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

by M. K. Hume

  Peering up from beneath his lowered brows, Gruffydd could see that the table was burdened by a large and rather battered chart traced on fine doeskin.

  Booted heels entered the room from the door behind Gruffydd, and the agent heard the great latch drop into place. As Myrddion, Llanwith and Luka rose and bowed their heads in respect, Gruffydd stayed in his position of full obeisance. The tall figure of Artorex swept past him, so that Gruffydd caught a glimpse of long, blond-red hair that fell well below the wide shoulder blades.

  Gruffydd bowed even more deeply from his kneeling position on the floor of the room.

  ‘Get up, man!’ the compelling voice of Artorex boomed in the enclosed space.

  Turning to Myrddion, he smiled at his friend before nodding a greeting to Llanwith and Luka.

  ‘Why do you insist we meet in this ice-box of a room?’ Artorex asked of Myrddion as he threw himself into the only comfortable chair. ‘I know you have a passion for secrecy but I freeze half to death every time I enter this room.’

  So this is Artorex, Gruffydd thought reverently as he scrambled to his feet.

  Artorex poured a goblet of wine. The kings seated themselves at a wave of his hand and Artorex grinned at them with open affection.

  Here is a man to love - and to die for, Gruffydd thought to himself, for he, too, was caught in the spell of the young leader’s open, white smile.

  As if he read Gruffydd’s thoughts, Artorex turned to face Myrddion’s agent, taking in the red hair, the hide cloak and the barbarian boots with a quick measuring glance.

  ‘So this is your spy, Myrddion. Introduce us, my friend.’

  ‘This man is Gruffydd, of Venta Silurum.’ Myrddion smiled. ‘He does have the look of a barbarian about him, doesn’t he? And he has the most remarkable gift for languages. But Gruffydd is Celt through and through, and I trust him in all matters.’

  Gruffydd found himself colouring in embarrassment at the unexpected praise from his master.

  ‘My lord,’ Gruffydd responded. He would have bowed again but Artorex ordered him to stop such nonsense.

  ‘Any man who travels the dangerous paths you tread has no need to bow to me,’ Artorex said softly. ‘What news of the east? And don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. The truth, please, Gruffydd.’

  The spy sucked in a lungful of smoky air. The truth. How did one tell the powerful ones of this world the complete truth - and live to tell the truth at a later time?

  Artorex’s grey eyes bored into his. Gruffydd was convinced the Dux Bellorum could read his mind.

  ‘The truth, please, Gruffydd,’ Artorex repeated softly.

  ‘Lord, the wolf packs we send out harry the garrisons and the villages, and this strategy works in that the Saxon fields are burned and we cause havoc. We’ll bring famine to some villages in the east this winter. But these barbarians are not like you, or Lord Myrddion, or any peasant in the west. These warriors were born in cruel lands where starvation is a constant bedfellow. We give them no respite, but they haven’t retreated.’

  Even Myrddion was now staring at Gruffydd with hard, interested eyes. Spies reported what they saw but few were asked for an honest opinion of what they believed to be true.

  ‘And why do they not retreat, friend Gruffydd? Are the winters in these isles so mild that they can survive in the deepest snow?’

  Gruffydd laughed shortly. Then, covered with confusion, he apologized profusely.

  ‘The truth, Gruffydd,’ Artorex reminded him.

  ‘They can’t retreat, lord, for their blood stains the land. Only a blood price will wash away the deaths that have already been given up to the west. The Saxons are a warrior race, and they despise our weakness when we attack only helpless villages. Should the Saxons, the Jutes, and the northerners unite under one commander, we won’t defeat them.’

  ‘You are convinced of this?’ Artorex asked flatly.

  ‘Aye, my lord. Even now, one powerful king is gathering his forces against you out of Camulodunum. If he should ignite the warriors of the south and the north, we would have to fight along the length of the mountains to save your forces in the west.’

  Artorex stretched his neck muscles and flexed his fingers.

  Gruffydd noticed, abstractedly, that his leader’s hands were free of rings. His face was grave, but his eyes were alive with a cold intelligence.

  ‘And who is this ambitious king?’

  ‘I have only heard the name of their new leader, I haven’t seen him. He is called Oakheart. It is whispered by the common people that they look to him to stop the rapine in the east.’

  Artorex sighed deeply and shrugged in the direction of his three friends.

  ‘What can we do, my friends? We can raid their garrisons and slow their advance, but in doing so we feed their rage and entrench them further. I won’t consider retreat, and I won’t relinquish one inch of western soil, so we have an impasse beyond my intellect to break.’

  Myrddion’s face was a chiaroscuro mask, half brightly lit by a lamp and the other half plunged into darkness.

  ‘You fight the Saxons with one hand tied behind your back,’ Myrddion stated in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Only a High King can rally the tribes, and only a High King has the stature to keep the princelings from each other’s throats. This Oakheart will have us all as food for the kites unless you take up Uther’s sword.’

  Artorex leapt abruptly to his feet and began to pace. He strode up and down the small, stone room, his face set like a fine, unlined bronze statue.

  ‘And how am I to take what is hidden?’ Artorex replied. ‘For Uther’s sword is well concealed from me even if I decided to claim it.’

  ‘You can leave the search to me, Artorex,’ Myrddion stated confidently. ‘I only ask that you agree to use the sword to unite the tribes if I should find it.’

  ‘But I have no wish to acknowledge Uther Pendragon as my father. I’m sickened by the actions of that vicious old monster, and I desire nothing that was his.’

  ‘Swords can be reforged, my friend,’ Llanwith rumbled quietly in his deep voice.

  ‘Swords are only symbols, Artorex, and nothing more,’ Luka added. ‘Even so, they are powerful forces that can strike fear and awe into the hearts of friend or foe, so their usefulness should never be underestimated.’

  By now, Gruffydd wished that he was far away in the warm kitchens where he could neither see the Dux Bellorum as a troubled man nor hear secret plans that could cause his head to be separated from his body.

  Artorex turned his flat, grey eyes towards Gruffydd. The spy suddenly recalled a shark he had once seen that had been caught in the village fishing nets. Even as it bit at the spears that impaled it, and even as it suffocated on dry land, its flat grey eyes continued to hold the same nothingness that now filled the eyes of the Dux Bellorum.

  Gruffydd shuddered inwardly.

  ‘You, at least, have spoken the truth as you believe it to be. I am in your debt, Gruffydd. If you have need of anything, then you may ask, and it shall be given to you.’

  Gruffydd’s mouth was dry and he was forced to hawk to loosen his tongue. Of all the luxuries he could request for himself and his family, only one desire surfaced from the deepest roots of his Celtic heart. He had no hesitation in making his request.

  ‘I want the head of the beast who left the child Nimue to die.’

  All the men in that small, dangerous room were silent.

  Then Artorex found his voice.

  ‘Who is Nimue?’

  ‘She’s an infant, my lord. I found her at Durobrivae, a small farming village that was put to the sword a week ago. The child’s mother, who was on the point of giving birth, had been raped and used without mercy. Later, the baby had been hacked from the young girl’s womb and the tiny body was thrown on to the banks of the river. I discovered the babe and determined to save her if I could. The life of an infant barbarian is less than nothing in the scheme of things, but a Celt committed the abomination on her mother, a young g
irl who should never have been left to die in agony. By now, the Jutes will have found her body, so they will hate us all the more fiercely for our depravity. I saved the babe - and it now lives in your kitchens. It is my desire that the child will grow to adulthood in the Celtic way, and will believe in our way of life. This child can be the living symbol you spoke of, Lord Luka, but the responsibility for the sin of her premature birth is inescapably ours.’

  Artorex’s head reared back and twin flames ignited the grey depths of his eyes.

  ‘Are you telling me that this young woman had her babe cut out of her living flesh? Tell me slowly what you know, and leave nothing out.’ Artorex’s face was a study in cold fury, and Gruffydd’s courage almost deserted him. He was alarmed, for this aspect of Artorex was unfamiliar to him.

  Myrddion could have explained to Gruffydd that Nimue’s birth awoke dormant memories of Gallia’s fate and the cowardly murder of two defenceless women. The rigidity of the Dux Bellorum’s body caused the spymaster to clench his fist under the table and to pray that Gruffydd kept his wits about him.

  With growing repugnance, Artorex absorbed the full, harrowing tale. Like a tongue must probe a broken tooth, so the Dux Bellorum continued to ask pointed questions that revealed the depth of depravity and callousness of the perpetrator of the crime. In his recitation, Gruffydd didn’t spare the sensitivity of his Celtic audience for he decided that Artorex was a man who valued truth, however unpalatable.

  ‘The head of the warrior who committed this atrocity will be served up to you, Gruffydd,’ Artorex said softly. ‘Like you, I’ve no taste for the murder of helpless women or children. Is there anything you desire, or need, for yourself ?’

  ‘I ask for nothing but the safety and well-being of our people, my lord.’

  ‘Good man!’ Artorex grinned for the first time in some minutes, and Gruffydd discovered that he could breathe again.

  ‘The guilty man is a member of Caius’s troop,’ Myrddion said blandly.

  Luka and Llanwith exchanged meaningful glances, and Artorex raised one eyebrow.

  ‘Lord Caius is innocent of the murder, my lord,’ Gruffydd said quickly.

  ‘How do you come to that conclusion?’ Artorex asked shortly. He stared at Gruffydd with emotionless eyes.

  ‘Lord Caius wasn’t saturated in blood, my lord,’ Gruffydd replied economically.

  ‘Good!’

  Suddenly, the mood in the room lightened, as if a heavy weight had been lifted.

  ‘Well, if that is so, then Caius shall enjoy the pleasure of delivering the cur up to me,’ Artorex decided. ‘My word has been given. Luka will carry the happy tidings to Caius. A public execution may serve as a warning to the more zealous of our warriors.’

  ‘There’ll be some resentment among the troops,’ Myrddion began, but Artorex waved away his protest.

  ‘We’ll contrast the life of an innocent infant against the life of a fully grown man. And we’ll let the mood of our people decide whether our cause is just.’

  ‘Like King Solomon of olden times, we will be cutting the baby in half, ’ Luka said in admiration. ‘What real man would place the life of a rapist and a murderer above the safety of a child, regardless of whether the infant should be Jute, Saxon or Celt?’

  ‘Then we’d best keep the babe’s foot covered,’ Gruffydd muttered softly.

  Four heads swivelled in his direction, and four pairs of eyes looked at him for an explanation.

  ‘Is there more to this tale, Gruffydd?’ Artorex asked softly.

  ‘The Lady Morgan saw the babe when I first brought her to Venonae. She made a prophecy over the babe and even gave it a name - Nimue. I didn’t approve, Lord Myrddion, but what was I to do? I couldn’t gainsay Lady Morgan.’

  ‘But there has been more, hasn’t there, Gruffydd?’ Artorex stared at him with his flat, unyielding eyes.

  ‘As I explained, I discovered that Nimue had been ripped from her mother’s womb and thrown into the reeds by one of her legs. The bruises on her leg were ample evidence of that. Today, the Lady Morgan took the child to her quarters and she . . .’ Gruffydd’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Out with it!’ Myrddion’s voice was angry; the entire group knew that Myrddion’s hatred of Morgan was implacable.

  ‘She has begun to place her symbol on the injured ankle, and has commenced placing a tattoo of the head of a snake on the child’s leg.’

  ‘Shite!’ exclaimed Llanwith inelegantly. ‘She intends to mark the child as a pagan.’

  ‘That would end her usefulness as a symbol.’ Luka swore pungently.

  ‘Nimue has been christened and blessed already by the Christian priests, my lord,’ Gruffydd exclaimed, for he imagined that Nimue could be harmed because of the pagan mark on her fair flesh.

  ‘You’ve given me a brilliant idea, Llanwith, my friend.’ Myrddion grinned wickedly. ‘A good tattooist could easily turn a drawing of a snake into the winged serpent - or the dragon. Especially if the first drawing hasn’t been completed.’

  ‘The tattoo is incomplete, my lord,’ Gruffydd said through dry lips.

  Myrddion turned to Artorex. ‘Perhaps, then, you could order the babe to be marked as your own. If you put the Dracos mark upon her baby flesh, she will become a true symbol, one that you can appropriate for your own uses. This child can be used as a force to unify our people, and she would be living proof that we aren’t barbarians.’ Myrddion’s expression was that of a satisfied tomcat.

  Artorex laughed at the self-satisfied smirk on Myrddion’s face. ‘You love to tweak Morgan’s nose, Myrddion,’ he said. ‘One day she might grab you by the balls and then you’ll speak with the voice of a girl.’

  ‘And one day the sky might fall - but that day is still far off.’

  Artorex made his decision. ‘I’ll send Targo to collect little Nimue in an hour,’ he stated. ‘She’ll not be harmed and will suffer only a little discomfort. By sunrise she’ll be marked as the protégé of the Dux Bellorum.’ His cold eyes warmed as he turned to Gruffydd once again. ‘You’ll forget all that you’ve heard in this room, Gruffydd. Nothing we’ve said must pass your lips.’

  ‘I’m not suicidal, my lord,’ Gruffydd replied dourly.

  Artorex clapped him on the back and laughed. ‘I like you, Gruffydd, I really do. And I’ll not forget you, or your little Nimue!’

  Lord save me, Gruffydd thought to himself, for to be known to Artorex could become a mixed blessing.

  Gruffydd hastened to the kitchens. The hearth was a pile of hot coals, for the fire was not permitted to die entirely, while a sleepy boy was there to tend it during the night.

  Nimue lay with Gallwyn on a pallet in an alcove that was separated from the kitchens by a fine woven curtain of striped wool.

  ‘Gallwyn? Wake up, woman! Lord Artorex is sending someone for the child Nimue. Wake up!’

  Gallwyn’s tousled head appeared around the side of the curtain. She may have been asleep, and was still drowsy, but her eyes were sharp and alarmed.

  ‘What are you at, Gruffydd, waking decent women in their beds? What would Lord Artorex want with little Nimue?’

  ‘To undo what Lady Morgan has begun. You must arise from your bed, Gallwyn, for if I know Artorex’s speed, his man is halfway here already.’

  The conversation had been hissed, for neither Gallwyn nor Gruffydd cared to waken the kitchen staff who slept with their meagre possessions on the floors of the common room.

  ‘I’m coming! I’m coming! Can’t an old woman have even an hour of sleep?’ Gallwyn complained behind her curtain.

  ‘You can tell that to the Dux Bellorum,’ Gruffydd snorted.

  The two friends barely had time to wash the babe and change her wrappings before two warriors entered the kitchen. The men were complete opposites. The older of the two was a small, bandy-legged ancient with a sharp eye, some nasty scars and a short Roman sword. The second man was a giant Jutlander who was tall and blond, except for his red-gold beard. The taller man remained silent.<
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  ‘I’m Targo. You’re expecting us?’ the smaller man said, and Gruffydd knew that this soldier walked in Artorex’s shadows; these men were the Dux Bellorum’s personal bodyguards.

  ‘This here lump is Odin.’ Targo gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘He doesn’t say much but he’s as gentle as a lamb, aren’t you, friend?’

  ‘Gallwyn mothers the child Nimue, and she is chief cook for Lord Myrddion. I am Gruffydd, Lord Myrddion’s man,’ Gruffydd replied, somewhat awkwardly.

  ‘Mistress!’ Both men nodded to Gallwyn, who bridled slightly with pleasure.

  Targo turned back to Gruffydd. ‘I’ve heard tell of you, good sir. Artorex says you’re a man to watch. He likes you, so we’ve been told to take an interest and ensure you’re kept safe.’

  ‘My thanks to Lord Artorex,’ Gruffydd managed to reply through a tightening throat.

  ‘So this is the infant? Aye, she’s a beauty.’ Targo clucked over the little bundle. ‘Give her to Odin, mistress. He’s got big hams of hands but he’s gentle-like and won’t harm her. By the time he’s finished with his tattoos, Morgan will be . . . er . . . cut out, so to speak.’

  ‘Good,’ Gallwyn replied brusquely, and placed the sleeping child into Odin’s huge arms. The giant looked down at the child and seemed to soften in face and form as he smelled the child’s milky sweetness.

  ‘She’s a . . . a sea-wife!’ he said in a voice that was rusty with disuse.

  ‘Whatever you say, Odin.’ Targo replied. ‘But she will be as Lord Artorex commands.’

  ‘She will be a . . . wise woman.’ Odin struggled for the words.

  ‘So much the better if she is to be marked as Lord Artorex’s protégé,’ Targo replied.

  Targo noticed a kitchen boy who had suddenly woken to find the large room full of wonders.