Free Born of the Sun by Joan Wolf Page B

his shield over his back so that he; could wield his sword more forcefully with two hands, he began to press forward. His men came after him.
    The fighting was furious. The Saxons fought to achieve the wedge-shaped formation that would allow them to cover themselves on all sides, but under the intense pressure of larger numbers, they wavered. “Stay by me!” Ceawlin shouted. “Forward!” And they held.
    Suddenly there was a shout from the far side of the fort. The British had just spotted the second attack party. The pressure on Ceawlin’s men lifted and the wedge began to move inexorably forward. Then the pressure relaxed altogether as the British fragmented, not knowing which way to turn. The fort was suddenly filled with Saxons. In five more minutes, the battle was over.
    Cynric had been one of the last of the initial attack party, making it up the bank slowly but with no assistance. The first thing that had met his eyes as he topped the bank was the sight of his son, his shield slung over his back, slicing through the Britons like a knife going through butter. Now, as the defeated Britons were being herded into one of the rough shelters they had built for themselves over the winter, he sent for Ceawlin.
    The heavy rain had let up and it was drizzling again. Cynric stood in the shelter of an overhang on one of the buildings, his purple cloak pulled over his mail byrnie, and waited for his son. Cutha came up to join him, and then Cuthwulf. Then he saw Ceawlin coming from the far side of the fort.
    The rain had plastered Ceawlin’s thick hair to his head, and drops still clung to his cheeks and his lashes. He was muddy and bloody and Cynric’s heart swelled with pride as he watched him come. What a warrior the boy was going to be! The gods had vouchsafed him only two sons, but they had not stinted him when it came to quality. This one, in particular, he had always known was marked for greatness. He pushed down in his mind the familiar regret that it was Ceawlin who was the bastard. Edwin would have done just as well if he had not become so untimely ill.
    Ceawlin went down on one knee before him and Cynric placed his hand on top of the rain-soaked head. Even wet, his hair was unearthly fair. Just like his mother’s, Cynric thought. He had never seen another woman to equal Fara as she had been in her youth.
    He pressed down on the bent head before him and said, in a voice that was husky but strong, “To you, Ceawlin, my son, I dedicate this day’s battle. To you there will be no lack of the good things of the world that I have in my possession. Today you take a place of honor among my warrior heroes.”
    He could hear the effort the boy was making to hide his emotions, to keep his voice level in reply. “Cynric, son of Cerdic. Great king,” said his elder son. “It is reward enough to know that I have won your heart’s love by my deeds.” And Cynric had no doubt that the boy meant every word he had said.
    There was the sound of footsteps, and the king looked over Ceawlin’s head to see the other man he had sent for approaching. Then he gestured Ceawlin to rise and stand beside him.
    Sigurd was coming toward them with the leader of the Britons by his side, the brother of the little British princess he had in Winchester. “My lord,” said Sigurd formally. He too was covered with mud and blood. “This is the leader of the rebellion, Prince Coinmail of the Atrebates.”
    Cynric saw a man with soaking-wet hair that would be red when it was dry. The British prince had a cut on his forehead that was still oozing blood. He was limping but his head was high and the dark gray eyes that looked from Cynric to Ceawlin and back were bleak and wintry.
    “He bore arms against me and thus his life is forfeit,” Cynric said to his son. “But I give him into your hands. What shall I do with him?”
    Ceawlin did not let the surprise he felt show on his face. The Briton, who was not much older than he, raised his chin very