M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (62 page)

‘But they’re all dead!’ she protested, two tears escaping unnoticed from her eyes. ‘What was the point of killing children, Eamonn? They couldn’t fight back. They were no threat to anyone. They were no older than little Nudd. Who would kill someone as young as little Nudd?’

Arthur gripped the girl’s shaking shoulders and noticed that she was tall for her age and gangly with her growth spurt. She seemed on the verge of hysterics, so he put one arm round her shoulders and gently steered her back to the guards and her pony.

‘These Saxons weren’t necessarily warriors. Their fighting men aren’t always monsters, just different from us in too many ways for us to live together peacefully. But every race has its outlaws, creatures who prey on weaker victims. This band lacked the courage to mount an attack on any group stronger than unarmed villagers who only had spades and hoes to protect themselves. Such men grow fat on the chaos of war and nothing is too vile for them to do. Do you see?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, gulping and beginning to cry again in the shelter of her hill pony’s mane. Arthur returned to the circle of buildings, ordering the five Dumnonii warriors to accompany him.

‘Seek out all the bodies and bring them to this hut. We’ll use the stones from the wall to surround them and then cover them over with whatever timber we can find,’ he ordered crisply. ‘We’ll burn their remains.’

The men fanned out immediately, each entering one of the pathetic ruins.

Eamonn stepped over the threshold of the cottage Arthur had selected and looked at the partially burned bodies within it. A number of children had been driven inside before the doors had been shut and the thatched roof set on fire with a flung torch. The doors and walls had sagged under the assault of five small bodies as the children had tried to escape the flames that were devouring them. Fortunately, they appeared to have died from inhaling the black, oily smoke which still stained their mouths and nostrils in the minutes before the fire engulfed their tender bodies. Eamonn turned away, sickened by the mental image of their last moments. As the bodies of ten adults and several more infants were gathered and placed in the hut with the children, he conferred with Arthur.

‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Arthur murmured. ‘We don’t have the time to bury these corpses, or even cover them, so we must burn them right here in their village. The outlaws could still be close, and we don’t have the luxury of time to hunt them down. Besides, we’d be risking the safety of the girls, which King Bors wouldn’t tolerate – or forgive. No, we have to allow these animals to remain free.’

‘How do you know these murders weren’t inflicted by a war band? I’ve always been told that the Saxons will commit almost any sin,’ Eamonn said softly. He was piling wood from a shattered animal pen on top of the pitiful tangle of dead flesh, and his face was twisted with suppressed, impotent fury.

‘Bedwyr has often told me that the northerners of bygone days acted in this way, but he swears that many of the current Saxon lords were born here in Britain, just as we were. Today’s Saxons don’t seem to be quite so senselessly cruel; they only attack settlements to further their land holdings and their power. Of what use is this village to the Saxon warrior class? Was there really so much wealth here that a war band would be tempted to attack it? Besides, what group of settlers would want holdings as poor as these? No, logic indicates that this is the work of a rebel group, men who have been cast out of their own villages as outlaws and so prey on small, unprotected places like this for food and what few precious objects are owned by the farmers. Think, Eamonn! We live in lawless times, and we are far from Mercia or the kingdoms of the east. The one good thing to result from this senseless ruin might be that Blaise will give us an easier journey. She’s badly shaken by what she has seen here.’

Eamonn nodded, but his dark eyes were bemused. ‘Sometimes you can be so matter-of-fact and so cold that I can hardly recognise you, my friend.’

‘Put it down to my parentage, Eamonn. No one in my family is particularly soft hearted,’ Arthur replied wistfully. Under the layer of practical analysis, he felt the deaths of these children acutely, but time was passing too quickly for the party to spend too much time here. Spring would soon be over and summer would be upon them. He had no intention of being caught in the north during the autumn, and the prospect of winter’s grasp was totally unacceptable. If they were delayed here, they would all suffer.

So Arthur used his flint to strike up a fresh spark and consigned the poor farmers to a cleaner burial than their murderers had intended. In the sudden leap of flames, the bodies seemed to move as if they were intent on rising out of their winding sheets of fire and coming forth from the funeral pyre. Arthur turned and left the victims, carefully closing the door and latching it to conceal the sad corpses, although the hut was open to the sky and any attempt to protect the bodies from airborne predators would be futile.

After that, the road leading to Arden was long and exhausting. Even with their spare mounts and the good food they purchased as they travelled, the party was ragged and tired when Arthur finally saw the river and the road to his home branching away to the right.

‘See, Blaise,’ he said, pointing at a green smudge of trees beyond the water meadows. Although she rarely spoke to him directly, the girl had taken to staying very close to him as if his presence ensured her safety. ‘Those trees mark the boundary of Arden, my home, and they are the only barrier that protects us from the Saxons.’

On the surface, little had changed in Arden Forest in the months Arthur had been absent. The route into the heart of the forest was as tortuous as ever, but now a well-placed arrow whizzed across a clearing ahead of the party to bury itself quivering in the trunk of an old alder tree not far from where Arthur sat astride his horse. Then, from the treeline, a voice demanded to know who he was, and the nature of his business in Arden Forest.

‘I am Arthur, first son of Bedwyr, the Arden Knife, and Lady Elayne. I am accompanied by a party of Dumnonii warriors led by Eamonn pen Bors, third son of King Bors, the Hammer of Cornwall. The party includes Lady Blaise, the daughter of King Bors, and her serving woman. I beg shelter and hospitality from my father for these Dumnonii nobles. Are we now so lacking in trust that we turn guests away?’

A head appeared high in a venerable oak tree, where the bowman was comfortably ensconced, while another voice boomed out of the thickest part of the forest edge beside the narrow trail. Arthur noticed that Blaise’s fingers trembled as she held her horse’s reins.

‘We did not expect to see you for some time yet, Lord Arthur. Your noble father has been worried about you. He has alerted all the scouts to watch and listen for any word of you.’

‘May we pass?’ Arthur shouted. ‘I wish to join my family in Arden by tomorrow. Please send word on ahead, good sir.’

A muffled shout indicated that the party could move forward without threat. Arthur explained to Eamonn that this type of security was most unusual and probably meant that Arden had experienced some breaches in security, probably from the east, where it guarded the two Roman roads that protected the north.

‘Will this problem affect the route we take towards Hadrian’s Wall? I had thought we would travel along the Roman road that runs through Venonae,’ Eamonn said. His voice and expression indicated his concern, for the most dangerous part of their journey would begin as they skirted the Saxon kingdom of Mercia, hugging the mountain chain to avoid old Eburacum, now call Eoferwic, which had been held by the Angles and Jutes for twenty years. The High King had crushed the Saxons at Eburacum and the British had experienced a period of relief, but as the Dragon King had aged the eastern coast had become too difficult to control, until even Artor, in all his stubborn pride, had known that the city would ultimately fall to his enemy. Eamonn knew as much of the history of the north as any well-educated son of the nobility, so he was alarmed to hear that Arden might no longer control the roads which were the arteries of Britain.

‘Don’t fear, Eamonn. Father will know all the details of any Saxon incursions into the lands to our north. If need be, we’ll divert towards the west coast, but let’s not worry too much about our route until we know what we face.’ A feeling of gloom washed over Arthur as he began to think ahead. Yes, he could take a western detour, but it would lengthen the journey by weeks, perhaps months, and autumn would catch them unprepared and far from safety.

For the first time in their travels, Blaise showed some interest. Having grown up on the coast and been lulled to sleep by the sound of waves for all her short life, she missed the constant rhythm of the sea. But here, deep in primal forest, the wind soughed through the trees with a sound that mimicked the waves with a little extra added – the smell of life, of rotting vegetation, of deep leaf mould, lichen, tree bark and aromatic leaves. Somehow, the combination stimulated Blaise’s senses and reminded her of home, so she knew she would be able to sleep.

The girl had skin of an unnatural whiteness, even when compared with the pallor of the women of Cymru. Perhaps to take her mind off the long and difficult journey, Blaise had begun to show a belated interest in cleanliness, causing Arthur to notice that her black hair and eyes were in dramatic contrast to her pale skin. Sun, dust and wind burned it and made travel a misery, with the result that she sweltered under layers of clothing to protect herself from the traitorous sun. To make matters worse, hours in the saddle chafed her childish flesh. No wonder the child was so miserable, Arthur said to himself. But deep in the forest, where the sun’s rays were filtered, she cast off the cowl of her cloak with a crow of pleasure and raised her face to the muted green light.

For the first time, Arthur began to admire the early signs of beauty in her. His heart softened automatically, and he slowed his horse to ride beside her. ‘This forest is my home, Mistress Blaise. When I was younger than you I knew all the great trees in these woods. I even used one forest giant as a special place where I could go when I was troubled.’

She looked up at him then, and the urchin who threw mud and turds at her brother was eclipsed. Her lashes were abnormally long and thick, like those of a fawn or fallow deer whose eyes reproached him when the time for butchering had come. Her hairline was straight and true, and her brows were finely feathered and turned up at the outer edges. Arthur decided she was a perfect miniature of the best of the tribal traits of womanhood, although her eye colour spoke of earlier, more ancient peoples who predated his own race.

It’s strange, he thought. I only remember Valda as a woman who has borne eight living children and is long past the age of physical beauty, but this child reminds me of her. But Valda had charm and glamour aplenty, and she spoke of the sensitivity of her people with conscious pride. Does this daughter of hers have voices that speak to her inside her head? Does she fear the unknown, being the most like her mother of all the siblings? I should watch her closely.

Something squirmed in his head, scolding him for thinking of Blaise in such an analytical fashion, as if she were an interesting sword or a fine horse. He shook his head in amazement at the realisation that this girl, who had been so monumentally rude to him since their first meeting, had captured his attention, and he sighed in exasperation.

‘I know the hollows around Tintagel in the same way as you know Arden. I’ve watched the sea birds my whole life, so I know which ones nest on the cliffs and which ones live nearby at Saint Brigit’s Well. How can I live in a place where I don’t know the birds?’

Arthur thought quickly, because the child needed reassurance. He’d not expected that she would love hunting birds, a strange preoccupation for a young lady.

‘Perhaps Gilchrist will give you merlins of your own. I’ve been told that some northerners love to train birds of prey to hunt for them.’

Arthur had intended comfort, but the child’s eyes grew wide with horror.

‘I would never choose to possess a bird. It makes me sick to think of it. I’d be forced to free it so that I could pretend that I was flying with it, high above the earth and all its troubles.’ Then Arthur recalled a long-buried memory of Ector’s young wife, who had been in Arden when Maeve was born. She had dreamed of flying like a bird and escaping to far lands where she was free of the demands of her sex and her position in life. He had always liked Gwyllan, who had been the daughter of King Gawayne.

‘Is being a wife and mother so grim a future, little one? My mother is very happy and she is the cleverest woman I know.’

‘I’d rather travel and hold a sword. I’d like to learn to write and not be forced to spin and weave all day. I have no wish to be married to anyone,’ Blaise whispered, and her passion could be read in those jet-black eyes. Had Arthur ever known his aunt, he would have recognised something of Morgan in Blaise’s vehement denial of the female role that was laid out inexorably before her. After all, Morgan le Fey and Blaise were kin, although much removed.

Unfortunately, Eamonn picked this moment to join them. Blaise’s enthusiasm died and her eyes became flat and expressionless when her brother guided his horse to ride alongside her. From long practice, she masked her feelings under a sullen expression.

The troop rode on, resting that night under the trees. In the morning they would reach the palisades, and Arthur hoped that his companions would be rested and look their very best when they paid their respects to his parents.

In the weak light of a new day, Arthur combed and plaited his hair with Gareth’s assistance. Like all warriors, Arthur assisted Gareth with the same homely task, and he wondered, as always, how hair could vary so widely from man to man. His wild corkscrew curls crackled with energy while Gareth’s long straight locks were smooth and straight, like rare cloth or fine thread.

During the night, they had polished their heavy leather travelling tunics, reinforced with metal plates of iron, until the metal shone brightly. When the sun came over the horizon, the two young men quickly packed their saddle bags and assisted Blaise and her servant to mount their horses. Bors’s troop of warriors had also seen to their toilettes, realising that they would be meeting the famed Arden Knife, a man of legend who had seen the Bloody Cup with his own eyes. Bedwyr was especially venerated among the common soldiery, for he had served on the front line at Moridunum and had helped to bring down the fortress of Caer Fyrddin. The old man had ridden in the footsteps of the Dragon King, and the warriors dreamed of meeting this great man, of hearing his voice and recapturing those days of glory.