The sentry vanished into the darkness, returning a few moments later with a lit oil lamp. Stirling shielded the light with the edge of his cloak while his host took a moment to compose his reply, then used a corner of the woolen cloak to occlude the lamp in his own coded series of numerical flashes.
"Dawn charge acknowledged. Saxon command halfway to summit, southeast flank. Greatest force to southeast, two thousand strong. They are without supplies and grow evil-tempered. Aelle demands surrender by dawn. Signal your departure, we will coordinate surprise attack."
The light flashed back from Mendip's heights. "Message acknowledged. We ride at dawn."
When Stirling turned, he found Cadorius perched on the top rung of the ladder, peering northward, his cloak whipping like a maddened snake in the rising wind.
"What is it?" Cadorius asked tersely.
Ancelotis pointed. "Artorius' signal, in code. He camps at the edge of Salisbury Plain and will charge the Saxon flank at first light."
"That's the best news I've had in days."
Ancelotis chuckled, albeit a trifle grimly. "Indeed. Come, we still have much to prepare. And I, for one, could do with a hot meal and a cup of ale to wash it down with, if anything fit to eat survived the fire."
Cadorius smiled wanly in the starlight. "A keg or two, at any rate."
They downed hot stew while issuing orders for a double watch through the night, to prevent the Saxons from copying their own night-sortie tactics. "We'll need to bunch them up, in the morning," Stirling said around a mouthful of boiled beef, "which shouldn't be too difficult, under the circumstances. I'm willing to bet Cerdic and Creoda, not to mention Cutha, will insist on being present for the surrender. And they'll bring a fair number of their ranking eoldormen and thegns with them, as a show to their own troops, demonstrating their high status."
Melwas snorted. "Aelle doesn't travel anywhere without at least twenty of his picked favorites riding guard around him. Doesn't even trust his own peasants, that one."
"Which works to our advantage," Cadorius nodded. "At one blow, we can cripple their entire leadership."
"Precisely. Covianna—" Ancelotis glanced across to where the master healer sat at the edge of their council. "How goes it with our wounded?"
She answered gravely, "Not so badly as I had feared. Some two score and ten have suffered serious wounds that may yet prove fatal. We've had to take shattered arms and legs in a few cases, but no more than eighteen have been so maimed, to my knowledge." She bit one lip. "The worst is perhaps three dozen men with the onion sickness, for whom I can do nothing. No healer in Britain could save them."
Onion sickness? Stirling frowned. What the deuce is that?
Ancelotis answered grimly, The women feed onion soup to men with gut wounds. If the scent of onion comes out the open wound, the bowel has been penetrated. Such men will die sometime within the next two to three days. In the old days, victims with the onion sickness were given merciful release with a knife at the throat. Since the coming of Christ, such mercy is called murder, so the poor wretches die slowly. Their sole comfort is the hope of heaven, rather than hell. The women dose them liberally with alcohol and herbs, to keep them as comfortable as possible while they wait for death.
Stirling winced inwardly. In the twenty-first century, even a fourth-year medical student knew enough surgical procedures to save such men. In the sixth century, however... "Thank you, Covianna. I'm sure you will do whatever you can to ease their last hours."
She bowed her head in silent assent.
Cadorius said, "We've lost some hundred more, killed at the walls. Our fighting strength is down to slightly more than five hundred men-at-arms. How fared your archers, Ancelotis?"
"Very well, indeed. I lost one archer in the night operation and two more at the walls during that last charge. That leaves three score and nine remaining. More than enough to gift the Saxon commanders with our barbed reply."
Grim smiles ran through the council chamber.
"In that case," Cadorius grunted, rising to his feet, "the best thing we can do for our troops and ourselves is get a fair night's sleep. Even with Artorius on the horizon and the tricks we've prepared for the bastards, tomorrow will not be an easy day."
Of that, Stirling was absolutely certain.
Chapter Nineteen
The clans of Belfast added four warships to Dallan mac Dalriada's flotilla.
Foul weather dogged them all the way down the long reach of the Irish Sea, past the jutting coastline of Wales and south to the storm-battered tip of Cornwall. Brenna managed well enough until they rounded the long, narrow arm of land that comprised the Cornish coast. The bulk of Ireland itself had sheltered them from the worst of the storms, but once past the southern edge of County Cork, the full fury of the Atlantic burst across their ships. Squalls black with rain swept across the Irish convoy, buffeting them with terrific wind and towering waves. Nausea struck Brenna and Morgana so completely, even fear of capsizing in the maddened sea held no real terror. Medraut was a bit green, as well, although he bore up under the rough weather better than Morgana and her unseen guest.
"We'll go ashore at the border of Caer-Durnac," Medraut shouted above the roar of wind and thunder. "March inland from somewhere along the edge of Lynne Bay!"
That ought to put them right about Weymouth, if Brenna remembered her English geography accurately. From there it was twenty-five, perhaps thirty miles to the hill fort Morgana called Caer-Badonicus, which victorious Saxons and their descendants still referred to as Cadbury. "Wonderful," Morgana moaned, too ill to muster any enthusiasm at all. "If I survive this wretched seasickness, I'll build a church at Weymouth Bay and dedicate it to Holy Mary, Mother of Mercy."
Medraut grinned. "A fine idea. Here, let me pull this blanket round your shoulders."
He fussed solicitously until she waved him away. "Go, lad, go and help your father-in-law guide us safely to shore."
Keelin, disgustingly hale and hearty despite the pounding of the waves and the incessant pitching and yawing of their little ship—which bulked no more than forty feet from stem to stern—placed a bucket at Morgana's side and periodically emptied it over the gunwales. By the time they reached Weymouth Bay, destined by Brenna's time to become one of Britain's most favored seaside resorts, Morgana was exhausted. Once out of the worst of the battering wind and waves, the Irish flotilla made fine speed across the wide harbor, throwing anchors overboard within a yard of shore. Medraut and Dallan mac Dalriada had to lift her over the side and carry her to solid ground. She felt like kissing the stony beach. She did sink down to sit above the tideline while the Irish offloaded horses and weapons.
When an armed delegation from Weymouth village spurred toward them, shouting the alarm at sight of the Irish fleet, Morgana staggered to her feet again, groaning the necessity for movement. Morgana leaned against Medraut as they stepped forward to greet the men of Weymouth, old men and half-grown lads, she realized, faces chalky with fear at yet another disastrous invasion. When the approaching war party came within javelin range, Morgana swallowed back nausea and shouted across the open beach.
"Hold fast, men of Weymouth! I am Morgana, Queen of Ynys Manaw and sister to Artorius, the Dux Bellorum of all Britain. My nephew Medraut, King of Galwyddel, has brought allies to drive back the Saxons." She swept a hand toward the Irish, who were still offloading war-horses and equipment.
Medraut added in a strong, clear voice, "These men are now my kinsmen, for I have wed Keelin of Dalriada and made her Queen of Galwyddel. Her kinsmen and mine have journeyed with us from Dalriada and Belfast, to lend Irish strength to our own, for the Saxons have foully attacked the Irish as well as our own British kingdoms. All Dunadd lies dead to Saxon perfidy. The Irish would take dire vengeance upon men who kill the coward's way, with poison that strikes down innocent babes as well as warriors grown. Vouchsafe us passage through Caer-Durnac and we'll drive the Saxons all the way to the sea."