The Hallowed Isle Book Two

by Diana L. Paxson

  Artor shrugged. “Sitting through all those meetings, what else do I have to do? I know that the king has to be strong enough to defend the borders and keep people within them from killing each other as well. He should encourage trade and sponsor public works. All this requires taxes, which people do not want to pay. He must keep local chieftains from oppressing their own people, but give them enough freedom so they will support him. Maybe it is impossible—but if they would stop treating me like a child, I would try!”

  “You have a magic sword. Does not that give you the authority?” asked Oesc.

  “That’s an old miracle,” Artor answered bitterly. “I need a new one to impress the princes—or maybe I am the one who needs a sign that this is what I am supposed to do. . . .”

  Artor was still muttering when a workman appeared in the doorway, eyes bulging and muddy to the thighs.

  “My lord, come quickly! They’ve found a head—some say it’s a demon and some say it’s a god. It was walled up, my lord, like a thing of power. They want to throw it into the river. I tried to tell them not to, but they wouldn’t listen!”

  “I know how you feel—” said the king. “Very well, I’ll come. Perhaps the people will be willing to listen to me!”

  “They call it the White Mount, my lord, but it’s only just a little hill beside the water—”

  Oesc saw Artor’s step falter for a moment, and remembered suddenly where he had heard that name before. He hastened his own steps to catch up with them as the workman chattered on.

  “The river’s been rising, you see, and we was trying to drive in a few stakes to help hold the bank. And we hit something hard, though of course we didn’t know that’s what it was, and Marcellus says, ‘That’s funny—’ and then the ground just sort of fell away and we could see the big slabs of stone with the water gurgling round.”

  Ahead a knot of people had gathered by the waterside. Someone saw the king coming, still dressed in the finery he had worn to the council, and shouted, and the crowd began to swirl towards them.

  “I told them to leave it be, but Marcellus said that’s good building stone, and he got a hook down the crack and pulled, and the whole slab came over, and then—”

  But by then they were at the riverside, and Artor gestured for silence. As the workman had said, it was only a small hill, but it was crowned by three fine oak trees. Several ravens were sitting there, and as they approached, more came flying, calling as they circled the hill. Oesc felt a prickle of unease, and seeing Artor frown, knew that he too had felt the breath of the Otherworld. Cai stood with his arms folded, glaring back at the crowd.

  People gave way before them. At the edge of the water the hill gaped open, the slab that had fallen revealing a small, square chamber, walled and roofed with stone. This was no Roman construction—the size of the stones reminded Oesc of etin-work he had seen. Water had seeped across the stone floor and around the stone block that stood in the midst of the chamber. On top of it was what appeared to be the head of a man of giant size, frozen in stone. Blank, almond, eyes stared out from either side of a long straight nose, the whole surrounded by masses of undulant hair.

  Artor gazed at it for a moment, then bent to peer in. “Look, Cai—” he called. “It’s pottery, not stone at all.”

  “Don’t touch it—” Cai began, but Artor was already entering the chamber.

  “Nonsense,” he said over his shoulder. “If we leave it here it will be destroyed.” There was a general gasp as the king grasped the pot in both arms and turned to carry it outside.

  As he brought it into the sunlight, the shouting subsided. “Bendeigid Brannos . . .” said someone, and the whispers became a murmur of awe.

  Seen full on, the features reminded Oesc a little of Merlin, and yet, though the druid’s brown mane had the same wildness, Oesc had never seen on his face such a look of majesty. But he did not have long to compare them. As the light fell full on the surface of the pot, a fine network of cracks began to ray out across it.

  Artor fell to his knees in the mud, cradling the pot against his chest, but in moments the clay was crumbling. As it fell away, they saw that it held neither ashes nor treasure, but a single human skull. For a moment only they looked upon the great empty eye-sockets and the mighty jaws, and then the skull also began to crumble. Clay and bone fell in fragments through Artor’s fingers into the water, and the current whirled them away.

  The ravens came skirling down from the trees after them, lamenting, but above their cacophony rose a woman’s scream—

  “The Raven of Britannia is gone! Brannos the Blessed has abandoned us and we are lost!” Now there was an edge of hysteria in the hubbub of the crowd.

  Artor looked down at his hands, still white with clay and bone, then he stood up again, and there was something in his face that made Oesc go cold inside, for in that moment it held the same look he had seen in the statue’s eyes. With a single easy movement Artor leaped up onto the grass.

  “People of Britannia, do not despair . . .” The king’s voice was not loud, but it carried. “The ancient king protected you for many years, but his task is done. His remains have been released to find rest with the sea, his father, but his spirit remains with me.” He held out his arm, and the largest of the ravens, circling, alighted upon it.

  “Do you see—the ravens recognize my right! Now it is I who shall be Brannos, and take upon me his duty. To the end of my life and beyond I will be your protector!”

  “You are only a man, and one day your bones will be dust!” came a hoarse voice from the crowd.

  Artor turned, and the people grew silent. “Keep this place holy, a sanctuary for the ravens, for I tell you now—so long as the ravens dwell on this hill, my spirit will ward Britannia!”

  “Artor Brannos!” came the cry, “Artor the Blessed! Artor! Artor!” The echoes rang.

  The people were all around Artor now, asking for his blessing, touching his hand. Oesc watched with wonder and pity in his heart. When he made his own dedication at the shrine it had only been for one lifetime. He sensed in this spontaneous avowal a commitment far more binding than whatever oath Artor had given to the Christian god when he was made king.

  Eventually the people dispersed and the king was able to return to the palace. The raven flew back to the oak tree, but it was a long time before the strangeness left Artor’s eyes.

  “It was only a skull,” said Cai very softly as they passed through the gates. “And Brannos was only a legend.”

  Oesc nodded. That might be true, but the moment during which that skull, whoever it belonged to, had been visible had been long enough for him to see that it was larger than the head of any ordinary man.

  VI

  THE FEAST OF LUGUS

  A.D. 486

  JUST AFTER BELTAIN, IN THE ELEVENTH YEAR OF ARTOR’S KING-ship, Naitan Morbet, King of all the Provinces of the Picts, broke the peace that Leudonus had imposed upon him and came south in force. It was a year of barbarian victories. In Gallia, the new king, Chlodovechus, had led his Franks against Syagrius and defeated this last Roman at Augusta Suessionum. In Italia, the Ostrogoth, Theodoric, ruled as magister militum in the puppet emperor Zeno’s name. And in Britannia, it seemed as if the time of the wild tribes had returned.

  Before Leudonus could gather men to stop them, the Picts had swept around his eastern flank, across the tumbled stones where once the Romans had sought to establish a far northern frontier, and were swarming up the vale of the Cluta, burning everything in their path. King Ridarchus had warning enough to marshal his warband, but they were powerless against such a host and barely made it back to the safety of the Rock of Alta Cluta, where they took refuge, cursing. For this was no raid, but a carefully planned campaign. Leaving a swathe of destruction behind them, the Picts rolled up the old Roman road and through the passes, heading for the rich Selgovae lands and Luguvalium.

  In Londinium, their first news came from a dust-covered courier whose horse fell dead beneath him as he pu
lled up before the palace. The scroll he bore was as clear a cry for help as anyone had ever heard from Leudonus. Indeed, commented Cai when he heard of it, ever since the British princes had chosen Artor over him as high king, the king of the Votadini had sent very few communications of any kind.

  “Maybe so,” Artor had replied, “but he has been sending his taxes, and even if he had not, this challenges the whole of Britannia.”

  Since the episode of Brannos’s head, Artor had begun to assert himself. His counsellors protested, but they could not stop him from sending out messengers to speed past the fields of young grain, calling on the men of Eburacum and Deva and Bremetennacum and all the forts that were still manned along the Wall to gather to his banner at Luguvalium by Midsummer Day.

  Oesc listened to the hubbub of preparation with mounting frustration. In the past, he had tried not to mind when Artor rode out against the Angles or the Saxons. But Artor and Cai and even young Betiver were already making names for themselves as fighters, while he, as young and strong as they were, practiced his Latin and his archery. Even if he were freed, why should his own people accept a man with no experience in war?

  He was in the library of the palace, helping Fastidius to sort scrolls, when a sudden draft set the lamp flames to flickering and he turned and saw it was the king.

  “It is your arms you should be sorting through, not these scrolls,” said Artor, standing with arms folded in the doorway.

  Oesc felt his cheeks grow red. He had never quite dared to think of the British king as his friend, but surely too much respect had grown between them for the other man to mock him.

  “My lord, don’t tease him—” said Betiver, appearing next to him. “Oesc, go get your gear—Artor wants you in his war-band when we go against Naitan!”

  From red, Oesc knew he was becoming pale. Artor came forward and grasped his arm. “I could not ask you to fight your own folk, but the Picts are no kin to you, and I will need every man. And indeed, I would be honored to have the grandson of Hengest at my side. . . .”

  Oesc found his voice at last. “I have fought beside you once already, my lord.” He rubbed the arm that had been broken in the fight, which still gave a twinge now and again when it was about to rain. “I will be glad to come.”

  Betiver looked up at the red sandstone walls of the great fortress called the Petriana with a grin of sheer pleasure. This was Rome, whose mighty works none of the new tribes would ever equal. The Petriana was still the headquarters for the senior officer of the Wall command, and it was better cared for than most of the forts the Legions had left behind them. When he surveyed the massive gatehouse and the strong walls that protected the city of Luguvalium, a few miles to the south, he was certain that the Empire of the West would be restored, with Artor as Imperator.

  First, of course, they would have to do something about this troublesome Pictish king. But Betiver had grown from spindly youth to warrior in Artor’s service, and it never really occurred to him that his king could fail.

  Certainly, with the army that was gathering here to support him, Artor must have the victory. They had filled up all the empty barracks within the fortress, and more were camped along the banks of the river. And even as Betiver turned back towards the Principia, where Artor, following tradition, had made his headquarters, he heard a horn call from the eastern tower. Another band of warriors was coming in.

  By the time Betiver reached the king, they all knew who it was. Leudonus of the Votadini, having come south by the eastern route and then along the Wall, was bringing all the men he could spare from the defense of his own lands to fight with them. Gualchmai, the eldest of his four sons and Artor’s nephew, rode at his side.

  That evening they feasted in the great hall of the Praetorium, where once Artor’s grandfather had ruled with Caidiau, commander of the troops at the western end of the Wall. If there were a few more cracks in the tiled floor and a few more nicks in the pillars, still, it was a noble room, especially when the flower of Britannia filled it, glowing in their tunics of crimson and ochre and green, with gold at their necks and wrists and gleaming on the hilts of their swords. Artor himself had honored the occasion by putting on the Chalybe sword. It made some people uneasy, but there was no doubt it added to his majesty.

  Artor had suggested that Betiver and Cunorix sit beside Leudonus’s son, reasoning that he was the most likely to understand how a youngster new to the court might feel. Not that young Gualchmai had any problem with self-confidence—he was big for his age, with sandy hair and the promise of his father’s burly build. One saw the resemblance to Artor only in the set of his eyes.

  “My father is the greatest king in the north,” he stated as the platters of boiled meat were being brought in. “Naitan Morbet is a sneak and a coward. If he had attacked Dun Eidyn instead of running around us, we would ourselves alone have been beating him already—”

  “And saved the rest of us a very long ride,” Cunorix responded pleasantly. “It was kind of you to let us share in the fun.”

  Gualchmai frowned, as if not quite sure how to take that. “I am hearing that my uncle Artor is a great warrior too,” he said a little more politely. “It will be fine to see him fight.”

  “There are many fine warriors in your uncle’s army,” Betiver continued in the same tone. “There is Cai, who was his foster-brother, and Cyniarcus, son of the prince of Durnovaria. Beside them sits Cataur of Dumnonia, who is a very mighty man.” He saw Oesc grimace at the name. Cataur had never ceased to hate the Saxons for killing his brother at Portus Adurni, and had made no secret of his opposition to Oesc’s presence on the campaign.

  “The men of the north are mighty too,” Gualchmai said stoutly. “There is Peretur son of Eleutherius, come in from Eburacum, and Dumnoval of the southern Votadini over there by his side. But when myself and my brothers are grown we will be the greatest warriors in Britannia.”

  Betiver took a drink of ale to cover his smile. “How many brothers do you have?” he asked when he could control his face again.

  “Gwyhir has thirteen winters, a year less than me, and wild he was that he could not come with us. But my mother would not allow it. If she could, I think she would keep all of us by her, but my father insisted, which he does not do often anymore. Aggarban is only ten, which is far too young for war, and Goriat is four and just a baby. But they are all big and strong for the years they have, and I have given my promise that the first of them who can knock me down shall have my dagger!” He patted the weapon that hung at his belt, a handsome piece of work with a cairngorm set in the hilt.

  Later that evening, when Leudonus had taken his heir off to bed, Betiver found himself with Oesc by the fire.

  “I am sure that Artor set me there so that the boy might have a friend among all these warriors, but believe me, that young man needs no reassurance.” He proceeded to summarize their conversation, hoping to get a smile. Oesc was a good fellow, but too often one saw sadness in his eyes.

  “Where does it come from?” asked the Saxon. “Leudonus does not seem so overbearing a man.”

  “Not now, I suppose, though I hear he was very ambitious when he was younger. And then there is their mother, who was trained on the Holy Isle. If we get to Dun Eidyn, maybe we’ll meet her.”

  Oesc nodded. “If we get that far.”

  “You will get there—” rumbled a deep voice behind them.

  There’s no reason to be nervous, Betiver told himself as he turned to face Merlin. But he came from a land where druids, if indeed Merlin was not something worse, were only a memory, and he never knew quite how he ought to react to the man. Oesc had stiffened, his face showing no expression at all, but then where he came from, every chieftain had a witch or wise man at his left hand.

  “My lord Merlin—” he said politely. “Have you seen this in the stars?”

  “I have dreamed of Artor standing on the Rock as the sun sets behind him.” The druid leaned on his staff, frowning. “You will fight Naitan Morbet, and
pursue him.” The great beard, streaked with silver now, twitched as he smiled. “But I do not think I will ride with you. My bones grow too old for long marches with armies. Perhaps I will walk in the forest of Caledonia for a time, and refresh my soul.”

  Merlin trying to be pleasant was even more unnerving than Merlin being grim, thought Betiver.

  “Do you wish me to tell you if you will survive the battle? That is what all the other warriors wish to know.”

  Betiver shook his head, suppressing a shiver. For a moment Merlin’s eyes were unfocused, looking through him. Then the old man blinked, and that dark gaze fixed Betiver once more.

  “What you do not ask, the spirits have answered,” he gave a bark of harsh laughter. “You will live long, and serve your lord to the end.” For a moment he looked at Oesc, frowning, then without another word turned and moved away through the crowd.

  “How very odd!” said Betiver, trying to laugh.

  “He is a dangerous man,” answered Oesc, but he would say no more.

  With the Votadini, Artor’s muster was complete. They moved out in good order past the fields of ripening grain, fording the rivers that emptied into the Salmaes firth until they came to the Stone of Mabon, a finger of rock set there by men of a time so ancient no one remembered their names, and honored ever since as the phallus of the god. In happier times it had marked the border between the Novantae and Selgovae lands, and the tribes had met on the flats beyond it for trade and festival.

  Betiver took a deep breath of the brisk air, rich with the scents of grass and tidal mud and the salt tang of the sea. He had fought with Artor before, but this was different. They were beyond the Wall, now, in a land which had only intermittently accepted the yoke of Rome. He tried to pray, but the Christian god seemed irrelevant in this wilderness; he understood why someone had cast a garland of flowers around the Mabon stone.

  He wondered how long it would take for the enemy to get there.

  Any force moving down from the north with designs on Luguvalium must pass this way or take to the water, and the Picts had never been seamen. To the north, smoke hung like a dark smudge across the sky. The enemy was coming, and Artor’s army took position to meet them—in the center nearly a thousand light infantry who had ridden to the battle and left their horses in the rear, and almost as many cavalry, armed with lance and sword, arranged in two wings to either side.