Wolfbane (Historical Fiction Action Adventure Book, set in Dark Age post Roman Britain) (79 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Tomas and Nairn looked down on Aquae Sulis from the summit of Badon Hill. Below them, at a distance of three miles, the n’s northern wall stood high and imposing, its buttresses looking down upon a boundless horde of humanity. Such were their numbers that a tented settlement had set down its roots on the flood plain to the east of the river. The Afon flowed beside the town’s eastern and southern walls, partly encircling and adding further protection to the ramparts.

Arthur’s orders to Tomas and Nairn had been quite clear: follow Guertepir from his ringfort and send back any news of his progress eastwards. Their scouting had inevitably led them to Aquae Sulis, where, five days earlier, they had witnessed the merging of the Votadini and Hibernian armies. Nairn had sped away at once and taken the news to Arthur.

Alone that evening, Tomas had witnessed the opening of the town gates and the admittance of the enemy. The next day, Nairn had returned with another rider to learn of the capitulation of Aquae Sulis. The spare rider immediately left for Brythonfort to inform Arthur of the latest dark news.  

Two days later, they witnessed the arrival of the Saxon army, when a mass of two thousand men had marched boldly up to the gates of the city.

Two further days elapsed before a convoy of wagons, wains and walking folk arrived. These, the families and camp followers, settled beside the river—their encampment now covering a broad swathe of the Afon valley in a sprawling untidy sea of white canvas.

‘Do you think they’ll come … Arthur and his men, I mean?’ asked Tomas as he lay on his belly, watching the activity on the fields before Aquae Sulis.

‘No. Not unless Withred and Gus get enough men from Angeln,’ answered Nairn. ‘When I left Brythonfort, Arthur was in a sombre mood; he had only his knights and one thousand farmers in the shieldwall to count upon.’

Tomas continued to squint through the failing light. ‘We are almost three miles from the town yet they stretch close enough so I can make the nearest of them out individually. There must be fifteen thousand people before us now.’

‘And nearly half of those are fighting men,’ mused Nairn. ‘Little wonder Arthur hesitates to come and so leave Brythonfort undefended.’ He strained to make out the distant gates set in the town’s northern wall. ‘They’re arrogant bastards down there, that’s for sure; they even saunter in and out through the gates as if unafraid of any reprisal. Do you think anyone got out alive?’

Tomas shivered. ‘Maybe some are alive … who knows. I saw a knight—had the bearing of Erec, though I couldn’t be sure—just about make it inside. He’s got to be worth some concession if they decide to ransom him.’

Nairn looked unconvinced. ‘Nah, I don’t think so; Erec’s well known in these parts; a warrior of legend; they’ll kill him, trust me, and in doing so remove the biggest of thorns from their side.’

Their chat continued until darkness fell. When it did, a blaze of campfires lit the valley below like bloated, dying stars in an inky universe. From near distance to afar, the lights dotted the flood plains of the Afon, their number leaving Tomas and Nairn in no doubt of the size of Arthur’s task should he decide to take the battle to Guertepir.

Soon, the noise of revelry and drunkenness drifted up through the chill air of the valley. Tomas shifted in his blanket. Even though it was his turn to rest, sleep would not come to him. ‘Some have been pissed since they got here,’ he mumbled as he sought out a good sleeping position. ‘Some of those wagons were full of ale, wine and mead. I watched as they unloaded them.’

‘They fight
pissed
; that’s what makes them so reckless and fierce,’ said Nairn.

‘
And
slow, according to Flint. Arthur fines his men if they drink too much before a patrol; he reckons it takes the edge off their responses.’

‘He’d do well letting the inexperienced men—the farmers and such—have their horns of mead if he ever gets them here. When faced with a jeering shieldwall of Saxons they’ll need the courage drink brings to stop them shitting where they stand. Most will turn and run…‘ Nairn went suddenly quiet. Rapidly, he cast his blanket from him and took to his feet. ‘Nemetonas’ tits! How could we let this happen? Get up Tom!’

But Tomas was already beside him. Both held their knives.

‘Sloppy … I see your shadows against the lights. Both of you would wear my arrows as neck adornments were it not for your raggedy-arsed shapes telling me who you are.’

‘Dominic … you’ve come.’ Tomas breathed his relief and relaxed.

‘Aye lad, and I’ve brought an army with me; prepare yourself for a fight that will forge a kingdom. Tomorrow we go to war.’

THE BATTLE – DAY ONE

Dawn came and Badon Hill from any viewpoint appeared unpeopled. Arthur had been careful to place his men out of sight behind the ridge until they were grouped and organised. As tents went up, he walked with Flint, Gherwan and Withred amongst his men. The main body (the foot soldiers) occupied a sloping field that ran away from the hill’s crest. Several huge tents of canvas, each roomy enough to accommodate fifty men, were laid in a grid pattern across the field. One of the many things Arthur had learned from his time with the legions was this: that a dry, well-nourished soldier was less likely to dessert than a sodden wretch with an empty stomach. Furthermore, Arthur saw his people as men of honour and dignity, and not mere puppets of war to dance to his tune.

He approached a group who worked together to secure guy ropes to one of the tents. ‘How many’s that since the sun peeked over the horizon?’ he asked.

Too many to count, high lord,’ said the nearest man, ‘but we’re seeing the last ones go up now.’ It was his first sight of Arthur and his captains in the light of the new day. Their no-nonsense bearing filled him with hope.

Arthur carried his white-plumed Roman ridge helmet, allowing the man to observe his face—a visage moulded gaunt and wan with the expectation of battle. The artisan noted the hint of bridled power betrayed by a slight quiver in his king. But woe betides the enemy who interpreted the idiosyncratic event as fear. He had seen Arthur in combat; had witnessed the quiver transform into uncompromising power.

Arthur was dressed to fight from horseback; his apparel chosen for freedom of movement and rapidity. His knee length studded tunic was split to mid-thigh; its constitution of thick leather, laid over with a burnished bronze breastplate. The combination offered protection from slashing blade and errant arrow. A broad belt encircled his tunic, and from its attached scabbard protruded the long handle and silver pommel of
Skullcleft—
his renowned blade. Behind him stood his groom, a lad no older than thirteen, who held Arthur’s unicorn-emblazoned shield. Flint, Gherwan and Withred were similarly attired, and all mirrored Arthur in the gauntness of their countenance.

Arthur moved on, giving words of encouragement to the common men who stood outside the tents; men readying themselves for the unknown experience of brutal war.

‘They couldn’t be better trained,’ said Flint, noticing Arthur’s brooding concern. ‘Erec and I drilled them until their arms were rubbed raw by the shield loops.’

‘Yes, I know, but war is different,’ said Arthur. ‘Nothing can prepare you for its stink; its noise; its rotting filth. These men are farmers, not warriors, and we are about to pit them against—‘

‘Probably, many other farmers,’ said Withred, eager to lift Arthur. This was his leader’s one weakness: his incessant anxiety over the welfare of his men. ‘Do not forget the Saxon shield is made up mainly from their levy, many of whom are chancers and farmers looking to acquire new land.’

‘Yes … I know … I need to relax a little,’ said Arthur, aware of Withred’s insight into his character. He crested the ridge. Below them lay the fields of Aquae Sulis. The four fell silent awhile as they surveyed the masses assembled below. After some moments, Arthur turned to observe his own army. A distance away, beyond the tents, Smala, Hereferth and the Anglii laboured to establish their own camp. Further back still—beside a line of covered chuck wagons—men and women from Brythonfort had already set up tables and cooking equipment.

‘We need to show ourselves by mid-afternoon,’ said Arthur as he turned back to look at the Afon valley and Aquae Sulis. ‘Then I can go down and talk to Guertepir or whoever’s in charge down there.’

‘And therein lies our problem,’ said Gherwan, his tactical mind alert. ‘To get them to attack uphill.’

Pragmatic as ever, Arthur responded. ‘They won’t. Not today … not any day; I fully expect Guertepir to laugh at us.’

‘Which leaves us with Dominic’s plan,’ said Gherwan. ‘Do you really think it’ll work?’

‘We’ve nothing to lose by trying it,’ said Arthur. ‘Work or not, it gives us the chance to bloody their noses before they know what’s happening.’

Guertepir, in no hurry to leave the luxury of Aquae Sulis and continue with the campaign, knelt in the small temple dedicated to Sulis Minerva. He cut the hen’s throat, allowing its blood to pulse into the altar bowl before him. Since his performance in the baths four days earlier, he had persuaded himself that his skin had taken on an almost God-like glow. Frequently, he had pulled up his sleeve and rubbed his hand over his arm, convinced its smoothness was an indication of his newly acquired mortality. Surely the Goddess would reward him for the sacrifices he had made. Though why Almaith still looked a corpse puzzled him. Why had Sulis Minerva not healed the eye (now a black, puffy slit) which Erec had left her with. Indeed, why did her other eye still have its vacant look, and why did her skin remain pitted any grey? Maybe she hadn’t coupled with the knight properly; maybe his seed had not entered her fat belly. His ponderings ended when an urgent Diarmait entered the temple.

‘You can put it off no longer, my lord,’ said his captain and champion. ‘The Saxons are outside and would speak with you.’

Grunting, Guertepir got to his feet and threw the headless, fluttering chicken to the floor. ‘Want to move on do they?’ he said tetchily as he took a cloth from Diarmait and wiped his bloody hands clean. ‘It does not surprise me; their arses have become itchy for plunder no doubt.’ He jabbed his finger at Diarmait as if delivering a great truth to him. ‘They fear this town—believe me, Diarmait. Like all Saxons they prefer to live in their own dung, in their small settlements, that’s why even their chiefs camp beyond the walls.’

‘Be that as it may, but they insist you deliver your part of the bargain; they press you to move from here and take the fight to Arthur at Brythonfort. They are outside the temple awaiting you.’

With a ‘
hmmph
!’ Guertepir kicked the fluttering chicken aside and stomped to the door.

Outside, waited the four Saxon chieftains: Hrodgar, Wigstan, Cenhelm and Osbeorn. Hrodgar got straight to the point as Guertepir emerged from the temple. ‘We’re ready to go; you said four days, yet five have passed.’

Guertepir blinked the low March sun from his eyes and gave Hrodgar his best winning smile. ‘Of course, my friend. Like I told you before, as soon as my army and the Votadini are ready we shall leave.’

‘The Votadini—this Cunedda and his rabble—seem even less inclined to leave than you do. Rumour has it they would return straight to Deva now they have your patronage—your protection down the western seaboard.’ Hrodgar swept his arm behind him, inviting Guertepir to look. ‘Does Cunedda’s absence from this gathering not tell its own tale?’

Guertepir was aware that Cunedda had been furious with him and his own man Abloyc when learning of the killing of the infant in the temple. He knew the Votadini chief had since gone cold on the idea of taking the fight to Arthur. He attempted to placate Hrodgar. ‘Cunedda will be ready to fight on the morrow, as will I.’

‘So at last I can ready my men to move from this place?’ asked Hrodgar, peering at Guertepir as if expecting him to add a proviso to his assurance. Instead, Guertepir gave a reluctant nod. Hrodgar continued. ‘Good … Late is better than never, I suppose.’ He turned to his three companions. ‘Go to your men,’ he instructed. ‘Get them to stop drinking if you can, and tell them to be ready to move out at first light tomorrow.’

Osbeorn, who was obsessed with finding Dominic—the killer of his brother Bealdwine—was the first to turn from the assembly. ‘At last,’ he muttered as he pushed aside the press of people around him. He made to move towards the field beside the river where his men were camped. As he did, he looked up to the hill that reared north of the town. He froze upon seeing the spread of cavalry dotted along the hill’s crest. As he watched, a long line of shields began to join the horsemen.

Behind Osbeorn, Guertepir and the rest also gawked in astonishment as the entire length of the ridge filled with Arthur’s men.

Diarmait pushed to the front, his hand lifted to his forehead as a visor, as his good eyes strained to make out the distant activity. ‘It seems they’ve saved us a journey,’ he said. ‘This thing can be settled here. And look … a knight comes to parley; he carries the unicorn flag of Arthur.’

‘Then get to him and hear what he has to say,’ snapped Guertepir as he squinted up towards the hill.

One hour passed before Diarmait returned from his meeting with Flint. ‘Hibernian, Saxon and Votadini,’ said Diarmait to the group of leaders who waited below the northern walls of Aquae Sulis. ‘Just one of each … the leaders,’ he added. ‘To meet with their envoy of three on the empty grounds before the hill.’

Arthur, now helmeted and armed, sat bestride his saddle. Alongside him, similarly caparisoned, were Flint and Gherwan.

‘Guertepir, a Saxon and a Votadini,’ said Arthur as he appraised the group’s slow progress towards them. ‘Looks like Guertepir’s been quaffing wine by the barrelful since I last saw him.’

When twenty paces from them, Guertepir, Hrodgar and Cunedda halted. Arthur pressed his horse to a slow walk, followed by Flint and Gherwan. He stopped before them. He allowed the silence to linger a moment as he fixed each in turn with his penetrating stare.

His appraisal of Guertepir was contemptuous. ‘Whoever thought it would come to this. For many years we lived in peace, our alliance keeping the lands free from the Saxon rabble, but it was not enough for you was it man? And did you really expect me to do nothing while you took my town?’

Guertepir gave a scornful little laugh. ‘
Your
town, Arthur. When did it become
your
town? Why should this most prized possession be yours. Did we not both fight for Rome; do we not both deserve the finest of rewards?’

‘Men deserve what they labour and pay for,’ said Arthur. ‘Just as my people laboured and paid to restore Aquae Sulis. That’s what gave them ownership. The sluggard’s way—
your way
—is to watch while others do the work, then move in and snatch the prize after they’ve finished. And what of those who were within the walls before you came? The knights and the common folk. What’s happened to them, Guertepir?’

‘Why … I’ve done what any decent man would do—I’ve sent them on their way; got them from under my feet so I can enjoy Aquae Sulis without distraction.’ He tittered now. ‘And what a prize the town is. Have you actually been in there, Arthur? The place is wondrous to behold. It will give me pleasure for the rest of my very long life, for I do not intend to give it up.’

Knowing he would get no more from Guertepir on the subject of the destiny of his folk, Arthur pressed on. ‘Whether I’ve been inside or not needn’t concern you. What should worry you, though, is this: I am here to remove your head.’

Cunedda and Hrodgar immediately tensed, their hands going to their swords. Flint and Gherwan reciprocated the action.

Arthur’s smile held a sneer as he looked at the three men opposing him. ‘Take your hands from your swords; this is not to be settled here, you idiots.’ His blistering gaze fell upon Cunedda. ‘And you … you are beyond contempt. What are you thinking about? A Briton siding with Saxon and Hibernian scum; riding with the very people who would tear our land apart.’

Cunedda remained impassive, outwardly unaffected by Arthur’s words. ‘This meeting is to thrash out the terms of war, not to listen to your lectures or explain our actions. It’s time to spit out what you want, man.’

’I’ve already told you what I want’—he flashed a look at Guertepir—‘and his head is just the start of it.’

Hrodgar, who had none of Cunedda’s poise, came in now. His expression was disparaging as he ran his gaze, head to foot, over Arthur. ‘Oh, this has gone far enough. Who do you think you are? I am not willing to sit here and listen to your carping any longer.’ He paused a moment as he took in Arthur. He could not deny that in looks at least, the British king lived up to his legend. His bearing, his confidence,
his sheer presence
, made him seem much bigger than he actually was—a giant almost. Regardless, Hrodgar continued with his arrogant dismissal. ‘Negotiation is not an option here. I intend to dismantle your protectorate and it suits me fine that your men stand on yonder hill and leave your lands and farmsteads undefended.’

Although Hrodgar’s words troubled Arthur (indeed, only a small force resided in Brythonfort along with those who had sought the bastion’s sanctuary), he had nevertheless been expecting them. ‘We
will not
go away, Saxon,’ he said. ‘You know you need to deal with us sooner or later; why else would you gather in such numbers. Now is the time for war not for talking. I meet with you now to give you my terms. Your people—families, whores, cooks and the like who travelled with you—I will allow to live, and I ask only you do the same in the unlikely event you are victorious. Any fighting men who choose to surrender to me this day will be allowed to return to their lands in the east. Of those, of course, I do not include yourselves; you are for the ax, make no mistake.’

Guertepir gave a harsh, explosive laugh. ‘NO! NO! and a shit-crusted NO! to your terms.’ He looked to Hrodgar who shared his resolve. ‘But my apologies … I should be thanking you for saving me the journey westwards which my Saxon friend here had planned to take tomorrow. Now I can sit and wait for you to come down off the hill and fight me; because, Arthur’—he fixed the lord of Brythonfort with a knowing stare; one that said,
I know exactly what you want, do you think me so stupid—
‘we are not coming up to you.’