Warriors of Camlann Read online

  Were the Aenglisc the same as the English? Why were they fighting Romans?

  Ursula had fought Romans before. In Macsen’s land, the land she had just left, they had been known as Ravens and there they had been her enemy. She would not jump to any conclusions about this new situation. This Roman might yet turn out to be her enemy, but he may also be able to help her.

  ‘We’d stand a better chance of escape if we could free my hands and feet. They’ve tied me up.’

  It was inconceivable to Ursula that she would try to escape without trying to release her fellow captive – even if he were a Roman.

  ‘Do you have a buckle or anything sharp I could use to cut the rope?’

  Ursula had seen rope bonds cut with miraculous ease in many a film. It had to be possible. Could a hundred Hollywood action movies be wrong?

  ‘You are wasting your time. These men are professionals. Once you’re caught that’s it.’

  Never overly blessed with patience, Ursula’s tone was shot with steel.

  ‘Do you have anything sharp or not?’

  ‘No. But …’ There was a pause. ‘Lady, are you of gentle birth?’

  Ursula was taken aback.

  ‘What do you mean? What has my birth to do with anything?’

  ‘Marcellus – the corpse beside me – he carried a knife strapped under his tunic. They may not have found it.’

  Ursula swallowed hard. Did she want to grapple with a corpse or did she want to be an Aenglisc slave? She rested a moment, gathering her strength and her courage.

  ‘Tell me, Roman, what is your name?’

  While the man, Ambrosius Larcius, spoke, she listened hard and thought of Kai, the warrior who had been almost like a father to her in the world she’d just left. He might have boasted that he could rob a corpse with both hands tied behind his back. She smiled a grim, private smile. The Combrogi did things like that. He would have found her squeamishness amusing. She could hear his amused laughter in her mind. Kai had respected a man’s spirit as much as anyone, but he regarded an enemy’s corpse as no more than a carcass. Thinking of Kai brought tears to her eyes – eyes she thought had been drained of them – but it helped her to do what she had to do. Fumbling a little because everything was slippery with gore, she managed to get her cold fingers around the knife. She dropped it several times and cursed – Combrogi warriors’ curses she rather hoped the man Ambrosius Larcius would not understand. If he did, he would certainly never again ask her if she was of ‘gentle birth’.

  At last, she had the knife, a serviceable Roman knife, kept sharp as a good soldier’s blade.

  ‘I have it!’ Ursula told Larcius rather curtly. She liked the thought of giving a Roman a weapon about as much as she had liked the thought of recovering it from a dead man. Nerves made her voice sound more brutal than she had intended. ‘You must cut my bonds with it. Nick so much as a hair on my arm and you will join Marcellus. Believe me, I’m not of gentle birth and I would kill you.’

  She did not think that was true. For all her experience as a warrior among the Combrogi, she had not become so brutalised that she could kill a wounded man in cold blood. Larcius believed her though, which was what mattered. She heard his sharp intake of breath. He was injured in the upper arm, a sword wound deep enough to disable but not to kill. He had not been bound, but was too shocked to pose much of a threat to the Aenglisc. He was almost too shocked to be any use at all to Ursula. She kept the steel in her voice as she told him what to do. The rope was sturdy and Larcius was shaking, though whether from fever, fear, the shock, or the blood loss, Ursula did not know. She did not much care. It took a long time to cut through the rope and Ursula had to curb both her tongue and her temper but in the end she was free. The return of blood flow to her hands and feet was painful. She stamped her foot to relieve her cramp, and then heard something. Someone was coming. She grabbed the knife from Larcius and threw herself to the ground. Her movement was so sudden and the floor so hard she had to muffle a cry of pain. Outside, someone was talking loudly. A door opened and light flooded the room. Ursula was almost blinded as the tallest of her captors threw another bloodied body into the prison. She only saw the body’s face for a moment but she would have known it anywhere, instantly. It was Bryn, Dan’s Combrogi squire. The last time she had seen Bryn it had been to say goodbye as she left him in Macsen’s land, before stepping into the Veil. How could he be here? What was going on?

  Chapter Three

  Bedewyr gingerly approached the prone figure on the ground. The huge dog guarding the body was the size of a donkey and its slavering jaws were large enough to engulf a man’s head.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Petronax’s voice was harsh.

  ‘I don’t know. That hell-hound won’t let me get close enough to find out.’ Bedewyr sounded embarrassed. He did not like to admit to fear but then the beast threw back its head and howled like its wolfish antecedents. Bedewyr could feel each hair on his scalp lift in atavistic terror.

  ‘Have you no meat left? Throw the dog some food!’ Petronax did not attempt to keep exasperation from his tone. Keeping his eyes on the beast, he groped in his saddlebag for the remains of their lunch. The meat was dried and far from tempting but Petronax was good with animals. He knew it would serve.

  ‘Here boy! Look! We mean no harm to your master. We can help.’ He kept his voice low, his tone comforting, and his movements steady. The wolf dog ceased his howling and took the gift of meat but its eyes never left Petronax’s own.

  The body, sprawled on the ground, was that of a tall, dark-haired youth. There was a wound at the back of his head, the side of his neck and jerkin were caked in the rusty brown of dried blood. Petronax extended his hand cautiously towards the body to feel for a pulse. The man lived.

  ‘It’s all right, boy, we’ll take him with us. Here, Bedewyr, lend me your strength.’ The hound growled, but permitted him to lift the unconscious man, with Bedewyr’s help, towards the spare mount. What Bedewyr lacked in initiative was more than balanced by his powerful physique and youthful strength.

  The unconscious man was hardly smaller than Bedewyr himself, with the hard muscles of someone used to heavy labour or the butchery of war. He was clean-shaven and youthful – probably no more than sixteen or seventeen summers. His long dark hair was tied back in a braid – a soldier? Petronax looked at the youth’s hands – they were as calloused as any swordsman’s. He was a soldier; there could be no doubt. The proof lay in the scabbard of unusual intricacy and beauty that hung from his hip. It was of ancient design, gilded, in perfect condition and empty – a rich soldier then, maybe a mercenary without his sword. Petronax helped Bedewyr secure the stranger as comfortably as possible to the horse and surreptitiously inspected him for further clues as to his origin. There were none. His clothes were nondescript – good-quality tunic, cloak and trews – though somewhat unusual in style. He had no visible tattoos, no crucifix and no amulet. Petronax’s characteristic curiosity would have to remain unsatisfied.

  The warrior’s war hound loped forward to stand guard over his master. It was time to go. There was a chance that whoever attacked the youth might still be in the vicinity.

  ‘These Aenglisc get bolder with every passing moon.’ Petronax spat his disgust. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘You think this was Aenglisc work?’

  Petronax suppressed his impatience with his companion whose youth did not quite excuse his stupidity. ‘Read the tracks, Bedewyr! Read the tracks! Look here.’ He knelt and picked up a couple of glass beads that lay all but hidden by the churned earth. He picked them up and held them between his thick workmanlike fingers so that they caught the light. ‘Are these trinkets Combrogi? Besides, who else would ambush two men here, in this godforsaken place?’

  ‘Two men?’

  ‘There are tracks that suggest two men and a boy were attacked here. Look! See for yourself.’

  ‘Then two have been taken?’

  ‘From here, yes.’

  Bed
ewyr looked sceptically at the flattened grass and mud. ‘It is far from the road. Why should anyone set an ambush here?’

  It did indeed seem an unlikely place for an ambush. It was miles from any hamlet and the nearest Combrogi settlement of any size; the city of Camulodunum was a six-hour ride away. It had been grazing land but even the sheep seemed to have moved on. The ground was littered with droppings but they were all old – the land had been abandoned no doubt when the Aenglisc moved inland.

  ‘Why are we here, Bedewyr?’

  ‘Because the Druid sent us?’

  ‘Good – and why do you think he did that?’

  Bedewyr was about to answer that the ways of wizards made no sense to him, when a glimmer of unexpected insight illuminated his handsome features.

  ‘We were here to meet these people who were ambushed?’

  ‘Bedewyr, you delight an old man when you discover your wits. While such a miracle of understanding can issue from your lips there is hope for the world.’

  Petronax’s tone was light, mocking, but there was no mistaking the urgency with which he continued.

  ‘It looks as if the Druid was not the only one expecting these particular visitors.’ He sighed and muttered to himself, ‘We should have travelled faster, but it is too late now.’ He fixed Bedewyr with a stern look. ‘Bedewyr, you will take this poor unfortunate to the Druid at Camulodunum. The Druid insisted that we bring the men we found here back to Camulodunum before the Council meets to choose the new High King. He will be well cared for there. I will track the whereabouts of his companions. Guard this young man well. He is important to the Druid – and what is important to the Druid may be dangerous for the likes of us.’

  ‘You think he is a wizard?’

  Petronax grinned and shrugged.

  ‘By his build he is a soldier, but I do not know that he is not also a wizard. What signs would I see on his body if he were? If he is, you may be sure that Duke Arturus will not tolerate his presence in Camulodunum for long. You know what he’s like about unchristian superstition. I don’t know why he keeps the Druid so close by. Necessity probably – it keeps you pagan Combrogi happy.’ Petronax was suddenly serious. ‘Bedewyr – baptised Christian that I am – I would not lightly see the Druid upset. Ride swiftly and keep alert for trouble. I smell magic and I don’t like the stink of it.’

  Bedewyr nodded, trying to disguise his anxiety. Petronax made him nervous and the thought of magic, in which he fervently believed, terrified him. He fingered the lucky amulet that hung round his neck; it had been three times blessed and was a gift from his mother. It ought to serve. He forced himself to sound matter of fact: ‘Do you have a message for the War Duke, Arturus?’

  Petronax shook his head. ‘No. But tell the Druid I’ll find the others – the ones taken from here, and bring them back to Camulodunum. He has my word.’

  Bedewyr nodded and spurred his horse onward. If he could deliver the unconscious stranger safely to Camulodunum, he might finally win some respect from Petronax.

  It took longer than he would have liked to get back on the main road and when he had reached it, the echoing sound of the horse’s hooves on the packed gravel surface only served to emphasise his loneliness and vulnerability. The road ran arrow straight for as far as the eye could see. Although it was overgrown in places and he had to be alert for the occasional pothole, it was still the fastest route to the fortress. It was also the most exposed. His neck prickled with the sensation of being watched.

  He rode with one hand on the hilt of his sword, ready for trouble. When the injured man stirred and his hellhound barked, Bedewyr jumped so violently that he almost removed his horse’s ears with an uncontrolled slash of his sword. Trembling from the shock of the sudden sound, he guided the two horses towards a small thicket of trees, where he dismounted and tried to tend to the man. The dog no longer growled but bared his teeth menacingly as Bedewyr attempted to untie and lift the man from the saddle. It was a task he managed without grace and he feared that his clumsy mishandling of the man may have hurt him further.

  ‘My thanks.’

  The man’s voice was soft and he spoke Cornovian, Bedewyr’s own tribal language, with an odd accent. Bedewyr was so startled it took him a moment to frame a stuttered reply.

  ‘Y-you are welcome.’ Bedewyr laid him gently on the dew-damp grass, then regretted it and tried to lift him onto his cloak. The man winced with pain at each movement so Bedewyr settled instead for giving him a drink from his canteen.

  The right side of the man’s head was dark with dried blood and a deep gash was visible, where the white skull had been partly exposed. Bedewyr tried not to stare. The dog immediately started to lick the wound. The man patted the huge beast somewhat absently, but seemed unperturbed by the great beast’s ministrations.

  ‘You were attacked?’ Bedewyr asked.

  ‘I don’t remember.’ Again the soft voice spoke clearly but he stressed the wrong syllable of each word.

  ‘Who are you?’ Bedewyr would not normally have asked for a man’s name so bluntly but he was intrigued – he could place neither his accent nor his nationality.

  ‘I don’t know. You don’t know me?’

  Bedewyr shook his head regretfully.

  The man’s dark eyes darkened further. ‘I have a head wound?’

  Bedewyr nodded and the man’s expression cleared.

  ‘Then I’m sure I’ll remember soon.’ He fingered the empty scabbard, tracing the inlay with his finger.

  ‘It’s no good. I almost remembered something then, but now it’s gone.’ He shook himself in irritation, then continued. ‘I see I am without a weapon. I would be indebted to you and your tribe if you could lend me the use of a spare blade.’ The man’s elaborate politeness was both courtly and archaic. It confused Bedewyr further but, though he knew Petronax would have thought him a fool, he unpacked the spare sword he always carried in his pack and gave it to the man. According to the War Duke the new swords, recently forged, were vastly inferior to the ones their ancestors had made. A wise man, who could afford it, carried more than one, as they were apt to break. Bedewyr did not entirely trust the Druid and knew that he could be arming an enemy, that his spare sword could end up sheathed in his own chest, but his sympathy was roused by the man’s confusion and gentle courtesy. When the man clasped the blade in his hand all doubt and uncertainty disappeared from his eyes. The darkness lessened. Bedewyr, too, was reassured. Surely no wizard would hold a sword with such easy familiarity, as if it was no more than an extension of his arm. The large dog suddenly paused from tending his master’s wound and stood, tense and ready. The stranger tightened his grip on the sword and staggered to his feet. The two of them, dog and man, stared intently at a distant clump of thorn bushes. The man’s face was hard and focused. A small band of Aenglisc raiders were charging towards them.

  Bedewyr reached for his own sword. There seemed no question but that they would have to fight. Fear made his hand shake. It also made him blurt out, ‘If you have no name, I’ll call you Gawain after my brother who died. A man should not die nameless.’

  The young stranger spoke with all the authority of a battle-hardened soldier. ‘We are not going to die, at least not now. Stay away from my sword arm and leave the rest to us!’ He indicated his hound with a slight inclination of his head and flashed Bedewyr a smile of surprising warmth. ‘And thank you, it will be an honour to carry your brother’s name into battle.’

  The dog stood beside ‘Gawain’, something of his master’s certainty evident in his stance. The low growl that issued from its throat had an almost jubilant quality. Gawain reached out and patted his head.

  ‘I have misplaced your name, old friend, but I have not forgotten you. You have fought by my side before.’

  The look the war hound gave him was one of pure adoration.

  The Aenglisc were shouting now, the ragged vainglorious shouts of a mob urging each other on. Gawain found himself seeking something in his own mind, an inner
habit of calm. He found it. His mind and body unified in a state of total concentration. The world narrowed. There was his sword, his dog, and his enemy. He may not remember his own name, but he remembered who he was. He was a warrior and this undisciplined mob was doomed.

  Chapter Four

  Gawain took in several pieces of information at once. The five men charging towards him were not enemies he had fought before – he knew that. They were simply dressed in long rustic tunics and trews. They wore no armour and ran bareheaded so that long dark-blonde hair streamed behind them. Even from several paces away they stank of cask courage. They waved long knives rather than swords in the hope of intimidating him, but he could sense their underlying fear. One of them, a big man built like a blacksmith, wielded an axe, but it was a wood-cutting tool and single-headed, not a war axe. They carried no shields and they did not seem to his discerning eye to be experienced warriors.

  Gawain felt no fear – a part of his mind ran through the best tactic to employ to despatch so many men without injuring himself. The dog beside him waited for the signal. The men were scarcely more than a metre away. He could see small rivulets of sweat trickling down the face of the nearest man; see the glazed look of unfocused aggression. Now! The dog leapt forward and at the same instant Gawain attacked. The first man raised his long knife but Gawain slashed his sword in a sideways motion to slice through the muscle under the man’s arm and open a deep wound across his chest. As the shocked man lost his balance and cried out in pain, the hound leapt for his throat.

  Gawain felt a searing agony of pain across his own torso although the man’s weapon had not so much as nicked his skin. At the same moment a picture of a smiling, blonde-haired child flashed across his inner vision – the child meant nothing to Gawain. He shook the image away just as he dismissed the pain from his mind. He had no time for weakness. He had no time for anything but the moment, the movement of the fight. He had not been touched and so, he knew, there could be no pain. Gawain’s attention was focused on the axe man. He was taller than his unfortunate companion and heavily built. The man’s face was set in a rictus of rage. He was screaming something in a language Gawain did not know. Spittle flecked his beard. The sound of the hound’s growls and the weakening cries of the dog’s victim sounded too loudly in Gawain’s ears. He imagined he could feel the war hound’s teeth ripping through his own flesh. He felt dizzy but he forced himself to concentrate. He could not remember previous fights in detail, but he knew that something was different about this one, something was wrong. Something that had once insulated him from the awareness of the pain he inflicted was gone. This new awareness made it much harder to keep to his task: to stay alive; kill his enemies. The axe man, who was now within hacking distance of Gawain’s exposed body, hesitated as if steeling himself for the blow – it was all the time Gawain needed. He sliced down with all his sword’s weight on the man’s shoulder and all but severed his left arm. The nerves of his own left arm screamed out in agony but Gawain refused to listen to their lies; he was unhurt! The axe man tried to land a blow with his intact right arm but the shock of his injury had enfeebled him. Gawain ducked the blow, kneed him swiftly in the groin and kicked him so that he fell forward. At the same time, with a swift, horizontal, slicing blow he severed the jugular of the third man, who followed his fallen companion and stepped into the breach. The last two attackers slowed their charge. Three strong men were down and dying in a space of two or three paces. The hound had finished them off by tearing out their throats. Their screams of pain had ended as abruptly as they had begun. There was a strange kind of silence. Gawain could feel the terror of the two who remained, their conviction that they were about to die. Shock had sobered them up sharply, but they did not run. Somehow, Gawain knew that it would shame them to leave their leader on a battlefield; though they were not warriors they chose to die like warriors. They exchanged a look and charged together. Gawain mentally saluted their bravery while readying himself for the kill. Without signal or warning the war hound leapt for the smaller of the two men and with his considerable weight knocked him over. The second man tried to slice at Gawain’s sword arm, but Gawain abruptly swapped his sword to his left hand and in one incongruously graceful motion sliced across his opponent’s belly. He hunched forward whimpering, clutching his spilling guts. Gawain brought his raised sword down with all the force he could muster and severed the man’s spine at the neck. He touched his own stomach and was surprised to find it whole and unmarked. His whole body burned with pain, though he was unharmed. Every limb shook and he felt sick at the carnage and the stink of blood and faeces that assaulted him. The man the dog was savaging still lived – just. Gawain whistled. The dog obediently moved away from the fallen enemy, though his low-pitched growl indicated his dissatisfaction. His victim was scarcely alive. Gawain ended the man’s suffering with a clean blow across his bloodied neck.