by M. K. Hume
For once, Arthur was too tired to argue. He staggered out of the bathhouse and made his way to his room, where he curled up under the coarse flax covers and fell asleep within moments.
As Germanus wiped his hand free of the clinging oil, a stranger slipped into the bathhouse and stared at him. Suddenly, the wooden slabs that walled the hut seemed closer and the whole structure seemed to shrink, such was the overpowering presence of the man who had entered so quietly. With an economical sweep of one arm, he bared his head of its disguising cowl.
Germanus had never met Taliesin pen Myrddion before, so he didn’t recognise the long black hair with its single streak of white over the left temple. He saw a clean-shaven, ascetic face with beautiful, androgynous features and blue eyes that were shockingly pale against the stranger’s black hair and eyebrows. Those narrowed eyes were contemptuous now, and Germanus felt his cheekbones flush at the stranger’s lack of respect.
He studied the carefully closed face and body in front of him with a soldier’s observant eye, and saw a stranger who was nearly as tall as he was, but physically more slender. The white streak in his raven hair made him look older than he really was, but Germanus decided that the interloper was probably in his mid-thirties. Those blue eyes were deceptive. They seemed crystalline and open, but nothing of the thoughts behind them was permitted to escape. The stranger stood as if he owned the timber bathhouse, and his opinion of Germanus was written all too clearly on his normally secretive features.
The arms master’s eyes dropped to the stranger’s hands. He was unarmed, but the fingers of both hands spoke of repetitive toil, with calluses built on the finger pads. No sword does that, Germanus thought, for the palms were comparatively unmarked. Then Germanus made the connection that explained the waxed hide bag slung over the stranger’s shoulder.
‘You must be Taliesin, the harpist. Who are you to show your contempt for me so openly, when you know nothing of me? Speak, man! If you have some argument with me, I’d prefer to hear it.’
‘You have the advantage over me, soldier, for I don’t know your name, and I don’t know your place in the world of Arden. But I would be interested to know the name of the person who has mistreated this boy.’
Germanus laughed. ‘You’ve been gone too long if you think of Arthur as a boy, Taliesin. Are you of a mind to play with Arthur as Myrddion Merlinus did with the lad’s sire? Like father: like son? If that is your desire, then you’re too fucking late. Arthur’s grown now and he’s no longer malleable, not by me, as today’s exercise demonstrated, and certainly not by you. To answer your question, I am Germanus, arms master and tutor, and Arthur has been placed in my charge for seven years.’
‘Then you shouldn’t have taken such risks with him. His nose was bleeding by the time he released that trunk of scrap iron. He could have ruptured a major blood vessel in his head. He could have died – and something fated and wonderful could have been lost. I’m not my father and I don’t claim to be half the man he was, but a blind man could see that those weights were far too heavy for any normal boy to lift.’
Taliesin’s criticism was voiced in a lilting, attractive voice that was sharp at the edges, like shards of flint designed to cut and hurt. If such was the harpist’s intent, then he failed. Germanus ignored him and picked up the used towels to wipe his arms and remove the last traces of oil from the raw wooden stool. His equally blue eyes closed down until they looked like milky marbles of glass within his heavy-boned skull.
‘My reasoning was simple. Arthur had mentioned his fear of hubris to Lorcan, so I set a task for my charge that I thought couldn’t be successfully completed. Where possible, Father Lorcan and I work together to devise problems that meet Arthur’s intellectual development. He’s not yet fourteen and he’s already killed six men, which is a worrisome tally for a fully grown man, let alone a youth. The trunk was a mistake, because neither Lorcan nor I believed he would find a way to lift the bloody thing. He’s suffered no lasting hurt, and by tomorrow he will have forgotten about it.’
Taliesin was slightly mollified, but his answer was so pedantic that Germanus wanted to shake him. ‘You should have considered that possibility when you loaded the box.’
Germanus hawked and spat, showing his opinion without the need for words. ‘He’s not a dog who can be forced to do tricks for his master! He’s the natural son of King Artor and he has the claws of the Red Dragon. He’ll not submit to the will of others if he believes he has the strength and cunning to resist domination. Are you ready to discover your own weaknesses, harpist to a dead legend? He’ll winkle them out, every one, and then you too will face the disapproval of other men.’
Taliesin had listened to every word, although his back was half turned to the arms master. He moved slowly to face Germanus. His eyes had changed and his body language was more conciliatory. ‘Perhaps we should begin again, sir, for I have judged you unfairly. I am Taliesin, a poor harper who must sing for his supper at the courts of kings. You are Germanus, arms master to the young Arthur, and you come from . . . ?’
Curtly, Germanus described his history, including his recent marriage to the youngest daughter of an Ordovice landowner in Powys. Taliesin acknowledged the arms master’s irrevocable ties to the cause of the Britons with a brief bow of his head.
‘My felicitations, friend. May you have many sons.’
‘Have you informed Master Bedwyr and Lady Elayne of your arrival, Lord Taliesin? Lady Elayne, in particular, will be overjoyed that you have come. She has often spoken of you during my time in Arden, but you have been busy elsewhere. Bedwyr, I’m sure, will also want to see you at once.’
Taliesin was aware that Germanus’s eyes were still wary and flat, so he extended his considerable charm to win over this phlegmatic soldier, but his easy manner had little effect. Germanus was nothing like his mother’s recollections of Targo, the High King’s arms master and teacher, but perhaps that was no bad thing, depending on the nature of Artor’s son.
With wholly feigned friendliness, the two men made their way to greet Bedwyr in Arden’s hall, where the master awaited them. Taliesin was welcomed into the bosom of Arthur’s family like a prodigal son. Wisely, Germanus decided to suspend all harsh thoughts concerning the harper until he knew Taliesin better. But he watched the tall, slender figure with eyes that never ceased to weigh the man’s every action and word as he affectionately embraced his old friends Bedwyr and Elayne.
The arrival of Taliesin was the catalyst for unexpected changes in Arthur’s life. Like all talented manipulators, the harpist took care not to be recognised as the source of the sudden upheavals taking place around him, but the hard-eyed master of arms understood Taliesin’s ploys almost as well as he knew the palm of his own hand. A man with Taliesin’s skills would never appear in a backwater like Arden without a purpose, especially after a six-year absence. All Germanus had to do was watch and wait for the harper’s plans to be turned into action. Then he’d know. Germanus’s curiosity would be slaked within two days.
At first, Taliesin was nonplussed by the changes in Arthur’s life and education. He had been at odds with his own mother on the manner of Arthur’s training, being in favour of permitting Arthur to grow to manhood in ignorance of his birth. Nimue had disagreed volubly, claiming that any half-clever boy would inevitably discover his family secret and resent the silence that had doomed him to ignorance. She reminded Taliesin that Myrddion regretted every day of the twelve years that Artor was untrained for the role that Fortuna had selected for him. Now, Taliesin was irritated that Anna, Elayne and Nimue had meddled in the perfectly acceptable plan he had put into action. The thirteen-year-old Arthur he had recently met had not turned out to be the lad he expected. This boy had killed trained warriors; this boy had been using his own father’s histories to accumulate his knowledge; and this boy accepted that he might well have an important part to play in the future of the west.
Damn you, Mother, you didn’t play fair with me, Taliesin thought. His men
tal criticisms were unjustified, however, because he too had not played the game according to the rules. In fact, both Myrddion and Nimue would have laughed if he had done so.
Taliesin had become a living legend. He was a genius and a thoroughly good man, but he wasn’t free of vanity either. Under his calm, inscrutable face, his brain seethed. He hated being wrong footed by anyone, and he hated losing control of the game. Worse still, he was displeased to discover that two other men were shaping Arthur’s thinking, particularly as the guidance came from Germanus, a mercenary, and the upstart Lorcan from Hibernia. His dislike of Lorcan was immediate and reciprocated.
‘After finally meeting you, I understand how your father must have appeared to the world,’ Lorcan said with a guileless smile.
‘Unfortunately, I don’t have the same advantage,’ Taliesin replied rather sharply, without considering the effect of his words. He sounded more irritable than he had intended and saw how Lorcan’s mild dark eyes snapped at the oblique insult. Had the door to Lorcan’s mind been visible, the harpist would have seen it slam shut.
Fuck! Taliesin thought in a most unpoetic fashion.
‘I’m an open book, Master Taliesin, especially for a man of your advantages. I have been in correspondence with your mother for many years, and I have no objection if she decides to share my thoughts with you. We have similar aspirations for our boy.’
That’s put me in my place, Taliesin thought. His eyes snapped as sharply as the Hibernian’s had done, but he was unable to disguise the bubble of laughter that escaped his lips at the pissing contest he’d begun with both of Arthur’s mentors.
The next evening, the men of the household sat at table for many more hours than usual, drinking clean ale and feasting on venison and hare caught during an afternoon of hunting. Without any apparent effort, Taliesin inserted the problems of the south into the conversation in such a fashion that only two of his audience recognised the ploy, and only two brains wondered at the intentions embedded in his words.
‘The Saxon menace grows and grows on our northern borders. At first, only a few towns and villages fell to their roving bands, but Bremetennacum has now fallen and the Spine has finally been breached by the invaders.’ Bedwyr spoke with a strong man’s anger when faced with problems he cannot resolve. ‘Unfortunately, there’s little we can do about the growth of Mercia, as the Saxon scum call it, from here in Arden.’
‘It’s fitting that the Brigante lands should be the first to fall, just as the wild woman predicted,’ Arthur murmured. ‘I’m not superstitious, Father – or I don’t think I am – but those traitors deserve to feel the lash of destruction and the loss of their homeland.’
‘They fight desperately for every foot of land they hold, so you can be sure that they will not go quietly into the darkness. That’s why we wanted to push the Jutes back during the spring,’ Bedwyr replied. ‘If the Jutes continue to gain concessions through treaties with Mercia . . . well, it doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? The invaders hate us even more than we hate them, if such a degree of loathing is possible, but the tribes of Gwynedd, Powys, Dyfed and even southern Cymru send men to keep the borders clean of the rats, and Bran has sworn that Cymru will never fall into Saxon hands – never!’
Bedwyr’s small speech was followed by a spontaneous burst of cheering from the warriors present, but Arthur’s mind focused on the point of Bedwyr’s impromptu zealotry and its real message.
‘So Bran and Ector expect that all the Brigante lands will inevitably be lost. In fact, they are convinced that we will lose all our lands except for those areas north of the Wall, so they are preparing to protect Cymru at all cost. The Wall offers its own protection, and the kingdom ruled by King Bors is relatively easy to hold, but for the rest of us . . .’
‘You’re being unduly pessimistic, Arthur,’ Bedwyr said.
‘But realistic,’ Taliesin added. ‘The situation in the south is far more dangerous than it is here in Arden. The Atrebate tribe are feeling the pressure in Venta Belgarum. I wish that ancient scarecrow, Uther Pendragon, could see what his years of inactivity have cost us. The Suth Seaxe now own the roads leading to Londinium, so Calleva Atrebatum shivers in the Saxon shadow, knowing that its survival depends on the goodwill of Bors, Pelles, Bran and Ector. Something must be done, not only to bind together what is left of the tribes, but also to tell the Saxons that they shall not move beyond a point that the Celts will determine.’
Bedwyr and the older warriors were cautious, but Arthur was set afire by Taliesin’s words. Germanus was silently amused by the harpist’s argument, for he was certain in his own mind that Taliesin was already planning for decisive action, although he obviously preferred that his part in the plot should remain secret. Arthur also saw Taliesin’s motives clearly – and said so, setting the harper back on his heels.
Tough luck! Germanus thought, and grinned ironically in Taliesin’s direction.
‘In all seriousness, Father,’ Arthur said eagerly, ‘any policy which requires us to sit back and wait while the Saxons retain the initiative smacks of madness. We need to adopt an active strategy that will wrong foot the Saxons and keep them guessing and uneasy. Nervous enemies will make mistakes.’
‘True, son, but we can’t afford the smallest failure, because our losses will appear as weakness in their eyes. And we are weak, Arthur. That’s the point. When we fight, our battles must achieve a measurable purpose.’
‘So don’t fight a battle,’ Arthur suggested. ‘If we were able to build a defensive ditch that would keep the Saxons out of British lands, it could become a major obstacle to Saxon advances while minimising casualties to British warriors.’
The men in the room paused in their eating and drinking to consider the plan that had been placed before them. Every man present knew Arthur’s suggestion made sense, and his words won him another rung in his growing reputation. Outmanoeuvred by a thirteen year old who didn’t realise the full strategic thrust of his proposal, Taliesin began to look for some way to take back the initiative, and immediately began to expand on Arthur’s suggestion.
‘You’re saying that we should build a defensive ditch,’ Bedwyr repeated slowly, after Taliesin had explained his thoughts. ‘I don’t understand the benefits of your plan, or how you intend to achieve it. Arthur seems to understand the points you’re making, but I don’t, although you’ve obviously been thinking about this for some time.’
‘You’ll acknowledge that we need to reunite the tribes and improve the morale of the British people,’ Taliesin said, and Bedwyr nodded in agreement. ‘I believe that a large project that is common to all the tribes would suit our purpose perfectly. And if that project should protect sections of Britain that are under threat, the more powerful our proposal would appear to both our friends and our enemies.’
Taliesin gazed across at his audience.
‘I propose that we build a massive defensive ditch across a strip of land where the Dobunni, the Atrebates and the Catuvellauni tribes hold sway. Such a construction could prove to be an impassable barrier to our enemies while serving as a rallying point for the defence of our own people. We should dig the ditch deep into the earth and use the fill that is removed to form a huge dyke behind the ditch that would be too tall for a man to leap over. If we set sharpened stakes and mantraps into the front of it, we would have a construction that would confound our enemies.’
He paused to allow his words to bite. ‘Built in a carefully selected defensive site, it could keep our enemies at bay for many years to come.’
‘I understand what you’re saying, Taliesin, and your plan makes good sense, but the Cornovii are only one tribe.’ Bedwyr’s face still wore an expression of polite amusement, a response which irked the harper far more than he was prepared to express. ‘Why wouldn’t the Saxons just walk round the undefended extremes of your ditch?’
‘In my opinion, we should build the dyke from the hill fort at Maes Knoll to the Savernake Forest. The valley that lies between those tw
o points is sealed off at both ends by large hills and forested areas that would be difficult for large parties of infiltrators to traverse, so the valley itself is the obvious route by which to penetrate the British defensive lines. The ditch would be built in two sections, one nine miles long and the other twelve miles, on either side of the River Avon. If we can seal off access to the stream we could slow down the Saxon advances for at least a generation – perhaps longer.’
‘It’s a wonderful idea, Master Taliesin,’ Arthur breathed, his eyes glowing with excitement and commitment. ‘I’d happily labour on such an undertaking, as would most of the young tribal warriors. We’d be building for our own future.’
Bedwyr considered the logistics of seconding young warriors to such a labour-intensive task under the supervision of older, more experienced leaders, and quickly decided that the concept was both workable and useful. Additional labour for the project could be recruited from the peasant classes, and the financial costs could be funded from the treasure chests of the British kings, including his own.
As he watched Arthur’s brightly shining eyes, Bedwyr began to give serious consideration to the project. At least this plan would give the people some hope.
‘Let those young men who are approaching manhood give a year or two of their lives towards building the Warriors’ Ditch,’ Arthur continued. ‘No one would be lost from those troops who are currently defending the frontiers, and if the young men from all the British tribes came together they would soon have a good knowledge of each other’s attributes and forge friendships that would last down the years. I remember Father Lorcan telling me of Myrddion’s long view, and I’m certain that the great healer would have approved of Taliesin’s plan.’
‘Aye, boy, you have the right of it,’ Lorcan agreed. ‘Like father: like son.’
Bedwyr noticed how a red flush surrounded the harpist’s neck at Lorcan’s words. Taliesin needs to be reminded that there are other intelligent men in these lands, the Master of Arden thought with a sly grin of impish enjoyment. But, aloud, Bedwyr was determined to give credit to his son, although he knew Taliesin had fleshed out the concept for him. ‘We’d have to convince Bran and Ector, who’ll then have to convince the kings of the other tribes, but I think you’ve found a project that’s worthy of you, Arthur. The Warriors’ Dyke – yes, I like the idea.’