M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon

by M. K. Hume

  Everything in Arthur’s life would have been exciting and fulfilling but for the presence of Mareddyd, heir of the wealthy Dobunni tribe and a natural stumbling block to any pleasant and friendly occasion. Mareddyd was now a warrior, and his blond hair was pulled back into plaits held together with ostentatious clips of gold. Although he had nominally come to the ditch to work, according to the scroll sent to Taliesin by his father Tewdwr, any bystander would have assumed he was there in a supervisory role.

  Tewdwr had few illusions about the son who would one day be the ruler of the tribe that would benefit most from the construction of the Warriors’ Dyke. The kings of the Dobunni had always been odd, having succumbed to Roman ways very quickly after Caesar’s invasion. Leodegran, Wenhaver’s father, had been a notable epicure and was even rumoured to have been one of Morgan le Fey’s many amours. In contrast, his son Ifor, father of Tewdwr and grandfather of Mareddyd, was a man of iconoclastic leanings and simple tastes.

  Ifor had originally been given the name of Fidius, Leodegran substituting the name of a Roman god for a Celtic title in order to glorify his son and heir. But Ifor refused to countenance such pretension and chose a good Celtic name to be his nomen. Ifor’s dislike for all things Roman and epicurean had not declined during a long and stern life. Now in decline, Ifor saw in his grandson the same flamboyance, greed and amorality that had infected Leodegran and Wenhaver. Tewdwr feared that unless Mareddyd was given a lesson in manners, the Dobunni king might cut them both, father and son, out of the succession before he died. Thus Tewdwr’s scroll to Taliesin begged that his son be forced to perform his share of the dirty work, and punished if he became a disciplinary problem.

  From the first night at the encampment, the Dobunni heir flaunted his status as a fully fledged man. He was seventeen and of a good height, standing over five feet ten inches. His hair grew straight upward from the scalp so that his plaits refused to fall neatly from the crown of his head, and he made up for this small deficiency by binding the end of each braid with a small golden clip set with a river pearl. To risk such pretty baubles in the mud of the Warriors’ Dyke seemed foolish to everyone but himself.

  The members of Mareddyd’s entourage were as objectionable as he was, and Arthur had wanted to box their ears last season when he heard them make fun of the smaller lads or torment poor Declan, a younger son of the Atrebates king who was yet to lose his puppy fat. Roly-poly Declan was an easy target for unkind comments. The fact that his blushes were an unattractive plum colour didn’t help, and when he was nervous he developed an unsightly rash.

  But Arthur had taken the time to get to know him and had soon realised that the boy was clever and quick witted under the plumpness. Left to his own devices and free from teasing, there were few problems that Declan couldn’t solve. Even his father knew that he would never be a successful warrior, but he had the clear, logical reasoning that made an excellent strategist and a careful king. Arthur had said as much to him and had been surprised by the gratitude and devotion in the young lad’s eyes.

  ‘Sooner or later, Mareddyd and I will probably come to blows,’ Arthur muttered to Eamonn on the afternoon of the third day in camp. They were telling exaggerated versions of the truth about their winter exploits, as young men will. Arthur had hunted and killed the largest deer in Arden’s history, while Eamonn had discovered a secret way into an underground cavern below Tintagel. After much boasting and hyperbole, their conversation gradually settled into more prosaic exchanges.

  ‘I take it the Dobunni bastard hasn’t improved over the winter?’

  ‘Nah. He’s more obnoxious than ever now he’s a warrior,’ Arthur murmured. ‘He’s still picking on poor Declan of Calleva Atrebatum. The boy’s as plump as a stuffed goose, bless him. He hardly eats a bite, but his waist seems to get wider every time I look at it. Still, maybe Mareddyd’s bad temper is caused by lack of sleep. He’s been bunking down with whoever would have him, but his retinue is due to arrive tonight.’

  ‘Couldn’t Mareddyd’s tent get lost en route? I was in Declan’s shoes last year until you had words with the Dobunni thug. What did you say to him?’

  Arthur examined Eamonn with his head cocked to one side. The year before, Eamonn had been a thin little squib who looked as if he’d blow away in the first strong wind. Now, he’d filled out so that his chest and torso were square and powerful. His legs weren’t much longer, but slab-like muscle had built on the heavy bones of his thighs so that Arthur could see in Eamonn traces of the Boar of Cornwall, that powerful and honourable man who had refused to surrender his wife, Ygerne, to Uther Pendragon in the distant past. The scrolls of Myrddion Merlinus had included detailed descriptions of Gorlois, a man he obviously admired, so Arthur had little difficulty in recognising the ancestor in this young scion of a noble family. Even Eamonn’s left-handedness had become a mental advantage, and he was finding weapons practice much easier when compared with the disasters in the past. He now possessed confidence, personality and physical dexterity, and Mareddyd would never consider bullying someone of such growing and formidable strength.

  ‘You don’t need to know. Anyway, he won’t try anything this season. Look at the size of you!’

  ‘I was an idiot, Arthur, and I thank Jesus you made me see the error of my ways. I began to enjoy weapons practice once I realised that I had it arse about. So then I was constantly hungry, and with all the food I ate I started to gain weight and . . . well . . . look at me now.’

  ‘I am. Do I detect a certain preening under the masculine scruffiness? I know what’s happened.’ Arthur laughed, a little enviously. ‘You’ve had a woman.’

  Eamonn’s toes made little circles in the dirt as he looked, shame faced yet proud, at anything but Arthur’s keen-eyed face. ‘Aye. But then, so have you, haven’t you?’ He was shocked when Arthur didn’t answer. ‘You’re so tall, and all the girls follow you with their eyes. Shite, man, I’ve seen how the servants queue to watch you sluice off after a day’s work is done. And you haven’t had a woman? You’re not . . . ?’

  ‘No, Eamonn, I’m not.’ Arthur’s response was fast and clipped. ‘Arden has fewer women than you might think and they all know me – too well, in fact. I’ve as much chance of bedding a woman in Arden as I have of growing wings and flying to the moon.’

  Eamonn apologised sincerely to his friend for any embarrassment he might have caused, but Arthur waved away his sympathy. ‘Never mind. I intend to set my tutors to work to ensure that I learn everything I need to know about the arts of love. Working on the dyke is probably the only chance I’ll get, while I’m far away from home. It’s one subject that I can’t discuss with my mother and father.’

  The two young men nodded glumly and swung their legs like children as they sat on a felled tree trunk. Arthur demanded a full account of Eamonn’s experiences, and the conversation became ribald, centred as it was on the sketchy information that Eamonn had learned from a young street whore who had been hired by his older brother to educate him. Eamonn admitted that he found the whole experience rather humiliating, and couldn’t understand why men turned to whores unless they had no choice.

  ‘There’s something embarrassing about paying for such a natural function. And the girl was paid to pretend. Can you imagine having to do that just to earn sufficient coin to survive? Afterwards, I felt ashamed, as if I’d done something morally wrong.’

  Arthur had no idea how to respond to Eamonn’s confidences. He’d never thought of the implications of purchasing a girl’s services, nor could he imagine his body being invaded by another person, so he kept his mouth shut lest he expose his ignorance.

  ‘Shite, Arthur, if I’m honest, I still don’t know what to do. Prostitutes are such good actresses that I could have been useless. I probably was, since I had no idea what I was doing. The poor girl tried not to look bored, but I suppose she was just being kind.’

  ‘Could a man die for love? Is sex worth all the songs that the harpers sing?’ Arthur’s idealistic view of t
he holy wonders of intercourse was crumbling away with every confidence that Eamonn shared.

  ‘I’m sorry, Arthur, but I don’t think so. From my limited experience, sex is all very well as far as pleasure goes, but I’d not choose to perish for a moment’s physical satisfaction.’ Eamonn grinned deprecatingly and Arthur found himself admiring the Dumnonii prince for his innate honesty. Few men can laugh at their lack of physical prowess, but Eamonn, at fourteen, was already showing more maturity than most fully grown men. ‘No, I can’t think of anything I’d die for, and certainly not a few moments of release. Sex is like a good sneeze, or scratching an itch.’

  Eamonn giggled like a young boy, but his eyes were wise and thoughtful. ‘That’s all it is, for all we blow it up into some irresistible force that we can’t live without. Aphrodite, Venus, the Mother, Mary Magdalene – I think we men are just scared and resentful of women. We want what they’ve got, but we hate the idea of admitting how dependent we are on them so we rape and trivialise them. It’s sad, really, because love is the best part of us. I imagine that I seemed like a fumbling, pathetic boy who was tiresome and awkward, but the girl never made me feel bad or inadequate. She was generous, and when I hear the other lads making silly jokes about women I will feel a bit ashamed from now on.’

  Bemused beneath the bravado, the young men whiled away a few free hours exchanging winter stories and the usual thoughtless pleasantries of young men. They watched as the field gradually filled with newcomers, raising their fists in greeting and calling out affectionate insults to fellow workers from the previous season, and each felt the bond of a common experience and a shared companionship with their peers. As they slouched on their log, they saw Mareddyd hurrying to meet his entourage, who had just arrived with a showy tent packed onto a heavy cart that was soon bogged down in the sticky mud of the field.

  When the use of the lash and the screams of frustrated fury directed at the team only served to dig the wheels of the heavy cart deeper into the sod, Mareddyd took over a huge area around the terrified carthorses and ordered his servants to set up camp there, in a high-handed, arrogant manner that brooked no argument. Arthur and Eamonn noted that he was clad in the colours reputed to be favoured by his great-aunt, Wenhaver, whether out of preference or as a reminder of his regal connections. He was resplendent in sky-blue, a very expensive shade which was much embellished with gold thread and luxuriant fur of sumptuous thickness and gloss. Like Wenhaver, he was handsome except for a bullish flush of colour whenever his temper was roused, which was often.

  His weapons, which he thrust into the hands of a young body-servant for cleaning, were very ornate. Arthur pursed his lips at the liberal use of gilt on the sword, with its complex hilt and large crosspiece in the Frankish style, and cabochon gems set into the engraved haft.

  ‘It’s very pretty,’ he murmured softly, turning away. Eamonn raised one eyebrow in surprise. ‘Far too pretty to be particularly useful. That blade is likely to break with one kiss from my Dragon Knife. My father Bedwyr swears that the greater the display, the poorer the workmanship.’ Eamonn kicked him hard on the ankle. ‘What’s the matter? It’s true.’

  ‘And of course, you’re an expert, boy,’ Mareddyd snapped from behind them, his voice hoarse with offence. It was obvious from the bright spots of colour high on each cheekbone that he’d heard every word of Arthur’s criticism, and Arthur realised how childish and ill natured his comments had been. He hadn’t seen the blade in question, but had made his assessment only on the hilt, so his insults were both foolish and tasteless.

  ‘Please accept my apologies, Lord Mareddyd,’ he said sincerely, for he recognised that he had been at fault. ‘I was ill mannered, loutish and jealous of your position. You have every right to demand recompense from me, for I have shamed my father’s name.’

  Arthur thrust out his hand as a sign of contrition, but Mareddyd roughly thrust it away. ‘Keep your apologies for one who wants them, tree dweller. I’ll see you this evening, directly after the evening meal. Perhaps you should bring your Dragon Knife with you and we’ll see how its kiss compares with a blow from my sword.’ Mareddyd’s voice dripped with scorn, and Arthur was left in no doubt that the Dobunni prince would make him pay for his error of judgement. When Mareddyd spoke again, his voice was oddly elated, as if he had already achieved what he desired. ‘My weapon is Frankish, and it was forged by a Merovingian swordsmith who served King Clodio long and well. The Salian Franks survive in old Roman Gaul because they are tough and battle hardened. Their weapons are beautifully crafted. Ostentation doesn’t mean weakness to the Franks, whatever your father says, so you will need a new knife after tonight.’

  And with his mouth pursed into a line of fury and triumph, the Dobunni heir stalked off to his slowly rising tent. His temper was already scarified by the shaming letter that his father had sent to Taliesin. The harper had punctiliously read the missive to Mareddyd, and the young man was eager to vent his outraged feelings on his most hated enemy, Arthur of Arden. Mareddyd’s dislike was personal: the prince was enraged by Arthur’s size and strength and the natural charm that drew the other boys to him without any effort on his part. Mareddyd passionately wanted to be accepted as the natural leader of the young aristocrats, but Arthur was a tall barrier to his aspirations. Just thinking about the upstart caused Mareddyd to grind his teeth in fury, knowing he couldn’t take any physical action against the younger boy without being branded either a coward or a bully.

  ‘Now you’ve done it,’ Eamonn said cheerfully as Arthur kicked at an immature clump of brambles with a vicious sideways swipe of his sandalled foot.

  ‘It’s my own fault, Eamonn. If the Dragon Knife is broken I will be to blame, because I have been vain and arrogant. I have allowed my prejudices to overcome my good manners. Hubris and vanity really are great sins.’

  ‘It’s only a knife, Arthur,’ Eamonn said, trying to calm his friend’s tense mood. ‘Knives can be easily replaced.’

  ‘Not this one. My mother will be very angry with me if anything should happen to the Dragon Knife, and Bedwyr would quite justly hold me up to ridicule in Arden. The knife is a holy and princely gift that I’m supposed to preserve from all harm. Instead, my boasting has brought about the biggest threat that the knife has ever faced. Perhaps Mareddyd will release me from my debt of honour if I abase myself in front of the whole group at the evening meal.’

  Doubtfully, Eamonn looked across to Mareddyd’s ostentatious tent and tore at the back of the trunk they were sitting on, stripping off the last of the bark with nervous fingers. ‘I think you’ve got as much chance as a snowball in a fire-pit if you expect reasonable behaviour from Mareddyd. It’s not his way.’

  ‘And why should he be generous? I was the one who insulted Mareddyd’s new status – I knew the sword was a gift from his father for attaining his manhood, and I belittled it. He may have been a horse’s arse last season, but I was the rude one today.’

  When the long twilight began and the kitchen women had ladled steaming servings of stew, flat bread and slabs of beef onto coarse wooden platters, Arthur kept his word. He knew he would be the butt of many coarse jokes, regardless of the outcome of his public apology to Mareddyd, but an honourable man had no choice other than to follow his conscience. Nervously, Arthur waited until the meal had begun before approaching the Dobunni prince in as humble a manner as he could muster. In case his plea for forgiveness failed, he had brought the Dragon Knife to the communal eating tent. Swathed in soft cloth to protect it from prying eyes, the heirloom would be displayed if necessary to show Mareddyd and the other aristocrats just how precious it was to the Britons.

  When Arthur pleaded for a less confrontational settlement of his debt of honour, Mareddyd laughed. Suddenly aware that the knife concealed in the bag in Arthur’s hands was probably far more important than he had originally imagined, he realised that there was a way he could have his revenge while minimising any accusations of dishonourable conduct that might be levelled against hi
m.

  ‘I’m not unreasonable, Arthur, and some of our disagreements in the past have been my fault. There, I admit it! We’re like two bantam cocks in the same hen house. But I can afford to be magnanimous, now that I’m a man and a warrior. Since it’s the reason for our disagreement, I have decided that you should hand your trifling knife over to me. I will then consider all matters of honour between us to have been settled. You say that the weapon is an heirloom, so I will ensure that it is kept safe in my house. In point of fact, it will be safer there than in yours, for you have put it at risk through a silly bout of boasting. But I require your acknowledgement of my magnanimity, given the insults that were directed at me. I suggest you consider your options, and advise me of your decision after everyone has finished their meal.’

  Arthur flushed red along both cheekbones, until his pale eyes seemed to stare out at the world from a narrow mask of white skin. Rage flooded his body so potently that he could barely speak, aware that he had no room to manoeuvre in this nasty exchange. To the listening warriors and young aristocrats Mareddyd’s terms seemed reasonable and Arthur knew it. But the audience wasn’t aware of the significance of Artor’s Dragon Knife, which had disappeared at his death and was now largely forgotten. If Arthur bared the knife now, he risked shaming his mother and drawing attention to her relationship with the late High King. But if he didn’t show the knife to the audience, he risked losing his family’s most precious heirloom as well as the goodwill of his peers.