The shield wall buckled, but it slowed us. I kept the lance forward until some thoughtful Saxon splintered it with a war ax, then drew my sword and began to hack at the men crowding about me, shield high against the vicious throwing axes.

Then they seemed to melt in front of us. I kicked the horse to greater speed—“Stay close, Bedwyr”—and the point of our wedge surged forward. A few spears whispered over me, one caroming off my sword blade as an ax grazed my shield. Another rank of men broke over us, men with shaven heads and no weapons but small round shields and short swords.

“Berserks, Artos, watch out. Get away, you—”

Bedivere’s lean body went flat along the horse’s neck as the

berserkers snatched at him. We bucked and kicked, using not onJy swords but high-fashing hoofs that cleared them from our front and rear as our blades cut at the flanks.

Clear again for the moment, we shot forward into a triple line of shields that waited until the last moment and then suddenly appeared to quail, faltering open to let us plunge through. Yes, Cerdic was ready for us. He’d learned all the lessons with me at Eburacum and afterward. Across our path, too near to avoid, three staggered lines of needle-sharp timber stakes protruded from the ground to take our horses in the chest and belly.

I yanked savagely at the bit to pull my horse aside. The men behind, able to dodge the stakes, were still slowed enough for the waiting Saxons to leap and pull some from the saddle. My own mount took a long, ugly rip along its flank, stumbling under me as I pushed it faster through the yelling, close-crowding men.

The causeway lay only a hundred yards ahead.

The horse faltered, lost its gait. I punished it for the last few yards. Bedivere’s sword streaked on my left, then I had to guard myself, parrying, kicking hard at the snaggy bear of a man who clutched at my leg, and then I was free and staggering on a Wood-soaked horse toward the causeway, Bedivere close behind.

“Don’t stop, Artos!”

I tasted the last of sticky saliva in my dry mouth, realized I’d been screaming all the time. Faces blurred past me as I struggled up the narrow road, level on level, past the cheering men and catapults, then there were Catuvellaun and Dyfneint knights milling around me. I caught a glimpse of old Maelgwyn running, arms out to me, then my horse gave a sort of retching cough and crumpled, sprawling me face down in deep mud.

More winded than hurt, I feit someone turn me over, lift me in thick arms as I spat out a pound of Britain and my horsemen thundered past into the redoubt.

Maelgwyn hugged me. “Kings have come more dignified, but none more welcome.”

“Bedivere?”

He was at my side, breathing hard. “Here, Artos. Right as rain.”

“Damned horse just fell.”

“Just died, you mean.” Bedivere jerked his head at the twitching carcass. “I still don’t believe it. Carried you up this with its stomach trailing out. Those bloody stakes. The men ldn’t st°P-Like meat on a spit, they couldn’t stop.”

“Where’s Gawain?”

280

Firelord

“Made it right enough,” Maelgwyn said.

“Where’s Kay?” I rose, holding on to Bedivere. “Where’s my brother?”

“Just coming in. There he is.”

“Condition, Maelgwyn?”

The old prince was haggard and red-eyed. “Pressed but holding all round. Lancelot’s down with the archers on the first level. No rest, no rest at all. Too ruttin’ many of ‘em. They just keep coming.”

I lurched away from them to intercept the horseman who staggered abreast of me on a wounded horse and simply fell out of the saddle into my arms, all bared teeth, mud and battle-madness.

“Bastard. Bastard …”

“Easy, Kay.”

Blind, deaf, he struggled futilely to draw his sword against nothing. “Bastard …”

I slapped him, not hard, but it stung. “Stop.”

Kay shuddered; his eyes focused on me. “Half … half my men, ‘torius.”

“But we made it.”

“No, the dear good men and the fine mounts …”

“Meat on a spit,” Bedivere hissed.

I whirled on him. “Shut up, just shut up. Maelgwyn, we need hot food and a warm fire. Come, Kay. See to your men. We’re here, we made it. We’ve come through.”

He wept softly. “AJ1 the good men, ‘torius.”

I pushed myself the last few steps toward the most beautiful sight in the world, a timber hall that would have a roaring fire an<^ something hot to put in my stomach, opened the door, dragged to the firepit and flopped down by its heavenly warmth. Only gradually did I stop shivering and blinking against rain that was no longer driving into my face.

Maelgwyn said none of them had slept much for two days. Lancelot looked it when he clumped up to the fire, shaking mud from sodden boots. His square face was filthy and unshaven, aged with fatigue,

“Cerdic’s breaking off,” he said. “Too dark.”

“Lancelot. Thanks for catching Lucullus’ letter.”

No response. It was clear he had nothing to say to me.

“We brought him along to share the fun.”

There is, alas, no humor in Anceltius Falco, not even a grim one. “Bedivere’s tallied your losses.”

King of a Hundred Battles

281

“History repeats. You brought it at Eburacum.”

“Yes.” He would remember the day Guenevere first spoke to him. “Where is she, Arthur?”

“Better off than we are.”

“What will you do with her?”

My,turn to be testy. “I don’t know, don’t ask me now. I’ve ridden three days, I’m tired.”

“1 meant it, Arthur. When this is done, so are we.”

“Cerdic may do it for us.”

“Yes.”

“How many did I lose?”

“An hundred and thirty-five.”

Too many, far too many for one charge. We didn’t have men to spend like that.

“Dobunni took the worst,” Lancelot added. “Slowed down by me men in front when you reached the stakes. Surrounded.”

“I see.”

One by one, my captains dragged into the hall and slouched to die fire, shedding cloaks, wet mail and sword belts until we were a circle of half naked scarecrows around the miraculous warmth. The mud spattered over their blue-lipped faces ended where the edge of the mail cowling had covered them, leaving rounded life-masks of mire until they smeared it, rubbing with stiff fingers. Bedivere discovered a cut on his right hand, licking absently at the raw flesh.

My brother breathed harshly, a sound somewhere between shudder and sob. “Is there … someone got something to drink?”

No one moved or spoke. My brain was tired as the rest of me, but tried to focus on Gareth, wondering where he was. It took a . long time.

“We’ll move at first light,” I told the captains. Still none of them moved, staring into the fire and listening to the fading din of battle as if they already heard it building again.

‘T On my order, Bedivere and I were roused two hours before %> light. He was to summon my cavalry commanders. <v; “Have them here in an hour, soon as they’ve eaten. I’m going <f to get the feel of this hill.”

•;$-£„ -*

“Cadging a mug of soup from the cooks, I left the hall to feel cold east wind in my face. The rain had lessened to fine ele that cleared my head with its million tiny stings.

282

Firelord

King of a Hundred Battles

283

From the dark heights, I saw how we were encircled by Cerdic’s fires winking in an unbroken band around the base of Badon hill. I started down the south causeway, passing our own fires here and there between the catapults, some men drowsing, others huddled in blankets around the sputtering flames or perched on piles of catapult stones. A few challenged me.

“Who’s there!”

‘“Hie emperor.”

“Who?”

“Arthur.”

“Oh! God give you good day, sir!”

The battered first level was manned by Maelgwyn’s archers and stone slingers, most of them still asleep, a few carefully greasing their bows against the dampness or flexing numbed feet in the mud.

“Ten thousand fomicatin’ angels!”

I halted by the colorfully blasphemous young archer silhouetted against the small fire as he held an arrow shaft over the flame, cramming a world of disgust into the word. “Warped.”

Another voice rose sourly from a pile of blankets. “What’s thee hope in such wet?”

“Perfection,” said the archer calmly, turning the shaft expertly over the flame, bending, inspecting, straightening little by little.

“What’s your name, archer?”

He barely looked up at me. “Dafydd.”

“As in the Bible.”

“There now, there, stra-a-a-ight, you bugger,” he crooned over the imperfect shaft. “Aye, Philistines enough, but no Goliath yet.”

“You sound like the north. What’s a Parisi doing here?”

“Damned if I know the shape of that.” Dafydd sighted along the shaft, replaced it and began to worry at another. “There was I, harping at Maelgwyn’s board when the war comes boomin’ across my day like a discord.” He shrugged, cocky. “So I came along. Prince Maelgwyn’s a generous man and should have one harp worthy of the name.”

I offered him some of my steaming soup. He accepted it eagerly.

“That’s good, thanks.”

“A bard, no less of a man?”

In the firelight his young profile stood out sharp and strong. He reached down into a heavy sheepskin bag at his feet and drew

forth a polished harp. His hands caressed its wood and strings pe old lovers.

“Not a bard, no. My da, now: he was one. Or so mum said. Not that she’d lie, mind, but she was known to bruise truth summ’at. There’s few left with bard-skill and the thousand verses that must be learned. I play a bit. You get a feel for it like the -drawing of a bow.”

“Davy-bach,” another voice chuckled out of the near dark, “while you’re gawpin’, give us a hint of that cup.”

“That I cannot, it’s his.”

“Come round and share,” I invited them. The hooded shadows crowded in around us, young men with bows slung over their broad shoulders. One looked closely at me across the fire and went rigid.

“Snap to, it’s the king.”

“What? Oh bloody Chri—”

They would have knelt, but I stopped them. “Easy, easy, not in this muck. Pass the cup round, Davy.”

“Thank y’sir.”

“God save the Emperor of Britain!”

“God save King Arthur!” Dafydd toasted with the mug. “It has a better ring for rhyme.”