by M. K. Hume
This fine old woman is an innocent, Gareth thought. All he saw was a plain golden ring, a simple object of considerable worth. Fortunately, Bedwyr joined them and gasped aloud, so Gareth revised his opinion. The bauble terrified Bedwyr, and the Arden Knife was a difficult man to frighten.
“Arthur must gain possession of this ring or he will never return to Britain,” Elayne said quietly. “There is no other tie in existence that can tug at his heart and urge him to relinquish the life he constructs beyond the grey oceans. I doubt that I’ll ever see my boy again, unless he receives this ring. It will remind him of Arden, the forest that he loved so well, and those people who love him. He will also understand that he was born to rule Britain. I haven’t got the Sight and I’m not able to see beyond the veil. But I’m a mother, and I know my son better than anyone else ever could. Only the ring can remind him of where he belongs.”
Then, with a self-conscious smile, the Mistress of Arden stepped away from the warhorse and bowed her faded head. “The Lord God of Hosts will watch over you in the voyages to come, Lord Gareth, so know that you carry a grateful mother’s hopes on your shoulders. Perhaps you were born to do this generous deed and bring Arthur home safely to Britain . . . and to me.”
I wonder! Gareth thought bitterly. My father saw me only as a small replica of himself. No doubt my mother was selected to bear me because she had the same coloring as Father had during his youth. If my father loved anyone, it was a dead man. Me? I’m just a joke played against mortality by a lunatic.
Lady Elayne had left him with little to say, so Gareth closed the box and slipped it inside his leather vest. He bowed to Bedwyr and dropped his hands so that his stallion was free to move. Buoyed with a sudden sensation of freedom, the beast began to thrust forward, followed by the pack animal. The gates of Arden gaped widely before him.
The light was as dreary as the sky and the persistent cold reddened his nose. With an effort of will, Gareth chose not to look back, so he failed to see Elayne’s legs begin to buckle in a faint. Bedwyr helped her to remain upright with his remaining strength and, together, the elderly parents held each other for comfort as their only hope disappeared into the charcoal trees.
• • •
AFTER LEAVING THE fortress of Arden, Gareth had ridden only for an hour and was feeling particularly discontented with his lot when he was overtaken by two older men. They were mounted on well-appointed steeds and were leading two packhorses piled high with armor, weapons, supplies, and equipment of an indeterminate nature.
Gareth pulled his horses to a halt and waited for the two strangers to address him and pass him by. His hand automatically rested on the pommel of his sword, although Gareth could tell at a glance that these men had obviously lived for fifty summers or more. The facial hair of these strangers was liberally sprinkled with bristling white strands.
The elder of the two men sat very straight in his old-fashioned saddle with the terse watchfulness of an accomplished warrior. His blue eyes scanned Gareth’s face, body, and weapons, and even the way he had loaded his packhorse, and Gareth had the uncomfortable feeling that the older man disapproved of his organization. The stranger’s long plaits, fierce grey-gold mustaches, and bare chin proclaimed him to be a barbarian. He was also an extremely large and healthy specimen of manhood, so Gareth amended his assessment of the man’s harmlessness.
The other traveler was disreputable, dirty, and dressed in a coarse homespun robe that marked him as a Christian priest. Gareth’s eyes opened very wide as this well-armed priest swore at his companion with a creative description of what he could do with his time. Then, almost as if he was surprised by Gareth’s appearance in front of him, the priest pulled his mule to a stop.
“I suppose you must be Gareth? I’ve heard tales of your father when he was in the service of the High King. I always believed that most of those fabrications were designed to excite the imaginations of incredulous peasants, or to fuel the anger of the common folk against the Saxons. You’re not your father, of course, but the seeds of Uther Pendragon seem to have a way with them. They trap us mere mortals so easily, that generation after generation of us are impelled to serve them. I recall—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, shut up,” the other warrior snapped at his friend, his eyes still fixed on Gareth’s puzzled face. “I’m Germanus, erstwhile armor master to Arthur in all aspects of combat. This reprobate is Father Lorcan, if you can believe me. For his sins, this priest has been forced to teach Latin, history, and natural science to his pupil. But Lorcan has one important talent that will be of use to you in your quest. He has a very capable tongue and is the master of many languages. Unfortunately, he exercises that tongue day and night at every possible opportunity.”
“Now, who’s wasting time with shite?” Lorcan laughed gleefully, as if he’d won some form of contest. “At any rate, we packed immediately when we were told of our pupil’s little problem. It’s perfectly obvious . . .”
“That you’ll need our invaluable assistance once we leave Britain,” Germanus continued seamlessly. Clearly these two old men were affectionate friends, despite their constant bickering.
“I’ve spent a large part of my life in the north, but I was born in Gaul. I speak a number of barbarian languages and understand several more. Lorcan is highly educated, knowledgeable about geography, and was a student of the Christian church in Rome itself. We’re both familiar with force of arms and we can look after ourselves,” Germanus explained.
“In short, you need us desperately,” Lorcan added with a cheerful grin.
“So we’re volunteering to take you into the north,” Germanus continued. “Don’t bother to argue. If you think you can give us the slip, you’re wrong. We’ll follow you anyway and, eventually, we’ll have to pull you out of some disaster caused by your ignorance of the barbarian kingdoms. It’s up to you, of course, but it would be much easier if you agree to accept the inevitable.”
Germanus managed to grin without seeming too terrifying. “He’s right, you know,” Lorcan added smugly.
“But . . . you’re so old!” Gareth protested with the first words that entered his head.
As he spoke, he wanted to kick himself, for both men bridled and puffed out their chests indignantly.
“I beg your pardon, but I doubt you’ll be able to keep up with me.”
“You’re an ignorant, bad-mannered boy!” Lorcan retorted irritably with an accompanying vile curse. “I suppose we should tell you that Taliesin is returning to Caer Gai to meet with us, even as we speak. If we hurry, we’ll find him there when we arrive. He’ll be the first to tell you that we offer the only hope you have of finding Prince Arthur alive.”
“I’m going to Caer Gai anyway, so . . .” Gareth replied, feeling that he was trying to climb out of quicksand.
“I believe we’ll just tag along with you for a while then,” Germanus added. And so the matter was settled.
Lorcan talked interminably throughout the first and second days of their journey as they slowly broke out of the thickly forested margins of Arden. While Gareth and Germanus watched the thinning trees for any sign of Saxons, especially those raiding parties from Mercia, Lorcan educated Gareth on every aspect of Arthur’s early life that he could remember. As Germanus remained watchfully silent, the richly accented voice of the Hibernian droned on and on, and, if Gareth hadn’t found the stories of his master’s youth so compelling, he would soon have grown weary of the endless gossip. Only sleep relieved the companions of the road from the chore of listening to the nonstop gabble.
Eventually, outside Viroconium, Germanus offered a friendly warning to Gareth. “Avoid all questions about your destination or your links with Arthur, Bedwyr, and Arden,” the Frank advised with a dour grimace. “King Bran of the Ordovice tribe has no reason to love Arthur. If he discovers that Arthur has been captured by the northerners, he might decide that you’re a danger. You could
rescue the lad and return him to his home, giving Bran a reason to stop you. Silence on your part is essential.”
“I agree, boy! For your own sake, you must pass through Viroconium as quickly as you can.” Lorcan’s clown face was uncharacteristically serious. “We don’t dare ride into King Bran’s city with you. Oh, I don’t believe that Artor’s grandson would do any of us any deliberate harm, for he’s an honorable man at bottom. But he’s a jealous man as well, and he fears our boy as a divisive force that could weaken the position of his own son, Ector, whom he believes is destined to become the next High King of the Britons.”
“Yes,” Germanus added sarcastically. “He wants his own child to become the High King of Nothing and No One.”
“Bran may have heard of the attack on Arthur’s party already,” Lorcan explained. “And his heart won’t bleed if he discovers that Arthur has been lost. However, our presence in the town could let the cat out of the bag, and he’d expect us to search to the ends of the earth for Arthur. So we’ll make a deal with you. We’ll go to Dubris and wait for you there, while you go to Caer Gai on your own. We’ll expect to see you in Dubris after you’ve completed your business with Taliesin.”
• • •
AND SO GARETH had passed through Viroconium at speed and without incident. In the turmoil of a township that was bursting at the seams with refugees, he was just one more ragged, muffled man on horseback heading into the west. The fact that Gareth chose to be tight-lipped about his destination, or his plans, was hardly unusual. A blind man could see that the tall warrior was a seasoned fighter, so nobody cared to upset him by asking impudent questions.
The conical stone huts built by the Ordovice villagers were clustered together like shellfish on the rocks of the shoreline. In the town center, where all the crooked and muddy streets met, Gareth recognized a stone church, a hall where King Bran dispensed justice and a scatter of wood-and-stone buildings that had grown over the generations to shelter the tribal aristocracy. A large marketplace was busy with traders and farmers from both the local area and the more distant villages, hawking their wares on the muddy square, careless of the cold breezes and the threat of rain. Bright cloth was displayed on hastily prepared bench tables or flapped from tents where fruit, vegetables, dyed wools, metalwares, and the gewgaws and trinkets of a fair were touted in a cacophony of shouts and imprecations.
Regretfully, Gareth had skirted the edges of the colorful display to move to the outskirts of the town. A town fair promised laughter, good food, and games of skill that excited the boy in him. An inn promised a bed for the night after days of sleeping on the uncomfortable earth, but his innate caution kept him moving.
The young man’s spirits began to lighten once he reached the far side of the busy settlement and saw the mountains of the west as they rose in serried ranks.
Free of Lorcan’s voice and Germanus’s expertise in everything, Gareth rode in blessed isolation through Cymru, with his thoughts ranging into the darkness to a riven tree around which an old villa had been built by Myrddion Merlinus many years before—or so the legends insisted. There, he would find the fabled Lady of the Lake and her son, Taliesin, reputed to be the wisest man in the isles of Britain. But Gareth Minor had lived with a legend and knew only too painfully that such men often had feet of clay.
At the mouth of a sooty cavern that was obviously used as temporary shelter by roaming shepherds, Gareth paid a local crofter for food and information. Over there was Caer Gai, according to the dour farmer, who saw no evil in the boy with the shining sword.
To pass the last hour of the late afternoon, the warrior cleaned and sharpened his sword by the waning light of a bloody sun. He sat cross-legged beside a sharp incline that overlooked the mountain valleys while, below him, a fast-flowing river boiled out from the mountains near Caer Gai and flowed down to Glevum, where the soil was rich and deep. Gareth had never seen Glevum in her glory days, but he had been raised on the stories of the long-dead heroes of Britain. To look down on this narrow flood and understand that Vortigern had crossed this same river to take revenge on his son, Vortimer, was an experience that Gareth treasured. His father had spoken admiringly of the role played by Myrddion in the subsequent great victory, a tale that had been told to Gareth Major by the great healer himself. The boy Gareth had been transfixed by the heroism of the tale.
Gareth decided to rise before dawn the next morning, eager to reach his goal. He packed his few possessions onto his spare horse, saddled his destrier, and prepared for the last push to the magical house at Caer Gai. Part of his heart quailed at the thought of explaining his failure at Vinovia once again, for he was aware that Taliesin considered Arthur to be one of the last hopes of the Romano-Britons. Gareth would be forced to disappoint a man of great power, sanctity, and importance.
“On the other hand, horse, I’ll get to meet the fabled Nimue,” Gareth told his destrier in a soft voice. “Is she as fair as the songs promise? Perhaps no woman could be so beautiful, but I’ll be honored to meet someone who knew King Artor and was wed to Myrddion Merlinus, the great healer. Legends will have come to life for me, horse, and we’ll be among them soon enough.”
Then, with a heart that was suddenly lighter, Gareth dug his heels into the belly of his horse and sent the flint stones flying under its hooves as he cantered down into the river valley. The rising sun stained the clouds with blood and washed the young man’s face with a memory of guilt.
Chart of the Limfjord
Chapter V
THE LIMFJORD
It is good for a man that he bears the yoke in his youth.
—THE BIBLE, LAMENTATIONS 3:27
The surface of the grey sea had no breaking waves, seafoam, or iridescence, but the swell seemed to heave as if strange life-forms twisted and turned beneath the surface. Huddled in coarse blankets, the four young captives looked to port and starboard ahead of them and saw the midnight-blue of land that lay like smudges of dark paint.
“Land!” Arthur breathed quietly, his heart in his mouth in the excitement of making landfall. Their fate hung in the balance and they would probably be enslaved once they arrived at Stormbringer’s destination, but the companions were young and they had never traveled beyond the shores of Britain. Even the persistent ache of cold winds and colder brine failed to dull their high animal spirits.
“Captain!” Arthur called out to Stormbringer, who was standing with arms akimbo beside the helmsman. “What land lies to either side of us? Where are we?”
Stormbringer shook his leonine head with amusement.
“You Britons always speak with long lists of questions. If curiosity was valued in gold, you’d be the richest people in our world.”
Then, with limber grace, he descended from his perch to face the four bedraggled young captives on the bare deck. They were full of questions, but Stormbringer was too busy to assuage their curiosity. So, to keep themselves occupied, they had eaten cold stew and had learned to chew their rations of raw fish while staring at the land beyond the grey sea and trying their best to keep warm. As a captive on this strange ship, Arthur began to feel like a true slave, for he was ignorant of their destination or where they were. His lack of knowledge and the enforced inactivity fed his growing temper.
Once land had been sighted, Stormbringer reverted to his role as a barbarian captain returning to his homeland, almost as if he feared to become too close to the Britons and the fate that awaited them. Arthur was alarmed, and this made him angry—both at himself and at Stormbringer.
“We aren’t the ones who chose to sail across deep waters for weeks on end in order to find a strange landfall, yet you call us overcurious,” Arthur had responded. Stormbringer took offense at the younger man’s bad-tempered jest. This young Briton sometimes forgot who was captor and who was captive.
“You’re a fractious and arrogant young man, Master Dragonsen. I understand from your high-handedness that
you have an inflated opinion of your importance and believe yourself to be the equal of any Dene. But you aren’t a prince in our lands! Do you understand your position, boy? Your immediate future depends on the decisions my king makes when you appear before him, so you may become a slave and you’ll have no status whatsoever among the Dene people.”
The captain’s gaze was direct and confronting, so they stared at each other like two fighting dogs as they measured each other’s strengths and searched for weaknesses that could be exploited. Eventually, Blaise stamped her foot forcefully on Arthur’s instep because she knew it was the only way to force him to retreat from an unwinnable position. He yelped, his concentration was broken, and sanity began to prevail.
He immediately got the point.
“I’m sorry if my manners and opinions have offended you, Captain, but no insult was intended,” Arthur said stiffly. As apologies went, Arthur’s response was grudging, but Stormbringer was a true leader of men, and he knew what this halfhearted admission of regret had cost the young man. The captain felt a little foolish for taking offense at the immature attitudes of a stripling who was far younger than his size and martial skills suggested.
The Dene took a deep, steadying breath. “To answer your questions, young man, the land to the north is Agder, part of the kingdom of Noroway. The land to the south was once called Jutland, or the land of the Jutes. But it’s now the Mark of the Dene. We are about to experience those treacherous waters of the straits which are known as the Skagerrak.”
The word, Skagerrak, rose over the muted slapping sounds of the ship and the sea with a rasping noise that promised no good. Every syllable of the name was threatening.