Medraut squeezed the red mare’s sides and moved forward. There was plenty of room to go abreast, and the warrior who had been riding nearest reined aside to let him bring his mare up next to the king. Artor’s grey gaze flickered towards him and away.
Do I make you uneasy, my father-uncle? The king had made him welcome with the greatest courtesy, but there was always a tension between them. Was it guilt that made Artor so wary, wondered Medraut, or had his mother warped him into something that no one could love?
“This is not the way to Glevum—” he said aloud.
“Not the most direct, it is true,” Artor replied.
“Then why have we come here? No doubt it is very interesting, but is your kingdom so peaceful that you can waste time sightseeing? I thought you were eager to see the land settled so that you could go to Gallia—”
“When Maximian set out to claim the Imperium, the wild tribes of the north attacked like wolves when the shepherd has left the fold. Until I am satisfied regarding our defenses, I will not leave these shores. Betiver and the men he has taken yonder will bolster Riothamus until I come.”
“Betiver is the old man’s sister-son—” Medraut observed with a sidelong smile. “Are you not afraid that Riothamus will make him his heir?”
“It would be very natural,” Artor said softly, his gaze still on the land ahead. “If that should come to pass I would rejoice for Betiver and swear alliance gladly, though I would miss his presence at my side.”
Medraut’s heart raced in his breast. He means to make me his heir! I am sure of it, or why would he be talking to me this way?
“There—” said Artor as they reached the top of the rise. “That is why we have come here.”
Medraut straightened, shading his eyes with his hand. To their right, the line of barrows stretched away across the plain. The nearest was larger than the others, its sides still rough beneath the furring of grass, as if it had not yet had time to settle completely into the land.
“These are the graves of ancient kings, gone back to the earth of the land they loved.”
Medraut shivered as he heard the echo of his thoughts in Artor’s words.
“The mound at the end holds the bones of the British princes whom Hengest killed by treachery on the Night of the Long Knives. My uncle Ambrosius is buried there, and Uthir, my father, as well.”
My grandfather . . . thought Medraut. This was a heritage his mother did not share, and he looked at the mound curiously, trying to remember what he had heard about those long ago days when the Saxons had overrun the land in blood and fire.
“Well, you have avenged them,” he said then. “The Saxon wolf is tamed.”
“For now,” Artor agreed. “While we stay strong. But in Gallia, the Franks and Burgunds and Visigoths that were settled on the land to defend it rule the Romans now. They may pretend to adopt our ways, but even Oesc—” He broke off, shaking his head. Then he gestured towards the mounds. “It will take time to make us all one people. When the bones of Saxon and Briton are mingled together with the dust of this land perhaps we may trust them. But it will take time.”
Medraut looked at him skeptically. Old men, he had heard, tended to live in the past. The high king looked strong, but there was silver in his beard. Was he getting old?
The wind blew more strongly. From overhead he heard the harsh cry of a raven and looked upward. The bird circled the riders once and then flapped away to the westward. Medraut, turning to track its flight, stilled, staring at the circle of stones that seemed to have risen out of the ground. He had seen Roman buildings that were larger, but never such mighty pieces of stone. Standing proud as kings come to council, their stark simplicity chilled his soul.
Something in his silence must have alerted the king, for Artor followed his gaze and smiled.
“It is the Giant’s Dance. Merlin brought me here when I was a boy.”
Medraut twitched involuntarily at the sound of that name. The Druid had arrived at Castra Legionis not long after he himself had come there. There was no reason to think it had anything to do with him. Men said that Merlin had always come and gone at his own will—not even the high king could command him. But there was something in the dark stare beneath those bushy brows that made Medraut feel naked. He had been surprised at the depth of his own relief when the old man went away once more.
“Why?” he asked baldly.
Artor looked at him, one eyebrow lifting. “Come and see—” With a word to Cai, he reined his horse towards the stone circle, and after a moment’s astonished hesitation, Medraut followed.
As he neared the circle, he looked over his shoulder. The rest of the column was continuing its march across the plain. The boy looked around him nervously. Had the king decided he posed too great a danger and found this opportunity to get rid of him? Reason told him it was unlikely. Artor could have gotten away with such a deed far more easily in Londinium than this empty land where everyone would know.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Artor, interpreting his hesitation correctly even if, one hoped, he did not divine its cause. He pulled up before a stone that stood in front of the others like a sentinel, slid off of his mount and motioned to Medraut to do the same. “At this time of day and at this season, the circle is not dangerous.”
Medraut started forward. As he passed through the outer circle of uprights he flinched. A buzz, more felt than heard, vibrated through his bones.
“Don’t you feel it?” he asked as Artor turned inquiringly. “This place is warded.”
“Not precisely—Merlin says that a current of power flows between the stones. I have learned to sense such things, but when I was your age I could not feel it. Is this a natural talent, Medraut, or her teaching?”
The boy felt himself flushing. No need to ask whom he meant. What had his mother done to Artor to make him fear her? He took another step towards the middle trilithon. Everything beyond the circle appeared to waver, as if he were looking at it through glass.
“Wait—” Artor set his hand on Medraut’s shoulder. He twitched, but the touch steadied him, and he did not pull away. Together, they moved between the huge capped uprights of the inner circle into the level space within. As they neared the altar stone Medraut sensed a subliminal hum, as if he were standing next to a hive of bees.
Artor’s gaze had gone inward. “Power flows beneath the soil as water flows through riverbeds, from circle to circle, and from stone to stone. Here, two great currents cross. It is a place of mighty magic.”
“Have you brought my brothers here?” Medraut asked softly after a time, still anchored by the king’s hand.
Artor shook his head.
“You know, don’t you . . .” Medraut said then, “about me. . . .”
For the first time, he allowed himself to stare at the man who had fathered him. The high king, if not quite so tall as Medraut’s older brothers, was still bigger than most men, his torso heavy with muscle. His features were too rugged for beauty, weathered by years of responsibility into a mask of power. But there were laughter lines around the grey eyes that watched him from beneath level brows. Except, perhaps, in those eyes, he could see nothing of himself in this man at all.
The king let go of his shoulder, looking away. “She did not tell me you existed until you were ten years old.”
“Why didn’t you take me away from her?”
“I had no proof . . .” Artor whispered.
At ten, Medraut had still believed that his mother was good, and that he himself would grow up to be a hero one day. If the king had taken him then, his son might have been able to love him.
“You were newly married and expected to get a legitimate child,” he said flatly. “But you have none. Will you make me your heir?”
“You have a son’s claim on me, Medraut. But I am more a Roman than a Briton when it comes to the Imperium. They did not make me king because I was my father’s son, or not wholly, but because of the Sword.”
Artor’s hand settled
over the pommel of the blade at his side, and Medraut shivered as a new note pierced the circle’s hum, so high and clear that it hurt to hear. He knew about the Sword, of course, but it was always the Cauldron that his mother had coveted. This was man’s magic, and this too, he thought with a tremor of excitement, was his heritage.
The sound faded as the high king’s hand moved once more to his side, and he sighed. “When the time comes, if there is a man fit to hold it, he will become the Defender of Britannia. I will do what I can for you, but I can make no promises.”
Medraut frowned. If you had raised me, Father, I might believe that. But in the North we know that bloodright binds the king to his land. Britannia belongs to me. . . . But he did not voice those thoughts aloud.
* * *
The road from Mamucium to Bremetennacum led through low hills. The king and his escort had spent the night in the abandoned fort above the river. The timber barracks buildings had long ago collapsed, but the gatehouse and parts of the praetorium, where once the commander of the garrison had ruled, still provided some shelter. But it was a cheerless camp, for the town outside the walls had fallen into ruin a generation before.
It was fear that had killed the town, thought Artor, not the Saxons, for there was no sign of burning. The people who had once inhabited those mute, overgrown heaps of rubble had simply moved away. But they will return . . . he told himself. The site on the river is a good one. From these ruins some day a mighty city will rise.
Something moved in the tangle of hazels that flanked the road. By the time he identified the whistle of arrows Artor was already turning, flattening himself against the stallion’s neck as he grabbed for his shield. A horse squealed, rearing. Behind him a man slid from his mount, a black-feathered arrow jutting from his chest. Artor straightened, peering back down the line from the shelter of his shield. He sighed with unexpected relief as he saw that Medraut, who had been riding with Goriat, had his shield up as well.
An arrow thunked into his own, and he realized that the enemy were concentrating their fire on the forward part of the line. Masterless men who lived by banditry, he thought. This time they had chosen the wrong prey.
“Vanguard, dismount!” he cried. “Goriat, take your riders and hit them from the rear!”
He slid from the saddle. A swat sent Raven trotting down the road. Afoot, Artor and his men were smaller targets. Though he had no recollection of drawing it, his sword was in his hand. It flared in the sunlight as he ran towards the trees.
Branches thrashed, scratching his shield. Artor crashed through them, glimpsed a man’s shape and thrust. The blade bit and someone yelled. The king jerked the sword free and pushed onward. From ahead came more yelling. He cut down two more enemies before he reached the clearing where the horsemen had caught the fleeing men.
Several bodies lay crumpled on the grass. The fifteen or so outlaws who remained glared at the horsemen whose circle held them, lances pointing at their breasts. The king straightened, shield still up, waiting for his pulse to slow. It was more than a year since he had drawn his sword in anger; the fading rush of battle fury warred with the ache of stressed muscles and the smart where a branch had whipped across his brow.
That felt too good— he thought wryly, like the first beaker of beer at the end of a long, hot day. Automatically, he was making a headcount of friend and foe. He noted Medraut’s auburn head and once more, tension he had not been aware of suddenly eased. Why? There were others—Betiver or Gualchmai—whom he loved better than he did this sullen boy, but he had never sagged with relief after a fight to find them still alive.
Medraut’s face was pale with excitement, his eyes burning like coals. A bloodstained scarf was tied around his arm. Artor swallowed as he saw it. He would have to get the boy some armor. The others were his friends, but this boy was his future. I have a hostage to fortune now.
He shook himself and strode forward. “Cai, get rope to bind them.”
The prisoners were a sorry lot, stinking and unshaven, clad in tattered wool and badly cured leather. One man was missing an ear. But the weapons they had thrown down looked well-used.
“We’re poor men, lord—” whined one of the prisoners, “refugees from the Saxon wars.”
“Indeed? It seems to me that you speak like a man of Glevum—”
“My father was from Camulodunum,” the complainer said quickly. “He was a sandalmaker there. But the towns are dying, and where shall I practice the trade he taught me now? Surely you’ll not be too harsh with folk who are only trying to survive!”
“Work then!” Artor said harshly. “Britannia is full of abandoned farms. Learn to get food by the sweat of your own brows, rather than taking it from better men! You complain that there are no towns!” He shook his head in disgust. “When you make the roads unsafe for honest travelers, how in the Lady’s name do you expect towns to survive?”
“Shall we hang them here, lord?” called one of the horsemen, and the robber’s face showed his fear.
Artor shook his head. “There is still a magistrate at Bremetennacum. These wretches shall be judged by the people on whom they have preyed.”
There was blood on his blade, but it seemed to him he could feel a hum of satisfaction from the sword. Carefully he wiped it and slid it into the sheath once more. When he looked up, he met Medraut’s considering gaze.
He says he will not make me his heir, thought Medraut, watching the high king as he took his place on the bench the monks had set out for him, but why has he brought me along on this journey if not to show me what it is to be a king?
Gaining Artor’s throne was not going to be easy. The gash where the arrow had nicked his arm throbbed dully and he adjusted the sling to support it, remembering the first shock of pain, and the next even more disturbing awareness that the arrow had come from behind. He had said nothing to Artor, for he could prove nothing. But the psychic defenses honed by years with Morgause had snapped back into place like a king’s houseguard. It was only when he felt that familiar wary tension return that he realized that traveling with his father, he had begun to let them down.
The fort at Bremetennacum had fallen into ruin, but the townsfolk here had managed to maintain their ditch and palisade. Perhaps the reason was the rich bottomlands of the valley and the river with its easy access to the sea. The land was good here, and so was the trade, but that only made the place a more attractive target for raids. The magistrates who had been seated on their own benches beside him gazed sourly around them, torn between gratitude to the king for capturing the robbers and resentment of the pace at which they were required to deal with them.
They had sentenced the leaders to hang, but the remainder they enslaved, arguing that it was justice that those who had stolen the fruit of others’ labors should be denied the use of their own. As the last of the prisoners was marched off to death or servitude, the townsmen straightened, anticipating the feast that had been prepared to honor their visitor.
But Artor was not yet done with them.
“We’ve cleared out one nest of vermin, and you and your goods will have safe passage to Mamucium and Deva—for a time. But what happens when some other ruffian decides to settle in? I cannot be everywhere, and who will protect you then?”
“We are merchants and farmers, lord, not fighting men—” one of the magistrates said sullenly. He gestured in the direction in which the prisoners had gone. “If we were, do you think we would have suffered that lot for so long?”
“If you cannot defend yourselves, then I will have to appoint you a protector . . .” the king said slowly. “Is that what you desire?”
“Oh, my lord—” Another man looked up eagerly. “Indeed it is! He and his men can stay at the old fort, and—”
Artor’s features creased in a sardonic smile, as if he had heard this before. “And who will rebuild it? And what will they eat? An ill-fed man cannot swing a sword—”
“But you— We supposed—” The magistrates wilted beneath his gl
are.
“I will give you Paulinus Clutorix, a veteran of the Saxon wars, and three experienced men.”
“But that’s not enough—”
“Very true,” Artor continued briskly. “He will take on more, enough to mount a regular patrol, and he will drill every man of fighting age in this valley in the use of arms so that when the time comes to go after a band of outlaws, or you see yon river bobbing with Irish coracles, you’ll have a force sufficient to deal with them.”
The town fathers were frowning. Their reluctance seemed strange to Medraut, who had grown up among a warrior people who had never been forbidden by the Romans to bear arms. But he could see that some of the younger men were grinning. He had seen his father fight the day before. Now, he was seeing how Artor ruled.
“And there will be a levy, in goods or coin, upon each household for their keep.” The townsmen began to protest while Artor’s warriors tried to hide their grins. The king held up one hand. “Did you assume I would send gold? How do you think I feed my men if not by taking tithes and levying taxes? At least this way you will know where your tax money goes. And the burden must be shared by everyone—” He gazed sternly around him. “Even the monks who own these rich fields. . . .”
Now it was the churchmen who were protesting. The defending force would have their prayers, of course, but their produce belonged to God. In Artor’s face there was no yielding. Medraut suppressed an anticipatory grin.
“Good father, if prayer had protected you from outlaw spears or Irish swords I might agree,” said the king. “But I have seen too many burnt monasteries. Pay your share, holy brethren, if you expect my men to come to your call!” He sat back, eyes glinting, a grim smile twitching the brown beard.
Morgause had always said that Artor let the priests rule him, but Medraut saw now that it was not so. He sat hunched on his bench, resting his chin on his fist as he watched. In how many other ways had she been wrong? The priests would call his birth ungodly, but he was glad now to be Artor’s son. And if he worked hard, he thought, perhaps the wary courtesy with which the high king treated him would change to true affection, and Medraut could prove himself a worthy heir. . . .
The Hallowed Isle Book Four Page 3