by M. K. Hume
Targo muttered something under his breath and avoided eye contact with his king.
Artor pushed Coal forward and captured the gaze of his friend. He commanded Targo to speak his thoughts.
‘Where would we be if you weren’t here to lead us, Artor?’ Targo’s arms were spread wide. ‘What would we do if one of the Saxons cut your throat while you were lazing about in the shallows? Do you believe that either Myrddion or King Lot could lead the Celts in war or in peace? Do you suppose that Llanwith or Luka could replace you? If you should die, we all fail in our quest. Who can unite the tribes but you? Would the Roman settlements follow Gawayne? No. Without you, the Saxons win. Without you, the cities of the west will burn and the churches will be razed to the ground. Blood will defile holy Glastonbury and the peaceful Villa Poppinidii will be smashed into rubble. Venta Belgarum will become a cluster of mud and thatch huts and the Roman fortifications will be destroyed. Is that what you want?’
The beauty had fled from Artor’s morning, and he began to feel like a mongrel dog.
He could readily conjure up the greying, leonine head of Botha as he had first seen the man in the hall of the High King so many years before. Botha had been straight and noble in the beauty of his honour, until Uther’s orders had turned him into a murderer. Botha had obeyed his king, but his honour had been irretrievably lost. A king has a responsibility towards those who serve under him.
Artor urged Coal closer to the roan’s side and awkwardly threw one arm round Targo’s shoulders and embraced him. Coal sidled nervously, and both men laughed awkwardly as their mounts drove them apart.
Targo’s stiffened mouth slowly relaxed into a grin.
‘Just so you understand, boy.’
Artor could once again enjoy the beautiful dawn.
Artor dressed with scrupulous care for his noble visitors. Out of respect for the dead Gaheris, Artor donned his sable tunic, cloak and armour, enlivened only by his golden ornaments and the red dragon rampant on his cloak pin. Scorning the crown as unnecessary with kinfolk, he plaited his brow locks and bound the curling ends with golden wire. Then he thrust his pearl ring on his right thumb and a plain gold ring, faintly imprinted with the form of a clenched fist, on his left thumb. The gold ring had been a gift from Lucius, Bishop of Glastonbury many years before.
Earlier that morning, Artor had left Odin speechless by kissing his bearded cheeks and begging his pardon. The huge bodyguard had abased himself before his lord and master.
He treats me like a god, Artor thought sadly. It’s a heavy burden to carry.
Now, with his emotions in check and surrounded by his captains, including the irrepressible Pelles in all his finery, Artor awaited the arrival of King Lot and Queen Morgause.
He did not have long to wait.
Lot and Morgause halted their cavalcade beyond the Celtic bivouac, and sedately approached Artor’s camp on horseback. An honour guard of Celtic warriors clashed their weapons on their shields in the old Roman greeting. Alone, and with only a token guard of two men, the King and Queen of the Otadini drew rein before their High King.
Morgause was dressed in her usual opulence of furs and fabrics, but now every item of clothing that she wore had been dyed to the deepest black. As he gazed up at her marble face, Artor saw the resemblance to her mother Ygerne and her sister Morgan. He experienced a sudden rush of pity towards this resentful woman for the wrenching, endless loss she must have been experiencing.
Morgause had lost much during her forty-four years of life. In childhood, she had been too young to remember her noble father, Gorlois, but she had been raised to hate Uther Pendragon, her father’s usurper, with a deep and silent loathing. She had been married as a child to a middle-aged man and plucked from the soft earth of Cornwall to live beyond the Roman Wall in a land of long winters and cheerless pragmatism. She had borne many sons to King Lot, all of whom had been strong and living, but joy had rarely touched her heart. Hatred had been instilled into her during childhood, first for Uther who had treated her vilely anyway, and then, later, for Artor, her half-brother, because he became Uther’s heir. But hatred is a bitter draught, even for the strongest stomach. Perhaps she ached for laughter. Artor had no way of knowing, for she had never willingly opened her mind to him. And now the most loved child of all her brood was dead, in brutal and senseless waste, while in the service of her despised half-brother.
Her youth had fled and only a husk of her spirit remained.
As Myrddion and Llanwith assisted King Lot to dismount, Artor offered his hand to his sister. Morgan accepted his aid, and he felt the delicate bones of her fingers in his light clasp. They were as cold and as brittle as the skeletal remains of a woman long dead. Her green-grey eyes were empty and unreadable.
‘Welcome, sister. I beg that you accept my sorrow and shame for the death of your son, the noble Gaheris, who perished with great distinction to the honour of his house. I mourn with you for the loss of the fairest youth in all the tribes.’
Morgause inclined her head in gracious acknowledgement but her eyes glittered for a moment with an emotion Artor did not recognize. A man more skilled with women would have identified the glaze of unshed tears.
‘Gaheris was precious to us, so Lot and I have come,’ she answered him simply, as Artor offered her his arm. ‘We bear you no malice, brother.’
Her fingers rested lightly on his forearm, and Artor observed that her hand was long and flexible, like his own. The nails were oval pink tips that dug into the fine wool of his sleeve just a little. Artor felt a shiver of deep presentiment, as if those delicate fingers turned into claws and struck at his unprotected heart. Yet he sensed that his sister spoke the truth. She was touched by his mode of dress as a public acknowledgement of Gaheris’s value to the realm.
As the High King led her to a chair provided for her comfort, Artor considered Morgause and their long enmity. He admitted to himself that he had never cared to delve into either her character or her machinations. He had been preoccupied with the covert, subtle malice of her sister, Morgan, a woman of fierce intelligence and undying resentment. Now, Morgause seemed more substantial in her grief than her older sister, less empty and vain, more a white-faced Boedicca who was prepared to throw away everything for a moment of revenge.
Artor shuddered inwardly, under his mask of courtesy, at the power and empathy of his mother’s blood, which had been passed on to all her children. In the keening, soundless grief of a mother, Morgause had awoken to her full self, and Artor realized with a pang that he was a little afraid of her.
All women can be a danger to us, Artor thought to himself. They work towards their ends in ways that men cannot understand.
Outwardly, Artor smiled considerately, and his eyes reflected his deep concern and his sympathy towards the regal couple. For all his vast girth, King Lot was a negligible force when compared with the power that radiated from the presence of his small, sable-clad wife.
Artor, Lot and the other kings were soon seated, and wine and fruit were offered by young princes, all of whom had come to this war for their first blooding. Morgause accepted the offerings, and gazed into their young, ardent faces with thoughts of Gaheris firmly fixed in her mind.
The balding King Lot was seated a little higher than Artor, and his demeanour was no longer contemptuous and sneering. When he spoke, his voice was conciliatory.
‘There has been bad blood between us in the past,’ the Otadini king began, his brow sweating slightly in his distress and chagrin. ‘And we have been made enemies by old resentments that should have been buried with those souls who were there at their genesis.’
‘Your words are truthful, and they do you credit, Lot. But I always understood your actions were motivated by loyalty to your family and to your tribe,’ Artor replied lightly, although his eyes conveyed the warning that lay beneath his courteous words. You may take these words any way you choose, you bastard, he thought to himself, remembering Lot’s many attempts to usurp the throne of the
Britons and enrich himself and his family.
Uneasily, Lot stirred his mounds of flesh within the confines of his chair.
‘I ask that you accept that there is no longer any lasting enmity on my part, for the blood of my son has washed our quarrel away.’
And that’s the truth, Artor’s inner voice added.
‘Gaheris would have wished me to embrace his father,’ Artor murmured aloud.
‘That is kindly said, my lord,’ Lot acknowledged, his eyes downcast.
Artor felt a twinge of sympathy for the ageing king in his pitiful attempts at courtesy.
‘I, too, am grateful for your kind message, and for the remains of my son, Artor,’ Morgause murmured softly. The queen held the eyes of her brother as she spoke, and the depth of her sorrow filled her own clouded eyes. Honesty emerged as well, and Artor sighed inwardly in sympathy with the woman. ‘I loved my son, Artor, even when he deserted his kin to follow your banner. I took pride in his fiery spirit, and I knew that he would win renown within your court. I believed you would never use him to further your ends in our quarrel, for you have always been gracious to our heir, Gawayne.’
Artor read the unspoken question in her eyes.
‘Sister, I did not believe the Saxons would harm Gaheris. I sent my emissaries to Glamdring Ironfist in good faith, but also in the full knowledge that they risked death. Such is a king’s dilemma. But I never thought that Ironfist was so deluded that he would kill the son of an ally in his cause. I swear to the truth of my words.’
‘And I believe you,’ Morgause answered simply, and a single tear snaked down her still-smooth cheek.
Well done, Artor, the insidious voice of his colder self whispered in the convoluted corridors of his brain. He felt his gorge rise. In truth, he had considered the possibilities of treachery to the emissaries even before they had left Cadbury Tor, and so he must live with his personal guilt.
‘We have come to join with you, for we intend to avenge these blows,’ Lot continued seamlessly. ‘We ask that you put aside our ancient quarrel, and accept us as allies in this war. My people hunger to slay those dogs that killed their young prince. Personally, I have crossed the Roman Wall to kill them, each and every one, and I will continue to kill all Saxons forever, as long as those descendants of my blood hold the northern passes. On this occasion, Glamdring Ironfist has gone too far.’
Myrddion smiled behind his hand, and wondered if Artor had not gambled on this very outcome when he succumbed to Gaheris’s pleas to become one of the emissaries. Truly, Artor was a king of kings.
‘For my part, distrust and past angry words between us are blown into the wind as of this day, Lot,’ Artor responded formally, for the gravity of the moment, and its opportunity, weighed heavily on the alliance he was about to form. ‘Gaheris was a courageous young man, but he also possessed dignity and nobility in his nature. He died in defiance of Ironfist. And as he died, he shouted out their greatest weaknesses, faults that we will exploit. You may join with us, and your presence is welcome.’
Through such deceptively simple words, Artor’s force was swelled by one hundred and fifty additional warriors from the hot-tempered tribes of the Otadini, men who had carved a kingdom out of the mountains and the fertile plains, lands that had been prised from the blue-painted savages of the far north. With fire in their hearts, the Otadini had been victorious, and for all their strange accents and pale faces, they were men so skilled in the arts of war that their fellow Celts were cheered by this most important alliance. Where Lot placed his trust, all other northern tribes would follow. The Otadini could hold a grudge and a sword with equal skill but, once given, their oaths bound them like iron.
Artor endured the shame of his own sins of omission, and told himself that the common good of his people demanded that he reign as a king, and not necessarily as a just man.
Morgause resisted every attempt to deflect her purpose to ride off to war with the warriors, and refused every plea that she should remain in the relative safety of Venta Silurum.
‘I intend to watch each skirmish and each battle,’ she told her brother, and fire flickered in her pupils. ‘I wish to enjoy the death of every Saxon I can, with my own eyes. Through their deaths, I will free the spirit of my son and send him soaring to his ancestors on the souls of his enemies. And then he will waken with pride in the Halls of the Dead.’
Artor repressed an exclamation of superstitious fear. What a terrible family we are, he thought, as he watched Morgause burning with maternal fury. Truly, women are far more cruel than we men credit. They would shatter the whole green earth for the sake of a child.
Artor promised Morgause that she would have her fill of Saxon blood.
She smiled coldly, well satisfied. There would be no mercy from her for those with Saxon blood in their veins. There were not enough Saxons in the Isles to fill her need, or to assuage her endless, scarfing grief.
The morning sun was high when the Otadini forces were welcomed into the High King’s camp. Seabirds squabbled at the edges of the vast horde, fighting over scraps of food and hovering like birds of prey, eager for discarded morsels of bread from the camp kitchens.
Morgause stared at the birds’ wicked beaks and their sharp black eyes. And she smiled, for she was entombed in a silent cone of portents.
CHAPTER V
MORIDUNUM
One week later, Artor’s forces commenced their campaign against the Saxons during a sullen, persistent rainstorm that made men and animals miserable, and turned the earth into a churned soup of mud under their hooves. The going was slow, as the main force moved forward in troops of fifty mounted men while outriders protected the foot soldiers and archers from sudden attack.
‘Well, Artor, we won’t be sneaking up on the enemy,’ Targo sniffed, with all but the point of his nose muffled under hides. ‘Look at that lot.’ He pointed behind them.
From their vantage point on a low rise, Artor could see mounted men, baggage wagons and the usual human flotsam and camp followers. The long column struggled slowly through the muddy tracks that made up the coastal paths. Behind it, the army left a wide scar of brown slush, a good six spear lengths wide, that cut through the salt-toughened vegetation. Any curious Saxon looking down from the hills could hardly fail to see the serpentine spoor of the Red Dragon of Artor.
‘We leave a path, it’s true, but I never planned to sneak up on Ironfist. I want him to know I’m coming for him, so I hope he hears of our numbers.’
‘Shite, it’s cold!’ Targo sneezed gustily, sighed and then hunched deeper into his leathers. ‘You’d have to be Saxon to choose to live in this country, and I’m far too old for campaigning.’
‘You can go back, if you wish, Targo,’ Artor replied.
Targo’s nose quivered with indignation. ‘You’d send me away?’
Artor refused to rise to the bait, and stared out over the steadily moving baggage train, but Targo could see his master’s lips twitch as he tried to control his laughter.
‘Can you feel their eyes on us, lad? I’ve marched in Scythia through horrible country, just like this, and I could feel the knives that were aimed at my back. There are Saxons in those hills, and they’re watching us.’
‘Let them watch all they want.’
‘So that’s your strategy? You intend to march into country that’s full of hostiles and let them dictate the game? I know I taught you to plan better than that.’
Artor experienced a moment of dizzying rage that, fortunately, passed in a heartbeat. Targo was concerned, so he played the goading game. In a perverse fashion, Artor had learned to think clearly and logically because of Targo’s patience. He owed the old man patience in return.
‘When we reach the plains below Caer Fyrddin, we will eliminate the local villages. It will be an easy task, given our numbers - and shamefully ignoble. Then, we shall sit on the plains, and we shall wait,’ Artor explained quietly.
‘Just sit?’
‘Of course. My plan depends o
n enticing Ironfist to come out of his fortress. We have about as much chance of success as we did at Anderida so long ago. But that attack was a lucky blow during darkness, and we had the advantage of surprise. If I attempted to take Anderida today with the same number of men, I would probably fail. I didn’t know at the time how impossible that raid really was, and how fortunate we were to survive.’
Targo forgot the cold and the drizzle that made his bones ache with a savage insistence. Artor had always had a knack for simplicity, deceptive and costly to the enemy, as uncomplicated ideas could often be. Artor would attempt to exploit Ironfist’s human weaknesses, while exposing his own strengths as if they were flaws. At Anderida, he had divided his force. Two troops of cavalry had attacked the eastern and western gates, depending on Artor, Targo and the Scum to negotiate a swamp in almost total darkness, climb the battlements unseen and open the gates, all without alerting the guards of a superior force of Saxons. The tactic had been successful.
‘Once we are settled into our positions, I propose to divide our force.’
Targo half smiled within his damp and odorous nest. Here we go again, he thought.
‘Divide them? Why?’
‘We have passed Burrium and Gelligaer, the old Roman fortresses, and we are now heading towards Nidum. I intend to send Gawayne to winkle out the Saxons there, if only to please Morgause and her desire to taste Saxon blood. Also, Gawayne longs to kill someone for the sake of his brother, and he’s not overly particular about the circumstances. At any rate, Nidum, at our rear, must be rendered safe to protect our flanks.’
Targo nodded. Always ensure your rear-end is safe.
‘Gawayne will then become my forager,’ Artor continued, ‘and he will cheerfully denude the plains of Saxon reinforcements.’
Targo nodded again. The use of cavalry in open country was a sensible option. So far, Artor was planning a safe, stolid strategy that any sound commander would use to achieve his aims. Targo waited for Artor’s slant of originality.