Page 92 of The Quest for Excalibur
The dead of Badon. What wouldn’t modern archaeologists give to discover this battle’s burial ground? Hidden from them by fields of wheat and barley, sleeping beneath the surface with no trace of the mound left to betray their last resting place.
Cadwy’s body had not joined our dead in their earthy bed. Custennin had other plans for his father’s burial. “I’m taking him back with me to Viroconium,” he declared. “To bury alongside my grandfather. Where one day I, too, intend to lie, waiting for the Day of Judgement. My mother and aunt will want to oversee his funeral.”
Queen Angharad, that mousy, shadowy figure I’d only ever glimpsed lurking silently in the background at Viroconium, and whom Cadwy had once volunteered to put aside so he could marry me. Hard to imagine she’d be all that sad about her husband’s demise. And as for Morgana, she might see it as one step closer to the throne for her and her daughter. Nimuë.
But there was no time to dwell on the consequences of Cadwy’s death for those in Viroconium. With our dead buried, the prisoners needed dealing with. Publicly. As soon as the dead were buried, Cei organized our triple force into a formidable reception committee. All three armies lined up on foot in a wide semi-circle, bridging the road just outside the woodland, with the fresh burial mound to our left.
On the brow of the far hill, a mile away along the road, the remnants of the once huge Saxon army still lurked, assembled in some order, but not advancing. Watching us. Hopefully our prisoners served as hostage to their behavior, although even that was doubtful. But we did at least have their two chief commanders, alive and in chains.
At the center of the semi-circle, Arthur, Merlin and I stood waiting for Custennin and Cerdic. That Arthur was a little high on the effects of the poppy syrup seemed obvious, but Merlin was either ignoring it or hadn’t noticed.
Arthur, his good hand resting on Excalibur’s hilt, nodded toward the far hillside and the disorderly ranks of the beaten Saxons. “All it needs is for some ambitious captain to decide they no longer require their original commanders to lead the two armies, and they’ll be charging toward us again for round two.” He kept his voice low.
Merlin nodded. “The sooner we sort this out, the better.” Like Arthur, he’d come without his mailshirt, although not for the same reason, but his sword hung on one hip with a fierce dagger on the other. Every inch as fierce a warrior as my husband.
Custennin arrived first, flanked by Dubricius, both in full battle gear. “My Lord.” He bowed to Arthur, and Dubricius did the same. Arthur returned their bow, a little stiffly. I could have curtsied, only that would have looked very odd in tunic and braccae. I contented myself with a bow, and Custennin took his place to our left.
From amongst the group of prisoners, Cei and a detachment of our warriors singled out Aelle and Octha, his fellow commander, to usher them forward, their hands bound in front of them.
Where was Cerdic? Did he not relish dealing with his uncle? He was making a habit of turning up late.
Even as this thought crossed my mind, Cerdic made his entrance at the head of half a dozen warriors, also dressed for battle. His gaze fixed on Aelle as he took his place beside Arthur, the warriors falling in behind him. No bowing from him. Not this time.
Despite Cerdic having chosen to support us in the battle, I couldn’t help but feel the nagging doubt that his loyalties might still be divided. Aelle was the man at whose court he’d been brought up, after all. Although, in common with many dynasties throughout history, having blood ties didn’t mean you had to like your relatives.
In the ranks of Dumnonia, weapons rattled as hands went to sword hilts. This half Saxon king might have been sitting at the round table with all our British kings for years, but that didn’t mean our men trusted him. Especially not when he didn’t bow to their High King. Not that I did, either.
Some of our warriors stood to either side of Aelle and Octha, not touching, but swords drawn and poised for action should it be required.
I stared at the two Saxons, fascinated, committing them to memory for my book. I wanted to be able to describe them in every detail for history.
Someone had stripped them of more than just their armor, and they stood before us in linen undershirts and braccae, their feet bare and dirty in the cold mud. Like their men.
A gray stubble covered Aelle’s scalp but for a short tail at the back, and his drooping, yellow mustache held strands of white that betrayed his age. A huge man, he had wide-shoulders and a barrel-chest, with hammy forearms and muscular, knotted calves. But his large, square-jawed face held no impotent rage at defeat, but rather a calm dignity that surprised me. Not what I’d been expecting.
Octha, a younger man, was more classic, history-book Saxon. Nearly as big as Aelle, he had long, dirty-blonde hair, a blonde mustache and a deep, indented scar running down the center of his forehead and onto his nose that would have made Harry Potter’s scar look like a scratch. He, too, despite his fearsome disfigurement, had a look of quiet dignity about him.
When you’ve always seen someone as the enemy, as a sort of faceless, unmet threat, meeting them for the first time can be illuminating. These were not the bogeymen of fireside tales used to frighten children into behaving, the classic villains with no redeeming features. These were human beings with feelings just like mine.
Arthur turned to Cerdic. “Will you translate for us, please?”
Cerdic, keeping his face expressionless, nodded. How difficult must this be for him? How hard had it been to choose whose side to take? Perhaps the blood of a British father called to him more than the Saxon blood his mother had imparted. Perhaps his British born people at Caer Guinntguic had swayed him our way. Would his army have obeyed him had he sided with the Saxons?
Aelle’s blue-gray eyes, icy as the northern waters he and his men navigated, came to rest on Cerdic, his face as expressionless as his nephew’s. What was he thinking? My hand went unbidden to rest on the hilt of my sword. Not that I would have needed to do much had the Saxon chosen to launch a weaponless attack. Our men would have cut him down before ever he reached Arthur.
Whatever Cerdic felt, the air between him and his uncle crackled with tension.
Arthur drew in a breath. “First of all, I have a question. This is Aelle? You’re sure?”
Cerdic nodded, face suddenly grim. “Aye. It is. I’d know him anywhere. As you know, my mother and I lived at his court in Ceint after my father died. I saw him often.”
Calm dignity flown, Aelle shot a furious glare at Cerdic, who stood his ground admirably under the sort of look that would have flattened a lesser man. Beneath Aelle’s graying mustache, his upper lip curled in disdain, his opinion of a nephew who’d chosen the other side clearly marked across his face.
Up close, lines made by sun and wind, and perhaps by smiling, corrugated his weather-worn skin, and eyes full of venom for his nephew stared from beneath his bushy brows. I didn’t really blame him for this. He’d no doubt expected Cerdic to take his side, especially as he’d had his troops bypass Caer Guinntguic.
“So, this is the self-styled King of the South Saxons,” Arthur said, his voice icy cold. He glanced at Cerdic. “Tell him whoIam.”
Cerdic spoke a few unintelligible words, that one day in the distant future would morph to become modern English, no doubt. But right now, I could no more understand them than I could have done Swahili. Which meant we had no way of verifying what Cerdic said to his uncle.
