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

by M. K. Hume

  ‘I want nothing for this duty,’ Ector stated unequivocally. ‘For there’s no gold or land that can have half the worth of my children.’ He gazed into the face of Artorex. ‘Caius will be silent?’

  ‘Aye. Caius and I have reached an understanding,’ Artorex replied. ‘His fate is tied to mine, and will always be so.’

  ‘Well, I’m damned if I understand him,’ Ector said with some humour - and father and foster-son laughed ironically.

  Later, Artorex strode across the fields, his shadows in place behind him, until he came to the burned earth where he’d known such joy. The timber of the framework was now ash, but the burned stone of the walls and the jagged foundations pointed to love that had been real, but was now lost forever. Already the tendrils of wisteria shoots, tougher than Artorex could imagine, struggled with the ivy to gain a foothold on the stone.

  Absently, Artorex bent over to pull out a succulent weed growing between the flagged stones of the courtyard. Odin followed his master’s lead, so the weeds were soon gone and the tomb of Gallia and Frith, for such this place now was, was cleansed of the parasitic plants.

  ‘My greatest wish is that you should plant flowers around and among the ruins of my house,’ Artorex told Gareth that night. ‘Roses, spring blossoms and the deep strong roots of alder and hazel should flourish there, because a garden in Gallia’s memory is the only object of real worth that I can give to the baby Licia.’

  Gareth knelt before his master and swore to serve Artorex as long as he lived, without question.

  ‘The Garden of Gallia shall be beautiful, for I will tend to it as you require. But I crave my lord’s permission to grow herbs and simples as well, and the ordinary daisies and poppies that Frith loved.’

  ‘There’s no need to ask, Gareth.’ Artorex smiled at the youth. ‘You may raise a memorial to Frith, my mother of the heart. I will send gold to pay for its construction.’

  ‘I’ll do as you ask, my lord. If you agree to come with me tomorrow, I’ll show you what I want to do.’

  And so, in the morning, Artorex found himself back at the place where his journey had begun, in his glade in the Old Forest where the weak light of spring reached downwards to split the darkness.

  The stone had not changed, nor had its powerful, eerie carvings. Artorex sensed that he was in the presence of something holy that was as alien to him as the ways of women.

  Even Odin sensed the mystic presence and abased himself before the stone.

  ‘I ask a boon that I might keep this stone under my protection, Lord Artorex,’ Gareth explained while pointing at the carving. ‘Gallia and Frith came here almost every day, for it was a place where they felt contentment and were at peace with the world. Gallia said she felt close to you when she was here, and Frith told me the stone was sacred to women and was as old as the world. She ground her herbs in the cup on its spine.’ He smiled shyly at Artorex. ‘She told me that blood had defiled the stone in times long past, but that her woman’s magic had destroyed the demons that lived within it.’

  ‘Then you may move the stone where you will. Ector will give you whatever men you need to position the stone in its new place of rest. Perhaps you might lay it in the forecourt of the ruins so that a pond forms around it and water might drain from the cup when the rains fall.’

  Artorex sighed, for in the past he’d only ever imagined a flow of fresh, sacrificial blood in its holy cup. He hadn’t discerned any other use for the ancient relic.

  ‘Perhaps, water flowers might make it an object of beauty rather than a symbol of death.’

  During the coming months, Artorex, his scum and those warriors who flocked to his banner rode through the mountain chain like an armed whirlwind. No Saxon dared to walk on soil that Artorex deemed to be sacred to the cause of the west. No Norseman dared to cut a single tree in the forests that Artorex claimed as his own. And no man was left to breathe who stood against the dying Uther in his dusty Great Hall. The last Dux Bellorum became the Warden of the Britons, and his fame grew.

  On those few, brief occasions when quiet settled on the borders, Artorex returned to the Villa Poppinidii. There, he played with a small blonde girl whom he called Licia, who was accompanied always by her constant shadow, the pale-haired Gareth.

  Ector’s remaining hair also whitened, but the old man gained a whole new lease of life when Caius rode off to war as one of Artorex’s captains. Ector was often heard to say that Lucius’s gift of a foster-son was the greatest piece of luck in his long and fortunate life.

  No house rose on the foundations of the old house where Gallia and Frith had died. Only flowers were allowed to live there, blooms that were cared for by Gareth who promised that no one would trouble Licia’s peace with tales of a warrior father. Artorex came to love her as an uncle should, on the surface at least. And if he wept for the loss of his daughter to preserve her safety, then only Targo knew. And Targo never told.

  The sun rose and fell on the Villa Poppinidii as it had done for hundreds of years, and Gallia rested in a golden urn set in a niche in the ruined walls of her house. Regardless of the worth of her last resting place, no hand would dare to touch the Dux Bellorum’s garden or its contents. Eventually, even to the faithful Artorex, she became a dream, and then the faint memory of a dream, and time washed her away in the great actions of powerful men.

  But the garden bloomed on the defiled earth where so much of her Artorex had died. The cup in the stone filled with clean water and washed away the memory of old evils. And Frith’s spirit danced in the wild daisies that grew in great white masses, intertwined with blood-red poppies like the heart’s blood she had shed for love.

  For one year, Artorex pushed his great strength to the limit, living in the saddle and gathering around his core of surviving impossibles a large force of young and eager warriors. The nobility, the villages and the last Celtic-Roman settlements all sent their best sons to ride with Artorex, the Warrior of the West, and the few Saxon toeholds in the north-west of the British lands were forced back into the mountains or the Wash, like mud cleansed from Artorex’s feet.

  Icy purpose drove him. When the west became a secure bastion, Artorex made camp in the mountains, in the old fortresses, creating a string of guardian towers to watch the encroaching Saxon menace that lay just over the borders.

  During this time, Venta Belgarum never saw his face. He told himself that his hatred for Uther was so deep that he could not trust himself to allow the ancient, dying King to live. He tried to convince that coldest part of himself that his neglect of the source of all British power was also to protect Targo, who had sworn an oath to avenge Gallia’s murder.

  But Artorex knew, in a sickened corner of his soul, that he couldn’t bear to see his own self in all of Uther’s ruin and cruelty. So he rode, fought and pushed the Celtic edge to the limit - through the power of Celtic horsemanship.

  At the end of winter, Myrddion found Artorex in a windswept bivouac. The young man was brooding over maps drawn on soft, rolled cowhide as he planned his next campaign against the Saxon underbelly.

  ‘Don’t you have a smile for an old friend, Artorex?’ Myrddion murmured from the entrance to the simple mud and wattle hut.

  Artorex raised his head to meet the dark eyes of Myrddion.

  ‘You’re always welcome, Myrddion, oldest of teachers.’ Artorex’s mouth twisted a little in irony, and Myrddion felt a wrench in his heart for his pupil’s lost innocence.

  Artorex swept furs, discarded maps and an old and dirty wooden plate off a stool in the centre of the room.

  ‘Sit, my friend, and ignore my distraction, for I’m tired and heartsick at what must be done this spring. How goes Venta Belgarum?’

  ‘The city is quiet, like a warrior waiting for the call to battle. Uther bunkers in his city like a dying spider, but he’s caught in Morgan’s machinations rather than his own. Beware of her, Artorex, for she hates all things that are Uther’s - and you are his greatest legacy. She’ll do you greater harm, if
she can, than simply keeping that old monster alive with her vile concoctions.’

  Artorex’s lips twisted bitterly. ‘Life was infinitely simpler when I had no blood kin.’

  ‘Your mother has returned to a convent near Tintagel, regardless of the whispers that her absence has caused. She has become a penitent and rumour says she has taken a vow of silence. She whips her body to save her soul.’

  Artorex merely raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t you care, boy? You’ve lost a wife in a foul murder, but Ygerne lost her husband through trickery - and then her child was taken from her. She believed you were dead for countless years, and she has finally fled from the man who wronged her so deeply.’ Myrddion shook his head slowly. ‘Don’t you feel curiosity, at the very least, about her motives in marrying Uther?’ Myrddion was showing signs of impatience, and Artorex turned away from the older man’s concerned scrutiny.

  ‘I find it difficult to care what penances a spoiled queen belatedly offers to her god. In my heart, my mothers were Frith and Livinia, one a Saxon and the other Roman. And both were fine, upright women who had no guile or cowardice in their natures.’

  ‘You’re overly harsh, Artorex, for Ygerne was a tragic victim. I was the one who helped Uther deceive the fairest woman of the Britons - another sin upon my conscience. My only justification is that it was important to our cause that she should give birth to Uther’s successor.

  You may judge me if you must, but save some pity for a frail woman who has suffered far more cruelly than you have.’

  Artorex snorted.

  ‘Allow me to speak, Artorex,’ Myrddion demanded. ‘Ygerne was a famed woman. She was a beauty, but she was also able to read and write, to sing like a nightingale and was so good of heart that her physical charms were the least of her talents. Men loved her on sight and longed to earn her smiles, but her heart was fixed upon her husband, Gorlois, the Boar of Cornwall. He was an ally of Uther Pendragon.

  ‘At a feast, Uther met the fabled Ygerne. I remember that night, for so much misery stemmed from a simple meal. He saw her, he wanted her and he sickened to have her. Waking and sleeping, Ygerne filled his thoughts so that Uther neglected his duties. Nothing I said deflected him and no other woman slaked his desire.

  ‘Well you might laugh, Artorex, but you’re not past forty, as was Uther. And the man had fallen in love for the first time in his life. Uther had enjoyed any woman he wanted in the past, but now he had found a paragon whom he couldn’t have, and his obsession almost cost him his reason.

  ‘Yes, I eventually found a way to trick Ygerne so that she welcomed Uther into Tintagel and she lay with him as her husband. What could Ygerne do when she discovered the ruse? Uther raped her once she proved unwilling and planted you in her womb. Yes, I watched as he sent Gorlois into a suicidal battle. And I watched as he made the outcome certain by declaring that the Duke of Cornwall was a traitor and had him killed. Can you imagine how Ygerne felt when she saw her husband’s beloved head raised on a pike over the gates of Venta Belgarum?’

  ‘She could have arranged her own death,’ Artorex interrupted brutally.

  ‘She’d already quickened at the time of which we speak, and she thought the child came from the seed of Gorlois. She couldn’t take her own life! She had two daughters, and Uther had used them as hostages to take the queen to his bed and ensure her compliance. I ask you, Artorex, what would you have done?’

  Artorex reddened along his high cheekbones at his mentor’s implied criticism.

  ‘My name may still be Artorex, but I’m no longer the boy who bore that name,’ the young man stated matter-of-factly. ‘Unfortunately, the happy life that Artorex knew and loved is long dead. Regardless of the sins she endured, Ygerne still has nothing to do with me, although I’ll acquit her of the flaws of vanity and cowardice. I accept that Uther has turned many innocents into sinners.’

  ‘You’re angry, and you’re hurt to the heart, my boy. I wouldn’t have had you suffer, as you well know. In this instance, you’ve been required to sacrifice something of yourself for the sake of the common good.’

  Artorex drank deeply from his wooden wine cup, and then spat the lees on to the sod floor. He raised his eyes to his friend and smiled in the old, trusting way while, outside, a chill wind rattled the stiff cowhide covering at the door lintel and stirred his loosened hair.

  ‘I hope you’ll forgive me, friend Myrddion. I feel lost and only Saxon deaths seem to imbue me with purpose. I’ll think on your words and, if I decide to make my peace with Ygerne, then I’ll do so. Regardless of my decision, I’ll always be grateful for your guidance and advice.’

  They clasped hands as they stood inside the warm room and, wisely, determined to avoid painful subjects.

  ‘How does Caius?’ Myrddion asked, curiously. ‘I still find myself wondering about that young man, for those incidents at the Villa Severinii still haunt me.’

  Artorex grimaced a little in memory.

  ‘Does he make a suitable horse captain?’

  ‘He does well enough, and his tactical ability demonstrates a certain ferocity. I need him, despite my reservations about his lack of judgement, because he hates the Saxons even more than you or I. Sometimes, I don’t believe that he sees them as human beings but, rather, as wild animals. I believe that Caius is one of those men who enjoys warfare and who are at their best in times of violence. But enough of Caius! What brings you to this godforsaken place?’

  ‘This and that, Artorex. I’ve sent several good men into the heart of the Saxon east to bring me intelligence. They risk their lives to keep us both aware of Saxon intentions.’ Myrddion’s face was sad. ‘These men often die for us, and they are unhallowed and unsung. Like you, I often feel their shades clustering around me, so I regret the desperate need which forces me to order such brave men into enemy settlements. But they - and we - serve as we must, for it is only the land that matters.’

  Myrddion paced the small, conical room, refusing wine in favour of water, and for all that his advancing middle age was whitening his hair at last, his tortured face reflected all the bewildered pity of a boy.

  ‘Even as we speak, I am awaiting news from my best servant, Gruffydd, a peasant who grew up with the Saxons as a slave. His skill with the language has kept him safe for many years. I hope that Gruffydd will give you the disposition of the Saxon advance, for the east is now completely theirs.’

  He peered at Artorex through the gloom with a concerned expression on his smooth, still-youthful face.

  ‘I fear we will be driven out into the lands far to the west, Artorex, and all the civilization that Romans and Celts have built will be burned to the ground.’

  ‘Not while I live.’

  ‘Nor I, Artorex,’ Myrddion replied. ‘But now we play a waiting game, for Uther lives on, against all nature. The tribes are divided and Morgause has many sons. When the High King does die, as must soon happen, claimants to the throne will rise like nettles to seize power for themselves, and the old alliances will be cast aside like straws in the wind.’

  ‘I have no desire to fill Uther’s shoes, for the duties of the Dux Bellorum are onerous enough for me,’ Artorex replied honestly.

  ‘My boy, there are no claimants to the throne who would dare to let you live. You must have a care, Artorex. You can trust no man except those who are tied to you by bonds that cannot be broken. You must understand that the lips of those who aspire to greatness may smile, but the serpent in their hearts can be impossible to recognize.’

  Artorex rose to his full height, so that the tall, willowy form of Myrddion was forced to look up into his eyes.

  ‘And what of you, old friend? Would you betray me for the land?’

  ‘I could lie and say that my love for you outstrips all other duties, but I won’t burden my soul any further. If you bring blood and death to our people, then I’ll be forced to choose against you. But I swear by the love I hold for you, as the son I never sired, that I will never use Licia as I’ve used y
ou.’

  Artorex nodded gravely.

  Although he did not realize the importance of his words, Myrddion had passed Artorex’s greatest test. He had spoken the purest truth.

  The young man offered Myrddion his sword arm, and the two men embraced.

  ‘Thank you for your honesty, my old friend. I expected no less from you but I had to ask those ugly questions. You can blame my tainted blood for my coldness and my suspicious nature.’

  ‘Tainted? Oh, no, my lord. You are what Uther should have been but wasn’t. For you have a love for those people who are the strong spine of our lands. Uther always used his warriors without a qualm for the cost, but you care for the men who die for our cause. You are your mother’s child.’

  ‘But which mother would that be, Myrddion? That’s the question that haunts me.’

  ‘Perhaps you belong to all of them. Have you considered that possibility? Livinia’s sense of duty, Frith’s courage and Ygerne’s steadfastness have all helped to shape you, so who can say which woman is your true mother?’

  Artorex shrugged.

  ‘You’ll find your way, my lord, because you must. But for now you must point me to a warm bed because I must be gone by morning.’

  That night, Targo noted that Artorex smiled more easily and the cares that had bowed his shoulders seemed to have lifted a little.

  ‘That Myrddion is a clever devil,’ he told a half-comprehending Odin. ‘But, whether Artorex knows it or not, he is the master’s true edge.’

  Wisely, Odin said nothing. But when Myrddion’s shadow touched him, he clutched his amulet to his chest for luck.

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE UNBORN CHILD

  Gruffydd arrived late at the burning village, having ridden his lathered horse almost to death during the long ride from Venonae. Covered in mud from the swamps of the Wash and with his temper frayed from hours in the saddle nursing his exhausted horse, he was coldly angry to discover that the small settlement had already been put to the sword.