The Storm Lord

by M. K. Hume

  Gareth dismounted and handed over the horses’ reins to a lad who ran to join them, rubbing his sleepy eyes. After issuing quick instructions for the care of his horses, Gareth turned to approach a dark building where two small figures stood waiting on the threshold. Behind them, the lamp from the king’s hall surrounded them in a dim halo of light.

  Before cockcrow, a grey and desolate winter’s day began early.

  • • •

  IN THE HOURS before the arrival of Gareth, Bedwyr’s dreams had been formless, like all his peculiar fits and starts. A small part of his brain wondered if blood called to blood, and if Maeve cried out for her father over the many miles that separated them. With resolution, the Master of Arden pushed these unsettling feelings behind him because he was unable to do anything to protect his youngest child. His hands were tied by the distance that lay between them and the Otadini court, so he struggled with horrible imaginings that kept him awake until the dead hours of the morning when word came to his door that a stranger was without.

  “Join me, Elayne! Please?” Bedwyr’s voice was ragged and pleading; his wife realized that her noble husband was deathly afraid of the tidings that had arrived at such an early hour of this cold winter’s morning. Only the most pressing need would drive a messenger out into the freezing wind. Elayne’s heart skittered with panic, but she climbed out of the warm nest of their old bed and stifled a little cry at the persistent ache of arthritis in one hip. Her dear old man had sufficient troubles without worrying about her, so she took his trembling hand and held it tightly against her warm breasts.

  Elayne took two fur-lined cloaks from a clothes chest, including Bedwyr’s wolf pelt, which she draped over his shoulders so that his hastily plaited grey hair mingled with the thick white fur. Elayne noticed suddenly that stiff white stubble covered her husband’s chin. Uncharacteristically, Bedwyr bent over with a pathetic slump of his shoulders, but she refrained from any comment. Noble Bedwyr, the last of King Artor’s legendary warriors, had lived beyond his time, like an old hound that is determined to find his lost master before drawing one final breath. Men already marveled that those warriors who had followed Artor seemed to live for decades beyond their allotted life spans, as if the old dragon cursed those who loved him with unnatural reservoirs of strength. For over ten years, Bedwyr had been sustained by his ambitions for Arthur, the High King’s bastard son, whom Bedwyr had raised as a cuckoo in his own nest.

  Did this messenger bring news that would hasten Bedwyr’s doom? Elayne would have liked to hide in her huge bed with the covers over her head, but she owed everything to her aged husband. She used a wisp of wool to wipe Bedwyr’s streaming eyes. She couldn’t tell if he was about to weep or not, but she could see an edge of panic in his enlarged pupils that was born out of the formless horrors of his frequent night terrors. Her man didn’t want to face this unknown messenger alone, so she forced herself to find the courage buried deep in her heart since the time of Artor’s death.

  What if the messenger told them that Arthur was dead?

  No! My children aren’t dead, her mind protested vociferously. I’d know it.

  “Come along then, old woman!” Bedwyr said as he rose to his unsteady feet. “Whatever comes in the dead hours of the morning will mean no good for either of us. If I’m honest, I’m afraid to hear this messenger’s news without you. My water tells me neither of us will take any pleasure from this news.” His mouth twisted sadly and his age-spotted hand patted her shoulder as gently as a kiss.

  “Of course, my dear, so we’ll face it together. Has it not always been so for us?”

  Then, hand in hand like little children, the old pair moved down the stairs and through the empty hall to where the servants were waiting to open the great oak doors. A gust of freezing air stirred Bedwyr’s robes around his swollen ankles. At his gesture, the doors swung inward and the time of loss and mourning began.

  • • •

  IN THE HOUSE of oak, Gareth curled his long limbs into a woolen pallet and wished fervently that he had died in the ambush or had been carried off with Arthur and the girls. Any fate would be better than having to tell the Master of Arden and his lady that two of their children had been taken prisoner and their whereabouts were unknown. As soon as she had set her eyes upon him, Lady Elayne had called out his name in a horrified moan before fainting clean away.

  “Perhaps I should learn to guard my face so no one can read it,” Gareth whispered into the soft wool. But what would be the good? When Lady Elayne saw Gareth was alone, she knew immediately that he would never willingly leave Arthur’s side. A mother will always sense the full horror of a tragedy when only one member of the party returns at the end of a journey.

  Bedwyr had seen to the care of Lady Elayne with a face as white as bleached linen, after which he had spent several hours questioning Gareth carefully, until the old man knew everything that had happened on the road to the north of Vinovia, including the possibility of Dobunni treachery. Gareth didn’t spare himself, for he knew he had possessed a slim opportunity to attack the tall warriors with their bright iron weapons as they rode towards the sea. The chances of survival had been virtually nonexistent, but Gareth had opted to obey Arthur’s orders, which were to look to his own safety. Gareth’s oath to Arthur was paramount, and his master’s last order had been clear. Ultimately, he knew he couldn’t save his master if he was dead.

  Bedwyr had sucked on his few remaining teeth and looked through Gareth as if the young man was made entirely of clear water. The Master of Arden thought hard and considered his options.

  “I understand your predicament, boy. By our lady, we can put ourselves in fiendish positions in order to protect our honor. Perhaps a warrior would be wiser to forgo such senseless rules, but our foolish code is one of the few strategic weapons we can use against the Saxons. Even the Romans were prepared to die for the concept of honor, because a man’s duty to hearth, home, master, and gods is paramount. You did well to follow the raiding party to the place where they’d hidden their ship, so at least we know the fate of the children. But, for the moment, we must reflect and think of what can be done.”

  Bedwyr had hunched over a cup of hot mulled wine brought to him by his eldest son, Lasair, who was now watching his father’s face with anxious, proprietary eyes. Lasair was seventeen and a bonny, red-haired nugget of a lad, thick in the body like his father, but long in the shanks like his mother. Lady Elayne’s features, made masculine, enlivened the face of the youth with an open and honest expression, but a hard brilliance lurked under the sweetness of his smile. As he waited, he stared at Gareth with a burning resentment for the troubles that the stranger had laid at his father’s door.

  Bedwyr’s innate common sense reasserted itself with the heat of the wine in his belly. With open affection, Bedwyr patted Lasair’s young hand in thanks and then caressed the boy’s young face, where his downy cheeks threatened the start of a beard. At that moment, Gareth missed his deceased father so intensely that he wanted to cry, although Gareth Major had rarely expressed any affection for his son.

  “I beg your pardon, Gareth! I’m an old man now, so I lack the resilience of youth that allows us to think quickly in dangerous situations. But I have some more questions for you, if you can answer them. What happened to your guards?”

  “All dead,” Gareth replied. “The last man died of his wounds just before I left him to track the warriors.” Gareth hoped that Bedwyr would understand his predicament.

  “The girls who served Lady Maeve and Mistress Blaise were sent back to Tintagel as soon as I was able to write a message to King Bors. To give this news in writing seemed cruel, but I owed you my personal explanation as soon as possible, and the servant girls were sick from fear and misery.”

  “Don’t fuss yourself, boy. I’ll send word to Bors of everything that has transpired as soon as the roads are open. You have done your best. No blame for our losses
should be attached to you.”

  “My honor was torn when I followed the raiders, Lord Bedwyr. Perhaps I shouldn’t have abandoned the corpses of our guard so far from their homes, but I didn’t want Arthur taken away without any further blows being struck. I wanted to know where they were taking your children. Then, after I returned to the site of the ambush, I buried all five of our men before I started the return journey to Arden. I owed them all at least a deep grave where the scavengers couldn’t reach them.”

  Gareth had been alone for well over three weeks, and his voice was beginning to sound rusty from lack of use. He was also finding it difficult to meet Bedwyr’s deceptively gentle eyes.

  “Try to answer me clearly, Gareth. What did the attackers look like? You described them earlier as outlanders because of the design of their ship. What was it about the warriors that made you believe they weren’t Saxons or Jutes? Do you remember Odin? He was a Jute, and he was so large he could block out the sun.”

  Gareth gazed sadly at Bedwyr. He realized that he was weeping: for his father, for Arthur, and for himself. But mostly, he wept for this brave old man who was so gallant in his declining years. “I never met Odin, my lord, but my father told me so much about him that I swear I can almost imagine his features. It was my father who knew the Jute—not I!”

  Bedwyr winced. “I forget sometimes that I’m no longer a young man, Gareth. It’s your name, I suppose. It’s odd, but I look at my hands and my soft belly, and I wonder who the old man is who has invaded my body. In my mind, I’m still the angry young man who first met King Artor at Moridunum. Ah, well! I’ll see the High King soon enough—but I’d like to tell him that his son is well and happy.”

  Gareth surreptitiously wiped his eyes while Bedwyr was reminded that this boy was only eighteen and younger than Arthur, his master. With infinite patience, Bedwyr waited until Gareth had regained his self-control.

  “The outlanders were very tall, Lord Bedwyr, taller than Saxons or Jutes as a group and less burly around the chest. The leader was of a similar height to Arthur, if not an inch or so taller. Their skins were very fair, as if they had never felt a hot sun, yet they were weather-beaten and their eyes were narrowed like those of men who have spent many years on the northern seas. They were strange in appearance and dress, my lord, nothing like the Saxons or the Jutes. Some blond-haired warriors had red beards.”

  Gareth paused as he remembered.

  “The ship wasn’t a ceol. I saw a Saxon ship up river near Venta Belgarum that had been taken in a raid. Saxon ceols are wider in the girth, although that’s probably not the right word for the widest point of a sea vessel.”

  “I’m no sailor either. I haven’t been in a boat since I rode a runaway coracle down a flooded river many years ago,” Bedwyr grunted. He smiled as he thought of a long-past day when he had pursued Prince Galahad and a maddened pagan priest who had stolen the legendary Bloody Cup.

  “This craft was narrow with a large prow at the front decorated with a long carving. I couldn’t see the details. Once it was beyond the breakers, I saw the great sail unfurl in the moonlight, but until then, the warriors rowed the vessel themselves. What I remember most was the image on the sail.”

  “What are you talking about, lad?”

  “Their sail was decorated with the outline of a massive red dragon.” Gareth had been unprepared for the concept of such a ship.

  “But the Saxons use the dragon symbol,” Bedwyr persisted.

  “This dragon looked like a viciously toothed worm, or a serpent with huge teeth and great wings. But it had very short legs and was quite different from the Saxon version or the British varieties of dragon that I’ve seen. It’s something new to me, and I sense that it’s very dangerous. Its tail is long and coiled like a serpent. I have dreamed of it every night since I watched it steal our own dragonlet and carry him over the darkened waters.”

  A single rooster crowed shrilly to herald the beginning of an icy morning that would be dark with sleet and buffeting winds, even here in the living heart of Arden. As he thought furiously, Bedwyr’s bones begged him to go back to his warm bed, but an itch of worry remained for Elayne’s health. This boy was too exhausted to speak any further, so any more information buried within Gareth’s memory would need to stay hidden until he had slept.

  “Go to bed, boy. My servants and my son, Lasair, will show you the way. We’ll speak again at noon, after you have had a few hours of sleep. Meanwhile, don’t feel guilty, Gareth, because you can’t be held responsible for what has happened. In fact, I’m fortunate that someone lived to explain the children’s absence, else we might never have learned what became of them.”

  So, shuffling wearily behind Lasair and his oil lamp, Gareth was led to a small room under the roof of the loft. Snug and warm on a clean pallet, Gareth could hear the howl of the wind as it roared through the trees, but it had no power to disturb him. Eventually, the exhausted youth fell into a deep and cleansing sleep that engulfed him like an ocean wave until the noise of serving maids woke him many hours later.

  Another long day of greyness had begun.

  Chapter IV

  THE LAST OF ARDEN

  Laugh no man to scorn in the bitterness of his soul.

  —THE BIBLE, ECCLESIASTICUS 8:10

  Regnavit a ligno Deus. (God reigned from the wood.)

  —VENANTIUS FORTUNATUS, Vexilla Regis

  Lady Elayne stood beside her large marital bed that had always reminded her of the trust and friendship that existed in her marriage. Her chin was lifted, and her remaining beauty was incandescent in the early-morning candlelight as she gathered her strength to bend her husband to her will.

  Bedwyr felt his heart swell with pride in his wife. The flesh of her upper arms and her belly had been stretched by time and childbearing, so that a network of jagged white scars covered her hips, her lower belly, and her thighs. Her jawline was blurred with sagging flesh, and the soft creping of her eyelids gave her a permanently thoughtful and hooded expression. Yet, with her head lifted proudly and her faded hair tossed back defiantly, Bedwyr could understand why King Artor had turned to Elayne when his world had collapsed into chaos. While the Arden Knife had once been angry and jealous of Artor’s attention to Elayne and had resented his wife’s close friendship with the High King, Bedwyr could now accept that a man such as Artor needed at his side a stalwart woman who could offer advice and support. Lady Elayne was indomitable, more than capable of protecting her husband and her king. Any rage that Bedwyr had once felt had been washed away by Artor’s sacrifice and guilt, so Bedwyr had learned to love the boy who had been foisted upon him.

  “I would know if the children were dead,” Elayne stated flatly. “I would feel it here in my heart, if they were in danger.” One hand tapped her breastbone, while her face was set in stubborn, uncompromising lines. “Arthur’s life skein is so strong that I would feel its lack in my world if he were dead, no matter how far away he was when he passed into the shades. I swear he’s still living, Bedwyr! And what of Maeve, my strange little girl with her wild red hair and the largest eyes in a babe I’ve ever seen? Don’t despair, Bedwyr. I’m her mother, and I felt her heart beating as she lay under my breast and kicked at my ribs. I would know, I swear!”

  Bedwyr ran his hands over his face and tangled hair before kissing his wife’s mutinous mouth. “Perhaps you would, my only love, because we men know so little of the ways of women. What would we do to similar youngsters, if they were captured in our lands? We would turn them into slaves—or worse—so I despair for the safety of our children.”

  Elayne made no attempt to argue. He had lived his entire life under the threat of Saxon invaders and had lost almost everyone he loved to their rapacious attacks. In the past, he had always faced the harsh facts of life. He had mourned for a little space, and then moved on steadfastly so he could make the Saxon hordes bleed for the pain he suffered.

 
“What can we do to find the children, Bedwyr? You’re too old to raise an army, or to journey into the north to rescue them. At this moment, we hold Arden by our fingernails, and a moment’s inattention on your part will result in our people being overrun by the Saxon curs. They are already chopping down trees on our margins to build their halls and villages, and, if they’re allowed to continue their advances, we’ll become a small circle of Britons inside a sea of barbarians. Will we perish when the Saxons drive us into the walls of our fortress, starve us and then burn us alive? I don’t think so! I won’t believe it, so I won’t accept defeat.”

  Bedwyr gazed into his wife’s clear, golden eyes, the same eyes that Arthur wore during those times when he was happy and untroubled. He remembered small incidents from his foster son’s childhood, the little acts of courage and generosity that had made Bedwyr so proud. Even when the boy became an adult, Bedwyr treated Arthur as if he was his real son. Bedwyr’s heart began to bleed when he considered that he might die before Arthur returned to Arden, if a return was possible.

  Bedwyr recalled the special oak tree that Arthur had loved in his youth. And then he pictured the boy, wounded but still defiant when he returned from Crookback’s farm after killing his first man. What a king the boy would have made! He’d been stronger than Artor and was more balanced and loving than his sire could ever be, for Artor had been shaped by tragedy during his youth. Now, when Arthur was most needed, he had been spirited away. Fortuna had turned her face from her people in their time of trouble. Perhaps the Celts would go down into the darkness without Arthur, and they might never discover his fate. Something tore loose in Bedwyr’s chest, and he clutched at his heart as a sudden pain took his breath away. Then he squared his shoulders and called for his remaining children to join them.