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

by M. K. Hume

  Myrddion wore sable black which emphasized his white-streaked hair. He wore no ornamentation, needing no embellishment other than his fine-boned face and his fierce, dark eyes.

  The crowd hushed as Myrddion stepped before the assembled guests and townsfolk.

  ‘You know me, great lords of Britain, priests and proud people of Venta Belgarum. I am Myrddion Merlinus, once called the devil’s spawn and, later, to my shame, I was Uther’s hound. But ever have I fought for the freedom of these lands and, sometimes, the weapons that kept you safe in your warm beds were unworthy of you. Uther Pendragon was one such weapon that I used in defence of the realm. Above all other men, I knew the depravity of his various sins, but for all that Uther was a cruel and unscrupulous man, he won your safety with many years in the saddle, as he fought tirelessly to drive away the barbarians and the Saxon hordes.’

  Myrddion paused and his eyes swept the kings, Druids and priests with faint scorn.

  ‘Uther forced us to fight our enemies as a single, undivided people. You, the tribal kings, had squabbled amongst yourselves for generations, allowing the Saxons to decimate our peoples and to destroy our villages and farms. Without Uther, flawed as he undoubtedly was, you would not possess the luxury of your various realms. You would be forced to flee into the mountains to starve in the snow. Uther was, indeed, High King.’

  Myrddion allowed his voice to soften, so the honey of his words slid easily into the ears of all those souls who listened, except for the most obdurate who would never trust the servant of Uther Pendragon.

  ‘Here sits Uther’s son, Artor, who has come to this place to claim his birthright as High King as successor to his father. He is made in the likeness of Uther, is he not? But Artor is not his father’s man. Cast out by his sire, he was raised in the Roman lands to our north. He came to you two years ago and was named the Warrior of the West. Later, Uther gave this young man the title of Dux Bellorum.’

  Myrddion paused, and looked directly at his audience. Each person felt, irrationally, that Myrddion was speaking to him or to her alone.

  ‘Why, do you ask? I can tell you. Not one inch of Celtic earth has been taken by the Saxons since Artor took up the sword against them.’

  A rumble passed through the great multitude, mainly from the townsfolk and the villagers, but several kings nodded in agreement as well.

  Still, Myrddion recognized that many faces were stony with disapproval.

  ‘And yet too many of you turned your backs on your fellow Celts. You sent no men to serve the Dux Bellorum. And you gave no thanks to a man who, like Uther before him, risked his life in a hundred skirmishes so that you could feast and drink daintily, and safely, at your tables, without the need to risk your own skins.’

  A growl of dissent came from the assembled nobles, but Myrddion ignored their outrage.

  ‘He now comes before you with the sword of Uther reforged, bearing the crown of the Britons remade. Speak now, those among you who would deny Artor’s claim to his throne, or accept his right by birth, and by battle, to rule the Britons as High King.’

  King Lot stood and moved to address the multitude. His great girth was impressive in the yards of tartan edged in gilt thread, and his grey beard and hair framed a face that was reddened with passion.

  Artorex sat like marble in his white cloak and watched.

  ‘This pretender to the throne is Uther’s bastard child at best. How are we to know that he has any right at all to rule the Celts? And why should we place our futures in the hands of a man whom even his father did not trust - if his father was, in fact, Uther Pendragon?’

  Some sections of the assembled nobles roared out their agreement, so that Gruffydd felt himself redden and tense in response to Lot’s carefully staged insults. On the fringe of the assembly, Prince Gawayne cringed in shame, but Artorex continued to smile courteously and sit at his ease, his back ramrod straight.

  Myrddion would have answered, but a thin, white-clad nun stepped out of the portals of the church behind him, supported by Lucius of Glastonbury.

  Wearily, she ascended two steps, to stand directly in front of Artorex. She turned and kneeled in deep obeisance before her son. Artorex would have lifted her to her feet, but she rose painfully and turned to face King Lot and the huge assembly. Her voice was larger than her thin body suggested, and the crowd leaned towards her to capture every word.

  ‘You know me well, Lot of the north, for you married my daughter, so don’t insult me with your slurs and innuendo. Did you believe I wouldn’t make the long journey from my convent to see my son assume his rightful place as High King of the Britons? Are you so cowardly that you’d think to blacken my reputation in my absence?’

  ‘I didn’t intend . . .’ Lot began, but the frail woman raised one pale hand to silence him.

  ‘I am Ygerne, widow of Duke Gorlois, the Boar of the Dumnonii. Uther Pendragon murdered my husband and raped me while I was forced to gaze upon the bloody head of my beloved Gorlois. I, alone, may speak of the birth of Artorex and if he was, indeed, born as the true son of Uther Pendragon.’

  Ygerne paused to control her shortening breath.

  ‘I quickened with child and Uther wed me, seeking to take Cornwall without more effort in lives and time. And I agreed, to ensure the safety of my living children. How I loathed the child I carried within my womb. How I wished us both dead. God forgive me for my acceptance of marriage to Uther Pendragon, for I was destined to spend many grim and bitter years as his possession, and I allowed hatred to eat my heart away.’

  Tiring, she paused yet again.

  ‘Then, as the child stirred within me, I found my heart had not quite died. When I bore the child, I saw his ruddy hair and long limbs that were so much like those of his father. But he also had the eyes and features of my own dead father, and I found I could hate the child no more. For many years, I believed my son was dead and I mourned for him bitterly. My proudest day came when he returned to Venta Belgarum as a fine and strong young man, a warrior who’d been cleansed of the poison that came with Uther’s seed.’

  Behind Artorex, Gruffydd watched Ygerne’s pale face that was nearly as white as the coif that covered her shaved head. She had been a famed beauty, Gruffydd had been told, and he could see the last of that loveliness with his own eyes. But the singers of songs had never spoken of her courage, which Gruffydd now witnessed as she exposed the deepest feelings of her heart - her disappointments, her tragedies and the long, patient years as she was forced to sit on a cushion at the feet of a monster.

  ‘I am Ygerne, Queen of the Britons - and a humble penitent,’ she continued. ‘Hear me, my people. The man who will soon become King Artor is the legitimate son of the Pendragon line, and of myself. His is the throne - by right of birth!’

  The crowd was utterly still as Lucius led the thin, fading woman away.

  As she passed Artorex on her painful journey into the portals of the church, Artorex rose, knelt before her and kissed her tiny, bandaged feet. One hand fluttered lightly over his hair - and then she was gone.

  Like the slow thunder of a breaking wave, the crowd murmured at the courtesy and gentleness shown by the Dux Bellorum.

  ‘The question of parentage is settled, unless one among you chooses to doubt the queen’s word,’ Myrddion dared the angry faction of the crowd. ‘Who else will speak against Artor?’

  A woman in black stepped out of Lot’s retinue and a storm of protest cried out at the effrontery of this hated woman who dared to speak before the assembly.

  She threw off her cowl, causing many of the townsfolk to hiss in fear as Morgan pointed one white finger at Artorex.

  ‘Would you order me to be silent, Artor? I, Morgan, am the eldest child of Gorlois of Cornwall. And I’ll speak here today, for the murder of my father at the hands of Uther Pendragon gives me that right. My father had no son to stand for him.’

  Artorex nodded his head in agreement. He rose to his feet.

  ‘You have earned the right to speak, my
sister. But I would remind you, Morgan, that you yourself are not without guilt.’

  As the crowd murmured in agreement with Artorex’s words, Morgan and Myrddion faced each other. They were so alike in features, but so different at heart.

  Then she pointed at Artorex, and addressed the crowd.

  ‘This man took Uther’s symbols of kingship by trickery and he will bring us all to ruin, just as his family dishonoured my father, Gorlois of Cornwall. This man is the poisoned seed of a diseased tree. I have known the face of the dragon, and it is evil! Myrddion’s ambition placed Uther’s sword into the hands of Artorex, for only dreadful wickedness would dare to place the crown upon the head of a child of Uther. Uther’s hound conspired with Uther to trick my mother so this man could be conceived, so how can you trust the word of Myrddion Merlinus? Did Myrddion not conspire with Uther to make every day of my mother’s marriage filled with pain, indignity and humiliation. How can you depend upon the decency of Uther’s son? Beware, people of the west, for you’ve been warned!’

  Again, the crowd rumbled, but this time with disapproval, not because Morgan was female but because her vitriolic diatribe was obviously motivated by hatred. Morgan had made the error of exaggeration.

  Myrddion answered her charges in a ringing voice that could be heard from one end of the great square to the other. He won the immediate attention of the crowd.

  ‘Trickery? Evil? Wickedness? No, woman, it is obvious that spite and hatred distort any truth in your words, so that all men who look upon your face flee as if you were a leper. Your words are emptied by hate and you play with innuendo as if it were a lute. You claim prophecy, but how may we trust your words when you blind your eyes with a strip of skin from the spine of a child, a penance demanded by your masters in return for your evil gifts? Does evil not lie? And your foresight belongs to those who practise the black and arcane ways of wickedness.’

  Before the crowd had time to shudder at his words, he continued, but in a voice that was sad and slow.

  ‘Yes, I counselled Uther. I even mixed a sleeping draught so he could insinuate his way into Ygerne’s bedchamber. I discovered his plans for Gorlois far too late to warn your father. Yes, I felt shame when Uther showed Ygerne the head of her husband and she discovered that she had opened her body to her husband’s murderer. Yes, I shuddered with guilt when I learned that he raped Ygerne while Gorlois’s dead eyes watched this cruelty. Yes, I would have given your mother up to Uther for a single night, if that would have kept Uther’s feet on the path that protected the people of the west from the menace of the Saxon hordes. But did I trade my soul to the Dark Ones for the honey in my words? No! My sins, my errors of judgement and my dishonour when your mother was raped were my own transgressions, they weren’t the work of demons. I was too young to bear the mark of prophecy that we both wear.’

  He pointed to the white band in his hair.

  ‘But never, woman, would I wantonly sell my soul for the satisfaction of revenge.’

  Morgan seemed to shrivel in her black robes at the loathing in Myrddion’s voice. Without giving her an opportunity to respond, Myrddion glanced across at Gruffydd, who was standing directly behind Artorex.

  ‘Stand forth, Gruffydd, sword bearer of the king-to-be and loyal warrior against the Saxons,’ Myrddion roared, so that all people in the great open space could hear.

  He held his open arms out to the crowd.

  ‘I beg leave that this servant should speak. For he was present at Glastonbury when Artorex successfully recovered both symbols of Uther’s power. Only Gruffydd, Prince Gawayne and the pious Bishop Lucius of Glastonbury Monastery can bear witness to the validity of Artorex’s claim of being the rightful heir to the throne of High King of the Britons.’

  At last! many in the crowd thought. Now we shall hear the truth of this matter from one who was present when the hand of God revealed the location of these magical relics.

  ‘Let him speak! Let him speak! Let him speak!’ they cried aloud as one.

  Morgan knew the force of her words had been eclipsed, so she backed into the crowd, where even Lot’s retinue avoided her shadow.

  Gruffydd stepped forward. He was obviously nervous and his first words marked him as an ordinary man of the people.

  ‘I am Gruffydd of Venta Silurum and, for ten years, I have served Master Myrddion Merlinus in the Saxon cities, collecting information of planned attacks by our enemies. My hands are not clean of Saxon blood, for I have often needed to kill those barbarians who crossed my path, especially those who were a danger to our cause and to our people. For the blood I have been forced to shed, I am a sinner in every sense of the word, but the gods themselves chose me as a witness of what occurred at Glastonbury.’

  Then Gruffydd told what he had seen, simply and eloquently. He repeated the decree given by Lucius, that only the true High King of the Britons could find the sword of Uther and draw it forth from the stone. Even as Gruffydd spoke, Myrddion felt the mood of the assembled kings begin to waver, for Glastonbury and the relics themselves married both Christianity and the old religion, so none were untouched, regardless of their faith. Yet the real force of the truth of the tale was Gruffydd’s simplicity, his sense of awe and the rightness of events as they unfolded. No man doubted that Gruffydd believed he had seen a prophecy fulfilled.

  Only one other king stood forth to make a belated attempt to muddy the waters of Artorex’s claim to the throne. The crux of King Mark’s complaint was that Artorex was tainted with the old Roman ways of the past. Ector bristled at the slur and would have replied himself, but the Magistrate of Aquae Sulis restrained the old man.

  The magistrate stepped forward and took Ector’s place on the stairs.

  ‘Hear me, people of Venta Belgarum! I am Vestus of the Vestulii, Chief Magistrate of Aquae Sulis for a decade or more. I am of Roman lineage. I am also a proud Briton, and I serve our people to the very best of my ability.’

  He paused.

  ‘You speak of the taint of Roman culture, but much of what you are comes from your Roman past and the gifts the Romans brought to our peoples.’

  The magistrate had the attention of the entire assembly.

  ‘But on this occasion I come to this assembly of notables not to speak of the glories of ancient Rome but to tell you a tale of a simple steward who braved a terrible evil to save the life of a child.’

  This tale was new and the crowd sucked it in greedily.

  ‘At the time of which I speak, Artorex was still a youth. He had barely reached manhood when he became aware of the activities of a vile band of monsters who were involved in the ancient practice of pederasty. This cult, led by the Severinii, a powerful family who lived near Aquae Sulis, had inflicted torture, starvation and death on a number of young male children who had been stolen from the local villages. By defiling these young children, and starving their victims to death, they crossed the boundaries of what any Roman community would accept.

  ‘When he became aware of the vile activities of the Severinii family, Artorex determined to bring the perpetrators of these crimes to justice. With the aid of his foster-brother, Caius, Artorex entered the lair of the Severinii and saved the life of Brego, a child of the local village, from certain rape, torture and death. Brego was ten years of age, and he was the sole surviving captive. The bodies of a number of previous victims were recovered at the same time.

  ‘I ordered the criminals to be crucified and their villa burned to the ground. Artorex could have made a great fortune, for he was given the opportunity to plunder the store of precious objects collected by the Severinii, but he scorned to touch such tainted things. Instead, he permitted the elderly slaves of the Severinii, who were free of guilt, to take what they needed and depart. Do you want magnanimity? Do you want courage? Do you want compassion in your king? All these qualities were present in the attributes of this young man who bravely accomplished this task.’

  The magistrate assessed the mood of his audience.

  ‘The
bodies of seven murdered children were recovered and burned that night. I watched the face of the young Artorex as he endured this trial. He was sickened - as any decent man would be - but he acted as a witness and returned the ashes of the lost children to their humble parents. Who among you great leaders of the west would have cared so personally about the kin of the murdered children? Who among you would have chosen to bear witness to their pain and offer comfort to the families of those children? Who among you would have bothered ? But this man did! His Roman upbringing - and the honourable teachings of his Roman foster-parents - did him no harm.’

  Vestus, with his Roman toga firmly in place, and with the seal of his office around his neck, pointed proudly to Artorex.

  ‘The remnants of Roman Britain will fight for Artor and for the west. We will go to battle with no other leader. None of the tribal kings have earned the right to request our loyalty.’

  The nobles were silent. No more voices were raised in argument, although Myrddion was not fool enough to believe their opposition was finished, merely driven underground by the howls of protest emanating from the warriors and the assembled population.

  ‘I call the Bishop of Venta Belgarum to crown the king-to-be before you,’ Myrddion called out loudly. ‘And those who choose may take Mass on this most auspicious of days.’

  The doors of the stone church opened wide and the Bishop of Venta Belgarum, accompanied by Lucius of Glastonbury, came forth.

  The bishop lifted the crown high above his head with both hands, so that the awed and amazed townsfolk saw it for the first time.

  Brother Simon had changed the design entirely, so that now the massy band consisted of a dragon motif, with the beast centred at the brow and the wings rising for flight over the head of the wearer. All the garnets and rubies had been placed upon the dragon, with the largest in its eyes and in the centre of its forehead. The smaller gems decorated the scales of the beast so that they seemed to glister in the morning sunshine, as if the animal was alive and about to belch forth fire. The band itself was of simple gold, except where the beast’s clawed feet roosted on it.