Arthur

We hewed at them like standing trees and they fell. But always there were more and more.

I strained into the welter, searching for Arthur. All was a chaos of flailing limbs and flashing weapons. I did not see him.

Now we were within range of the Picti arrows – though Idris had succeeded in moving them back somewhat, the wicked missiles still struck with deadly accuracy. The warrior to my left was struck in the shoulder, and one arrow glanced off my shield boss.

Grimly, we laboured on. The leaden sky deepened to the colour of fire-blackened iron. The wind gusted, driving the mist along the river. Rain began pelting down. The ground beneath our feet grew slippery. Blood and water mingled, flowed away. The battle proceeded.

Ever and again I cried out, 'Arthur! Arthur!'

In response I heard only the thunder of the fight, loud and sharp, pierced by hot oaths and agonized cries. And under it, the dull, droning rumble of running feet and horses' hooves…

Horses' hooves. That could not be what I heard, and yet I know the sound as well as my own heartbeat.

I raised my eyes. Out of the mist I saw a herd of horses racing into the valley, their shapes made ghostly by the rain. Swift as diving eagles, they thundered headlong into the midst of the fight.

Could it be? I looked again and saw the reason for this marvel. At the head of the stampede I saw two figures – one obscured by the mist and rain, but the other I knew: no one sits a saddle like Cai.

The enemy saw the horses at the same instant I did. A heartbeat later they were fleeing across the river. By the hundreds and thousands they fled, trampling over one another as they struggled across the ford.

We hacked at them as they fled, but they were no longer resisting. Stupid with fear, they abandoned themselves to our swords without thought.

The horses were careening closer. I saw Gwalcmai leading a phalanx of warriors to turn the stampede. And above the tumult I heard voices strong and brave, lifted in a Cymry battle song. It was the Cymbrogi, driving the horses before them and singing as they came.

The battle was broken. I halted to catch my breath and watched the immense tide of barbarians flowing away across the Glein and into the hills. Some of the Cymbrogi continued the rout, riding them down as they fled, but the enemy escaped by the score. This I regretted, but I did not have it in me to give chase. I was exhausted.

As they did not require my help, I turned again to the task of finding Arthur. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The mist cleared, and there he was before me.

He was on foot. His horse had been cut from under him, and he had been forced to lead his men on foot. The Bear of Britain saluted me when he saw me, raising his red-streaked sword.

'Hail, Bedwyr!' he called, and promptly sat down on a rock.

I tried to salute him back, but with the weight of the sword in my hand, my arm would no longer move. I slid from the saddle and leaned against my horse. 'God love you, Arthur,' I said, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my glove, 'I thought you were dead. If Cai had not arrived we all would be meat for crows.'

Arthur leaned on his sword, gulping air. 'Yes, and now we shall have to share the plunder with him, I suppose.'

'Share it! He can have it all. It is as much as my life is worth to see him driving those horses.'

Just then Myrddin appeared. 'Here you are.' He examined us closely, and, satisfied that we were alive and well, dismounted and slipped to the ground. 'What did you think of the mist?'

'A most excellent mist,' declared Arthur. 'Forgive me if I do not make more of it.' He made to rise, but could not manage the effort, so settled back on the rock with his elbows on his knees.

I shook my head in disbelief at Myrddin's indifference. 'Do you know we were almost massacred here? Those cursed Picti and their arrows very nearly slaughtered the war host of Britain.'

That is why I thought of the horses,' explained Myrddin placidly. 'The Picti believe horses contain the spirits of the dead and are reluctant to kill them lest they become haunted.'

'Listen to you, our sword brothers lie dead and you wag on about mist and horses!'

Myrddin turned to me. 'Look around you, Bedwyr the Bold. We have not lost a single man.'

Quick anger flashed up in me. I stared at him. 'What! Are you mad?'

'You have but to look,' Myrddin said, throwing wide a hand in invitation.

I turned my eyes to the fallen around us, and… it was true. Lord and Saviour, Blessed Jesu be praised! It was true!

Wherever I looked – the river, the glen, the hillsides, the rocks in the water – the dead were Irish and Angli. Not a single Briton could be found among them.

It was a miracle.

Dark came upon us. By torchlight we worked among the dead, retrieving gold and silver and the special treasure which we had quickly learned to value: the Angli war shirt.

The Angli had learned to make a singular kind of battle-dress. Forged of thousands of tiny steel rings, the shirts protected the wearer yet allowed free movement. Mostly, only Angli kings and nobles wore them, for they were highly prized.

I walked over the battleground, rolling corpses to inspect their limbs and clothing. Sometimes the barbarian carry gold coins or gemstones in their mouths and the jaw must be broken to get them; or they hide them in little leather pouches which have to be pried away. The dead do not mind, I kept telling myself as I cut rings from swollen fingers and stripped battleshirts from stiffening backs.

Searching corpses is a grisly business, but necessary. We sorely needed the plunder and the war shirts. The one to pay for the support of the warband, and to keep men like Idris and Maglos happy. The other for defence against sword cuts and arrows.

The Cymbrogi returned from harrying the enemy. Pelleas and Meurig greeted us with the report that the barbarians appeared to be regrouping and moving north.

'What are we to do about the dead?' asked Maglos. 'We would wear ourselves out digging graves for all of them.'

In the fluttering torchlight Arthur cast an eye to the sky. The clouds were breaking up and in the east the moon was rising fair. 'We will have light soon,' he said. 'Shallow graves would not tire us overmuch.'

Bedegran grumbled; mild Maglos sighed, and Idris snorted. For once I agreed with them. 'You may be able to toil both day and night like Weland's Smithy. But we have fought most of the day, and tomorrow we must pursue the enemy. We are fainting with hunger. We need food and rest.'

It went against him to leave the dead unburied, even enemy dead. But there was nothing for it. 'Let it go, Bear,' I told him. 'There is no dishonour in it.'

Still, he hesitated. Myrddin came forward and put his hand on the Duke's shoulder. 'They are right,' Myrddin said. 'Come, let us leave this place to God and his servants. Let the Cymbrogi go ahead of us and make camp, so that it is ready when we come.'

Arthur consented. 'I yield to your counsel,' he said. 'Give the order, Meurig.' Then he turned and moved off in the darkness.

It was late when we arrived at the camp, a short distance to the east along the river. But there was hot food for us and a dry place to lay our heads. We slept the sleep of Bran the Blessed that night. The next morning we moved north in pursuit of the enemy.

This region is well known to me, for it borders on Rheged, the realm of my fathers. Now that Cai and the Cymbrogi were with us we had horses for four hundred, and we moved much more swiftly, marching back along the Yrewyn the way we had come. At Yrewyn Bay we met King Lot and Gwalchavad, who had come in time to see the Angli passing north in retreat, and had stayed to guard die ships lest they be tempted to steal or destroy them in their flight.