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

by M. K. Hume

  ‘She’s a strange woman, master. And her hatred is appalling.’

  ‘Pitiful is a better description of Morgan,’ Myrddion replied. ‘She needs to believe that she can still control Uther’s body and spirit even after his death. How unutterably sad.’

  ‘Sad?’ Gruffydd spat, and then crossed himself. ‘The woman is demented.’

  ‘Morgan has probably been crazed for years. She has buried every natural desire in order to take her revenge on Uther during the many years she remained with him. But this! It’s so petty - and such a dreadful waste.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to spare any sympathy for the witch.’ Gruffydd was affronted by the barbarity of Morgan’s actions. ‘If anyone should be staked out like this, it’s Morgan.’

  ‘No. Morgan is more to be pitied. Even with Uther dead and gone, she cannot give up her hatred. But staring at these old crimes does not serve our purpose.’

  Myrddion looked across the corpse at the superstitious face of Gruffydd, and then issued his instructions.

  ‘Leave this unhallowed place and find servants, and a warrior or two. I want these apartments completely refitted for the High King when he comes to Venta Belgarum. Every stick of furniture, every piece of cloth, every fur and every trace of the presence of Uther and Morgan is to be burned.’ He gazed around the dust-filled room. ‘And you must find a priest to pray for this girl’s soul and give her a decent burning.’

  Gruffydd hurried off to obey his master’s wishes, glad to be released from the mouldering room that was still full of implacable hatred.

  Myrddion knelt upon the dusty stool beside the bed and rested his forearms, as if in prayer, close to where Uther’s head must have lain. This was the position where Uther’s priest had spent many hours, even years, listening to Uther’s confessions throughout the period of his slow decay. Here, in the final days, the bishop would have given extreme unction to the dying Uther, even though he was close to death himself.

  Myrddion was no Christian, but he had considerable knowledge of the Roman sect. He understood that the unfortunate Branicus, in his piety, must have crushed his natural feelings for years. In Myrddion’s imagination, the final confession of Uther Pendragon must have been grotesque.

  How often had the bishop knelt here? If the embroidered stool was any guide, a pair of knees had flattened the plumpness of the stuffing. How many hours had the bishop listened to the savage ravings of a decadent old tyrant as he struggled to bring that unrepentant soul to his God? Uther would not have parted with his sword and his crown during the final stages of his illness, fearing that Morgan would lay her henna-tipped claws upon his symbols of kingship. Lot as High King would have been nearly as bad as Artorex, for Uther loathed Morgause nearly as much as her sister.

  No, Uther would have hidden the sword and the crown when Artorex became the Warrior of the West. Seen from Uther’s point of view, what other choice did he have? His body was betraying him, Botha was dead and Artorex was beloved by the people.

  No, the sword and the crown were long gone by the time Uther reconciled himself to the certainty of approaching death.

  Myrddion knelt and tried to imagine the filth that had poured into the ears of the bishop. He tried to understand how Branicus must have felt when he had taken these ritual objects that were so soiled and degraded with lust, murder and ambition.

  Accompanied by two warriors and four terrified menservants, Gruffydd knocked quietly on the door before entering. But, engrossed, Myrddion didn’t hear him.

  The grisly remains of the once virginal girl were removed from the window, while Myrddion continued his reflection. And, when the crow was gingerly pulled up as a mere tangle of black feathers and stick-like chewed bones, Myrddion’s concentration was so deep that he didn’t even acknowledge the presence of servants in the room.

  He was far away inside the mind of the long-dead bishop.

  As the servants tiptoed around him, glancing fearfully at his still, white face and tightly closed eyes, Myrddion was thinking. When he suddenly opened his eyes, they blazed with a new understanding. One of the servants squealed like a frightened pig when Myrddion suddenly leapt to his feet, ignoring his cramped leg muscles.

  He picked up the prayer stool and thrust it into the arms of the servant.

  ‘Take this confessional stool to the new bishop at his church. Tell him that it is a gift from me. You will further inform him that his predecessor, a good and holy man, used this prayer stool while he interceded with God for the soul of his master, Uther Pendragon. And you will also tell him that Branicus’s stool deserves great honour.’

  The servant scuttled away to carry out Myrddion’s bidding, while Gruffydd doubted that the poor man would remember even a sentence of Myrddion’s words.

  The room was ruthlessly dismantled, and lest the servants were tempted to steal Uther’s possessions, Myrddion explained that Morgan had cursed all items of value within the apartments. Because he was deemed to be so strange and so magical, his words were believed, causing the servants to flinch every time they touched an object with their bare hands.

  One servant brought a jewelled box to Myrddion and placed it gingerly into his hands, after which he carefully cleaned his own hands on his dusty tunic.

  The box was fine pearwood, inlaid with shell, with a rough pearl mounted as a knob on the lid.

  Myrddion opened the pretty container. Gold chains, a pair of fine golden earrings set with garnets and a number of thumb and finger rings filled the pearwood box to the lid. At first, Myrddion was undecided what to do with Uther’s jewels. His first impulse was to order the jewellery destroyed, but he decided to retain the box and have the gems reset, if necessary, as they were probably the property of whoever next became High King. He knew of a skilled Jew in Venta Belgarum who could be entrusted with the task of remaking Uther’s trifles.

  As he sorted through the chains and rings, Myrddion had a dreadful thought. One heavy neck chain was stamped with the symbol of a boar, obviously the property of Gorlois of Cornwall.

  These trifles are trophies of those victims whom Uther betrayed, Myrddion thought to himself. Perhaps they should never see the light of day again.

  Leaving the cleaning to those instructed to complete the task, Myrddion and Gruffydd returned to their rooms. Gruffydd was longing for ale, but he accompanied his master with resignation. He noted that Myrddion was excited and his mood seemed decidedly edgy and eager, but when Gruffydd tried to ask what ailed him, Myrddion put his finger to his lips in a signal to remain silent.

  ‘I’m tired, and I’m heartily sick of horrors,’ Myrddion replied with his mouth, while his fingers moved in the sign language of the trained spy that said, ‘There may be others listening here. We must wait.’

  ‘Of course, my lord. Do we ride tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s unlikely, Gruffydd, so it doesn’t really matter if I oversleep in the morning. We’ll remain here for two more days,’ Myrddion’s mouth said blandly, while the sign language from his fingers told Gruffydd that they would be leaving at dawn.

  ‘Of course, my lord,’ Gruffydd replied with admirable ambiguity. ‘I live to serve you.’

  Gruffydd spent the evening in the company of a group of Gawayne’s warriors as their honoured guest, for his hosts knew that Myrddion was a man of legend from one end of Britain to the other. Although Gruffydd recognized no direct threat in the questions they asked concerning his master, he was aware that Gawayne was the eldest son of Morgause and King Lot, who was an aspirant for the throne of the High King. Gruffydd tried to spill as much as he drank, but his head was pounding and his senses were swimming by the time he eventually took himself off to his pallet.

  After drinking copious amounts of water to clear his head, Gruffydd felt a little better. To Gawayne’s minions, he had simply been Myrddion’s trusted servant, for his status as a spy was a well-kept secret that even Gawayne had not discovered. As he fought to clear his fuzzy thoughts, Gruffydd longed to be outside the stone walls an
d the narrow streets of Venta Belgarum that were so full of secrets. He needed the wilderness and the clean air of the mountains to clear his lungs of the stench of these Celts who were so ruthless in their pursuit of power and glory.

  ‘The sooner we’re out of here the better,’ Gruffydd muttered to himself.

  He checked his pack and made sure that it was ready for their imminent departure. Some instinct caused him to scatter a few items of soiled clothing around the floor of the room, and then he fell into a light doze.

  A few hours before dawn, Gruffydd woke soundlessly, as was his talent, as the door to his chamber was slowly eased open. Two confident warriors looked into the darkened apartment with complete ease.

  Gruffydd feigned a loud and drunken snore.

  ‘This one won’t waken, and nor will his master,’ one of the warriors rasped. ‘If there’s anything that can be found in this flea trap, then Myrddion Merlinus will do it for us. And, if not, we’ll follow them wherever they might go.’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Grimm. Myrddion hasn’t stayed alive for so long because he’s lucky. Our master underestimates these men, for I think they’re on a fishing expedition. It’s best that we watch and wait.’

  ‘Well, our friend Gruffydd won’t see the light of day before noon,’ Grimm sneered.

  ‘Perhaps,’ his friend replied, and the two men eased their way out of Gruffydd’s tiny cubicle.

  So that’s the way the wind blows, Gruffydd thought. It’s a good thing we’ll be gone in a few hours.

  Myrddion and Gruffydd were mounted and at the closed gates of Venta Belgarum before the break of dawn. Gruffydd woke the gatekeeper by pounding on his door until the man stirred. He staggered out in his undershirt and opened the smaller door within the gate so that the horses and their riders could pass through.

  ‘You may thank your master Gawayne for his hospitality, but I must return to Venonae on the orders of Artorex, the Dux Bellorum,’ Myrddion told him.

  The sleepy man nodded, but Myrddion still required that the doorkeeper repeat the message.

  Then master and man were away.

  At first, they took the Roman road that would eventually lead to Venonae, but then Fortuna smiled on Myrddion, as she had a habit of doing, and they came across the tracks of a trading wagon and its guards.

  ‘We’ll get off the road now. Ride only on the scree or the rock where our path is hidden, for we travel elsewhere on this day,’ Myrddion ordered.

  ‘Would it be impudent of this simple servant to ask our destination?’

  In Gruffydd’s defence, he had a vile headache.

  ‘We are just outside Calleva Atrebatum, and the road that leads north to Venonae. We shall leave the road shortly, and once we are assured we are not being followed we will travel by the most direct route to Sorviodunum.’

  Myrddion actually laughed at the face that Gruffydd pulled.

  ‘Ah, Gruffydd, my friend. I owe a good part of the intelligence I receive to your efforts and, even now, I should have you prowling around Venta Icenorum or Camulodunum - if my present need for your service wasn’t so urgent. You know the perils we face, so you must forgive me if I expect you to listen to my problems as we ride.’

  ‘My thanks, master,’ Gruffydd answered, his voice sharp with irony. ‘You’ll get me killed yet with your plots and plans.’

  ‘Gruffydd, we need the sword of Uther Pendragon. The crown would be a nice addition, but the sword is vital to our cause.’

  ‘Granted, my lord.’ Gruffydd shifted uneasily on his horse blanket. ‘Nothing else will unite the west, for even the most lowly slave knows the worth of the sword. But why Sorviodunum?’ State secrets of this magnitude made Gruffydd nervous.

  ‘I began to feel the edges of Branicus’s mind in that grotesque room. I’m certain now that Uther Pendragon gave the bishop the two symbols as a safeguard against claimants to the throne.’ Myrddion paused. ‘But the bishop knew that the crown and sword had been tainted with decades of innocent blood, and his hands must have trembled when he touched them. His skin must have crawled when he hid them under his priestly robes as he left Uther’s apartments, for they were defiled by Uther’s mind and touch.’

  Gruffydd nodded his agreement.

  ‘My assessment of the bishop rests on my belief that he was a man of piety and honesty. He would have sent these wicked objects of power and greed to a place where they could be safely hidden - and cleansed.’

  ‘At Sorviodunum?’ Gruffydd snorted. ‘There’s nothing holy for Christians at that place. Quite the opposite, in fact, with the Giant’s Dance nearby.’

  He had followed his master’s reasoning up to this point, but now he was completely bemused.

  ‘Think, Gruffydd. What is the most sacred place in Britain?’

  Gruffydd looked blankly at his lord.

  ‘It is the place where the Holy Christus is supposed to have walked. And the place where Josephus of Arimathea is purported to have planted a piece of the crown of thorns used in killing the Holy Christus in Jerusalem.’

  In sudden understanding, Gruffydd grinned at his master.

  ‘Glastonbury, my lord. Aye. Glastonbury, the Isle of Apples. A place sacred to the Britons long before the Christian priests came to tempt us away from the old ways and the Druid groves. Glastonbury is doubly sanctified.’

  ‘And Lucius, the Bishop of Glastonbury, is a man who is capable of keeping secrets. He sent Artorex to Ector in the north and even I didn’t know the boy’s whereabouts until he was twelve years of age.’

  Gruffydd thought hard and scratched his red beard. ‘But surely other claimants to the throne could follow the same reasoning that you have travelled, master. And the sword and crown are still missing.’

  ‘It’s a puzzle, isn’t it? But I swear the solution lies at Glastonbury.’

  ‘Well, then I suppose we ride to the holy of holies,’ Gruffydd replied, his voice laden with melancholy. ‘I believe we have nothing better to do.’

  ‘Pray that we are not too late,’ Myrddion added. ‘The wolves are snapping at our heels now, for Gawayne is his mother’s son.’

  ‘Aye, but he’s not terribly bright - for which we should be grateful,’ Gruffydd said.

  Myrddion only grunted and cast his eyes skyward. Rain was scudding in, and the blue skies of the spring morning were transformed by fattening grey thunderheads. The trees were already greening, and wildflowers grew in secluded hollows. Even the lichen on the fallen oaks seemed bright and fair, regardless of the threatening sky.

  I’m certain of the course I must take, Myrddion thought as they turned their horses towards Sorviodunum. But first, I must find where the sword is hidden.

  As always, only the crows stirred in the deep woods as they called to each other like portents and mourners.

  CHAPTER XX

  GLASTONBURY

  If Britain laid any claims to ancient sanctity, it was here in the marshes surrounding Glastonbury Tor and the stone church that was erected when Christianity first crossed the narrow seas to civilize the isles of Britain. But, in earlier, far earlier times, the merchant Josephus, a Jew, was rumoured to have traded in this land. When his master, the Undead Jesus, rose from Josephus’ own tomb, the merchant came to Glastonbury, bearing the lance that pierced the side of the Christ as well as the simple wooden cup that had been used at the Last Supper.

  True or not, Christianity took easy root in the old groves of Glastonbury where a spring poured red water that was the colour of fresh blood, although Myrddion knew that this phenomenon was only caused by the iron content in the water.

  In these days, it was a small, often-ignored, religious centre, but Glastonbury still held enormous power for all men of belief, whether they were pagan or Christian. Glastonbury Tor was mounted through a stone keep that some men still called the Virgin’s Teat. Others referred to it in whispers and called it by older, far darker names.

  Noble titles were immaterial at the Glastonbury monastery and Myrddion knew that the Bishop
of Venta Belgarum must have consulted with Lucius, the master of this ancient place, on innumerable occasions. By birth, both clerics were of Latin origin and both were washed up in an alien land. Would the goodly Lucius have refused to shrive the keys to Uther’s kingdom?

  No!

  Myrddion knew that Lucius had arranged for Artorex to be raised in the far-off Villa Poppinidii. He had also ensured that the young man would be educated, in case Mother Church needed the boy’s services at some future place and time. The bishop would never put relics at any risk if there were even a frail chance that the true king might eventually need them.

  The spring thaw had left the fields, streams and marshes of Glastonbury filled with shimmering stretches of water. From above, Glastonbury was an island, its waters aglitter like the scales of a great fish, and its tor, a finger of rock and earth, pointed towards heaven, even though only an earthen causeway linked its base with the church and its village. Gruffydd swore that he had not seen such soft green beauty in all of Britain, nor breathed air so sweet and clean, except in the tall mountains of his lost youth.

  Entry of armed men to the Isle of Apples seemed a sacrilege. Centuries before, the Romans avoided its emerald fields, an oddity in itself, although a road ran through it. As Dux Bellorum, Artorex had ordered that Glastonbury should be free of all trespass. The tribes obeyed, but unwillingly for, like the Giant’s Dance, it was a prize worth coveting. Its fertile fields, its ruddy-faced priests and its villagers who were clean and well-fed reflected the success of the religious community. Yet there was something strange and exotic about Glastonbury that stirred the hardest heart, while reminding the most cynical warrior that beauty and truth still existed somewhere in their world.

  Christian or pagan, some deity had blessed Glastonbury.

  Myrddion and Gruffydd were treated to a warm welcome by the priesthood and penitents who comprised the church community. Gruffydd never truly learned to tell the difference between the various orders, for the lip service he paid to the faith was like a tunic over his essentially pagan flesh. Still, the men of the Church at Glastonbury seemed untroubled by his obvious ignorance of their ways. The two visitors were fed sweet bread and new milk, good cheese, and crisp apples from last year’s store, until they felt as if they had eaten a feast of great splendour.