by M. K. Hume
‘I heard voices in a corner outside the king’s hall, out of the wind. I could see Artor’s guard posted on the entry gate to the forecourt, but I had thought I was the only other person outside on a cold night that was threatening snow. My curiosity was roused. Because of the hour, I used stealth to approach the place the voices were coming from, for a prudent man takes care when he is in a strange fortress.’
Bran nodded. Gawayne grinned knowingly and whispered something indelicate to his elder daughter, who blushed hotly. Meanwhile, Gerallt registered every flicker of emotion that crossed the faces of the assembled kings and drew strength from their obvious neutrality.
‘As I neared the walls, I recognised Mark’s voice. He was having a discussion with a man in a black cloak. There was no light so I couldn’t see them clearly, but their shapes stood out against the brilliant white of a light snow cover. My king sounded very angry and was protesting intemperately. I heard him say that he’d have nothing to do with it, because he felt that it would fail. I confess I felt a twinge of suspicion, so I pressed myself back against the wall in case I was discovered. I couldn’t hear what the other man said, but he laughed unpleasantly and my master sounded afraid. When they parted, I wished I could sink into the earth, because that cloaked figure radiated danger.’
‘Did you recognise him?’ Bran demanded hoarsely. Common sense told him that Gerallt must have been very close to the conspirators if he heard parts of the conversation. ‘Can you prove what you say?’
‘I saw Mark’s face clearly and I know his voice, so I could not have made any mistake. Then, when the cowled man walked past the niche where I had concealed myself, a stray shaft of moonlight revealed the lower half of his face, which was clean-shaven. I would wager on the soul of my mother that he was Prince Modred, the bastard son of Queen Morgause of the Otadini tribe and the king of the Brigante.’
A storm of noise greeted this pronouncement and Scoular ap Seosamh cringed. The scar-faced warrior behind him cried out in disbelief, then Bran lifted one hand and the crowd gradually became silent. ‘Are you absolutely certain, Gerallt ap Cadwy? There is no shame in doubting what you saw or heard on a dark and cold night near to three years ago, but if you have any reservations you must voice them now.’
‘I’m certain, King Bran. I wished I weren’t, for I had no desire to serve any man who would attempt to kill his sovereign lord by stealth. When word came to us that a bowman had tried to bring down the High King from a concealed position in a tree, I suspected that Mark and Modred had been plotting together, but I comforted myself with Mark’s words of refusal when I overheard him arguing with Modred. I tried to tell myself that I had misunderstood the nature of the disagreement entirely but, try as I might, I could not rid myself of the suspicion that my master had been involved in treasonous discussions with Modred. When word came from Lady Morgan that King Lot and Queen Morgause had been assassinated, we had already left Cadbury and were safely back in Canovium. Like the other lords of the Deceangli tribe, I heard the rumours, but so much happened in such a short time that any further consideration of what I had seen and heard was driven out of my head. The king had just killed Trystan out of hand and Queen Iseult had committed suicide, so the palace was at sixes and sevens for some weeks.’
Bran brushed away domestic considerations with an impatient wave of his hand. ‘When did you learn that you would be forced to fight with the Brigante and the Picts against your fellow Celts?’
For the first time, Gerallt hung his handsome head.
‘The king called us to his hall. All the lords had been summoned, high and low, regardless of status. Any man with warriors at his command was ordered to attend the king in Canovium. Queen Iseult had only recently been laid into the ground, and Mark was ashen, angry and excited, all at the same time. We had no idea what would be demanded of us.’
‘And what was demanded of you? Have no doubt, Gerallt alp Cadwy, the Deceangli people now stand low in the eyes of the people of the west. Some form of explanation would be prudent. Why should we try to understand your treason and your cowardice? Much hangs on the reason you are now called upon to give.’ Bran spoke in his usual calm manner but Gerallt could see a softening in his eyes. Perhaps the rift between the Deceangli and Ordovice tribes could still be healed.
‘Our king told us that Modred was the legitimate heir of Artor, who was old and like to die in the next few years. When we protested that King Gawayne stood higher in the chain of legitimacy, Mark brushed our words aside, saying that Gawayne was fully occupied in keeping the Saxons out of his lands beyond the wall. Modred was closer to our lands and had the backing of the powerful Brigante tribe. He told us that he had already made his mark on a treaty with the Brigante that would protect our borders, so we were already guilty of treason by virtue of that agreement. Whatever we did from that point onwards, the High King would try to destroy us, regardless of our feelings on the matter. We knew we were guilty by association, for Mark was our legitimate king. What were we to do? We argued among ourselves and wanted to defy him and to assassinate him if it was at all possible, but the guard was always present with their swords drawn and ready for use. Mark’s unspoken message was very clear to all of us. We prayed for time to persuade our king to change his mind, but we were defeated by his show of force at every opportunity. We should have resisted him as a group, but we distrusted each other and he used our mutual suspicions against us. We swore to ourselves that we’d not raise our swords against our brothers, but we found ourselves far from home and in a Brigante camp before we fully realised what our king had done. By then, it was too late to mount a concerted protest.’
‘Did you raise your sword against your kin, Gerallt?’ Gawayne called from his seat.
‘No, King Gawayne, I did not,’ Gerallt answered firmly, his chin jutting aggressively as if he considered his word might be doubted. ‘I was grateful when we fled from the battlefield behind our king, despite my shame. I had never believed I would ever run from combat, but better my hand should be cut off at the wrist than it should raise a weapon against a fellow tribesman. I led my warriors back to their homes in Caer Narfon and then waited on the judgement of the kings. I will willingly accept their punishment for my weakness and vacillation.’
Bran turned to face the shamefaced contingent from Canovium. ‘And was this experience the same for all the tribal lords of the Deceangli?’
‘I cannot swear for all my tribe, but it was true for most, if not every leader among our warriors.’ Gerallt did not hesitate in his response, so his peers swallowed their fears and nodded in turn.
‘We’ve received an object lesson that applies to every man in this council.’ Bran addressed the assembled kings. ‘This treason blossomed because good men became suspicious of each other and failed to stand forth to support the rightful High King because they feared reprisals against their families. If we are to have any hope of succeeding against the Saxons, we must present a united front and trust that our allies will come to our aid when we are imperilled. This man who stands before us has shown how easily he was cut away from like-minded peers until he ultimately found himself branded a traitor – without raising his sword in anger against those who oppressed him.’
The kings looked at each other with guarded eyes. Their understanding of Bran’s message was clearly written on the faces of even the more conservative rulers.
‘Do any of the Brigante lords have the courage to explain themselves?’ Bran asked. ‘I understand that their new king had a price placed on his head during Modred’s rule, despite being far from the seat of power. I ask one of your leaders to stand forth and face your accusers. Some justification must be offered to explain your actions.’
As he spoke, the queen’s lady slid back into her seat beside her mistress. ‘I have been told that the young man who attracted your attention is called Idris ap Cadwy and he is the natural son of the Deceangli lord who was speaking just now. He was fostered some years ago to a Brigante kinsman called Cad
wy Scarface, who is going to speak to this meeting.’
‘He is a very interesting and attractive young man,’ Anna whispered reflectively. ‘He has the look of a fledgling eagle and the leashed energy of a good hound. He stands at the centre of two houses that are caught up in accusations of treason, yet his eyes are clear and his face is open to the scrutiny of anyone. He seems fearless.’
‘His foster-father is about to speak.’ The queen’s servant pointed to a huge, greying warrior who had risen wearily to his feet and was lumbering towards the centre of the amphitheatre to face the tribal kings.
‘The boy is watching him with his heart in his eyes,’ Anna whispered, looking from Idris to the careworn, ugly face of the Brigante warrior. ‘This Scarface cannot be a total monster if he has earned such adoration.’
The man raised his eyes to the assembled kings with an obvious effort, and Anna felt a frisson of admiration for the ageing warrior’s courage. ‘I am Cadwy Scarface. I’ll not give my father’s name, for I have brought shame on his memory. I stood with Bedwyr in the front line at Moridunum, where I got this love tap from a Saxon warrior. We brothers stood together in Artor’s army, shoulder to shoulder and ankle-deep in blood behind the bodies of the Saxon dead. Those of us who were there on those three days when King Artor smashed the Cymru invaders for ever are linked by memories far more potent than tribal allegiance. Lord Bedwyr reminded me of this bond at the ford where Modred and Mark led us into perfidy.’
‘Do you deny your part in the civil war that tore our realms apart?’ Bran demanded.
Cadwy Scarface fell to his knees and raised his head to face the stares of his peers. ‘I do not deny my part in the civil war. I was ordered by my king to make war on the High King and those who called him their master. I have served many kings with a good and trusting heart and I have grown old killing our Saxon enemies. My first loyalty is to my people, and I placed my love for the west second. Perhaps that preference is my greatest sin, for I do know that men must forgo their tribal concerns for the demands that will be placed on the heads of all Britons in the years that lie ahead. I can see the necessity, Lords of the West, but I cannot change my ways or influence the beliefs of other men. I sinned because I loved my tribe over all other considerations. For that patriotism, you may do with me what you will.’
‘Don’t kneel to us, Cadwy Scarface. My uncle, King Artor, would tell you not to be a fucking fool. He always understood the ways of the warrior, and defended men who served loyally regardless of the honour of their masters. He was fond of saying that if a good sword was wielded by a graceless fool, then the sword wasn’t at fault. I, for one, have no argument with you, swordsman of the Brigante. We have fought together often enough.’
King Gawayne’s speech was followed by a coughing fit that caused his younger daughter to produce honeyed wine and a goblet from her pack. Gawayne leaned back on his cushions. He was well pleased with his outburst, for several of his peers were looking guiltily down at their hands.
‘Few men understand the ties of binding oaths and personal loyalties more keenly than Artor did.’ Bedwyr added his voice to Gawayne’s. ‘For this reason alone, I acquit this warrior of treason and only hold him guilty of obeying his oaths of fealty when he knew they were wrong. I, too, have bled with Cadwy Scarface and have no desire to see him die because his master was a cur.’
‘Nor I,’ cried Pelles, quickly followed by Bors, two warriors who had served Artor long and well. ‘We have all been guilty of deeds that caused us pain or shame for the sake of oaths given to our masters. Such is the cost of personal loyalty. Artor himself admitted that his actions at Melandra were prompted by his grief at the murder of his friend King Luka. Many of us were privy to his regrets. Yes, we who obeyed his orders sometimes believed that his actions were extreme, and were likely to cause resentment for decades to come. But we obeyed because Artor was our king and we were oath-bound to him. There is little difference between Cadwy Scarface and any one of us, except that his master was a murderous traitor while ours was a man of innate decency under his rage and loss.’
‘We who remember the days of glory do not wish to sully Artor’s memory with petty reprisals against worthy men,’ Bors added, while around him other warriors remembered his long service to his kinsman over many years of warfare and tribulation. These men had earned the right to decide Cadwy Scarface’s fate.
Bran bowed his head and assisted Scarface to rise to his feet. ‘You are free, Cadwy, to add your sword to those of us who will mount the defence of the west. I hope we never reach this parlous state of affairs again.’
‘I swear now that I will freely give my allegiance to all the kings of the Union of the West and hope for peace in the life that is to come,’ Cadwy Scarface said in a voice so soft and emotional that few of those present heard all his words. ‘May I die in the defence of all these lands, not just Brigante soil, for I and my fellow Brigante tribesmen already bear the curse of the Mother Goddess. Whatever comes to the Britons, whether it is shameful defeat, victory or a bloody death, I will always honour my oath.’
No man doubted him as he limped back to his seat in a hall that had settled into a thoughtful silence. Somehow the pleasure of laying all the blame for their losses at Mark’s door seemed simplistic and mindlessly vengeful.
Then, from above, an owl screamed its hunting call of triumph and the air was filled with barred wings and sharp talons. The bird swooped over the assembled kings, its wicked claws spread to catch and kill, before it turned in mid-flight, as if the air had become solid. Then, with a few rapid beats of its wings, the great bird rose upward to the open roof in a long spiral before settling on a charred rafter. It gazed down at the humans below with unblinking yellow eyes.
‘She is here,’ Taliesin, the king’s singer, said aloud in surprise. ‘The goddess deigns to preside over this trial, and she is reminding us that our duties haven’t been completed.’
Whether Christian or pagan, the kings touched their crosses or the runes at their throats in sudden dread. In broad daylight, at a time when such birds normally slept, the owl looked down at their upturned faces and swivelled its head to impale each one with its wide, yellow glare.
‘We are reminded that she who must not be named has lost her favourite son, the Dragon’s Child. Before us sits Mark, taking his ease while better men have admitted to their sins and errors.’ Bran’s voice was implacable and as cold as iron. ‘What say you, Mark? Can you justify your treasons? Or will you go into the darkness, mute and cowardly?’
Shockingly, Mark began to giggle, the noise ugly in the context of the deadly punishment that lay over him. ‘What does this nonsense matter? You’ll do as you like anyway. I welcome death. Anything is better than having to spend another day in that pesthole in the ground.’
Then, sickeningly, he picked at his flesh with skeletal fingers tipped by talons that were every inch as long as those of the owl above him. Had the guard not cuffed him, he would have eaten the scabs from his own wounds.
‘He’s mad,’ Gawayne muttered with a curse.
‘He’d certainly like you to think so,’ the Deceangli king muttered softly, but his voice was still loud enough for the kings near him to hear his warning. ‘Mark is as he has always been, as cunning as a rat. He’ll eat shit and drink piss if that keeps him alive. After all, he’s survived when his master couldn’t manage to keep his head.’
‘I should have killed you when I had the chance,’ Mark said conversationally to his kinsman. Then, with a speed that seemed impossible for someone so emaciated, he threw himself from his stool and lurched towards Deinol ap Delwyn with his skeletal hands outstretched to grip and tear.
But Mark had been weakened by the effects of starvation, and Deinol ap Delwyn’s guard had no difficulty in intercepting him. A tall, red-haired warrior knocked Mark flat on his back while another warrior drew his sword and pressed it against the traitor’s corded neck.
‘Kill me then!’ Mark crowed, with a voice as high as t
he cry of rooks in a distant wood. ‘Prove how brave you are by killing an unarmed man,’ and he pressed his throat against the sword point, forcing the warrior to lean away.
‘No!’ Deinol ap Delwyn ordered with unusual authority, for he was normally a passive and friendly young man. ‘Too much Deceangli honour has been lost because of you, Mark. I’ll not stain the consciences of good warriors with the guilt of your death, even if you sink those claws into my eyes. You disgust me.’
‘Hold him down,’ Bran ordered. ‘He refuses to speak for himself in a rational manner, so I ask the kings to pass judgement upon him.’
‘This is no court,’ Mark snarled, rising shakily to his feet and dragging his blanket around his lean flanks. ‘I’ve sat among you time after time and listened to you whisper treasons against Artor when you disagreed with his orders. You are hypocrites!’
Several kings looked away from his mad black eyes.
‘None of you has the right to judge me. Given my choices, you’d have betrayed Artor for gold and land as readily as I did. You don’t have the right.’ The last words were howled almost maniacally, and spittle flew from his toothless, rotten gums.
‘We have the right.’
A stern voice fell into the shocked stillness with the grating violence of a sword dragged along a metal breastplate. ‘The citizens of Deva who were betrayed by you and your hell-spawn master have the right to call you to account and pass judgement on you.’
The man who spoke had stood at the back of the hall with a group of other men whose grave faces, half-healed wounds, amputations and plain clothing marked them as both ordinary citizens and victims.
‘I am Causus Gallio, often referred to as the Gaul. My father was a member of the council of Deva, but in his youth he had served with the Romans in Gaul under Flavius Aetius. He retired to Deva as a trader in wool and lead, so I was born a Briton, and my children were also born on this hallowed soil. For generations, Deva has served as a sanctuary for all natives of these islands and as a conduit for the wealth that came from the new tribal traders of the Middle Sea. The Roman Empire may be dead, but Deva presented a sense of order and honour in an uncertain world. My wife is a Brigante woman, or she was until the Picts raped her to death in the fall of Deva. My father died at the city gates with the other members of Deva’s council as they attempted to parlay with you and your evil master. They were unarmed. They were killed where they stood, like felons rather than true Britons. I claim the right to judge you and to be your executioner, as do my fellow citizens, those who have suffered and bled because of your greed.’