Page 61 of Warrior Queen
He turned his head, eyes golden in the firelight. “It’s a necessary part of life.” He, too, kept to a whisper.
I drew my knees up into a fetal position. “Why? Why do we have to have it? It’s not fair that all those men– thoseyoungmen– are lying dead. For what?”
He rolled onto his side to face me. “For Britain. For all the kingdoms here. For all the people– the women, the children, the sick and the old. It’s our duty to protect the weak and vulnerable. To save them from the Saxon hordes.”
My tears kept on running. How could I tell him it would all be in vain, that his Britain would end up being called England whatever he did– named after a group of the invaders he so vehemently wanted to repel– the Angles. That we might as well give up and let them come. Save the lives of all these brave warriors– save the lives of boys like Rhiwallon.
I didn’t tell him, of course. I couldn’t. The burden of knowing the future sat ever more heavily on my body, pressing me down into the hard ground, and the tears flowed faster.
He shuffled closer. “Come here.” His voice was gentle.
I moved into my friend’s embrace, his comforting arms around me, my face against his chest. And for the second time that day, I cried myself to sleep.
*
I woke early.Impossible not to. The sound of wolves howling outside the walls had disturbed me a few times in the night, but I’d fallen back into a troubled sleep that hadn’t lasted long. Merlin gently extricated himself from my embrace, and went to prepare us some breakfast. I pushed my blanket off, sat up, and wiped the sleep from my eyes with a grubby hand.
With the sun still low in the eastern sky, the warriors began their day’s work. Horses had to be fed and watered, fires stoked hot enough to toast stale bread on the ends of daggers, work parties organized.
Still no sign of Arthur and Cei.
After breakfast of the toasted bread, and cheese washed down with cider, still cold from the night’s chilling, I followed Merlin to the lesser southern gateway of the city, close by our camp. We trailed behind the men, all now armed with tools for digging. Did they carry them with them? I’d never noticed. Maybe they were like army entrenching tools from World War One? I’d seen one in a museum on the Flanders battlefields when my father had taken me there. More young men who’d gone out all bold and brave and never returned. I swallowed the lump in my throat that refused to go away.
Just beyond a ruined pagan temple, and a hundred yards outside the city walls, half the men began digging out a trench to bury our dead. Further over, the rest set about building fires to burn the heathen corpses. No grave for them. And they’d not been protected overnight by city walls– even just a cursory glance showed me that bits of them were gnawed or completely missing. The wolves I’d heard must have had a feast last night.
“I need to help,” Merlin said. He walked away, leaving me standing in what would one day be a busy street in modern York, the trampled grass around me still pocked with hoofmarks, the battlefield a morass of mud a little further away. Crows perched on the fallen horses, pecking. Was that happening to Llamrei? Beautiful, noble Llamrei. Somewhere on a far-off riverbank. That bloody lump rose again, choking me. Tears ran afresh down my cheeks. Would I have any left to shed?
Even though a lot of men labored on preparing for the burials, it took most of the day to dig the pit and burn the Saxon corpses. I watched it all. These men, the living and the dead, deserved my gratitude. My honoring. Without their sacrifice where would we be? Dead or Saxons slaves.
Day was drawing to a close when the main gates opened, and the funeral cortege began. Black smoke still billowed from the funeral pyre of the hated Saxons, tainting the evening air with the stink of their burning flesh.
On foot, Arthur led the way, dressed all in black as was his habit, unadorned, plain, a crow amongst a flock of birds of brighter plumage.
Walking behind Arthur came the new king, Garbaniawn, somehow shrunken in upon himself, a smaller man than I remembered from the feast in the hall, head down, shoulders slumped. He must have loved his father, a rare quality to be found in a king’s heir. A simple gold circlet adorned his hair, but Arthur went bare headed.
Behind the two kings strode the scrawny old Bishop, Exuperius, in his formal robes of office. A long, pale gown adorned with rich embroidery swept the muddy ground, a cloak of rich green draped his shoulders, and a heavy gold crucifix rested on his chest. Small boys in long cream tunics followed, swinging incense holders, chanting psalms.
Behind the boys, an oxcart carried the old king’s body. And behind that walked Ystradwel, supported on both sides by her women. Was one of them Fianna, the mother of those two bold little boys?
The remainder of the dead followed, three to a cart, swathed in pale shrouds. Beside the first walked Cei, one hand resting on the cart’s side, every step leaden. I thought of Merlin’s words. Sons aren’t meant to die before their fathers.
In a long column behind the laden carts came the townspeople, silent, respectful, wretched, many of them bereaved themselves, no doubt. The warriors, who’d dug all day long, drew back to form a wide honor guard, eyes fixed on the wrapped corpses of their comrades. Every man here mourned.
From their ranks, Merlin came to stand beside me, filthy from his work. Careless of the dirt, I slid my hand into his.
“Should I be there?” I whispered. “Walking in the procession beside my husband?” I peered up at Merlin’s haggard face. “Walking with Cei beside Rhiwallon’s bier?”
He leaned close, the smell of sweat about him strong. “Possibly. But you can just as easily pay them your respects from here. No one will object. It doesn’t matter.”
I closed my eyes, offering up a silent prayer, but to whom I had no idea. Was God even listening? Did he not care that so many had died? A child amongst them. But the words Arthur had spoken once resonated in my head–“Battles have nothing to do with God, and all to do with man.”How right he was.
As the cortege reached the burial pit, the carts lined up side-by-side. A ramp had been constructed leading into the wide pit. The drivers and mourners took turns to carry the bodies down on flat boards, where they laid them in regimented rows, with Coel’s body at the front on its own. Too many by far.
“Does he not get a tomb of his own?” I asked.
Merlin shook his head. “His wish was to be buried with his men.”
When it came to Rhiwallon’s turn, Arthur left Garbaniawn and went to help Cei carry his son. Taking an end of the board each, they bore him down the ramp to his place with his fellows with as much care as if he still lived. For a moment the two men stood still, heads bent and Arthur’s hand on his brother’s shoulder. Maybe they were praying, although I couldn’t imagine Arthur doing that. Then, together, they turned away and walked back up to stand looking down into the pit, close by Garbaniawn and Ystradwel.
