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Not the time to think about it, however. They were coming up fast on stragglers, either left behind or fleeing the battle. Gwen drew her Roman sword, a fine piece of steel that she’d put a good edge on. Reins in her left, blade in her right, she charged down on the man in her path.

The Roman sword was meant for thrusting, but she used it to slash instead, cutting viciously at the man’s face as he looked up at her in shock. He gurgled out a kind of scream, there was blood, and then she was on to the next, her heart pounding, shrieking herself, afire with excitement, full of sick nausea, driven with a cold anger and a hatred of these men who had dared try to invade her land, enthrall her people.

She slashed at men in her path until the edge of her blade grew dull and she used it like a club. At one point there was a spear sticking up out of the bloody snow in front of her; she snatched it up in passing and ran it through the next man to be in her path. It was only when her horse stumbled with weariness that she reined in her emotions and nudged the poor fellow over to the side, off the field, and under the trees where her servant, Gavin, waited, with their remounts, hidden. She was the first in.

She dismounted, handed the gelding’s reins to Gavin, and mounted the mare, noting absently that her sword arm was blood-soaked.

That was when the nausea hit her like a club.

She doubled over in the saddle. It was always like this. When battle fever wore off, sickness would overwhelm her for a moment. Her stomach knotted, cramped, and heaved; she swallowed bile that burned in her throat and fought it down. Gavin handed her a water-skin; she took it and gulped down several mouthfuls, pushing them past the lump of sickness in her gullet. Then it passed; she straightened and handed the skin back to Gavin as one of the others rode in, spattered from head to toe with blood and mud.

When they were all gathered—all, which anxiety had been part of her sickness, worry for them—she led them at a trot for a good place to get a quick reconnoiter.

The battle had degenerated into knots of combat. One was centered around Urien; one around Lancelin. These were not Gwen’s concern, although she wasted a moment admiring Lancelin’s fighting. He was ahorse—all of Arthur’s chosen Companions were horsemen and fought mounted—and though there were a dozen men around him trying to pull him down, he and his stallion fought like a single lethal entity.

Mentally she scolded herself for losing even a moment and turned to her men. There was still no way of knowing how this battle would turn, “Scout again,” she ordered. “Then it’s bow work.”

They nodded. Once again the group divided, and they pounded off to make sure there were no reinforcements coming in.

The Saxons had committed everything. Gwen led her group as far as was reasonable and then scattered them. They came back to her to report—nothing. If there were reinforcements, provided that Urien won this battle, it would be too late for them to do anything.

They galloped back to the battle lines. They were all riding mares; less speed, but more stamina.

They saw the deserters before they heard the battle. As one they pulled out their bows and strung them.

Shooting from the back of a running horse was hard. Shooting from the back of a standing horse wasn’t.

It was over.

That is, it was over for most of the army.

There was loot to be had, of course, and here the mounted had an advantage over those on foot, although those on foot would be where the chieftains and war chiefs had fallen, in the thick of the battle. Still, not all of those chieftains had fought to the last, and Gwen’s scouts had taken down enough of them that all of her men wore weary, satisfied smiles as they packed their takings on their horses.

And once they’d all mustered back at camp, eaten some food, and made at least an attempt at cleaning themselves and their gear, Urien called them to inspection, sent out the