Warrior of the West (8 page)

Tears formed in Julanna’s eyes. ‘I wish Gallia was here with us. I miss her still.’

Ector fiddled with his white beard and changed the topic, for he could see the old horrors were welling in Artor’s eyes. It was time to divert the conversation in a new direction.

‘What is your destination, Artor?’ he asked. ‘I can’t believe your presence at the Villa Poppinidii is motivated by a friendly family visit. Targo will always accompany you, I know, but why does Caius ride with you? What is amiss?’

‘We go to war with the western Saxons, Father,’ Caius cut in self-importantly. ‘Our emissaries to the Saxons in the mountains to the north were murdered under a flag of truce, so we must march to answer the Saxon challenge.’

Ector’s eyebrows rose. To Caius’s chagrin, he addressed his questions to his foster-son.

‘That rat’s nest has been entrenched since the time of Vortigern. Uther permitted them to breed because the mountains and the loyal tribes kept them enclosed. I thought you’d dealt with them at Magnis, so why do they show their heads now?’

‘Katigern Oakheart and his eastern Saxons, Angles and Jutes were beaten soundly ten times, but they never surrendered. Although Oakheart died in the second ruinous battle, the Saxon settlements in the south and the east regrouped to live and to fight another day. Scores of his erstwhile warriors have chosen to strengthen the old fortresses used by Vortigern and his kin, so they must now be eliminated. They will be difficult to dislodge, for they have set their eyes on the softer lands beyond their own borders. I am no Uther Pendragon who would be happy to leave sleeping dogs lie. As they were born in our lands, I offered them an honourable peace, but they rejected my overtures in the bloodiest way possible.’

‘Then they are fools,’ Ector replied stoutly. In the old man’s prejudiced regard, no Saxon invaders could stand against the might of his foster-son.

‘No, Father Ector, I wish the Saxons were fools, but they aren’t. To deal with this particular enemy, we will need to draw on all our resources and courage. The only truly foolish thing they have done so far was to slay our emissaries in such a brutal and cowardly fashion. And the execution of Prince Gaheris gained them no advantage, for their treachery only serves to strengthen my resolve.’

Ector’s mouth dropped open in amazement, for even in quiet, peaceful Aquae Sulis, the sons of King Lot were well-known by name.

‘Why would the Saxons kill the son of their closest ally?’ he asked Artor. ‘Where is the honour in such arrant stupidity?’

Targo snorted his agreement, but Artor was more pragmatic.

‘Gaheris chose his own fate, for he refused to break the oath that he had sworn to me, even when the Saxons offered to spare his life. Their leader had no choice but to treat Gaheris like the other warriors. But I would have found some way short of murder, had I been in his boots.’ He paused. ‘At least King Lot will now be forced to think for himself. Morgause and Morgan have influenced his decisions for decades, but their motives are based on their hatred for Uther Pendragon and, by birth, myself. Their spite can have no place in how King Lot decides to respond to the killing of his son.’

The discussion moved on to family matters, and Ector informed the king of the latest news of his fields, his orchards and their yields, and the various benefits of different agricultural methods. Artor took considerable pleasure in talking of such simple, homely matters, and he luxuriated in the warmth and comfort of the rural life.

When he finally made his way to the most luxurious sleeping room, Artor recalled those time as a young boy when he had stolen oil to read in the scriptorium, and he wondered again what had happened to the hopeful and curious Artorex of that long-ago time. Then he slept.

 

Artor broke his fast with fresh bread, new honey and a handful of nuts, and in the clarity of the early-morning sunlight he strode briskly across the fields to the ruins of his old home. He had lacked the heart to visit Gallia’s memorial for many lonely years but now, as he prepared for a new series of battles, he was drawn once more to that quiet and secluded place.

The stones used in the construction of the walls had weathered during twelve winters, and the ravages of the fire that had destroyed the house had been disguised by wisteria, ivy and a network of flowering vines that twined around the singed rafters to provide a living roof over the building. The roots of a young hazel tree had broken the flagstones in the courtyard close to a pond that had been created by Gareth’s careful hands. An ancient carved stone rested in the shallow water, its flanks glistening with dew in the early blush of the sunshine. Artor knew that daisies and poppies had seeded in cracks all around the ruins. In the summer, the daisies would look like a carpet of white snow dotted with the blood reds and vivid yellows of the poppies.

Clever hands had placed a number of pale river stones, worn smooth by the weight of an untold number of spring thaws, in a rough but graceful circle. The rocks supported rich soil in which a rose tree grew in a profusion of early spring buds. Smaller buttercups and wild flowers nestled between the roots and, when the flowers bloomed, they would fill the air with a riot of colour and scent. Artor smiled at the sight of wild rosemary, thyme, sage and mandrake root growing freely amongst the flowers, for the garden mingled Gallia’s sweet presence with the soul of Frith, the healer and wise woman. Old Frith had raised him as much as had Livinia Major, his foster-mother, and these two women, between them, had shaped his character and turned him into the man he had become.

A salt-glazed ceramic urn, banded with red gold and sealed with beeswax, stood in a rough-built stone niche. The urn contained the ashes of two of the only three women whom Artor had ever loved wholly and selflessly.

‘Have my labours pleased you, my lord?’

Gareth had walked, cat-footed, behind the king and was waiting patiently for Artor’s attention. The steward was now a fully-grown man, near to thirty, with long white-blond hair secured at the nape of his neck. Like most of the men of the Villa Poppinidii, his cheeks and chin were bare of beard, and the clean lines of bone under sunburned skin reminded Artor of Frith, his grandmother. In this man, her spirit and blood ran true.

Grey eyes met blue.

‘Aye, you have made beauty out of pain. Gallia and Frith are very strong in the bones of this memorial, I can feel their touch.’

Gareth’s eyes dropped. His hands twisted with his tunic, with fingers that were roughened with work but undeniably clever and artistic.

‘I ask a boon, lord, a promise for my faithfulness. I have stayed within the safety and security of the villa for most of my youth, to keep Lady Licia free from harm.’

‘Aye.’ Artor sighed. ‘You have earned the right to ask anything of me.’

‘When Licia is eventually married, I ask that I be permitted to ride with you as one of your warriors. I have trained diligently with our weapons master so as to be ready to serve you. This has always been my dream, my lord, as you know.’

Artor smiled. He well remembered Gareth as a boy, impatient to become a warrior and ride away to war.

‘I confess that I have never considered those sacrifices that I asked of you in the past. I should have known better than to chain you to the Villa Poppinidii for life.’ As always, Artor made his decision swiftly. ‘Yes, I will release you from your oath once Licia is safe in another man’s household. At that time, your life will become your own and I will gladly invite you to join my staff. ’

Gareth smiled Frith’s sweet, knowing smile in gratitude for Artor’s offer. He bowed his head, and left his king alone with his memories.

In the trees, a lark sang clearly and cleanly, and small finches dived among the flowers in their never-ending quest for nectar.

Despite himself, Artor felt his heart lighten. It would be difficult for any person to remain melancholy and consumed by self-pity in this enchanted garden.

‘I pray that I will see your grave once again, my Gallia, for where I go, there will be no flowers or birds, except for the crows of death.’

Artor remembered the texture of the dead, purpled lips of Gaheris, and thoughts of revenge immediately stirred in his hardening eyes. Whether or not his anger was fuelled by guilt at the murder of another innocent was irrelevant. Artor was consumed by the need to have wanton bloodletting expunged from his kingdom. But bloodshed and death followed him, and left its stink of carrion in his wake. He couldn’t help but be the hunter that Targo, in collusion with the three travellers, had wrought. Wracked by the weight of kingship and stifled by the heavy cloak of rule, Artor had learned that he must look to the final goal, and not consider the fine details leading to the achievement of his ends.

Was the slaughter of his emissaries and their guards one of those fine details? Had he depended upon Glamdring’s brutishness to achieve his ends? Had he recognized that those deaths were the only means to fight a legitimate war against Glamdring? And had he wanted to strike at King Lot and Queen Morgause to revenge their treachery by using the fair and decent Gaheris as a weapon?

Artor’s brow furrowed. He had truly hoped for peace, but the responsibility of kingship was not so simple. For years he had known that this war would come.

Sickened and confused, Artor mounted his horse and tried to smile at Ector, Julanna and the children without the shadows of cares that were massing behind his face.

He knew it was almost as easy to stop the inflowing tide as it was to still the desire to inflict pain in the human character. The crows knew. They waited in the Old Forest for Artor’s departure. And, perhaps, they chose to follow him, for every scavenger knows when the raptor takes to the wing.

When the three visitors rode away, they were watched by black, knowing eyes. The woods were alive with blue-black shadows . . . and a memory of stirring feathers.

A week later, the army of the Britons finally reached Venta Silurum and prepared for the coming campaign.

Venta Silurum was an insignificant settlement, ancient even before the Roman invasion, and was named Castell Goronw in the old tongue. The envoys from Artor’s court had perished in the hills to the north of the old fortifications, so there was a grim appropriateness in the High King’s choice of bivouac. Situated overlooking the threadbare lowlands of the coast, the town had proved to be an easy site to fortify and hold, and the granite bones of the Roman walls still served the Silures well.

Gruffydd gazed upon the place of his birth, where he had taken a plump wife after many painful years in Saxon slavery, and felt a fierce surge of pride in his heritage.

For years Gruffydd had been Myrddion Merlinus’s best spy in the east, where his knowledge of the Saxon tongue had made him an invaluable tool. He was present when Artor recovered the crown and sword of Uther Pendragon at Glastonbury, and it was there that the High King had appointed him to the position of sword bearer. During the last twelve years, Gruffydd had been privy to secrets so fearsome that his toes still curled to think of them. When he had returned to Venta Silurum in the past, he had always come alone, and was viewed by the citizens as an ex-slave. Now, in the full livery of one of the High King’s most trusted servants, the whole city could see his status in the hierarchy of the west as he bore the enormous blade, Caliburn, on a jewelled sheath on his back.

As the army rode through the streets of the town to a plateau of land that would serve to rest the troops, Gruffydd watched his master’s face with concern.

The High King rubbed his gritty, sleep-starved eyes. Aquae Sulis seemed a lifetime behind them although only seven days had passed. The physical demands of a campaign were far from new to Artor, as he had fought eleven major battles in the past twelve years. But the strain of devising strategies that would diminish the vast cost to his realm in human tragedy drained his mental resources. The aftermath of battle came with guilt so crushing that he had often believed he would die of it after his first wars against Oakheart so many years before.

His second battle, at Magnis, was a huge success because of his use of the horse. But Targo had been correct. That strategy had never again possessed the element of surprise, but Artor had studied the campaigns of Caesar in Gaul and was determined to integrate the use of bowmen, cavalry and infantry to ensure that the three parts of his army worked as a united whole.

At Pontes in the south, where the Tamesis River branched in four directions and the small town was hemmed in by water, Artor used the soggy landscape and the spring flood rains to encircle the Saxons and wait for them to foul their drinking water. When sickness struck at the besieged Saxons, Artor used his bowmen to confine the enemy within the killing fields. Then his infantry and a range of war machines, built in situ, pounded the Saxon force into bloody flinders. The remnants of the Saxon force retreated back to Londinium, having learned the deadly accuracy of catapults. When Artor saw what the stones of the catapult did to human flesh, his gorge rose but he had schooled his face to reveal nothing.

Targo constantly reminded his king that every battle was part of a learning process that wise leaders used if they desired to save lives. Artor learned his lessons well, in campaign after campaign, and he was flexible in his thinking, but he was no longer sure if it achieved anything, apart from the loss of friends, the destruction of the lives of simple men and the ruination of the land.

By rote, Artor saw to the comfort of his troops. Camp was set and his large, leather tent was raised. With a joke and mild teasing, the High King released Gruffydd from his duties to spend time with his wife and adult children, and retired to his spartan quarters where he was assailed by the thoughts that had grown increasingly despairing over the years.