Page 53 of Warrior Queen
Ystradwel drew a sharp breath. She must have seen him the moment I had. “What’s he doing?” she whispered. “He’s too old to lead his men into battle.” Her hand went to her heart. “The old fool.” But her eyes glittered with pride.
I touched her hand. “If he’s an old fool, then he’s a brave old fool.”
She met my eyes. “He’s riding his old warhorse. Old Morthwyl. I’d know that animal anywhere. He’s been semi-retired himself these past ten years, just ridden for ceremonial purposes. For a horse, he’s as old as my husband.” She drew herself up taller. “We breed them brave here in Ebrauc.”
And she didn’t mean the horse.
The warriors standing along the walls and towers abandoned their defensive posts and rushed down the steps to join their king, filling the streets around the gatehouse. A loud creaking told me both gates had swung open wide.
Eyes fixed ahead of himself, Coel urged Old Morthwyl, a big, black beast with flowing mane and tail, under the arches of the gatehouse and out of our sight, his men surging out behind him.
Ystradwel and I rushed back to the crenellation and leaned out to watch her husband ride proudly onto the plain before his city. Morthwyl stepped out as if this were his first battle, almost prancing with excitement, as conscious of the occasion as any human warrior. Close behind the king, the cavalry followed in tight formation, the infantry on their heels, spreading out to either side of the road to face the oncoming Saxon army.
Coel made an imposing figure, with his white hair blowing out behind him, one hand on the reins, effortlessly controlling his spirited mount, the other balancing a short lance tucked under his arm. Not one of his men could miss him.
“He’s done what he wouldn’t let us do,” Cadman said, shaking his head. “He told us to man the walls. That we were too old to fight.”
Ystradwel nodded. “Ever a man to lead by example, but also to want to protect others.”
Cadman leaned over us, looking out. “I don’t feel like I need protecting, milady. I’d rather be out there with my king than in here with the women and children, like a coward. Even if it means being struck down by a Saxon axe.”
The horses jog-trotted off the road, heading left to let the men on foot take the lead. Coel kept the riders close together, in a solid section to one side of the ranks of his foot soldiers.
The crash of the closing gates reverberated through the towers. There’d be no retreat.
Three hundred yards out, the ranks of the infantry came to a halt, spears ready in their hands. Coel and the mounted warriors continued left, cantering up onto a ridge of slightly higher ground, most likely so they could make a charge when the Saxons arrived. Still no sign of Arthur. Anticipation twisted my insides. That he had something planned was obvious.
The Saxon force drew ever nearer. In amongst the dense, dark shadow their ranks made, the pale morning light reflected off their chain mail shirts, helmets, and huge axes.
Ystradwel took a rosary from the small bag on her belt, where it hung beside a bunch of large keys, and began praying as she slid the beads between her fingers. Much good that would do her. As Arthur had once said to me, the outcome of a battle has precious little to do with God, and everything to do with the decisions of men.
I glanced along the city walls. Just older warriors, like Cadman, remained, beside the townspeople with their sickles and hoes, the young boys with their hunting bows, the women with their wooden washing dollies, a baker with his peel. Some of the women were as powerfully built as the men, and I wouldn’t have liked to have received a whack on the head from one of those dollies. But hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.
In dreadful fascination, we watched the Saxon army spread out across the road maybe a quarter of a mile from Coel’s force, too far for me to make out much detail, but close enough to see they outnumbered the old king’s men.
For a few long minutes, both sides stood staring at one another. Almost like a game of chicken. Of course, neither of them gave way. Coel had a lot to defend, and the Saxons hadn’t marched this far from the coast to turn back now, especially not when faced with a less numerous foe, led by a man as old as Coel. Would they have known his age? Did they have spies amongst the citizens of Ebrauc?
You could have cut the silence with a knife. It felt as though we watchers on the wall all held our breath, the rain suddenly increasing and pressing down on us, a fellow feeling linking every one of us.
My skin itched with sweat under my heavy mail shirt, and warm rain trickled down my neck. Cawing raucously, a bevy of crows swept across the sky, perhaps sensing there’d soon be carrion for them to feed on. Maybe they followed armies around like strange camp followers.
As one, the Saxon army raised a mad hollering that ripped through the air, the noise eerie and terrifying after the silence of the morning. They waved their weapons above their heads, banged them on their shields, and the hollering increased. Then, just as suddenly as they’d started their war cries, they broke into a run, charging toward Coel’s foot soldiers. His men, outnumbered, bravely held their position, a forest of spears ready to repel the enemy charge.
“That’s it,” Cadman muttered next to me. “Let the bastards tire themselves out running all the way to meet you. Wise move.”
Coel’s warriors stood their ground. The tide of Yellow Hairs thundered across the turf toward them, still yelling, waving their axes and swords as they ran.
Coel’s men set their shields, locking them together, perhaps a remnant of remembered tactics from the Roman legions. Spears bristled in a hedgehog of death. The Saxons cannoned into them with an audible crash. Surely some must already be dead? Swords flashed, their blades catching the sunlight, men shrieked and bellowed.
Movement to the left caught my eye. Coel’s small cavalry charged down from the rise where they’d been waiting, crashing into the right flank of the enemy.
A battle horn rang out. Once, twice, again.
“Look!” Ystradwel cried, pointing toward the corner tower of the city’s western wall. I followed her finger.
Around the tower, thundering through the rain-washed fields that surrounded the city, came Arthur’s combrogi, his brotherhood of warriors. The white horse at the center led the charge, as they galloped toward the Saxon’s left flank.
“Yes!” Cadman punched the rain-washed air. “A pincer movement. Attacking from both sides, and on horseback. They won’t have been expecting this.”
