Lady of Avalon (47 page)

The British rose at first light, and by the time the sun rose the warriors were on their way, leaving their supply train to follow as best they might. Now Viviane cursed her nag’s slow paces; her link with Vortimer had become strong enough for her to know when they were making contact with the enemy.

They could hear the battle before they saw it. The ears of the horses flicked as the changing wind brought bursts of sound, like the roar of a distant sea. But the nearest water was the channel that separated Tanatus from the rest of Cantium, and it was too shallow to have waves. What they were hearing was the clamor of men in combat.

The two forces had met on the plain beside the channel. Beyond them rose the fortress of Rutupiae, its back to the sea. At this time of year the water meadows were dry, and a thin haze of dust rose in the air. Crows circled, cawing in an ecstasy of anticipation.

The carts came to a halt. Their drivers watched the battle in fascination, pointing when they thought they could make out some maneuver, their voices hushed and tense. Viviane reined her horse a little forward, straining to see. The first charge must have broken the Saxon shieldwall, and the battle had disintegrated into struggling knots of men. From time to time a group of horsemen would combine to attack a larger group of enemies, or scattered Saxons would join and try to reform their line. It was impossible, in the confusion, even to guess which side might be getting the upper hand.

So intent was she on the struggle below that when men began to shout behind her she paid no attention, and it was only when a bearded figure grabbed for her horse’s rein that she realized a band of Saxons had fled the main battle and saw a means of escape in the horses of the baggage train. It was the gelding that saved her, with a vicious snap of long-toothed jaws. The warrior, judging the horse more dangerous than its rider, reeled back. It was a fatal mistake, for Viviane, shocked into action, sank her dagger into his neck. His own weight pulled it through the flesh as the horse sprang free.

Another man ran toward them. Viviane clutched the mane as the nag lashed out with its heels. She dropped the reins as the horse bolted, but it hardly mattered, since she heartily agreed with its instinct to flee. By the time the roan came to a halt, sides heaving and sweat frothing on its neck, she had recovered enough to think again. The bloody dagger was still clutched in her hand. She shuddered and started to cast it away; then a thought came to her.

She had, in the blood, something of the enemy to work with, and the dagger itself was one that Vortimer had given her, which had been his as a boy. Gazing back over the distant struggle, she rested the reddened blade across her palms, and began to sing a spell.

Viviane sang sharpness to the swords of the Britons, that like this dagger they should let out the lives of their foes; she sang more blood spurting from the wounds of the Saxons as her assailant’s blood had flowed. She sang to the spirits of the land, that the grasses should tangle the feet of the invaders, the air choke in their throats, the waters drown them, and put out the fire in the belly so that they would have no will to fight any more.

She knew not what she sang, for as she chanted she passed into trance, and her spirit soared like a raven above the battlefield. She saw Vortimer hewing his way toward a big man with a golden torque and grizzled braids who swung a great war-ax as if it were a toy. Screaming, she swooped over Vortimer’s head and dove at his enemy.

The man was more sensitive than his fellows, or perhaps she had in truth projected her fetch into the battle, for he flinched, his next blow faltering, and she saw the battle-fury in his eyes giving way to doubt.

“You are doomed, you are doomed, you must flee!”
she cried. Three times she circled his head, then sped toward the sea.

Vortimer fell upon him. They traded blows, but the big Saxon was defending now. The horseman wheeled, his sword flashing down. The ax swung up to meet it with a resounding clang, and deflected, arced down through the rings of the mailshirt across Vortimer’s leg, and sank into the horse’s side. The animal screamed and staggered; in another moment it was down, pinning Vortimer in the mud, but instead of following up his advantage the barbarian shouted something in his own tongue and began to run toward the water.

A half-dozen Saxon keels were drawn up onshore. The other warriors, seeing their leader retreating, followed him. In moments one warship had filled and pushed off; men who had not reached it in time splashed helplessly. The British came after them, baying like hounds, and the water grew red. The second ship, laden almost beyond her capacity, began to wallow away. The Saxon leader stood before the third, holding off his attackers single-handed while his war band surged past him. The boat began to move, and, shouting, they hauled him aboard.

Only three Saxon shiploads escaped from that doomed field, plus a few who managed to swim the channel to the other shore. But the British warriors reaped a bloody harvest of those who remained. Viviane floated above the fray, watching until men came to drag the horse off their leader’s body, and she saw Vortimer hauled to his feet, exhaustion becoming exaltation as he realized they had the victory.

When Viviane came to herself again, she was lying in the grass. The roan nag was complacently cropping grass nearby. Wincing, for her muscles ached as if she had fought in body as well as spirit, she got upright, plunged the dagger into the earth to get the blood off, then wiped and sheathed it. Murmuring praises in her most soothing tone, for the horse was beginning to eye her suspiciously, she managed to grab the reins, and pulled herself onto its back once more.

One of the few things she had brought from Durovernum was a bag packed with healer’s gear, knowing that after a battle there was sure to be use for it. When Vortimer’s horse went down he must have been hurt. Frantic to get to him, she urged her horse down the hill.

By the time she caught up with him, the victors had withdrawn into the fortress of Rutupiae. Even then, he was so furiously busy giving orders that she could not get near him, and so began her work on others, wounded far more severely than he.

To Viviane, the very air of the place seemed weighted with history. It was not by chance that Hengest had made Tanatus his stronghold. It was the gateway to Britannia. Rutupiae itself had risen from the marching fort thrown up to protect the first beachhead to be established when Caesar came to Britannia. For a time it had been the chief port of the province, and the great monument whose ruins formed a foundation for the signal tower had been erected to celebrate its importance. Now what trade remained came in through Clausentum or Dubris, but the walls and ditches of Rutupiae had been rebuilt a century earlier, when Rome strengthened the other forts of the Saxon Shore, and were still in good repair.

Night had fallen before Vortimer finally sat down and Viviane could approach him. He had taken off his armor, but done nothing about his wound. Somebody had found the fort’s store of wine, and the British leaders were already beginning to toast their victory.

“Did you see ’em running? Weeping like women, they were, drowning as they tried to climb into their keels…”

“Ah, but they killed a good many of our brave lads,” said another. “We’ll make a song for them, so we will, to praise this day!”

Viviane frowned. She had already gathered that Vortimer had lost a dozen of his commanders as well as many lesser men. Perhaps that was why his face, as he stared into the fire, was so grim. Still, Hengest himself had fled and left them the field. It was a notable victory. Quietly she moved to stand at his shoulder.

“My lord has cared for everyone else. It is time for his own wound to be tended.”

“It was only a scratch-there are others far worse off than I.”

She was not surprised he had not recognized her, for the light was uncertain, and she must look a sight in the garden slave’s loose tunic and breeches, dirty and splattered with the blood of wounded men.

“And I have done what I could to help them. Now it is your turn. Let me see.” She knelt before him, her cropped head bent, and laid her hand on his knee.

Perhaps his flesh recognized her touch, for he stiffened, frowning in uncertainty.

“You are so young-do you have the experience to know-” He stopped short as she grinned up at him.

“Do you doubt my experience-my lord?”

“Dear God! Viviane!” He winced as she began to examine the ugly gash along his thigh.

“Dear Goddess, surely!” She stood up, no longer laughing. “And in Her name I am telling you that, if you will not find a room where I can deal with this wound in private, I will strip off your breeches and tend it in front of them all.”

“I can think of a number of other things I would rather do with you in a private room…but have it as you will,” he answered in the same undertone. “I have a few things to say to you as well.” He grimaced as he got to his feet, for the wound had stiffened, but he managed to keep from limping as he led the way into the quarters of the tribune, who was one of the commanders who had been killed.

Carefully, Viviane soaked the fabric of his breeches until the dried blood dissolved enough for her to remove them, and then began to cleanse the wound. Vortimer lay on his side as she worked, distracting himself from the pain of her ministrations with a blistering analysis of all the reasons why she had been a fool to follow him. If she had been one of his soldiers, she thought, she would have been annihilated. But she had developed excellent defenses living with her mother, whose scoldings had been accompanied by a psychic blast that truly could destroy, and mere words had little power to wound her. Especially when the emotion that fueled them was not anger but love.

“It’s true that if I were your wife you could have ordered me to stay behind,” she answered him finally. “Aren’t you glad you didn’t? Not many have the privilege of being nursed by a priestess of Avalon.”

The wound itself was not so bad, but it had been further mangled when the horse fell on his leg, and there was a great deal of dirt and other matter to be removed. He continued to mutter as she worked on him.

“And you cut off your beautiful hair!” he finished as she set the cloth aside.

“I could hardly have passed myself off as a boy with it long,” she answered him. “You’re a Roman; don’t you like me this way?”

“It’s the Greeks you’re thinking of…” He blushed charmingly. “I hope I have demonstrated to you what I like…”

She smiled back and handed him a piece of leather. “Bite on this-I’m going to pour wine into the wound.” He jerked as the alcohol bit, perspiration starting on his brow. “Keep chewing the leather while I sew it. You’ll have an interesting scar…”

When she was finished he was pale and shaking, but beyond a few grunts he had made no sound. She took his head between her hands and kissed him, and not until his skin grew warmer did she let him go. Gently she washed the rest of his body and got him into a clean tunic. By the time Ennius Claudianus came looking for him, Vortimer was sleeping, and she had found a tunic of the dead tribune’s which was long enough to serve her as a gown, and used the rest of the water to improve her own appearance sufficiently so that he recognized her and accepted her orders that the Prince should not be disturbed.

The battle of Rutupiae had been costly, but there was no doubt that it was a victory. Even the grim business of counting the dead and burying the bodies could not entirely dispel their euphoria. Hengest was gone-not merely from the mainland, but from Britannia. His three keels had fled away across the sea-to Germania or the German Hel, the British neither knew nor cared. Whichever it was, he was likely to stay there, for, after so great a defeat, where would he find more men foolish enough to follow him?

“Then it’s over? We have won?” Viviane shook her head in amazement. The Saxons had been a threat for so long.

Vortimer sighed and shifted position on the bench, for his leg still pained him. “We’ve beaten Hengest, and he was our most dangerous foe. But Germania breeds barbarians as a corpse breeds worms, and they are still hungry. More will come one day, and if not, we still have the Picts and the Irish. It’s not over, my little one, but we’ve won a respite.” He gestured toward the new graves. “Their blood has bought us time to rebuild. There is still wealth in the west and the south. Now, surely, they will help us!”

She looked at him curiously. “What do you mean to do?”

“I want to go to Ambrosius. In God’s name, I’ve saved Britannia-he and my father will have to listen to me now. I could proclaim myself Emperor over both their heads, but I won’t further divide this land. Still, it gives me room for negotiation. My father is old. If I promise Ambrosius my support when he is gone, perhaps he will give me the help I need now.”

Viviane smiled back at him, exhilarated by his vision. It seemed to her now that all that had happened since their joining at the Giants’ Dance had been fated, and at last she understood the impulse that had prompted her to go with him. She had heard that Carausius, the first to proclaim himself lord of Britannia, had been married to a woman of Avalon. For what could be more appropriate than that the Savior of Britannia should have a priestess as his consort, to protect and advise him?

Vortimer offered her another mount for the journey, but Viviane had become fond of the roan gelding and would not be parted from it. And despite its rough gait, it seemed to her that she rode more comfortably on the roan than Vortimer did on his fine grey stallion. She had urged him to stay in Rutupiae until his wound had healed, but he was convinced that he must meet with Ambrosius now, while all Britannia was still ringing with the news of his victory.