Arthur Imperator by Paul Bannister Page A

soldier’s throat. Moments later, a handful of wolf-howling bandits burst from the greenery, the reins were dragged from Guinevia’s hands and the two troopers were hacked to death as they lay on the ground. The ambush was as bloody as the dispatch of a pig by a butcher, and as shockingly swift and deadly.
    Guinevia never did remember much of what happened later. She had a blurred recollection of being hurt, time and again, by men; a vision of pleading with a brigand not to kill her child and a recollection of stumbling through the forest, wrists tied to the tail of one of the carriage horses. Whatever had happened, and she did not want to recall it, would give her unknowable nightmares for years, despite whatever she did or whatever release she pleaded for with her gods. Her clearest memories began many hours after the brigands wrenched her down from the carriage, when she surfaced to consciousness in a cattle byre. The nurse was wiping her face, cleaning away crusted blood with a moistened scrap of her torn skirt, and Guinevia could hear cattle moving restlessly beyond the wall. “We are in a bad place, my lady,” the girl, red-eyed from weeping, said, “we have been through terrible things but we are at least alive. I think they now mean to sell us as slaves. How can they do that? Can you stop them?”
    The sorceress struggled to sit up as the girl supported her. Her head hurt, her limbs ached and her eyes and mouth were sticky. The croaking voice that emerged surprised her. “Where is my baby? Where is he?” The girl gripped her forearm. “They have him, one of their women has him. I think he’s safe, for now. And I never told them who you are…” 
    Guinevia was so dazed and in shock she had no comprehension of what the girl said. She struggled to her feet, the byre seeming to sway around her, and stumbled against the rough door. Barred. She pounded on it and screamed. The girl tugged at her arm. “Don’t, my lady, don’t,” she whispered. “Stay quiet. Don’t remind them we’re here. They are rough men. They have used us both, and cruelly. Just rest for now, just make yourself better.” Grasping at the enchantress’ sleeve, she tugged her gently back: “Look, have a sip of water.”
    Guinevia shook her head. “I must get my child,” she muttered. “We can get out of here.” At her urging, both women fumbled and felt their way around the walls and hoof-trodden muck of the floor until they found a rotted board. They pried at it until it gave, pulled out another and were outside, crouched low under crisp, cold starlight. 
    “That way,” the sorceress said, trying to conjure a cloaking mist. Her vital energies were exhausted, and the gods did not hear, so the two captives moved, crouched low, across the stinking yard towards the rough slate building where they could hear the mutter of voices. As they got closer, the yellow rays of rushlight that shone through the wooden door became a quadrangle of illumination. They flattened to the mud, and froze. A man stepped out, fumbling at his trews. The two women lay, shadows on the ground, and caught his feral stink as he walked a few paces away from the threshold.
    Guinevia had one arm outstretched where she had instantly stilled, and the man’s nailed boot crunched across the top joint of her smallest finger. The bone snap was audible, but the man was pissing now and did not hear, and Guinevia stifled the cry that the jolt of agony had caused. The nurse was less courageous. As the urine spattered about her, she whimpered and half-rose. The startled man seized the girl by the nape, yelled alarm, and others stumbled out of the door. Both women were quickly manhandled back to the byre, where a disgruntled brigand was now posted in the cold, as guard. 
    The effort had drained Guinevia, and she allowed the nurse to lead her back to the straw pile where they had been lying. She slumped, sipped from the wooden bowl of water the girl put to her lips, and