to avenge his fallen son.
24
‘Sunu,’ Ida sobbed in his own tongue, dropping to his knees in the mire of mud, blood, shit and piss of terrified men. Beyond him, the battle raged, but Arthur saw a hedge of Britons’ spears edging closer, flowing into the gap left by Ida’s champions and carving into the Saxon shield wall. Ida rose, his face trembling and his teeth clenched. He bellowed at his warriors, and Ida’s picked champions came at Arthur with grim faces and sharp blades.
Cadog cried out as a seax stabbed into his chest, and the freed slave died and fell beneath the mass of warriors. Arthur lashed out at his killer, screaming in horror at the loyal man’s death, only to have his blade parried by a Saxon shield. A dozen of Arthur’s men remained. The rest had perished in his desperate charge. They were close to the front, had carved the Saxon army in two, and if he could reach Ector and the river, then the Saxons would be divided completely. But the Saxon champions were implacable. A spear sliced open Arthur’s thigh, and an axe haft smashed into his head. Arthur’s helmet took the blow but slid over his eyes to blind him. He shook his head, panicking, and the axe came again, its blade chopping into his chest. The press of men denied the axeman a true swing, and Arthur’s chain mail held the blow. He gasped, death close, and set his helmet straight. The axeman died with Hywel’s spear in his armpit and the battle suddenly changed, like the tide turning from ebb to flood, and the Saxons fell back from Arthur, granting him a moment of respite.
Ida stumbled, dragging Ibissa’s corpse with him, and his champions shifted from attack to form a circle of shields around their king. Arthur gasped for breath, pain from his wounds and aching limbs throbbing around his body. He sagged, finding himself in open space as the Saxons fell back, and then shields bearing stags and bears were around him, roaring in triumph.
‘We did it,’ said Malegant, helping Arthur to his feet. Blood covered the Dumnonian’s face, and his shield was a battered ruin. ‘They’re retreating.’
‘Ector?’ Arthur said, peering into the mass of men searching for his foster father.
‘He held them. I saw him kill four of those big bastards in the front line, but then I lost him.’
‘They aren’t running,’ shouted a voice above the din. ‘They’re forming up again.’
The Britons groaned, and Arthur saw that the man was right. Ida stood before his warriors, swinging his stone sceptre in great sweeps, shouting his hate, desperate for vengeance for his dead son.
‘Back, back to the riverbank,’ Arthur said, and shoved men backwards. Malegant understood what Arthur intended and roared at his men to move beyond the river. The Saxons had re-formed, and they would trap the Britons between their shields and the river, and so Arthur moved them backwards. Slowly they went, trudging through the water and over the corpses and writhing bodies of injured men. Arthur splashed into the chill river water and clambered up the bank, and there he found Ector, slumped dead in the mud, his face and body slashed to bloody ruin by countless wounds. Arthur cried out in anguish and knelt beside his spear-father, the guilt of allowing Ector to be the one to pin the enemy as heavy as a millstone.
‘He fought like a demon,’ said Kai, reaching down to help Arthur to his feet. A filthy mix of mud and blood sheeted Kai’s face and armour, a testament to how hard he had fought in the front, where the battle raged most dangerous. ‘Let’s not let him die in vain. He gave his left so we could win, so you could win.’
Arthur’s heart soared to see Kai alive amidst so much death. He nodded and took his place in the front line, exhausted from battle and grief. The Saxons came towards the river in their organised shield wall, a mass of overlapped linden-wood boards bossed and ringed with iron. Ida urged them on with hate, screaming at them, spitting at the Britons, and his warriors edged forwards.
‘Do not charge,’ Arthur called. ‘Let them clamber up the bank and over the corpses, and we’ll kill them as they come.’
‘There are too many,’ said Kai, ‘and we are too few to fight, but too many to die.’
‘Then we die together, brother,’ said Arthur, and he readied Excalibur to meet the Saxon horde. There were still so many, and the Britons had lost many brave warriors in the fight already. He looked about him but could not guess how many men had survived to fight again. He hoped it was enough. It had to be enough.
The Saxons splashed into the river and big men came towards Arthur, spurred on by Ida, who knew that Arthur had killed his son. He pointed his sceptre at Arthur and his men charged. The champions burst from the Saxon shield wall, splashing through the river, and Arthur waited. He forced his fear away, demanding himself to be calm, to fight like a commander. A monstrous man with a beard covering his face to the eyes and an axe held in each hand reached Arthur first, surging from the river howling with anger, but his boot slipped on the riverbank and Arthur killed him, punching Excalibur through his gullet, whipping the blade free to let the big man drop dead to the mud. He killed another champion as he fumbled over the first man’s corpse, and Kai threw his spear to kill a third. The river water turned red with blood, and even the Saxon champions fell back to wait for the shield wall to support their charge.
Then they came as one. An organised shield wall marching slowly and inexorably through the river and up the bank. They pushed the Britons back, shields overlapping, so that there was nowhere for Arthur and his men to strike. Arthur found himself pushed backwards, and then the spears darted between the Saxons’ shields. A warrior to Arthur’s left died with a spear in his groin, and another fell with a seax blade to the throat. Arthur stood on his tiptoes and peered left and right. His line buckled, the Saxons using their numbers to wrap around Balin and Bors on the flanks. Arthur struck at the enemy but found only shields to hit. In a fleeting moment, he saw Redwulf fighting in the Saxon rear ranks, but then lost sight of the traitor. Arthur’s shoulders screamed with fatigue and his own blood dripped from wounds on his face, legs and arms.
Arthur fought on, as did the surrounding men, desperately battling to hold the centre and keep the army from breaking. More Britons died, his father was dead, and Arthur’s strength waned, defeat seeming inevitable. There were simply too many Saxons to kill. His plan had worked, and they had broken the Saxon line, but Ida had simply re-formed and charged again. A blow struck Arthur’s helmet, dizzying him, and Kai dragged him away from the front line.
‘We are lost,’ Kai gasped, tears running down his cheeks in filthy streaks. And in that desperate moment where it seemed the Saxons would overwhelm them all, a horn sounded, bright and clear from beyond the river, and then blared again. The Saxon shield wall gave way. Just as Arthur thought his army would break and run, it was instead the Saxons who fled. Men pointed and Arthur laughed for sheer joy, because from the west came a new army, bearing standards of Powys, Gwynedd and Gwent. Arthur’s men cheered wildly, and Kai laughed like a madman. A figure strode before the new force, a man with a wide-brimmed hat and billowing white cloak, and a black amber-topped staff held before him. It was Merlin, come unlooked for with an army to the battle for Gododdin.
Imbued with strength by the sight of Merlin, Arthur elbowed his way to the front line, where hundreds of Saxons ran for their lives, splashing through the river, broken by the sight of a fresh army of Britons on their flank. A band of Saxon warriors remained, fighting with Malegant’s Dumnonians in the blood-red river. Ida was there with his remaining champions, refusing to retreat and howling at his men to stay and fight. Arthur leapt into the waters and a Saxon champion came at him with his shield, trying to shove Arthur off balance. But Arthur was no longer the lad who had fallen so easily at Dun Guaroy. Arthur smashed his shoulder into the shield, and it was the Saxon who fell back under the impact. Arthur swept Excalibur through the water and cut the man’s legs from under him, then stabbed down into his throat as he fell. Ida swung his sceptre from behind his warriors’ shields and its stone head smashed a Dumnonian’s skull like an overripe fruit. Arthur swung Excalibur overhand, and its sharp edge sliced through Ida’s wrist. He felt resistance as the blade sliced through bone and gristle, and both hand and sceptre fell splashing into the river.
Ida screamed in pain and his warriors dragged him away to join his routed army as they fled the field. Arthur picked up the Saxon king’s sceptre and held it aloft, turning to shout victoriously at his men. They jeered the Saxons, cheering the victory.
‘Arthur, Arthur, Arthur!’ the Britons cheered behind him, but Arthur could not meet their acclaim. He fell to one knee in the river, overcome by the emotions of victory, closeness to death and the loss of his father.
‘What are you doing?’ a chirpy voice said, snapping Arthur from his exhausted trance. It was Merlin, standing on the opposite riverbank, grinning down at Arthur, a puzzled look on his lined face. ‘This is no time to take a bath. The Saxons are beaten, and in no small thanks to my impeccable timing, I might add.’
