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

by M. K. Hume

  ‘I don’t know what your secret is,’ he said, ‘but how could such knowledge harm me, provided I don’t repeat it? You’re a good man, Arthur, and I’m proud that you’re my friend.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve heard people say that I resemble the Dragon King when he was a young man?’

  Eamonn nodded.

  ‘I am his natural son. I was born just before he died at the Battle of the Ford. For obvious reasons, my status was kept secret. My foster-father, Bedwyr, has been the most generous and loving father imaginable and I am proud to be his foster-son, but you can understand how I’m an embarrassment and a threat to King Bran, and also to my friend and kinsman Ector. My existence threatens the stability of the remaining tribes of the west. I have sworn allegiance to Bran, but he still suspects me. In all honesty, I can declare to you that I have no desire to take his place.’

  Eamonn’s eyes were very wide. ‘So we are almost kinsmen, at least by marriage, although I don’t believe we share the same blood.’

  ‘No, we share no ties of blood, but I’m technically part of the Dumnonii tribe. I’m also a member of the Atrebate and Cornovii tribes, so my position is rather unusual. I also share Ygerne’s gift, but in my case it’s manifested as a warning which I hear when I’m in danger. I’ve been able to survive many attacks on my life when I should have died. Do you understand now why Bran placed me in the front line at the battle of Calleva?’

  Eamonn paled. ‘But that means that Bran tried to have you killed. It makes sense. He’ll not move against you openly, but he wouldn’t shed tears if you should die in battle.’

  ‘Exactly! So you see that any friendship with me is dangerous. I’d not have your life threatened by any relationship with me while you were unwarned.’

  Eamonn found a forgotten apple in his pack and munched on it reflectively. ‘Are you certain that you hold no ambitions to usurp the High King’s throne?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘None. I have no desire to preside over the fall of the west. I’ll fight to the death to avoid our defeat, but I believe the union of kings is finished and it’s going to be every tribe for itself. I just wanted you to know why I’m treated oddly at times by those who rule over us. Gareth knows, of course, for his father trained him to take his place as my bodyguard, just as Gareth Major was the Dragon King’s companion for most of his life. I’ll truly understand, Eamonn, if you choose to terminate our friendship for your own safety. After seeing the cavern today, an evil place which is part of my aunt’s legacy to both of us, I knew I had to tell you everything.’

  ‘Say no more, Arthur. Your sire is only of minimal importance to me. I would hope I’m a good judge of men, and that’s all that counts. Now, how about a week or two off the leash? I know a series of inns where we can find some willing girls and have a proper holiday away from mothers and difficult siblings. You’ll see trouble enough in the years that lie ahead of us, and I have no gifts to bring to you apart from good common sense. So for today, let’s just enjoy ourselves while the opportunity is here. We should all have fun, even Gareth, who seems unwilling to ever crack a smile. Damn it, man, how was it possible for you to be born so old?’

  ‘I take my duties seriously, Master Eamonn,’ Gareth replied, a little tersely. He was affronted, but neither of his companions noticed.

  The friends remounted and returned to the castle, where they packed their few belongings and informed the queen that they’d be away for a week. Then, with Valda’s motherly warnings ringing in their ears, they rode away with all the enthusiasm and excitement of young men who have no cares or duties to restrain them.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS

  In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments – there are consequences.

  Bernard Ingham, Some Reasons Why

  The courier reached the three travellers in a fishing village well to the south of Tintagel. King Bors required his son and his guests to return to Tintagel, post haste.

  The three friends had enjoyed a leisurely journey through the sweet early spring where the villages, no matter how tawdry and poor, had been washed clean by fresh showers and the fields were green with spear-points of new growth. Cows stood up to their udders in new, sweet-smelling grass, and the milk they produced seduced the senses as effectively as wine or cider. The young men drank rather more than was good for them, but they also ate well and used their combined muscle to assist war widows with repairs to their cottages, or ploughed the fallow fields to sow crops for the sustenance of bereaved families. Sadly, they found enough charity work to occupy their time well beyond the single week they had initially planned, and a month flew by on floral feet.

  The young men worked for nothing. Eamonn took his obligation to his people seriously, and Arthur found pleasure in meeting the needs of those who needed his help. Gareth was happy just to keep Arthur out of trouble.

  In the early evenings, they dined like kings on fresh, homely fare and drank sweet cider and strong ale with other men, or danced impromptu ring dances from the ancient past, heads garlanded with flowers from the girls who were more than willing to share the joys of springtime with pleasant young men of quality. Eamonn and Arthur wallowed in the generosity of sweet young things with rosy cheeks, unbound hair and soft, downy thighs. Pillowed on firm young breasts, Arthur found a blessedness of physical sensation that gave him happiness, for it was untouched by the exchange of coins experienced in Aquae Sulis.

  Gareth was a special favourite with the ladies, perhaps because he was a little diffident and was unwilling to spend his seed randomly. The three had decided at the start of their journey that they’d not seduce virgins or hurt good men by accepting the subtle blandishments of wives, but there were enough willing girls for all. Arthur wondered a little at their popularity, until Gareth set both young nobles straight with his characteristic bluntness.

  ‘The girls and their families court pregnancy,’ he said. Arthur and Eamonn paled at the thought of fathering bastards, but Gareth explained the peasants’ points of view succinctly.

  ‘Who would you rather have to father your child or your grandchild? A village man, a fisherman or a farm hand? Or would you prefer to have your progeny sired by tall young noblemen who will give the family strong sons or clever daughters? The old granddams aren’t stupid. Girls and boys will always meet and mate, so it’s better for these people to have the best for their daughters. They won’t demand anything of you, for you are the givers in this case. But don’t get swelled heads, because any tribal warriors would meet their requirements. Even Mareddyd would be welcome here, although they would probably find him less likeable.’

  So Arthur luxuriated in physicality throughout the early spring, acquiring many skills that had not been possible to master in Arden. He learned to swim far better than his few early experiences in rivers and tarns had permitted. He helped the fishermen and became adept at cleaning fish and repairing nets. His skin was soon as brown as old honey, his eyes vivid in his tanned face. He was completely and thoughtlessly happy during those sweet days and long nights. He learned how to give and take for mutual pleasure and discovered the sensitivity and blunt practicality of women for the first time.

  Only one cloud blotted his final lessons in what it was to be a man. An old woman asked them if they could repair the thatch on her roof, which was thin and mouldy with age, so after some simple tutelage from a village elder they clambered over the roof and covered it with sweet-smelling rushes cut from a patch of marshy ground near the river. Arthur in particular enjoyed making the wooden pegs that held the rushes firmly in place. In thanks, she gave them wonderful baking from her simple clay ovens and fed them like kings, treating them like her grandsons, who had all died in Bran’s wars.

  One by one, she took their strong young hands in her own shrivelled palms and turned her eyes up into her head. Her face was wiped clean of the years and the suffering that had scored her features, revealing the strange otherness that characterised the glamour shared by all
wise women.

  ‘Master,’ she said to Eamonn, ‘you will travel far and visit lands where the Celtic people have not been seen for a thousand years. During your absence, many changes will occur in your homeland, but you will perform heroic deeds that bring honour to your tribe. Your kin will continue to rule in Tintagel, and your line will endure down the centuries, even after your fortress is abandoned.’

  Then she turned to Gareth, who would have pulled away had Arthur not insisted he stay lest he hurt the old woman’s feelings.

  ‘And you, son of a great father, and father of a great son. You will also journey far as you search in the wild places to find that which you have lost. Do not despair when the days seem darkest, for you will find what you desire and settle at last on the soil of your own land, where you will start anew and keep many of the good ways alive. Do not forget the garden that has sustained you, although the old one will have disappeared and you will have to rebuild to enjoy its fruits again.’

  Gareth thanked her courteously, although the tingling in his hands disconcerted him. The old woman had meant well, although her appearance reminded him more of a witch than a simple woman of the countryside.

  Then, with an odd sigh of resignation, she turned to Arthur. At her first touch, he felt a shiver start in his toes and rise through his whole body. Her bead-like brown eyes seemed very distant as she began to speak.

  ‘You, master, are the Last Dragon. You are the last of the Great Ones. Because of a traitorous whisper, you will be forced to labour like a slave with your weapons torn away from you. But fear not, Lord of Mother Sea, for you will go to far-off places where the cold is a living thing. There you will regain your weapons, because the gifts from the Mother have prepared you for a special purpose. You are destined to lead men in great wars where you will win high renown and much gold. Then, when you return to your home and find that your forests are cut down and everyone you knew and loved is dead, you will make something new and bright out of your losses. Your star will shine throughout the centuries and your children will change the north for ever.’

  ‘I thank you, Mother,’ Arthur murmured with a rueful grimace. ‘I can’t say that your prophecies sound very cheerful. Will I find love? Or will I be the Last Dragon in truth and perish alone?’

  ‘Have no fear.’ She cackled with an odd girlishness. ‘You will win the heart of a woman too good for you and beget sons on her. Your kingdom will be powerful down through the ages, long after the Celts have become a shattered people who will never recover from the disasters that will befall them. You will hold your faith, and all that lies before you will be as I have predicted.’

  That night, inevitably, the companions spoke of the widow’s prophecies. Eamonn was inclined to scoff, but Arthur could tell that he was impressed by the old woman and had been comforted by her predictions.

  The next day, the courier from King Bors tracked them down. The brief holiday was over.

  Stopping only to rest the horses, the three companions rode to Tintagel as if the devil were at their backs. Eamonn was anxious, for only a matter of some urgency would have prompted his father to send a courier to recall them. As always in these dangerous days, he automatically expected the worst, from family sickness or death to warning of imminent invasion, so he led the way on his roan hill pony at the best possible speed.

  ‘I would have thought that if there was an urgent problem in Tintagel, your father would have alluded to it in the message he sent with his courier,’ Arthur murmured as he tried to reassure his friend. ‘I don’t feel any warning signs in my head, and I know I’d have signals of apprehension if we were riding into danger. You’ll find your father just wants to see you and sent a courier to bring us back into the fold. After all, we were enjoying ourselves far too much to hurry home of our own accord – you especially.’

  Arthur grinned, and Eamonn couldn’t help but respond. His lips twitched at first, but then he smiled widely. ‘I was just collecting your left-over women, Arthur. Between you and Gareth, a normal-sized man doesn’t stand a hope of catching the attention of any pretty maids.’

  ‘I hope those nubile girls were attracted by our brains rather than our . . .’

  With a muffled laugh, Eamonn tried to cover Arthur’s mouth from the saddle, almost tipping both of them into a hedge. Gareth joined them on his grey horse, an indulgent smile on his face. ‘We’d reach Tintagel a lot faster if we stopped comparing the length of each other’s appendages,’ he muttered with a smirk. The tone of Gareth’s voice showed that he had unbent considerably during their impromptu holiday. No longer as quiet and servile as he had been, he was now an equal in Arthur and Eamonn’s eyes and had gradually begun to act like a young man rather than a superior servant.

  On the late afternoon of the second day, the cliffs surrounding Tintagel hove into view. The fortress was lit from the west by the last of the sun as it sank towards the horizon, bathing the stern battlements and towers in a roseate glow. A fast trot down to the Neck was easily achieved and Eamonn decided that on this occasion they would ride over and stable their horses on the peninsula itself, in case there was a need for them to make a hurried departure.

  As day turned into night, the rocks became black and the sea turned to the colour of molten lead in the dregs of the daylight. Even the stairs seemed easier to mount, as all three men knew that warm beds and loving arms awaited them at the top, provided Blaise hadn’t taken a supply of mud and dog turds into the fortress with her. Arthur decided that even a wilful, spoiled child might think twice about pelting her brother and his guests in the presence of her father, the Hammer of the West.

  Bors was waiting for them in the main hall of Tintagel where, uncharacteristically, the whole family was at dinner. At five feet eight inches Bors was not a tall man, but his demeanour was charged with the old Roman quality of gravitas, so that he seemed like a giant who had been forced to fit the scale of his fortress. His face was neither fair nor ugly, while his hair was neither curled nor straight, and was a midnight shade of black. But his features were firm and his clipped beard was so vigorous that any warrior meeting him for the first time instinctively deferred to him as a master without the need for introduction. Like Tintagel, Bors was a force in the British domains, and men spoke of how Gorlois had come again to keep the Dumnonii safe in these parlous times.

  Arthur knelt to him immediately, with Gareth also on his knees at his side, his head lowered.

  ‘Well, Eamonn, you’ve decided to return to your home after sowing your seed all over the south, I don’t wonder. Your mother has told me about your friends. Rise, Arthur, Gareth, and let me take a good look at you both.’

  The king’s voice was deep and gruff, rather like stones grinding together, but Arthur heard no anger or resentment in it, so he rose to his full height. As he examined his guests, Bors was forced to look up into their faces, although such was the force of his personality that he lost nothing by his lack of inches. But if Arthur had been able to read the king’s mind, he would have been disconcerted by what he found there.

  By Ban’s head, this young man is the living image of the Dragon King, Bors thought to himself. Because of the filial ties between his family and King Artor in days gone by, Bors Minor had spent many years at Cadbury Tor, where he had observed the High King dispensing justice, and had served with the loyal forces in Artor’s war with Modred.

  This boy has the look of Artor, without the sadness that was ever present in the High King’s eyes. But would this young man have the strength to rule if the opportunity presented itself? Would he tear apart what little is left of the tribal structure? We can scarcely survive another civil war. If he has an inclination to usurp Bran’s throne, it might be best to kill him now, Bors thought. But no trace of his ruthless conclusion was revealed on his craggy face.

  Arthur was no tyro in the game of secrecy. Since entering his teen years he had been forced to negotiate dangerous conversations, always watching every word lest he should display some trace of a
mbition that would be sufficient reason for a knife to find a gap between his ribs in the dead of night. No one had ever needed to teach Arthur how to hide the innermost thoughts that lay behind his grey-green eyes, which seemed so deep and clear yet actually revealed very little of what went on below the surface.

  So when the king of the Dumnonii, the Hammer of Cornwall, stared deeply into Arthur’s eyes and examined his features for the faintest hint of falsity, all he saw was a mild, agreeable young man who was blessed with great strength and attractiveness, and possessed an amiable nature to match.

  And only the faintest sign of an itch warned Arthur that Bors was a man who should not be underestimated . . . or completely trusted. Bors would protect his lands and his people, regardless of the cost to others.

  ‘Eamonn, Gareth, I ask you to sit and eat, for I’d like to speak privately to our young guest before he and I take our ease. We will join you shortly. Will you come with me, Arthur of Arden?’

  ‘How could I deny any request from the Hammer of the West?’ Arthur replied.

  ‘You were right, Valda, my beloved. He speaks with the courtesy of a king,’ Bors said cheerfully to his wife, kissing the top of her neat head as he passed her place at the long table. At the door, he stood aside to allow Arthur to leave the room before him.

  ‘You are doing me an unearned honour, your majesty,’ Arthur murmured as he entered the short hallway. Bors led him to the flagged courtyard outside, where a servant hurried to place a lit torch in a wall sconce created by the blacksmiths for that purpose. The night still had a slight chill of winter upon it, as if the Winter King were unwilling to loosen his aged blue hands from the sea winds, but the light from the narrow, unshuttered windows of the hall sent cheerful bands of gold over the flagged surface, despite the nip of cold.