Warrior of the West (31 page)

‘Lord of Light, Myrddion in the heavens, foster-father and namesake, I beg you to help my master,’ Myrddion whispered. ‘The High King doesn’t understand that a fragile peace may be more destructive than any number of bloody engagements. For who can quiet the cruelty of man when his enemies are defeated?’

But the seer smiled painfully at his qualms, for deep in his wise and guarded heart, he rejoiced at the magnitude of the Saxon defeat. Yes, the tales would spread like wildfire, and grow in the telling.

And so the twelfth, and the last, great campaign of Artor’s wars against the Saxons was won, and the legend of Camlann had begun.

Six months after Artor had returned in triumph to Cadbury Tor, the earth was locked tightly in the grip of late winter weather. Although the fields still lay under a thin coverlet of snow and frost, farmers were already trying to break the sullen soil into furrows to plant for the coming summer. The fruit trees were bare of leaves, and animals foraged for what grass still lived in the cold hollows, supplemented by fodder that had been scythed the previous autumn.

The skies were grey, and were rarely blown clear of the cloud cover that would allow only the shadow of a pallid sun to shine through. Raptors wheeled in the skies as they chased rabbits or other small creatures clad in their winter coats. Cadbury itself was slippery with black ice, and elderly folk were forced to tread carefully on the rough-flagged pathways lest they fall. The whole landscape was a symphony of shades of grey, punctuated by the black tracery of trees and the dark foliage of oaks and pines. Beauty dwelt there, and peace, so that the villagers raced on the frozen ice and rosy-cheeked children played incomprehensible games in the naked trees without fear.

Glamdring Ironfist’s skull had long been picked clean but it still stood over the wall as it peered, with empty, gaping eye sockets, at the villages and fields that he had intended to destroy. Truth to tell, even in such a brief time since the sacking of Caer Fyrddin, the Saxon was rarely remembered, except as a ‘boggle man’ to frighten small children. Violence and murder are ultimately futile in the face of the vast demands of the land.

Artor sat in his great hall and arbitrated between dissatisfied or warring villagers, and if he was often bored by petty arguments and squabbles over boundary walls, he never permitted his serene face to show his feelings. No matter what decisions he made, the people declared that he was the greatest king that the world had ever seen. Artor knew that sound common sense solved almost everything, and that he was no Solomon but a plain man who understood the issues of the common people.

The throne room was much as it had been prior to the Battle of Mori Saxonicus, but Artor had insisted on several new additions. From the ceiling, the torn and bloody standards of Artor, Pelles, Luka, Caius, Lot and Llanwith were hung from large iron stanchions. Their tattered, stained appearance declared their hard use and venerable history.

At the other end of the hall, Artor had ordered that the battle standards of his enemies, of Katigern Oakheart, Glamdring Ironfist and the other masters of the Saxon west, should be hung. These banners were also bloodstained and stiff with dried mud, some were rent from end to end and still others had been burned at the edges.

The White Dragon of the Saxons and the Red Dragon of the Celts snarled at each other across the long hall.

On a small table at Artor’s right hand lay a fine box made of hazel wood that had been harvested from a dead tree branch. It contained a scrap of cloth, once white, but now brown with dried blood. Artor had sent warriors to search for the flag of truce at Y Gaer, and this fragment was all that could be found. And so Artor cherished a relic by which he would remember the sacrifice of the patriots who had served him so well. Whenever his courage was wanting, or his growing cynicism told him that his efforts were for nothing, he simply had to grip the hazel box to recall that he was required to show duty unto death.

By comparison with many of the Celtic kings, Artor’s court was spartan, but its cleanliness, the bright hangings, the mosaic before the dais and the stained banners had a power and sophistication more potent than gold, heavy carvings or ornate paintings.

On this day, two visitors came to the High King’s court. The first man was a courier from King Leodegran, the rather pompous ruler of the Dobunni, who shared the soft lands south of Sabrina Aest with the last of the Roman cities. Leodegran planned to visit Cadbury Tor in all state within the month and he planned to bring his only daughter, the fabled beauty, Wenhaver.

The courier was well pleased with Artor’s graceful words of welcome, and with the promise of good food and a warm bed before he would have to return to Corinium where Leodegran was holding court. Ever courteous in matters of protocol, Artor gave the courier a single band of fine silver in thanks for his pains.

Inwardly, Artor groaned. He was well versed in the machinations of tribal princes with daughters of marriageable age, and loathed the facile social duties of a High King and the juggling for power of those who would stand at his side. Nor did he believe that Leodegran’s visit was wholly a matter of courtesy. For several years, Artor’s advisers had insisted that he owed his kingdom a wife and an heir, so that the bloody mess preceding his own coronation should not be repeated.

The king knew he had to marry some time, but he was sick of having eligible girls thrust under his nose. They were always too young or too old, too beautiful or distressingly ugly, or so giggly or ambitious his flesh began to creep.

Wenhaver was reputed to be of exceptional beauty, but he needed more than a lovely face to give him happiness. Artor remembered the pleasures of his marriage to Gallia with fondness and idealism, although her features had dimmed after the passage of so many years. What he did remember was a woman who shared his life in all respects. Every detail of his life was discussed thoroughly, shared in loving communion with his wife, just as she shared her life, her thoughts and her fears with him. In Gallia’s arms, he had been free to be afraid. And, after all these years, her loss still left him with a hollow pit in his stomach and a dark hole in his heart.

What princess, raised to rule a regal household and bear aristocratic children, could be the partner of his thoughts and deeds as Gallia had been? Even as he finished his graceful speech to the courier, he fingered the small female figure that hung on a golden chain round his neck, and recalled the feel of Gallia’s breasts and silken flanks.

Gallia had been real and true. The princesses and daughters of lordlings who were paraded before him were neither, for these girls were playing for very high stakes. Regardless of her character or her appearance, the young woman who became High Queen would carry her family with her to prominence. Unwillingly, Artor admitted to himself that the successful female must, perforce, hide any flaws or personal misgivings behind a compliant, passive face.

Therefore, if one girl was much like any other, Artor decided to choose the female who possessed great beauty and power, and whose father would become an ally, certain to augment the king’s endless need for money and men to secure the fortresses along the Spine. The mountain range would keep the Saxons out of the West while the citadels were manned and strong. Therefore, the High King’s marriage was a necessary tool in the maintenance of the kingdom.

But common sense is cold comfort when a man has known the rare communion of spirits that he had shared with Gallia.

Gallia had died so long ago; Artor had worn her marriage gift from Frith for almost longer than Gallia had lived. Frith had found a small knot of hazel wood in the forest that had been shaped by nature into the form of a tiny, pregnant woman. In the absence of Gallia’s dead mother, and in the Roman custom, Frith had removed the young girl’s birth charm from her neck on her wedding night and replaced it with this small fertility charm.

Artor had never removed the charm since Gallia’s death.

Dear Frith - slave, mother and adviser - had died as she protected Gallia. The swords of Uther Pendragon’s warriors had cut her down as she tried to reach out to her mistress, but Frith hadn’t journeyed alone into the darkness of Hades. She had buried her bronze hairpin through the eye and into the brain of one of their assailants, killing him instantly. Whenever Artor stroked the little amulet, Gallia’s gaiety and Frith’s steadfastness gave him courage.

The second visitor walked casually into Artor’s hall as if he owned it.

As soon as the murmur of the crowd alerted Artor, he looked up and saw a familiar, exotic figure striding confidently towards the throne.

Gareth, Frith’s grandson and Steward of the Villa Poppinidii, had come to Cadbury.

In a hall of dark-haired people, Gareth stood apart. His ash-blond hair was unnaturally long and was bound with a long bronze pin at the base of his neck. Gareth bowed, and the High King recognized Frith’s hairpin in the young man’s hair. When Artor was a child at the villa, he had played with that sturdy, unadorned spike of bronze when he was little more than a toddler. The king felt strangely dislocated to see this simple object in the hair of a warrior. Memories of Gallia and Frith overwhelmed the king, so that his nod to Gareth was a little slow for true courtesy.

Gareth saw the pain in Artor’s eyes and took no offence. After all, Gareth was one of the few men who knew that Artor had been married and had fathered a child.

Gareth was now thirty years of age and powerfully built. While he was not as tall as Artor, he towered over most of the men in the great hall of Cadbury Tor. His golden skin, his blue-green eyes, and his pale hair were an obvious inheritance from his grandmother’s barbarian blood. Artor was prepared to swear that Jute blood ran through Gareth’s veins.

Myrddion gently touched Artor’s shoulder to gain his attention.

‘May I suggest you cancel the rest of the court until tomorrow, Lord Artor? Gareth would not have come unless he was pressed by some urgent need from the Villa Poppinidii.’

Myrddion’s voice was such a low whisper that even the closest warriors could not have heard his words. The wise man knew that Gareth had loved Gallia, and that he now cared for Licia, Artor’s unacknowledged daughter. The young man’s business must be important for him to leave Artor’s child.

Artor nodded in agreement, and lifted the heavy dragon crown from his head.

The crown had lost none of its visceral appeal and beauty with the passage of twelve years. On Artor’s bronze curls, the rampant golden dragon, with its wings reaching up to a point above the High King’s forehead, was a sight to inspire awe. Even now, placed on the side table beside Artor’s hazel box, the crown winked with the lustre and mellow beauty of heavy, buttery gold, garnets and large, simply-cut citrines. Scaled with the stones from his mother’s earrings and Uther’s horde of ill-gotten gems, Artor’s crown was a statement of inhuman might ennobled by great craftsmanship.

‘The High King’s court is closed for the remainder of today, and will reconvene tomorrow,’ Myrddion announced in a voice that echoed through the great hall. The king nodded courteously to the disappointed petitioners who were agog with curiosity. With a buzz of surprise and eager surmise, the citizens, both highborn and lowly, filed out of the great hall, staring covertly at Gareth as they passed him.

‘Come with me,’ Artor ordered Gareth, as he rose and left the hall, trailed by Odin and Targo, who was forced to use a cane to assist his ancient hips.

As the High King strode through his domain, Gareth had ample opportunity to examine the tall figure of his lord. Superficially, Gareth could discern few physical changes in Artor’s form since he had first seen him in the stables of Villa Poppinidii eighteen years earlier.

The king wore his formal robes of fine wool, some of which were dyed red and others bleached to a snowy whiteness, with his usual casual elan. His outer robe was secured at the shoulder with a large, wheel-shaped brooch that was decorated with a continuous, sinuous band of pure gold. His under-robe was pristine and left bare his strong calves so that Gareth could admire his soft half-boots of brain-tanned pigskin. No costly jewellery hung from his ears, neck or fingers, except for his thumb rings and a single ring on his index finger. Gareth sighed with admiration.

Artor’s face, however, had changed, albeit subtly, and Gareth pondered over this as he walked abreast of Targo in his lord’s wake. Two deep creases between the brows spoke of concentration and worry. The king’s eyes had always been a chill, northern-grey colour, but humour and an acute interest in other people had warmed them during his youth. But now the High King’s eyes had become unreadable and glacial. Only someone who had worshipped Artor all his life would recognize the faint signs of disillusion that drew down the corners of his mobile mouth. Fortunately, humour still lurked in those well-shaped lips, and promised that the lad who had been called Artorex hadn’t totally perished in the transformation from boy into mature man.

No words were uttered until they reached Artor’s personal apartments. The king’s mind raced with a host of unpleasant possibilities, but he dared say nothing until they reached his private, secluded room where all truly secret business was conducted. He dismissed his guard, and ushered Gareth, Targo, Myrddion and Odin into his inner sanctum.

Artor’s private rooms were masculine but opulent. The furnishings included a finely carved table, built by a clever Brigante craftsman, where the king wrote what decrees were necessary. His favourite curule chair was comfortably cushioned and the wall had fitted niches where he kept his many scrolls. Other chairs were scattered through the room, and there were cushions on every bench to soften the hard wood. Small panes of glass from Italy, the size of a human hand, were set into a narrow, arrow-slit window to keep the cold winds at bay and yet allow light into the room. A golden wine jug waited for Artor’s hand, and bronze platters of fruit and nuts tempted his appetite.