The Road to Avalon (29 page)

But she shook her head. “What if it’s not next month, Arthur?” She had been so afraid to say this, but now, with the comfort of his arms around her, she found the courage. “What if I am barren?” He didn’t answer and she pressed her face against him. “I don’t think I could bear it if you put me away,” she whispered.

She could feel the surprise that ran through him. “Put you away? Who said anything about putting you away?”

His white wool tunic was wet from her tears. She huddled close and said in a small fearful voice, “You must have a son. Everyone knows that. It’s why you married me. And if I cannot . . . if I cannot . . . perhaps you should take another wife.”

He put his hands on her shoulders and held her away so he could look at her. This, at least, was one point on which he could reassure her. “
Yow
are my wife.” Even when it was swollen with crying, her face was beautiful. “Nothing can change that. I have no intention, now or ever, of putting you away.”

It was as if twin candles lit behind her eyes. “Do you mean that? I have been so afraid.”

“Of course I mean it. And it takes two to make a child. The fault could as easily be mine as it is yours.”

That thought had never occurred to her. Her eyes widened.

He smiled and gently touched her wet cheek. “You are the Queen of Britain. No one will ever take that away from you.”

“Oh, Arthur.” She burrowed back into his arms. “I don’t care about being queen. I only care about losing you.”

Arthur stared at the beautiful red-gold hair that clung to his arm and hand, and the expression on his face was bleak. He should have foreseen this happening, he thought. She was young. He was the man who had awakened her body, had taught her the meaning of passion. And he was the high king, the most powerful man in Britain. Of course she would fancy herself in love with him.

He liked her. He was grateful to her. She was honest and passionate, and she had helped to relieve some of the terrible tension in his body, even if she had been unable to fill the emptiness in his soul.

He supposed he had been a fool to think he could be just friends with her, as he was friends with Bedwyr and Cai. The dynamics between a man and a woman did not allow for uncomplicated friendship. He, of all people, should have known that.

The problem was, friendship was the best he could offer her. And loyalty. He owed her that and he would keep to his word. Besides, the last thing he needed was another wife.

And perhaps, in time, friendship and loyalty would be enough. She hero-worshiped him, really, like so many of his men. She couldn’t love him. She did not know him well enough to love him. Only one person knew him well enough for that.

Gwenhwyfar felt the shudder that ran all through him. “What is it?” she asked, raising her head.

His face wore the remote, austere look she dreaded. “Nothing,” he answered. His mouth smiled at her, but his eyes remained aloof. “Are you as hungry as I am?” he asked.

An absurdly surprised expression crossed her face. “Yes,” she said in astonishment. “I believe I am.”

His smile became more natural. “Good. Why don’t you send for some food and we’ll have supper here together?”

She smiled back, radiantly beautiful. “All right,” she said. “I will.”

Chapter 24

B
Y
the end of May it was clear that a Saxon army was gathering in Sussex. For the first time in history, the three Saxon bretwaldas were combining forces for a concentrated attack against Dumnonia, the heartland of Romano-Celtic rule in Britain. This was not going to be like the campaigns of the past; that was clear too. This time, instead of a spread-out action fought on many fronts, the two armies were heading for a single confrontation, strength against strength, with the reward for the winner to be Britain itself.

In early June Arthur sent Valerius with two divisions of foot to garrison the forts along Ambrosius’ wall. He also sent Bedwyr with the entire cavalry. Arthur himself was staying with the main body of the foot at Calleva.

“I am giving you the worst part of this battle,” he told his two commanders soberly. “I have little doubt that Offa will attack the wall. He will want to test our strength. It is up to you to convince him that he cannot break through the wall without tremendous cost to himself. And you must do this with only the cavalry and two divisions of foot. It is up to you to force the Saxons to take the option of the Badon pass.”

Bedwyr’s eyes became midnight blue, but he said nothing.

It was Valerius who answered Arthur. “What if Offa does not back off, my lord? What if he decides to make one great thrust and keeps on coming?”

“Then,” came the king’s measured reply, “you must hold him back until I can get the remainder of the foot to you.”

Bedwyr grinned. “Don’t worry, Arthur. We’ll hold the bastards.”

Arthur’s eyes, so light in his deeply tanned face, met Bedwyr’s. He knew, and he knew that Bedwyr knew, that if Offa threw his whole army at the wall, Bedwyr would have to sacrifice his entire command to hold them. In a rare gesture of affection, Arthur put his hand on his cavalry captain’s arm. “Bedwyr the Lion,” he said. Bedwyr laughed.

Ambrosius’ wall was always garrisoned; there was a series of manned forts running along the whole of its fifty-mile length. Bedwyr and Valerius did not try to protect the whole wall, but concentrated their forces along the sloping hill where the wall met the Roman road to Calleva. A week after their command was in place, the Saxon army made its appearance.

Gareth, whom Bedwyr had taken under his wing at Arthur’s request, brought the news to the prince. Bedwyr’s white teeth flashed in a satisfied grin. “Good,” he said. “Now we shall see some action.” Gareth, who had never been in battle before, stared with wonder at Bedwyr’s pleased face. The report was that the entire combined forces of Offa, Cynewulf, and Cerdic were out there. And Bedwyr was smiling! It was a misty, foggy morning when the Saxons decided to make their move. The British foot soldiers, among whom were a number of Meliagrance’s men, who had not yet seen the Saxons in battle, were lined behind the protection of the great earthen wall. Many of them could not see the enemy, but they could hear the bloodcurdling yells of the Saxon warriors and then the sound of the horns. The noise began to move closer. The first line of men at the top of the wall raised their arrows. As soon as the Saxons were within range, Valerius gave the order and a murderous spray of death shot toward the oncoming Saxon ranks. Men fell but the oncoming wall of screaming warriors simply climbed over their own dead and continued their forward rush. Bedwyr gave the order for the cavalry to charge.

He had all three kinds of horse under him today: his own heavy horse, so effective in smashing lines of Saxon foot; the medium horse under Peredur, faster than the great horses from Gaul, but lighter; and the light horse under Gwynn. All had followed Bedwyr into battle before, and all knew what to expect. In total they numbered just under a thousand horses and men. It seemed to Gareth, who was watching the oncoming horde with a dry throat and slamming heart, that the Saxons had ten times that number.

Bedwyr saw immediately that this was not a tentative strike. This was dangerous, and if he did not turn it back almost immediately, they were going to be in very serious trouble. With a roar that carried even over the shrieks of the Saxon masses, Bedwyr launched Sluan down the slope of the banked wall, leapt the ditch beyond it, and charged straight into the wall of the oncoming enemy. His men followed.

Bedwyr had always been awesome in the field; his great height and tremendous physical strength gave him advantages few other men enjoyed. Never, however, had he fought as ferociously as he did today. He almost decapitated the first man he swung his sword at, and he took the hand right off the man behind him.

Gareth kept his horse close behind Bedwyr’s and prayed. Even in his worst nightmares he had never believed anything could be as awful as this. The noise . . . the smell . . . the blood. The only safety in the world seemed to be behind the broad back of the big blond man on the black stallion. Bedwyr himself seemed not to know the meaning of fear as he slashed through the line of Saxons, scattering them in panic with his slicing blade, bloody now up to its hilt. Gareth swung his own sword and fought to keep up with the prince. The rest of the cavalry, ablaze with their leader’s reckless, raging courage, came pouring behind him.

It was not battle lust that was driving Bedwyr, however, but the clear, coolheaded conviction that if he did not turn the Saxons back in the first ten minutes of fighting, they could not be turned back at all. And there were only two divisions of foot to hold them once they got past the cavalry. So he drove men to their knees with his bloody sword, then trampled them underfoot with the equally bloody hooves of his stallion. He forged on relentlessly, a pitiless instrument of terror and death, and after five minutes the Saxon line began to waver. Then there came the sound of a horn. Offa was calling a retreat.

It took the Saxons another five minutes to disengage. During that time, the British cavalry never let up its attack. Gareth watched Bedwyr continue to drive his sword through the remaining front line of warriors, killing, crippling . . . and then it was over. The Saxons turned their backs and ran, and Bedwyr called the cavalry to return to the wall.

Once they were behind the welcome protection of the ditch and great bank, Bedwyr slid from his saddle. Gareth had a brief glimpse of blazing blue eyes before the prince turned away to speak to Valerius.

“Send me a courier,” he said. “I have a message for the king.” Then, leaning against his stallion’s massive sweaty, bloodflecked shoulder, he began to laugh.

The message Bedwyr sent to Arthur was brief: “They sent their whole force against us and we turned them back. All is well.”

Arthur listened to the courier recite the simple words and then he turned to Cai. “Bedwyr the Lion,” he said, and his eyes were very bright.

Cai grinned. “The Saxons say he is a demon.”

“The Saxons may be right.” Arthur regarded his orderly camp of foot soldiers. “I do not think Offa would have pulled back so quickly if he did not have another plan in mind.” He thrust a hand through his thick, smooth hair. “We shall soon see. Lionel has scouts posted on the Corinium Road. If Offa makes a move, we shall know about it.”

The scout they were waiting for came galloping into Calleva at noon the following day. The news he brought was that Offa and Cerdic had put three-quarters of the army on the road to Corinium, leaving Cynewulf to hold the line at the wall. Once Arthur heard this, he began to move his own men north. The British were at the Badon pass within hours.

The pass in question was a deep valley that ran between the heights of Mount Badon and Mount Dal. It was extremely narrow and the sides of both mountains were steep; there were places where only two men could walk abreast. The entire pass, from beginning to end, was five miles long.

Before dark Arthur had archers and crossbowmen hidden all over the heights of Mount Badon and Mount Dal. Their orders were to remain hidden until the king gave the signal to shoot.

The British stayed on the mountainsides all night long. Arthur had stationed Cai at the beginning of the pass, on the Mount Dal side, while he himself was on the heights of Mount Badon, about two and a half miles into the pass.

When the sun rose the following morning, Arthur’s men, who had huddled under their cloaks for warmth all night and who had only bread to eat for breakfast, came to attention. The sun illuminated the higher slopes of the mountains and moved slightly westward in the sky. It was two hours after sunrise before the Saxon army made its appearance, coming from the direction of the Corinium road.

It was eight o’clock in the morning when the first Saxon entered the pass. The British archers lay still. Arthur wanted Offa fully committed before he opened fire.

The Saxons laughed and talked as they marched along. When the line of warriors first came into Arthur’s view, he recognized them as Cerdic’s men. The line passed below him and Arthur let it go. He looked at the sky, estimating time. Another half-hour, he thought, and they would be strung out nearly the whole length of the pass.

When the sun told him it was time, Arthur rose to his feet and, with the voice trained by Merlin for just such a situation, called to his archers to open fire. On either side of him, up and down the valley, his commanders heard his call. The first arrow whispered through the air, and a Saxon fell.

There were perhaps seven thousand Saxons strung out along the length of the pass and death was raining down upon them from out of the skies. They scrambled to find shelter, but there was no shelter. The overhanging rocks of Mount Badon could be penetrated by the archers stationed on Mount Dal. The Saxons were dying every inch of the way, climbing over their own dead as they tried to go forward to reach the safety of the plain beyond the pass.

Once Offa realized what had happened, he had to make an immediate decision: pull out and save as many men as he could, or go on and try to break through the pass. If he could somehow get his army through this valley of death, he would be between Arthur and his supply base, between Arthur and his cavalry. The whole outcome of this ambush could be turned completely around.