THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY
Prologue...
Part II
THE SWORD OF THE KING
The War of the Twelve Kings was entering its tenth year, amounting to what Arthur’s advisors were telling him was a second rebellion. At the moment, he was thinking maybe they were right. He stood in front of the small pavilion, watching the morning light as it slowly brought everything into focus. Hoarfrost covered the trees and bushes in a ghostly cloak, the thin bearded branches twisted and gnarled like an old man with knotted fists railing against the elements.
Is that what I am now? An old man railing against the wind?
He turned his back to the wind, wrapping his cloak around himself tighter, looking out over the camp. The hills were dotted with campfires, the foot soldiers trying to find warmth, knotted around their smouldering fires with their breath fogging their faces as they spoke. The knights’ pavilions dotted the landscape and he thought, there’s vanity for you. The tents were little more than hide coverings. Not much, but still better than sleeping in the open, like the common soldiers, he thought. Each knight had a squire attending him, as well as two or three footmen who cared for his horse, the camp, cooked the food, and cleaned his weapons.
But it looked as if Britain would never become a united kingdom—Or maybe it’s me they refuse to follow, Arthur thought. Maybe I’m not the king the people want—or need—the so-called saviour to drive the Saxons back? And whose fault is that?
Maybe everything Myrddin told me is wrong? Britannia’s a wild and savage land, violent and unrestrained; maybe I’m not the man to tame it? Ten years is a long time for any king to have to fight a rebellion—too long.
It wasn’t a matter of too many enemies, he thought—as a king he’d always have enemies, and he accepted that—but perhaps it was more of a need for mastery on his part. He had to find a way of bringing everyone together, and if that meant using the Saxon invasions on the coast as a common cause, then so be it, he would. Ten years ago, he naively thought the other kings would follow him; ten years ago, he was little more than a boy of seventeen—a child in his own eyes. He had assumed too much.
What has my being king gotten me so far? My own sister’s husband stands against me.
Seven of the twelve kings eventually swore fealty to him, joining with him against the others, but he had to ask himself if it was possible they were using the alliance they’d formed with him, to hold him back? Pulling the sword out of the rock had turned out to the worst thing he might have done. Where were the knights they’d promised that he so desperately needed? They’d been quick to take arms against him he noted, uniting in a common cause and rallying behind Lot. His sister’s husband—her second husband to be fair. Eventually they’d turn against each other.
They always do.
Lot wasn’t the answer to Britain’s problems, and Arthur knew it; if anything, Lot and men like him were the problem. Myrdynn was right about that; Pellinore had been quick to point it out as well. What did that leave him then, besides being hopelessly outnumbered? Lot’s army had swollen to well over twenty thousand, and five thousand of those were armoured horsemen and Saxon sell-swords. They’d sacked a dozen minor holdings, putting everyone to the sword. Was that the kind of king the people needed? Was that the kind of king Britain needed?
He turned to look out over the landscape again, at the trees and brushes still covered in hoarfrost—everything white for as far as he could see, and yet, no snow. He was grateful for that. It might be cold, but at least the ground was solid. It was better than sleeping in the rain. A man could learn to live with the meaning of cold, but an army couldn't. There was little forage to be had, and he refused to take what he needed from the people.
I should have turned back months ago, like Pellinore told me. But I’m as stubborn as Myrddyn says I am, and now my army's melting away. These men are not soldiers, they’re farmers.
“Sire?”
It was Bedivere, the first of the knights to swear fealty to him. He was Arthur’s Sword of the King. Dark, raven-black hair fell to his broad shoulders, framing a handsome face that had aged over the past ten years. It looked as if he’d tried to cut his hair straight across the brow, but had not used a mirror. He was unshaven as well, Arthur noticed, knowing Bedivere was a vain man when it came to his appearance. He kept a knife for that exact purpose, Arthur knew, honed down over the years; it was something that he ran over his beard almost daily.
“Lot’s army has been spotted. They’re encamped across from us.”
“Across from us? You mean across the loch? If you think we should attack, I want you to know it will take us a day just to get into position.”
The plan had been to attack Lot’s castle while Lot and his army were marching southward beyond the old Roman wall. They had siege weapons they’d brought for the upcoming battle. They were not prepared for a land battle. He knew it, and so did Lot. They were outnumbered—hopelessly outnumbered.
“We can take them unawares, separate the supply train from the rest, and take what we need before they even know we’ve attacked,” Bedivere pointed out.
“Are they on the march? I thought they were south of us.”
“It looks like a permanent encampment.”
“Permanent? How many?”
“Not half as many as first we thought.”
“What does that mean? Ten? Fifteen thousand? We’re eight thousand men—and growing fewer by the day,” Arthur was quick to point out. “His knights outnumber ours five to one.”
“I disagree,” Pellinore said softly, walking up behind. A small knot of knights followed at a distance, among whom stood two of his sons, Lamorak and Percival.
Arthur turned to face the old king.
Pellinore was older than Arthur by thirty years, with five sons grown, three daughters, and who knew how many grandchildren. His beard was thick and white, but neatly trimmed, his eyebrows thick and unruly. He stood wrapped in a large bearskin cape that had seen better days. The beast’s huge head was mounted on top of his helmet, giving Pellinore the appearance of a giant from days of yore. He was a formidable man.
“Fully four hundred men have left us over the last week alone,” Arthur said. “They’re seeking out hearth and home before winter settles in, and who can blame them? That’s why wars are not fought in the winter,” Arthur said, forcing a smile.
“And that’s where you are mistaken,” Pellinore said with a shake of his head. “We have an opportunity to best him. We need only get Lot’s army on the loch and smash the ice beneath them.”
“Really? How do you propose we do that?” Arthur asked.
“And why would he lead his armies onto the loch?” Bedivere added.
“Because Lot’s a vain man,” Pellinore said. “And vanity leads to a fall. Vortigern proved that when he tried to control the Saxons he invited over. If you send archers out onto the ice to rain arrows down on the camp, he’ll see it as an immediate threat and send his knights out against them, to smash them, never thinking the ice won’t hold them.”
“And our men? Are they supposed to fall into the icy waters and drown as well?” Bedivere asked.
“The ice will hold them for what little time they need be on it,” Pellinore said. “A single man in a jerkin is lighter than a man on a horse wearing chain. Simply standing on the ice with solid footing will not be enough to lure the Orkney bastard out. But if you send archers out, he’ll send his knights out to battle them, and when he does, we retreat.”
“And what if the ice holds?” Bedivere asked.
It was the very thing Arthur was thinking.
“It will hold the first that venture out, to be sure. When the others see that—when Lot sees that—he’ll send the rest out, to be sure,” Pellinore smiled. “He’ll see an opportunity to defeat us. Once he knows we’re here, he’ll send his full contingent of five thousand knights, as well as his Saxon sell swords to wipe out our one thousand—”
“One thousand?” Bedivere laughed. “That’s being generous, don’t you think?”
“It makes no difference. Even if the ice holds, the horses will be on ice. His knights won’t be able to fight. Have you ever seen a horse on ice keep its footing? If we line up our foot soldiers on the shore, and have half of our knights stand with them—behind them, and on solid footing—they’ll see the threat we pose and force the attack, knowing they outnumber us. We’ll force them to come out when they see our small numbers.”
“I wish I could be as confident,” Arthur said with a slow shake of his head.
“How thick is the ice?” Bedivere asked. “Has anyone even tried to cut through it? It might not be such a bad idea,” he offered. “If the ice gives way beneath them, but we have to be certain. Forcing a battle against such odds would be foolhardy.”
“Exactly. If they see us out there, what are they going to think?” Pellinore asked. “That we’re going to attack. If the archers start picking his army apart, he’ll have no choice but to send his knights out.”
“Well, you can’t just hope the ice will break, without knowing for certain,” Bedivere pointed out. “It might be thicker than we think.”
“It might be,” Pellinore replied. “But if he commits his troops to the ice it will be too late for him to turn back.”
“And why only half of our knights?” Arthur said.
“We can send the other half around the loch and come up on the baggage train. He’ll have committed his troops to the battle ahead of him. He won’t be looking behind. The remaining knights standing behind the foot can circle the loch and attack from the other side. He’ll have committed his knights and won’t be able to call them back in time. He’ll be exposed. We’ll have divided his army.”
Arthur shook his head slowly. “I don’t like it. Make no mistake, I’m willing to do battle on solid ground, but marching out on the ice is too much of a risk.”
“Not if we sling a few rocks at them. If the ice doesn’t break under their impact, they’ll skip across the ice and cause more damage than they would if they hit a castle’s wall. All we have to do is get them out onto the loch.”
“It’s a lot to hope for,” Arthur said with a slow nod, his lips pursed as he looked out at the loch.
“If we fight him on his terms, we’ll lose,” Pellinore pointed out. “He outnumbers us, and he knows it. It will be too much of a temptation for him not to face us. When he sees us lining up, he’ll send his knights out while he prepares his foot.”
“It’s a plan,” Arthur said slowly. “But I need more than that.”
“What more could you ask for?” Pellinore said.
“I want my foot to have an advantage, not to be sent out as bait.”
“If we coat the bottoms of their shoes with tar and fix rocks to them, they’d have an advantage,” Bedivere said after some thought.
“What advantage?” Arthur asked.
“The rocks will dig into the ice. They’d be able to stand their ground without slipping too much,” he added. “His foot will be at a disadvantage as well.”
“Do you think that will work?” Arthur asked, looking at Pellinore.
“It’s possible. The snow on the ice isn’t as thick as it is on the ground.”
“And the trebuchets? Do we have enough rock?”
“Five wagons full,” Pellinore smiled.
“And we have slings,” Bedivere smiled.
“Slings?” Arthur asked.
“One or two hundred of them. A man with a sling can take out a knight at a hundred paces. Or he can take down a horse. I’ve seen it done.”
“What about their archers?” Arthur asked.
“Slingers carry shields.”
“Alright, see to it,” Arthur said.
“An’ if it ain’t the Sword of the King, hisself,” Sir Grummer laughed, putting his book down and raising his bottle in mock salute. “Do you see him, Boys, sitting up there so pretty on his destrier? The Sword of the King, now he is. Aye, still, I suppose I’ll not be calling yerself the bastard ye are though, will I, Beddy? Not with yerself being the Sword of the King.”
“Into the wine already, Grummer?” Bedivere laughed.
“Not much else for a man to do, now then, is there?” Grummer smiled, taking a drink. “I get to sit out here with the Boys and discuss Aurelius—”
“Who?” one of the Boys asked.
“Care for a spot?” Grummer asked, offering up the bottle.
“I’ve come to tell you that we’re going to war.”
“I remember you riding out and telling me that once before. Or was that going off to war? That seems to make more sense than going to war, don’t you think? Isn’t that what ye came to tell me ten years ago? Following the new King, ye said. I was quite content up here with Lot as one of the Twelve Kings. Had myself a nice little cosy place up there at Inverness, with the lad’s uncle. All the whoring an’ drinking a man could ask for. Speaking of which, where are the whores here, Beddy? Yer great King doesn’t allow for camp followers? Is that what we’re to believe? Who doesn’t let whores follow an army?”
“They seem to show up as soon enough when we make camp,” Bedivere laughed. “They can’t be that far behind.”
“Aye, an’ is that a safe place for them to be? Them being whores an’ all.”
“We’re at war, Grummer. So whoever you have in that tent of yours had better be gone by the time I get back,” he said, directing his voice at the age-old pavilion.
“Awe, leave off, Beddy,” Grummer laughed. “It’s just my squire riding the lass from last night. We’ve all had a go at her. She’s a good ride, eh lads?” he laughed again, looking at the two footmen grinning up at him from where they sat around the campfire.
“The Prince is in the tent with last night’s whore?”
“We don’t stand on ceremony down this way Beddy, and you know that. He may be a Prince, but he’s the youngest of us. Can I let ‘im be second when the lads here have twenty years on ‘im, if not more? Imagine the poor girl’s disappointment.”
“We’ve found Lot’s army,” Bedivere said, changing the subject.
“Found them? I didn’t know we’d lost ‘em. Where?”
“Right over there,” Bedivere smiled, pointing at the loch.
Grummer turned his head.
“What? Across the ice? You expect me to ride out there on my horse? Leave off, with that!” Grummer swore. “There! Did ye hear that, lad?” Grummer called out, turning his head and looking at the run down pavilion. It took only a moment for the flap to be thrown open. Locksley stepped out into the cold, tying his homespun pants.
“Have yer way with her, did you then?” Bedivere asked.
“Aye,” the lad smiled, looking up at Bedivere.
“Well, let’s hope it’s not your last. Get yourself ready, we’ve a battle to fight,” Bedivere explained.
“Are ye not talkin’ me daft then?” Grummer asked as Bedivere tugged the horse around. Bedivere shook his head.
“Pelinore had an idea, so we’re making plans. Send the Boys over in a while.”
“What’re ye wanting with those two Saxon scum?”
“Leave off there,” Geoffrey, one of the Boys called out, throwing a piece of bark at Grummer.
“I’ll have yer head for that,” Grummer said, his hand on his sword.
“Again, ye mean to say,”Geoffrey laughed at him. “If ye take me head, who ye gonna trust to find yerself a drink?”
“I hate him when he talks like that,” Grummer said, looking up at Bedivere.
“Will ye ask him, Uncle?” Locksley called out. “Or should I?”
“Ye should nae call me that, but I know what yer wanting, so aye, I’ll ask him.”
“Ask me what?” Bedivere asked. He was curious.
“If the boy survives the day, I want yer King to knight him,” Grummer said.
“Knight him? You can’t just get knighted. There’s a lot more to it. It’s all a matter of ceremony. There are vows to make. I think we can skip the chastity one,” he grinned. “And there’s religion now, too.”
“Religion? And when did they bring that about?” Grummer asked. “We don’t want that. A Field Ceremony’s enough.”
“A Field Ceremony? He has to win the field if he wants to win that. But this isn’t the Grand Mêlée at court, is it?”
“All he needs do is catch the eye of the King,” Grummer said. “And ye know it well…aye, that ye do. How do you think ye got up there? Sword of the King, and Knight of the Round Table? While I remain down here, a poor and humble knight of the Realm? Ye’ll be at his side, no doubt?” Grummer said.
“What do you expect?”
“If the King asks his name, you’ll say: ‘Sir Grummer’s Squire, Locksley, only surviving son of Ambrose, King of the Novantae, out of Ivanore Castle—the first to fall in this War of Twelve Kings.’ Do you like the way that sounds? Regal enough?”
“You can’t expect me to say all that!” Bedivere laughed.
“Then tell him his goddamned name, an’ tell ‘im the lad wants to be knighted.”
“How will I know him?”
“He’ll be wearing his father’s helmet.”
