Page 54 of The Bear's Heart
Drustans shot me a furious look. He’d been left behind in Linnuis when Arthur’s army had ridden north to take on the Saxon raiders, and now, when he had a chance to show what he was made of, he found himself charged with my care. I had the grace to feel sorry for him. Grumpily, he led the way back, calling to two of his friends to follow, and we made our way toward the rear of the column.
As we passed along the line of waiting warriors, one after another of them stretched out a hand to touch my arm or shoulder or leg. Gentle touches, fingertips just brushing my body, and as we reached the end of the line, the last few muttered, “God be with you.”
With every touch my anger dissipated a little, and a heavy resignation settled over me. If I had to leave Arthur and his army hidden in the forest edge, preparing to ride out and meet with Cadwy, it was with the knowledge that his men had taken my luck upon themselves. The part of me that was now all fifth century accepted what they’d done as natural and right. The twenty-first century was very far away.
Leaving them behind, the four of us walked our horses back down the track, the three young men grumbling words of disgust amongst themselves, and me feeling as though I just might have helped a bit.
A bend in the path concealed the waiting army from us, and we could as well have been on a pleasure ride for all the indication we had of any impending battle. The trees rang with birdsong, the leaves rustled in a slight breeze that didn’t reach us on the hot forest floor, and the sun beat down on our backs.
Time crawled. What might Arthur be doing now? My back itched with sweat, and the flies buzzed incessantly about my head.
It seemed a long time before we came upon a leafy sun-dappled glade and Drustans called a halt, but it had probably not been long at all. There were big bushes aplenty, so I slid down from my saddle and went behind one for my much-needed pee– a great relief after so long on horseback. I was just sorting out my braccae when I heard Drustans’ voice in a loud whisper that carried easily to me behind the bush. “Milady, hurry up! I can hear someone coming.”
I tucked the last bit of my undershirt in and emerged. The three young men, one of them holding my horse, were all looking toward the far side of the clearing, the horses’ heads up, ears pricked. The shout of an angry voice, the creak of a wagon, a baby crying, and the sound of people sobbing carried to us on the hot air.
No wagon had accompanied Arthur’s army, so it had to be strangers.
“Could be anyone,” Drustans said in a low voice. He looked at the substantial bushes I’d peed behind. “Let’s get out of sight.”
“This way.” I turned back.
The three young horsemen plunged into the bushes, kicking their horses forward and trying to make as little noise as possible. We were lucky. Between them, the people in the wagon were making a lot more noise than we were. I grabbed my horse’s reins, and putting my foot in the stirrup, swung myself back into the saddle.
Just in time. A wagon lurched into the clearing. From my position behind the bushes, I saw that apart from the driver, who was shouting a string of abuse in an effort to urge his tired horses on, six people rode in the wagon: Euddolen’s widow, Ummidia, his daughters, Albina and Cloelia, and Arthur’s two sisters, Morgawse and Morgana. In Morgawse’s arms, baby Medraut cried fretfully. Albina and Cloelia, clinging to their mother, were the ones making all the racket with their sobbing. Morgana sat up ramrod straight, a scowl of annoyance on her cold face. Behind the wagon strode four heavily armed Saxon foederati.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hidden by thedense bushes, my three companions exchanged puzzled glances. Of course, they probably didn’t recognize the women. Why would they? Their only sight of them would have been over six months ago on the journey south from Viroconium. The women had ridden all the way to the villa in a covered wagon. None of these young warriors were likely to have more than glimpsed their faces.
I leaned toward Drustans, my voice a whisper. “It’s the Princesses Morgana and Morgawse, with Euddolen’s wife and daughters.”
His eyes opened wide. I could almost hear the cogs turning. There were only four guards escorting the wagon. Huge Saxon foederati, but still, only four of them and on foot, at that. Five if you counted the wagon driver, but he wasn’t wearing armor and didn’t look as though he were armed.
Drustans nodded to his two friends, who weren’t much older than he was, and probably all eager to show off their mettle, even if it was only to me.
“Stay here out of sight,” Drustans hissed at me. Before I could protest, all three of them whipped out their swords and sent their horses crashing out of the bushes toward the wagon, letting out blood curdling war whoops of encouragement to one another.
My horse tried to join them, and it was only with a huge effort that I managed to yank him back. He danced under me, snorting with excitement. I’d chosen a proper warhorse.
The Saxon foederati froze with shock for a split second, but were quick to recover. As Drustans and the other two young men bore down on them, the Saxons drew their swords. For the first of them, it was too late. As he was still raising his sword, Drustans reached him, swinging his own weapon in an arc that was carried forward by his horse’s charge.
The British boy bent low to his right, helped to balance by his new stirrups, and his sword bit into the Saxon’s neck just below his metal helmet. The sword was sharp and the blow true. The Saxon’s head, yellow hair flying, went bouncing off toward the wagon where one of the horses gave it a panicked kick. The rest of the body remained upright for a moment, as a gout of arterial blood spouted upwards, spraying rider and mount.
Not giving his dead opponent a second glance, Drustans turned toward the other three foederati. His two companions had charged at them, but weren’t as quick as he’d been. This had given the enemy time to draw their swords and stand their ground, thinking they were three against two. But Drustans’ rapid dispatch of the fourth man had reduced the odds, and our men were mounted. Swords clashed, sparks flew. The Saxons tried to strike at the legs of the horses but the riders were too quick, parrying the blows.
The driver of the wagon belabored his foam-flecked horses’ backs with his whip and shouted panicked encouragement at them. Behind him, Ummidia cast her daughters, now sobbing even more loudly, to one side, and threw herself at the driver, wrapping her arms tight around his neck. Locked together, they toppled from the still-moving wagon, landing close to the severed head. Finding himself on top, the driver raised his fist and hit Ummidia about the head. Blood gushed from her nose.
Helped by the fact that they were on horseback, Drustans and his friends were forcing the remaining Saxons back toward the trees. Only I seemed to have noticed the fight between the driver and Ummidia.
For a moment, I was frozen by indecision. Then I kicked my horse forward into the clearing and slid down from the saddle. The driver’s back was to me, exposed and vulnerable.
Awkwardly yanking my sword from its scabbard, I struck before I had time to even think what I was doing. Taking a deep breath and holding it, both hands on the sword hilt, I drove it down into his back. It was more difficult to do than I’d thought. Instinctively, though, I’d turned the sword to slide between his ribs, but the grating of metal on bone almost made me stop. The sight of Ummidia’s bloodied face overrode any reluctance I might have had. This was dog eat dog, victory to the strong. The sword slid in deep as I leaned my weight against it.
The driver twisted his body so the sword was wrenched out of my suddenly slack hands.
Still with my sword embedded in his back, he rolled off Ummidia onto his side, the tip protruding from his chest. Blood ran out of his mouth and into his bushy beard, and his surprised eyes stared in disbelief.
Realization of what I’d done washed over me. I bent double and vomited, my empty stomach heaving up only bile. Beside me, Ummidia lay unmoving, eyes closed, her face a mask of blood and her lips split.
