by M. K. Hume
‘Bran gathered the guard together at Viroconium and sent a demand to the frontier forts for more troops but, by the time he reached Deva, it had already been sacked. We were enraged by the carnage, my lord. Everything of value had been stripped from Deva, a town that has been open to all the tribes for peaceful trade. The Brigante army had been let loose on Deva’s population, to rape and loot at will. Old men and women, even children, were put to the sword for no reason other than to break our spirit. King Bran became very quiet when he saw the heaped bodies and burned churches, then set out to follow the Brigante spoor as they killed and ruined everything in their path. All we could learn from captured Brigante warriors was a chant that the “Cup has come”.’
Artor stirred with disgust. ‘The Brigante king is a liar, for the Cup cannot have come! The sainted Percivale and holy Galahad both died to capture it, and Galahad has risen to the Christian heaven with the relic. If any man should doubt my words, the body of the Pictish Druid still lies, headless, where Bremetennacum’s river meets the sea.’
The courier gazed at Artor with a flush of superstitious awe. Hesitantly, he continued with his report.
‘On the hills to the south of Aquae, Modred was waiting for us. Bran realized that the Brigante had gone to ground, so he sent outriders to scour the foothills for any signs of the host. When his scouts failed to return, my lord knew that Modred’s forces were close at hand.
‘The curs attacked us during the night, setting fire to the woods to light their path. Flames leapt up where the winter grasses were dry, and a wall of fire met us and burned the unwary inside their armour. Modred followed fire with cavalry attacks from the front and from behind, for King Mark has broken his oath to you and joined Modred with a small contingent. We lacked Modred’s numbers and my king knew that we couldn’t prevail, so we fought our way through the Deceangli and Brigante lines until we reached open country where we could speed our withdrawal. My king was sorely wounded in the retreat as he attempted to delay the Brigante cavalry and protect our wounded. He lies at Vernemetum under the care of Queen Anna and his personal physicians. We pray for a speedy recovery from his ailments.
‘In spite of his wounds, King Bran has fortified Vernemetum. From his sickbed, he has sent out messengers to strip his land bare of all men who are old enough to fight. When you come, we will follow you to death or to ruin, for our blood has been spilt on the earth of the west and we must have our revenge for Modred’s treachery.’
Artor grunted his understanding. The road to Cadbury lay open for Modred’s forces if they had the wisdom and the courage to press home their advantage.
‘Whatever comes, the Ordovice tribe has behaved as loyal warriors should. There can be no shame if a stronger force defeats your warriors. You may rest, eat and drink and then return to your royal master with my thanks, and my oath that we are coming to your aid.’
But the courier had not quite finished.
‘The enemy pretended to be Picts, my lord, although perhaps there were Picts among them, for they aped barbarian habits by painting their faces with blue woad. We didn’t fear their paint, but fire and siege machines broke us. They pelted our warriors with the heads of the citizens of Deva to sap our spirits. That Celt should fight Celt in such a manner is an abomination, and I live to punish the Brigante warriors for their crimes against their own race. I just cannot understand . . .’
The courier crumpled as his wounded leg folded under him and exhaustion robbed his body of strength. With two quick steps, Gareth supported the young man.
‘See to his wounds, Gareth, for he has ridden far to bring us this intelligence,’ Artor ordered. Then he turned back to the courier.
‘Avarice is a powerful weapon, young man, and it can be used to lead simple people astray. I recall that the tribes unhesitatingly followed my father, Uther Pendragon, until his death, even though his decisions were dangerous and wicked towards the end of his reign. A strong hand and the willingness to use power for its own ends can often convince quite reasonable men to act unreasonably. The Brigante warriors follow Modred for the simple reason that he promises them much, and will permit them to indulge in any brutality they may desire. Rest now, my boy, and accept my gratitude. No shame attaches to you.’
‘When did you know that Modred lusted after your throne and that he was the architect of the Bloody Cup, the Otadini murders and the slaughter of Bishop Aethelthred?’ Taliesin asked later, and immediately reddened at the presumption in his hasty words. Who was he to question the High King?
Artor gazed steadily at the son of his old adviser, his grey eyes unreadable.
‘I suspected that Modred was behind the murder of Aethelthred. Otha Redbeard was his creature, and once that relationship was proven, the Bloody Cup and Gronw had to be part of his web of lies. But I was only guessing until Brother Mark told me of Otha’s confession.’
Taliesin was incredulous. ‘You knew?’
‘I suspected.’
‘So why didn’t you kill Modred when you became aware of the plot? You didn’t spare his kinsman, Simnel, for the less heinous crime of the assassination of King Luka. You decimated a whole troop for the sake of my mother, and Lady Miryll died for her sins at Salinae Minor. Gods, Artor! Modred was here, in your house, at your mercy! His death would have saved the lives of thousands . . . all the innocent dead of Deva. Now you must meet him on the battlefield, and the gods alone know who will win!’ Taliesin was angry, Artor knew, and the young man paced back and forth across Artor’s comfortable room with his robes hissing over the wooden floor with a nervous, irritable susurration.
‘Have a little faith in my abilities, harpist! When Balyn and Balan perished, my rage and sorrow were sharp enough to kill Modred out of hand. But what would I have gained? In hindsight, Lot and Morgause might have lived, although it’s unlikely that Pebr would have been deflected before his goals were attained. Nor would Gronw have changed his course of action, even if Modred had been killed. My nephew has created a plot that exists almost independently of him. At any rate, I made a choice and I must live with it.’
‘But why? I still don’t understand.’
‘I found myself unable to assassinate Modred in secret, and he took great care to do nothing wrong within the confines of my court. How could I dispense justice with any validity if I ignored my own rules? We Celts are either civilized, or we are not. If the Unity of Kings was to be broken, then Modred must be the one to cause the fracture, not me, or else my whole reign has been a lie.’
‘I have cursed the darkness, night after night. I have wept when no man could see me, Taliesin, because Modred has cost me everything - everything. My grandsons, my friends - he must feed on everything that is mine while I watch, wait and pray that my arm can still lift a sword when he comes knocking at the gates of my kingdom.’
Odin stepped forward and kneeled before his master. ‘I understand, my lord. But we must now be about our business, which is the destruction of Modred. After which we shall all feel very much better.’
Artor laughed and clenched his fist as if it clutched at Caliburn, his sword.
Wenhaver was aghast at Artor’s turn of fortune, and gazed about her gilded rooms like a child who has had a favourite treat withdrawn.
‘But why must I go to the nunnery at Tintagel, Artor? Modred would never hurt me. We are friends, even though he’s been perfectly beastly to all of us since he left Cadbury like a thief in the night. Still, he’d never hurt me.’
‘Of course he would, Wenhaver, because you’re my queen. If he wins, I will be dead and he’ll kill you in a heartbeat. As the High Queen, any claimant to the throne must have your blessing. Will you give it willingly? Or will he slit your pretty throat - and smile while he carries out what will, for him, be a very trivial task? He doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t even think of you very much, except as an obstacle that stands in his way. Perhaps you’ll welcome him. I’d not blame you, for we’ve never been particularly happy, have we?’ Artor’s voice was thi
ck with bitterness and regret.
‘But you’ll come back! You always come back! Why must you be so contrary, Artor? And why are you so insulting? I am the queen, your queen, and my position is important to me.’ Wenhaver raised herself to her full height. Ironically, dressed as she was in her daily, plain-woven robes and bare of most of her usual ornamentation, she had the bearing of a queen. And now she focused on the most pointed of Artor’s insults.
‘How dare you suggest that I’d countenance Modred as High King? You’ve always been a selfish bastard, Artor, but you’ve really hurt my feelings this time. I may not have given you sons, but I know where my duty lies! By the laws of God and man, you are the rightful king of the Britons.’
Artor lifted one of the queen’s plump hands and kissed her fingertips. Wenhaver blushed.
‘I’ll remember your loyalty, and will always be grateful for it. But you’re still going to Tintagel. I must take every precaution to keep you safe, my lady. The queen must be protected, no matter what may come. And I will send my crown with you into the care of Mother Church, for there, I know, it will be safe.’
Wenhaver still refused to accept the truth of her situation, and only when Artor ordered his guards to carry her away bodily did she summon her maids and her dignity and prepare for an orderly departure.
‘The nuns will soon put her to work,’ the king told Taliesin when she had departed for the haven of the convent with an armed escort for protection.
‘At least there’ll be few handsome young men to distract her in her new abode.’
‘It’s more likely that she’ll choose to rule the roost herself,’ Odin interjected dourly and Artor laughed.
‘Perhaps you’re right, Odin. She has a talent for getting her own way, by fair means or by foul.’
Taliesin saw a flicker of affection in the grey eyes of the king.
‘The queen is who she is, regardless of what I might have desired. There’s no point in wondering what might have happened if circumstances had been different.’
His mind ranged back to Gallia, as it did so often now. His face softened and his gaze was unfocused.
Taliesin and Odin recognized the signs. Artor’s thoughts had turned to Gallia for comfort with greater frequency during the past year, and it alarmed them. They both knew that when a man’s thoughts settled into the past, he was cutting the ties to any possible future and consigning himself to death.
Abruptly, Artor straightened his back. ‘I must deal with Modred and see to my succession. Then, and only then, may I rest peacefully.’ He looked at the concerned faces of Odin and Gareth. ‘My old friends, I acquit you of any obligation to ride with me on this last campaign. With luck, I’ll be back when I’ve put Modred under the earth where he belongs. Whatever happens, my successor will need your wise counsel.’
The two old men launched into angry protest. They wouldn’t stay behind; he insulted them if he thought they were too ancient for battle; they would follow him anyway, whatever he said.
‘You shame us, Artor,’ Odin said, ‘for we made oaths, and if we break our vows, all that will be left for us is the funeral pyre. What is safety and peace, anyway? It is the refuge of old men who sit by the fireside and dream of what might have been.’
Artor said no more, for in his deepest heart he was glad to travel with his old friends. The campaign was certain to be harsh and costly.
The first blow came quickly, as Artor marshalled the soldiers of the west to march in his wake. Gawayne could not come to their aid. A courier, a dour, scowling man on a failing horse who had picked his way carefully through the enemy lines, brought a message from Enid, Gawayne’s wife. Artor remembered her soft brown hair, luminous eyes and a willowy form that was as inflexible as a sword blade.
From Queen Enid of the Otadini.
All praise to King Artor, rightful High King of the Britons and the Warrior of the West.
I speak for your nephew, Gawayne, King of the Otadini, who is hunting pretenders to his crown at Trimontium in the north.
We are desolated that we can send no troops to fight by your side in the legitimate war against Modred the Matricide. Our warriors are locked in a deadly struggle with several claimants to the Otadini throne, and my husband is stretched thinly to pursue traitors from one end of his tribal lands to the other. However, I am obliged to tell you that the barbarian Picts are moving out of the mountains. War parties have been sighted at Magnis and Camboglanna on the Wall. We must deduce that they travel south to join the Matricide in his unholy war.
Be assured that the Otadini will come in honour of our treaties as soon as our situation allows, although I cannot predict the day. Only then can the spirits of King Lot and Queen Morgause sleep peacefully in the early graves to which the Matricide has sent them.
May the gods protect you.
Your servant,
Queen Enid
The Otadini warrior repeated his memorized message without a pause, but what the man had actually seen for himself was of far greater interest to the High King. After a few well-chosen questions, Artor was able to determine the size and effectiveness of Modred’s army.
‘They lack a firm hand,’ the warrior growled with a typical Otadini scowl. ‘I could smell them long before I saw them, filthy creatures that they are. I didn’t think their captains were up to the job. Aye, and they’re fair slow with their movements, almost at odds with each other as to who’s in command when they’re taking up positions in the field. But that sodding, mother-killing bastard Modred has amassed a huge host, and he’s rat-cunning and cherishes his own skin. That turncoat, Mark of Canovium, has joined him. My old king, Lot, never trusted that jumped-up bag of piss and wind. He’d sell his own mother for a good purse, so I wasn’t surprised to learn that the Matricide has promised him the Ordovice lands on your death.
‘I heard some of their sentries talking as I moved through their lines. I ditched my horse, temporary like, and climbed a tree, because I knew the sodding fools wouldn’t look upwards. I soon discovered they reckon you’ll be too angry to think straight and will come charging north at speed. They imagine you’ll be caught between their two forces.’
Artor scratched his chin where Odin had missed an area of white stubble when he’d shaved him that morning. The king’s fingers rasped over the bristles.
‘Thank you for your news,’ he said. ‘How can I recompense you?’
‘Don’t lose to Modred!’ the warrior responded economically. ‘My master has enough problems without a hostile neighbour perched on his borders. The Matricide will cross the Wall to attack us if he’s made a treaty with the blue Picts.’
When the Otadini had been led to good food, beer and warm quarters, Artor turned to his intimates to refine his plans.
Artor felt an enormous sense of relief on the day he finally left the tor. His halls, the spiral fortifications and even the fertile fields that surrounded Cadbury all reminded him of his lost opportunities. The shadows of Balyn and Balan laughed in the corridors, and Percivale looked up from sharpening his sword whenever Artor prepared to leave his apartments. Cadbury was full of ghosts - Targo, Myrddion, Luka, Llanwith, all his beloved dead - and he couldn’t bear to look on them any longer.
Will I see fair Cadbury again? he wondered, with very little regret for what he had built.
A raven swore maliciously from an oak coppice as Artor passed, causing Taliesin to shiver in his woollen cloak. Behind the cavalcade, splendid in scarlet, green and gold, the tor and its villages seemed like a dream of order and plenty. Women threw flowers under the horse’s hooves, children gaped and old men were awed anew by the High King, despite their familiarity with Artor at the hunt, riding with his troops or dispensing wisdom in his Judgement Hall. Their lord had the mien of a god, so calm and so focused was he on the cleansing of his realm. Instead of the golden crown, which had gone with the queen to Tintagel, Artor wore a diadem of oak leaves created by Taliesin’s nimble fingers. Artor had laughed at the affectation at first but, w
hen Odin placed the coronet over his grey curls with all the seriousness reserved for a true coronation, Artor acquiesced.
When the king looked back several hours after they had left the citadel, he saw the hill rising through the woods, as if Cadbury, too, wore a diadem of oak leaves.
CHAPTER XXII
ET FINI
May God grant to the living * Grace
To the departed * Rest
To the Church & the World * Peace & Concord
And to us sinners * Eternal Life
(Stone on the outer wall of Westminster Abbey)
The Dragon wound its way northward. Like a ponderous and muscular beast, it slid and clawed its way across ground that could accommodate its girth. Artor’s army moved faster than most hordes but he wished that it could grow dragon wings and soar over the hills and rivers, so that he could seek out Modred quickly and rend him with the vast claws of his creature.
Uncharacteristically, Artor chose to bypass Aquae Sulis and the Villa Poppinidii as his army marched northward. In past campaigns, Gallia’s Garden had offered physical proof of the beauty of the west and had encouraged Artor to drag himself above his many weaknesses. But almost everyone who had known the youthful Artorex was dead, and the villa’s former comfort and companionship had vanished with the inexorable march of time.
The cavalry, a dozen mounted men across, moved at the head of the army. Behind the cavalry came the archers under the vivid battle standards of their masters and the flag of their commander, Pelles Minor of Ratae. Like their leader, the archers wore gay colours, for they rarely stood at the forefront of the battlefield and were not at risk of being singled out by the enemy. Their blues, greens, scarlet and gorgeous yellows enlivened the more sombre hues of the cavalry.