King Arthur: Dragon's Child: Book One (King Arthur Trilogy 1)

by M. K. Hume

  At the other end of the social scale, Artorex stared out at the delicate winter landscape and envied the few scavenger birds that hung in the fog-wreathed air like black rags. Their freedom mocked his busy schedule of toil, study and the endless, irritating challenges that kept him from the fields and the forest. Even the heady promise of horsemanship was small recompense for a life of tedious, inexplicable tasks that left Artorex confused and frustrated, even when he successfully completed the many tests set by Targo.

  Gradually, Artorex learned to ride the working farm horses that were the pride of the Villa Poppinidii but he soon discovered that a steady trot was the best they could manage, no matter how hard he beat the sides of their flanks with the flat of his sword. Easy-natured as these horses were proving to be, Targo attended to the young man’s training with his usual order and precision.

  When the old legionnaire led Artorex up to Plod, the farm stallion, with his fringed hooves and massive bay shoulders, the boy felt his knees turn to jelly with fear. The horse stood ruminatively chewing grass with huge, yellow teeth, or piddling amazing streams of hot urine wherever he pleased. By the size of the huge droppings scattered through the stables and fields, Artorex decided he did not want to be near Plod’s backside when he lifted his large, coarse tail.

  ‘He’s big, isn’t he?’ Targo stated reflectively.

  ‘He’s too big for me,’ Artorex said flatly.

  ‘People always think that big means savage,’ Targo murmured. ‘How many times have you been called a barbarian, boy? But it’s not true, is it? Well, Plod here is like his name, for all that he’s a stallion. He’s as sweet as a nut, ain’t you, you old faker.’ Targo proceeded to beat on the horse’s belly and flanks with his open hand, so hard that dust rose from Plod’s winter coat in little puffs and drifts.

  Artorex waited for Plod to pound Targo into shreds of raw, bloody meat, but the beast simply snickered his enjoyment at the attention he was getting.

  ‘See? He’s a pleasure to be around, is this old boy. But he’s useless, mind, except for siring more big bastards like himself, or pulling logs from the forest. Now, lad, I want you to mount him.’

  ‘How? He’s as big as a small room,’ Artorex retorted. ‘I’ll need a ladder.’

  ‘You won’t be finding a ladder on the battlefield.’ Targo laughed and wandered off in his usual, aimless fashion.

  Unwilling to even touch Plod at first, Artorex approached the huge horse from one side. Placing his hands on the horse’s back, the young man tried to jump on to its broad haunches as he had done with the smaller farm horses. He ended up sitting on the ground with the horse’s tail switching in his face. Plod turned his head and eyed Artorex with a wide, long-lashed stare of amazement.

  Even the horse is laughing at me, Artorex decided.

  Then he gripped the base of Plod’s mane in his left hand and tried to hoist himself on to Plod’s back by brute strength.

  Inevitably, he fell on his backside again.

  Plod continued to gaze at Artorex with a total lack of comprehension.

  Think, idiot! Artorex admonished himself, not even bothering to rise to his feet. It’s like the post and the rail. There must be a trick to this business of riding a horse as big as Plod.

  And so the boy considered his position logically, for he was by now becoming comfortable with devising solutions to Targo’s problems. He determined that he needed to approach the large horse from the front, grip the mane and leap on to Plod’s back, turning as he did so.

  The solution worked and he was successful at the first attempt.

  Plod ignored Artorex once he was seated painfully on the horse’s very sharp spine. The young man was soon slapping the stallion’s shoulders and trying to discover how to entice or, better still, order the beast to move.

  Plod continued to munch on some green shoots near the fence. If he bothered to obey the command to move at all, it was to search out sweeter grass.

  ‘Aaaah!’ Artorex screamed with frustration after five minutes of fruitless pummelling and shouting; Plod, being well used to the strange ways of humans, took no notice.

  Then, in pure frustration, Artorex kicked the beast in the flanks with his heels. Abruptly, Plod obeyed, and Artorex, who had not thought to grip the stallion’s mane, fell backwards over the horse’s flanks.

  The horse stopped and turned its head to look back at the boy as if Artorex was mentally retarded, a gaze that was mirrored in the laughter and expressions of two passing field hands.

  ‘That’s the way, Artor - show him who’s the boss,’ one guffawed as they carried their reaping hooks and hoes out to the fallow fields.

  For the first time, Artorex heard the shortened form of his name used by common field hands instead of the regal-sounding name that Lucius had chosen for him at birth.

  Artorex persevered and soon began to unlock the secrets that allowed him to control his horse. He practised hard and began to experience the pleasure of feeling such a huge creature move on his command. While Plod’s great muscles surged and bunched under Artorex’s knees, he soon became familiar with the exquisite pain that men experience as their bodies become fused to the unbending spine of a horse.

  Not surprisingly, Artorex managed to fall off the workhorse on many occasions, and was almost crushed against the fence until he learned to manipulate the horse’s halter and pull its head back when he wanted the beast to stop.

  And so the young man and his giant horse began to learn the rudiments of riding.

  Targo allowed him no time for self-congratulation, because the veteran now arranged for Artorex to meet Aphrodite.

  This slightly smaller mare had a nasty disposition and hated all men, especially tall, vigorous specimens like Artorex. She gazed balefully at him with a jaundiced, narrowed eye at their very first meeting, and then managed to regularly throw him off her back with casual disdain.

  Aphrodite was definitely not the Greek goddess of love.

  ‘Who’s the smarter? You or the horse?’ Targo asked, with a wicked leer plastered over his seamed and wrinkled face.

  ‘I am,’ Artorex snarled through clenched teeth.

  Then the horse stood on the boy’s foot. Artorex was sure she had broken his toe.

  ‘Who’s stronger? You? Or the horse?’

  ‘She is - unfortunately.’

  Targo laughed, coughed and then spat on the ground.

  ‘So how do you control something that is far stronger than you?’ Targo asked.

  ‘Cheat a little?’ Artorex said hopefully.

  ‘You must convince her that you are stronger and nastier than she is,’ Targo lectured. ‘Horses are like little children. And how do you stop little children from misbehaving?’ Targo mimicked the slapping of a naked bottom. ‘For truly difficult horses, trainers use a quirt, or a small whippy branch. They don’t use it overly much, mind, for if you brutalize a horse you’ll only make it dangerous. Just a taste is all you will need, not enough to hurt but sufficient to demonstrate to Aphrodite that you’re in charge.’ He smiled. ‘Here’s a suitable branch. I’ll return when you’ve mastered her.’

  Targo walked away with his usual lack of concern, but he had just handed the boy his greatest test - and the most dangerous temptation to date.

  Targo was a hard man, in fists, in swordplay and in the business of living. He had few illusions about the goodness of heart of the people with whom he mixed, nor was there much love left in him. But to those he did love, he was faithful forever.

  During his long life, he had seen men who appeared to be honourable on the surface but who took unnatural pleasure in the infliction of pain and brute force. Targo had never understood such flawed creatures, for he hardly considered them to be human. They brutalized anything and anyone within the ambit of their power, so they would beat a horse until it was a quivering and broken-spirited creature, simply because they had complete mastery over the animal.

  Targo didn’t know if the boy was such a person. Often, these hum
an beasts had felt inadequacy as children, or had been bullied and brutalized themselves. Targo knew that Artorex had never been forced to exercise power over anything that breathed, so he hoped that the boy wouldn’t fail this crucial trial. The snake-eyed Luka would be certain to ask the question on his next visit.

  Artorex could never have guessed the fearful tenor of Targo’s thoughts, so straight was the old man’s back as he strode briskly away.

  As was becoming his custom, Artorex approached this latest problem with logic and reason. He cut his own quirt in full view of the wild-eyed mare, slicing his hand with the thin wand of alder in the process. It hurt!

  Yes, he thought to himself. No horse would enjoy a blow from this weapon.

  Then, for the very first time, he looked at Aphrodite with real attention. She was an ugly mare at best, and it was obvious that she had felt the quirt before, judging by the narrow scars on her shoulders and her flanks.

  The horse looked back at him defiantly and Artorex recognized that the mare’s hatred was directed at the narrow wand in his hand. In clear view of Aphrodite’s rolling eyes, he turned his hand and dropped the branch to the ground before showing Aphrodite his bare palms. Then he swiftly leapt on to her back, grabbed her mane tightly with both hands and wrapped his legs about her barrel belly.

  As usual, she tried to throw him, but this time her heart didn’t seem so set on drawing his blood and maiming him. Artorex pulled hard on her mane, thereby yanking her head upward. The horse corkscrewed and twisted, but the boy continued to pit his will against hers. Even when she eventually threw him off, he went through the same procedure as before, again and again, until, just when Artorex believed his aching bones couldn’t bear another fall, Aphrodite surrendered her will to his. He felt the sundering of her defiance flow through her body and into his hands which were still tightly knit into her mane. He kicked her flanks, and the horse broke into an obedient trot and then a comfortable canter. Artorex began to exult in the pure joy that a man can only experience when a powerful creature gives itself to him, to do with as he pleases.

  When Aphrodite had demonstrated that she was a more mobile and speedy animal than Plod, Artorex threw himself from her back and approached her frontally to stroke her great cheek and forehead.

  At first, Aphrodite pulled her head away, and the boy could see all the whites around her untrusting eyes, but he persisted until the horse reluctantly permitted him to caress her.

  An hour later, when Targo returned from the villa to rejoin his pupil, he discovered a guilty Artorex feeding the horse a stolen carrot top from the kitchens.

  ‘So she took to the quirt, then, boy?’

  ‘You’re an evil old man, Master Targo,’ Artorex replied evenly. ‘You knew this horse wouldn’t respond to that sort of treatment.’ His voice was a gentle murmur to spare the horse from nervousness.

  ‘You did very well with this task, lad, and I’m pleased.’ Targo smiled. ‘The best horsemen I have encountered had no use for whips and quirts, but controlled their beasts with the bridle, the reins and the sure touch of their heels. I’ve seen Scythians who can guide horses with the reins in their teeth - and empty-handed - so that they can use their murderous bows while on the gallop.’ He grinned at Artorex. ‘Some men say those devils were centaurs once but I believe they’re just excellent horsemen who regularly practise their skills.’

  ‘Someone has scarred this horse very badly, Targo. Who ruined her?’ Artorex asked.

  ‘It’s not for me to say, boy. But I think you could make a good guess.’

  It’s what I’d expect of one such as Caius, Artorex thought to himself but, like Targo, he wisely kept his opinions to himself.

  Aphrodite and Artorex gradually became friends - of a kind.

  The boy brought her a carrot every day, so the kitchen staff began to keep the misshapen or slightly elderly vegetables for Artorex’s use. Artorex always rewarded her if she kept her temper with him, and he knew that this was all the consideration that he could ask of her. He understood that she would never fully trust him, for a damaged horse, like a betrayed child, cannot ever be quite whole.

  The next spring, after Artorex turned fifteen and had become quite a competent rider, with or without a bridle and rein, Aphrodite broke one of the weaker fence rails and escaped. For a weary and interminable week, Artorex searched for her, expecting to discover that she had been killed by boars or was hobbling on a broken leg in the Old Forest. But when he finally came upon her, he found that she had inexplicably found her way to his secret glade in the forest, where the old stone still drew his eyes with its strange carving, and the grass grew fresh and green wherever the sun’s rays penetrated the treetops.

  Amicably, Aphrodite submitted to the bridle and placidly followed him home. Behind them, in the deepest groves, Artorex heard the challenging whinny of a stallion, as if some strange centaur really did inhabit the ancient places. Superstitiously, he didn’t look back, and Aphrodite quietly ambled behind him without any fuss.

  In time, the mare bore a colt out of season, a long-legged, tiny thing, with slick black hair and an unnaturally large head. Once Aphrodite had cleaned the curly coat and nuzzled the colt to her dugs, Artorex stroked the short, wiry curls on the little creature’s flanks.

  Aphrodite snorted her displeasure just once, and then permitted Artorex to fondle her foal.

  The colt grew and grew, as different from Plod and Aphrodite as Artorex was from Caius. The small creature would never be quite as tall as its dam, but it had inherited the same length of leg. It was also cleaner of limb, with legs that were unmarred by thick hair above the hooves, although its body coat was still rough and curly. Its head was smaller and more delicate than its mother, yet, for all its apparent fragility, the young horse appeared strong and heavy-boned.

  ‘She must have found herself a wild pony when she was in season,’ Targo decided. ‘Perhaps it was a descendant of the horses brought from Gaul, or it might have been one of the hillside beasts that are still found in the high places. I don’t know if he’ll be any good, but he’s a handsome colt.’

  ‘He’s beautiful, Targo,’ Artorex breathed, as the foal nuzzled his arm with soft, questing lips.

  ‘I hope he’s not too beautiful or else the young master might be tempted to take him off you,’ Targo murmured regretfully.

  ‘Master Ector has already ordered me to become a horseman, so could you ask him if I could be responsible for the foal’s training?’ Artorex asked.

  Artorex expected Targo to reject his request outright, but the veteran pursed his lips, then bit on one calloused knuckle until, finally, he came to a decision.

  ‘I’ll ask him before the young master decides to take the foal for his own use.’

  Privately, Targo had already determined that he would keep Aphrodite’s foal safe from the grasping hands of Caius. His gorge still rose whenever he remembered Aphrodite’s coat, slick with blood and sweat, after Caius had beaten the mare almost to death. Targo had believed the mare would die with her spirit crushed, but she had found a well of hatred within her being that kept her alive. This foal wouldn’t be spoiled like its dam if he had any say in the matter.

  When Targo approached Lord Ector with his request, the master was inclined to be generous. For several months, Ector had been concerned that Artorex’s riding lessons were inconvenient for the smooth running of the villa and this small, bastard horse was of very little value, except to solve the problem. If his foster-son could make something of the unpromising creature, then Ector would be advantaged once again.

  And so Coal, as the young man named him, became Artorex’s horse.

  ‘Why did you give him that particular name?’ Targo asked curiously. He had expected a far more grandiose title, even for such an awkward little colt.

  ‘Coal burns hot and it fires the forges that make iron. It’s stronger than wood and yet it is glossy and easily shaped. Yes, Coal is his name, for he is my fire,’ Artorex answered with perfect seriousnes
s.

  ‘Well, he’s your horse, boy, so you can select whatever name you like for him,’ was Targo’s non-committal reply.

  Horsemanship was the least of Artorex’s newly acquired skills. Golden limbed, cleanly muscled and fair of face, Ector’s foster-son drew the eyes of the villa women with little effort or conscious use of charm. Perhaps his innocence contributed to his attractiveness, for the lad had no notion of his sexual power. But Lady Livinia recognized Artorex’s burgeoning manhood and, belatedly, remembered her promise to Myrddion Merlinus.

  Towards the end of one long, tiring day, as Artorex trudged back from ploughing, slick with sweat, soil and the cold water he had sluiced over his head and shoulders, Lady Livinia left orders for her foster-son to attend to her in the atrium once he had bathed. Artorex was surprised, but he complied as quickly as he could, joining Lady Livinia and her maid on a limestone bench under a single linden tree. Lady Livinia was working her large floor loom while her maid was spinning degreased wool on a simple, wooden spindle.

  ‘You asked to see me, my lady?’ Artorex asked carefully, his grey eyes watching the flicker of coloured thread as her shuttle passed across the loom.

  ‘Yes, Artorex.’ She smiled in welcome. ‘I’ve been remiss in your education. As Lord Myrddion explained, a true gentleman should understand how to speak to both servants and masters, how to practise courtesy and economy, and to display the good manners that oil the wheels of society. From tomorrow, you will attend me in the atrium each afternoon after the noontime meal.’

  She smiled inwardly as she glimpsed the frown of chagrin that the lad attempted to hide by dropping his head. From Artorex’s point of view, hard work was preferable to such pointless activities.

  ‘Don’t fear that I’ll keep you from your duties to the villa. An hour a day should be more than sufficient to correct any deficiencies in your deportment or manners. My woman, Delia, will oversee the more . . . physical . . . aspects of your education.’