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

by M. K. Hume

  Then, surprisingly, a rider came to the city gates with bitter-sweet news.

  Cerdic had died on Vectis. The old monster had finally drowned in blood from burst blood vessels in his lungs. He had perished before Cynric had brought him the news that Venta Belgarum had fallen to the Saxons without a blow’s being struck, so he didn’t live to see the sacking of the town’s ancient church, or the refugees who clogged the roads leading to the west. So many of the poor perished in that brutal winter that the rout of Venta Belgarum was remembered as the Flight of the Innocents, a fanciful title, for most of the souls who perished hardly fitted that description. For months before the siege, the more respectable citizens, accepting the inevitability of invasion, had fled with their strongboxes and their prized possessions. The whores, innkeepers, day labourers, thieves and frightened poor chose not to run, or had been unable to leave what little they had, so the toll upon them had been very high when Cynric had stripped them of everything of value and cast them out. Their frozen bodies were buried along the roadways, to be exposed in pitiful rows when spring finally returned to the land.

  There were no harpers to sing of the loss of Venta Belgarum, Portus Adurni and Magnus Portus. There were no songs of courage, no fierce battles and no great outpourings of grief at these disasters. What had begun with the death of the Dragon King was now advancing inch by inch, and the land and its masters were changing. ‘Britannia’ was dead. When Arthur heard the name Angleland being used to describe his homeland for the first time, something seemed to burst in his chest and he began to understand Bran’s frustration.

  To preside over the land and to be both king and Dux Bellorum at a time when the tribes were being chopped up piecemeal and driven into the sea was worse than torture. Bran suffered the ignominy of following generations of heroes whose spirits were pressing him to save their people – and he did not have the resources to do so. Whatever he did, the erosion of his power filled his nostrils with the stench of decay. If he was considered at all, he would be remembered as the king who lost the kingdom of Britain.

  Unseen by any Britons except those unfortunates on Vectis kept as slaves by the Saxons, Cynric sent his father to the gods with all the mourning and grandeur a bretwalda deserved. On a ceol piled high with treasure and a pyre built from aromatic woods, Cerdic’s desiccated corpse was laid out in his most beautiful armour, his sword under his hands and the corpse of his favourite hound at his feet. Then, as the sun flamed just above the Litus Saxonicum, Cerdic’s soul was set free as the lovely, narrow ship slipped out with the receding tide. The wood of the ship had been soaked in oil before the pyre had been set alight, and the ceol burned fiercely until only the hull remained, to disappear with the last of the sun’s rays into deep water where no man could disturb Cerdic’s perfect peace.

  Father Lorcan and Germanus had retired from their long service to Arthur when he set off on the journey to Cornwall. Germanus had a wife at home in Arden whom he had barely seen since the first season of work on the Warriors’ Dyke; to all intents and purposes she was a widow whose husband still lived. But to send Germanus back to his home alone would insult and hurt the old warrior, so Arthur decided that he would release Father Lorcan from his duties as well. He explained his reasoning to Lorcan in the privacy of his tent outside Calleva after drinking potent tipples of cider, and the priest reluctantly agreed. Wisely, he understood that Arthur was determined to have his way, regardless of arguments.

  But Gareth was another matter altogether. Nothing would induce the young warrior to accompany the tutors to Arden Forest, and Arthur reluctantly accepted that he would not be swayed. When an avid young man such as Gareth had been raised to believe that he had a special destiny, Arthur learned, feeble excuses would not deter him. Gareth intended to travel to Cornwall, with or without Arthur’s approval. If he must, he would follow the friends at a discreet distance, a plan that would leave them all looking foolish.

  And so the small party set off for Durnovaria and Isca Dumnoniorum, exploring the gentler coasts to the south of Britain and enjoying the soft landscapes that Ygerne had so loved. After viewing the beaches of yellow sands, which were broken by tussocks of hardy grasses and yellow-flowering shrubbery, and the white cliffs that rose out of the green landscapes, the companions turned once again towards the west. The landscape was a strange and changeable living entity, where Arthur saw small stone circles and rows of monoliths that appeared out of fields like crooked fingers.

  As a young man attuned to the land and its patterns, Arthur could easily imagine large figures lying beneath the earth. Some of these god-like forms were skeletal and white, so that their bones were revealed beneath a thin coverlet of green sward. Other gigantic titans had been frozen in stone for eternity, and reached up towards the light that had been stolen from them for ever. On occasion, these figures woke from their long imprisonment, stirred, rolled over and caused huge sections of the cliffs to fall away to expose clean stone to the steady erosion of the wind, the rain and the never-ending pounding of the sea. One day, Arthur imagined, these buried gods would rise from the earth with a huge convulsion of soil. Then the tribes would be judged for their husbandry of the land that had been given to them, and Arthur had the grim feeling that he and his kind would be deemed unworthy.

  War had no place in this landscape of magic. From the huge white chalk horse on the cliffs in the south to the Giant’s Dance on the sweeping plains, gods had walked on this earth, playing games with pebbles which they left behind like abandoned toys. Bran, Arthur and the survival of the west were minor irritants to the body of the land.

  After a slow, early-spring ramble through the countryside, broken by nights spent in tents under the stars or in small inns full of gaiety and good ale, Eamonn turned their mounts towards the sea. Now they found themselves in a new landscape where trees leaned away from the ocean breezes and were transformed into twisted old creatures out of legend. The grasses were long and green, blown into curls and smooth humps like long hair combed back from the faces of the cliffs. The wind stiffened, and teased their hair with strong fingers so that it constantly required their attention. Here, their fires were lit in hollows and securely bound in circles of stone lest the wind set the flames free to rage their way through the countryside. Finally, the landscape changed once again to something that was wild, pure and alien, so that even the Arden of Arthur’s memory was eclipsed by the spare beauty of this gnarled coast.

  The three riders came to a fold in the landscape that led down towards the sea, raging over a hundred feet below. A strong, well-kept road made this downward plunge possible to negotiate, and the cliffs on either side meant it could be easily defended. Arthur could finally imagine a disguised Uther Pendragon leading a troop of cavalry down the treacherous, icy surface of the roadway leading into Tintagel. Until now he had doubted the truth of the tales woven around the birth of the Dragon King. How could any place be so difficult to attack that it was deemed impregnable, yet still allow the Dumnonii guards to be duped by a simple disguise? Now, as another winter loosened its iron grip on the west, and the first flowers stirred the grasses, the warrior in Arthur saw the gatehouse ahead wreathed in an imaginary fog. He heard the scrabble of iron-shod hooves on the stones and imagined the Atrebate warriors, clad in Dumnonii armour, cloaks and jerkins, passing guards who could barely see their faces.

  ‘Yes, this is the route that Uther Pendragon took when he inveigled his way into Tintagel. Some of the stories suggest that Myrddion Merlinus used magic to blind the eyes of the garrison, but on an evening when sleet was falling and the wind whipping the guards’ hair over their faces it would have been difficult to see anything clearly.’ Eamonn was speaking with some pride, for Gorlois had been his grandfather’s uncle and men still spoke in awe of the dignity and decency of the Boar of Cornwall. His strong right arm was remembered as well, for Gorlois had been a gifted warrior who led his troops personally in all engagements.

  Gorlois’s courage was not unusual in those da
ys, for most rulers led from the front. Not so today, Arthur thought bitterly, when kings and lords sent their warriors to their deaths from places of relative safety. As he considered the ethical values of rulers such as King Artair of the Atrebates, who preferred to risk losing their kingdoms to placing their lives at risk, Arthur was able to understand the stiff-necked pride of Eamonn and Bors Minor, his uncompromising father. Their family history and the landscape in which they lived made them a force of nature with marked similarities to the beetling cliffs and craggy coasts of their kingdom.

  ‘Can you see, Arthur? The causeway is down there ahead of us. Our people call it the Neck. When the sea fog comes down, it’s hard to make out the edges of the roadway above the steep drop to the sea.’

  Eamonn’s arm pointed out a narrow stone path at the bottom of a steep incline where a six-foot-wide neck of land separated Tintagel from the mainland. The stones were rough, so the surface was treacherous at all seasons and only horses familiar with the fortress could negotiate it with confidence. Fortunately, grooms were waiting for the arrival of the young masters, so their horses were whisked away to stables attached to the watch tower and garrison on the mainland, leaving Eamonn to lead his guests into Tintagel on foot.

  Below the causeway, the water boiled with the force of an incoming tide, but only the wheeling of gulls disturbed the stillness of the air on the Neck, for the island and the cliffs on the mainland protected tired travellers from the ferocious sea gales prevalent in the area. But the stillness was full of sound. The wind could be heard, if not felt, as it found every cranny on the island and turned them into flutes of stone. The resultant wailing chilled Arthur’s blood as it touched some primal part of his essence. If magic could exist, it would live here where the wind, sea and sky seemed to be living creatures.

  Eamonn strode confidently over the slick stones, all with their share of oysters and barnacles growing where the tidal waters reached. ‘Watch your step, Arthur, for those huge feet of yours will trip you up. Tintagel isn’t kind to visitors who don’t take her seriously.’

  I’ll wager that’s true, Arthur thought as he looked beyond the causeway to where a number of horses were stabled in a small compound overlooking a beach composed of smooth stones. These swaths of pebbles had a wild, monochromatic beauty where black, every shade of grey, beiges and whites struggled for prominence. Smashed shells formed uneven beds where the waves had crunched the pretty, living toys of the sea in their jaws, providing colour to eyes that were acute enough to recognise it – pale pink, apricot, amber and green, interspersed with tangles of black seaweed hurled out of the depths to die on the shale, flint and gravel.

  A guard saluted Eamonn with a bright grin and a fist placed over his heart. A small gate opened and Tintagel was almost theirs.

  Giants had cut stairs into the living rock. A steep set of steps forced everyone who sought entry to the fortress to climb up cyclopean slabs of stone that made even Arthur’s long legs ache. With the ease of long practice, Eamonn skipped up the giddy pathway like a mountain goat, never having to grip a tussock of the tough green grass to assist his balance. Just when Arthur thought the stairs would never end, Eamonn gave a crow of joy and appeared to vanish into the solid rock.

  As quickly as his struggling calves and thighs would allow, Arthur followed and found himself on a large, flat platform. The fortress rose above them to the highest point of a peninsula that thrust itself like a spearhead out into the Oceanus Hibernicus. Up here, out of the protection of the cliffs and the flanks of the island, the gale force winds were free to tear at Arthur’s unbound hair and run their cold fingers through his plaits, unravelling a strand that immediately corkscrewed around his face.

  Deep within him, Arthur felt a door open. A powerful surge of recognition flooded through him as if this strange place released a tide of memories that had been buried all his life. For the first time, Arthur felt the thrill of the sea and déjà vu so powerful that he almost toppled with dizziness.

  ‘Come, Arthur! Come, Gareth! I can see my mother at the door. We’ll find you suitable sleeping quarters and then I’ll show you the wonders of Tintagel,’ Eamonn shouted over the wind and his face glowed with pleasure and excitement, for he loved his home with the same passion that Arthur felt for Arden. ‘If the stones could speak, you’d hear Uther Pendragon, Myrddion Merlinus and the fair Ygerne.’

  ‘I never took you for a dreamer, Eamonn,’ Arthur joked, and then his face fell. ‘But I know what you mean. Tintagel is so old that I swear it must have existed when the little honey people raised the great stones at the Giant’s Dance. Its age has soaked into stones that can almost speak for themselves.’

  A buxom, wide-hipped woman with rosy cheeks came forth to greet her guests. Her short stature and grey-streaked black hair reminded Arthur of the hill folk of Cymru, the last survivors of the people who had owned these isles long before the Celts, the legions, or even the woad-blue Picts had come to drive them into the farthest crannies in the land. Her face split into a wide, fond smile and Arthur felt his own lips respond automatically to her evanescent charm, a magnetism that was more powerful by far than her short, dumpling body and her plain unremarkable features would suggest. Had he been older, Arthur knew she would have beguiled him, such was her unconscious glamour.

  ‘Hello, Mother. Well met! You look wonderful to these tired eyes. I have brought my dear friend, Arthur ap Bedwyr, to meet you. He is from the Forest of Arden and has never seen the ocean before, so I have persuaded him to spend a little time with us before he returns to his trees. His father is the last of the Dragon King’s lords and the only survivor of the quest for the Bowl of Ceridwen.’

  ‘Do not invoke her name within the walls of our home, my son. The dame comes and goes at no man’s bidding, but the cup was never hers to give. Happy is the man who could gaze on it, yet live to tell the tale. Welcome, Arthur. Tintagel is yours to do with as you please while you’re here with us.’ The wife of King Bors clasped Arthur’s extended hands in both her warm, tiny paws. Arthur could feel the hard labour of a true chatelaine in the calluses on her fingers, which had been carved by spindle and wheel. He could also feel her life-force, as strong as a river and as flexible as a young tree in the wind, and his boy’s heart skipped at the fierceness of her spirit. ‘You might like to see the inscription carved on a stone near our entrance. You may even recognise the name, as it is so much like your own,’ she went on, with an odd smile like a curved sickle that was sweet, ambivalent and dangerous. Arthur immediately knew that she was imparting secret information to him.

  ‘The Arthnou Stone, Mother? Now that you mention it, it is a coincidence,’ Eamonn added, his dark brows coming together in a puzzled frown.

  ‘And who is this fine young man?’ the queen asked, adroitly changing the subject. Her eyes were fixed on Gareth, who flushed pink under her frank scrutiny and stepped forward with a courtier’s grace to kneel and bow low over her hand. Eamonn flushed with pleasure at the homage paid to his mother.

  ‘This young warrior is Gareth, and I apologise for not knowing his father’s name. I am remiss.’ For a moment, Eamonn’s dark face was genuinely remorseful at his thoughtlessness. ‘He tends to the needs of my large friend here, although he’s no servant, but offers his service out of love and duty towards Arthur.’

  The queen swayed forward on her small feet and her eyes were sunny and without shadows, despite being as black as jet. ‘Welcome to my home, Gareth. There is no shame in service, as my scapegrace son will learn one day. Tintagel is open to you, although I judge you’d prefer to be away from the sound of the sea.’

  ‘Aye, my lady. Odd as it seems, all my family love to be close to the waves but me. My father believed it to be a family memory of hunger and shame from days gone by, but I’m no seer so I can only speak for myself. Tintagel is as beautiful as its mistress, wild and lovely, as unexpected as a flower in a desert or a pearl lying on the shore of a muddy lake.’

  ‘When did you become a poet, Ga
reth, and put us all to shame with your eloquence?’ Arthur asked, mock serious, hoping that Eamonn’s mother would not be offended by Gareth’s fulsome praise.

  He need not have been concerned, for the queen laughed unaffectedly and patted Gareth’s cheek. ‘I am Valda, wife of King Bors and mother of this ragamuffin here. Allow me to lead you to the room that has been prepared for you. Our living spaces in Tintagel are small, for fortresses are not constructed for leisure, but we can offer you soft beds and all the comforts of a great palace – or so we think. If you desire anything further, please tell my servants and you shall have it.’

  Both youngsters bowed, touched that she would choose to honour them with her birth name. Valda! The sound of those five letters caressed the tongue, yet the name was as short and as decisive as she was. Arthur was charmed.

  Queen Valda led them to an upper room. It was small and snug, but bright, and well-built shutters, whitewashed so that the wood seemed new and crisp, were closed tightly over the long window opening to keep out every tendril of cold air. Two beds filled most of the space, strange well-constructed rectangles of wood with carvings of seagulls on the posts rather than the usual complex interlace so beloved of the Cymru people. The carver had been a master of his trade, and the gulls had been imbued with personalities. They seemed to watch over the sleepers with sharp, beady eyes that had been rubbed even darker by generations of fingers.

  Plump palliasses of coarse, unbleached wool had been laid on the woven leather straps that formed the bases of the two beds; blankets and flaxen sheets covered the itchy wool and proclaimed the wealth of the household. The floor was of raw adzed timber, split many years earlier and polished by thousands of naked feet so that they seemed to stand on old honey, partially covered by a rag rug which had been woven by a long-dead mistress of Tintagel. She had used woad, onion skins and precious tree bark to dye her wool in various shades of blue, clear yellow, deep brown and a single stripe of viridian. From the glazed terracotta jug of water to the soft, upholstered bed, Tintagel offered comfort and luxury, for everything in this small room had been prepared with love and the industry of busy, willing hands.