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grimmer, and I turned to see that Guinevere was now standing on the rampart. She stood tall and
long-legged in her hunter s clothes, crowned with a mass of red hair and with her bow across her
shoulders so that she looked like some Goddess of war. Cerdic must have recognized her as the woman
who had killed his wizard.  Who is she? he demanded fiercely.
 Ask your lapdog, I said, gesturing at Lancelot, and then, when I suspected that the interpreter had
not translated my words accurately, I said them again in the British tongue. Lancelot ignored me.
 Guinevere, Amhar told Cerdic s interpreter,  and she is my father s whore, he added with a sneer.
I had called Guinevere worse in my time, but I had no patience to listen to Amhar s scorn. I had never
held any affection for Guinevere, she was too arrogant, too wilful, too clever and too mocking to be an
easy companion, but in the last few days I had begun to admire her and suddenly I heard myself spitting
insults at Amhar. I do not remember now what I said, only that anger gave my words a vicious spite. I
must have called him a worm, a treacherous piece of filth, a creature of no honour, a boy who would be
spitted on a man s sword before the sun died. I spat at him, cursed him and drove him and his brother
down the hill with my insults, and then I turned on Lancelot.  Your cousin Bors sends you greetings, I
told him,  and promises to pull your belly out of your throat, and you had better pray that he does, for if I
take you then I shall make your soul whine.
Lancelot spat, but did not bother to reply. Cerdic had watched the confrontation with amusement.
 You have an hour to come and grovel before me, he finished the conference,  and if you don t, we shall
come and kill you. He turned his horse and kicked it on down the hill. Lancelot and the others followed,
leaving only Aelle standing beside his horse.
He offered me a half smile, almost a grimace.  It seems we must fight, my son.
 It seems we must.
 Is Arthur really not here?
 Is that why you came, Lord King? I answered, though not answering his question.
 If we kill Arthur, he said simply,  the war is won.
 You must kill me first, father, I said.
 You think I wouldn t? he asked harshly, then held his maimed hand up to me. I clasped it briefly,
then watched as he led his horse down the slope.
Issa greeted my return with a quizzical look.  We won the battle of words, I said grimly.
 That s a start, Lord, he said lightly.
 But they ll finish it, I said softly and turned to watch the enemy kings going back to their men. The
drums beat on. The last of the Saxons had finally been mustered into the dense mass of men that would
climb to our slaughter, but unless Guinevere really was a Goddess of war, I did not know how we could
beat them.
The Saxon advance was clumsy at first, because the hedges about the small fields at the foot of the hill
broke their careful alignment. The sun was sinking in the west for it had taken all day for this attack to be
prepared, but now it was coming and we could hear the rams horns blaring their raucous challenge as
the enemy spearmen broke through the hedges and crossed the small fields.
My men began singing. We always sang before battle, and on this day, as before all the greatest of our
battles, we sang the War Song of Beli Mawr. How that terrible hymn can move a man! It speaks of
killing, of blood in the wheat, of bodies broken to the bone and of enemies driven like cattle to the
slaughter-pen. It tells of Beli Mawr s boots crushing mountains and boasts of the widows made by his
sword. Each verse of the song ends in a triumphant howl, and I could not help but weep for the defiance
of the singers.
I had dismounted and taken my place in the front rank, close to Bors who stood beneath our twin
banners. My cheekpieces were closed, my shield was tight on my left arm and my war spear was heavy
in my right. All around me the strong voices swelled, but I did not sing because my heart was too full of
foreboding. I knew what was about to happen. For a time we would fight in the shield wall, but then the
Saxons would break through the flimsy thorn barricades on both our flanks and their spears would come
from behind and we would be cut down man by man and the enemy would taunt our dying. The last of us
to die would see the first of our women being raped, yet there was nothing we could do to stop it and so
those spearmen sang and some men danced the sword dance on the rampart s top where there was no
thorn barricade. We had left the centre of the rampart clear of thorns in the thin hope that it might tempt
the enemy to come to our spears rather than try to outflank us.
The Saxons crossed the last hedge and began their long climb up the empty slope. Their best men
were in the front rank and I saw how tight their shields were locked, how thick their spears were ranked
and how brightly their axes shone. There was no sign of Lancelot s men; it seemed this slaughter would [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]