Dragon's Child (30 page)

‘No, Mother. Uther has no part in this particular game. He’s as shocked as you are - and he’s frightened, too. Myrddion Merlinus is the puppet-master this time and he bears you no grudge. He aims his barbs squarely at my so-dear stepfather, the High King.’

Morgan lifted Ygerne to her feet and held the weeping woman protectively in her arms. As much as she was able, Morgan softened her stern, handsome face and rocked her mother as if she were a child.

As Ygerne’s sobs slowly died away, Morgan ordered the servant girl to straighten her mistress’s sumptuous bed and then leave the room.

‘I’d not be tempted to gossip about the queen’s tears,’ she added. ‘Do you understand me, woman? If you should speak, then I’ll be forced to silence your voice permanently.’

The maid fearfully opened and closed her mouth several times, but no sound came forth. Wide-eyed and almost tripping in her terror, she curtseyed awkwardly and backed out of the room.

‘We can’t be overheard now. Lie down, Mother, for you’re overwrought and exhausted. You need to regain your strength.’

Morgan gently eased her mother out of her outer robes and coaxed her on to her carved sleeping couch. Ygerne clutched her daughter’s hand in sudden panic and Morgan could feel the delicate bones that were as fragile as sticks of ivory, yet strong with desperation.

‘What does Myrddion want of me?’

‘Nothing, Mother. Now be still. That young man, Artorex, has no idea who you are. Nor will anyone else make the connection - unless you tell them.’

‘But he can’t be my son,’ Ygerne wailed. ‘Lucius swore to me that the babe died shortly after birth.’

How this sad woman wished that she had never set eyes on that cold, young face in the king’s hall and yet, if he was her son, she wanted to soothe her fears by seeing him again - and yet again.

‘He is your son, Mother. I know. I bade him cast the bones years ago and his birth was written in the patterns. He’ll become King of the Britons - if the bones tell the truth.’

‘But is he the seed of Uther or is he from Gorlois, my husband? I couldn’t bear it if that monster had spawned himself in my body.’

‘He’s Uther’s son! Could you not see, Mother? I didn’t need the bones to tell me so. Did you not see his hair?’

Ygerne sighed, and a world of bitter regret and self-knowledge was in that sound.

‘I lay with my husband and Uther spent his seed in my body. Either could have fathered the child, or so I told myself, when I quickened. But Uther’s son will hate me for my desertion of him. Uther’s son will require a reckoning. What will become of us?’

‘Artorex isn’t Uther. Uther always burns with heat until he consumes everyone and everything around him - even you, Mother. But Artorex is cold, like ice or iron. His mind is his sovereign, not his passions, and we may yet be glad for that mercy.’ Morgan’s voice was quite flat and toneless, as if the trials of the Great Hall had happened long before she was born.

‘Then Uther will kill him,’ Ygerne wailed. ‘The King is much like Cronos, the Greek god who devoured his children. I can see the blood lust in his eyes.’

‘He may try, Mother, but I tell you now that Artorex will not die easily. I know that Myrddion is playing a dangerous game - one that may bring salvation for the west.’

Morgan drew a fur coverlet over her mother’s shoulders and stroked her faded hair, almost as if their roles had been reversed - as perhaps they were.

‘Sleep, Mother. Tomorrow will bring troubles enough, but you must be careful to show no partiality for this young man or, truly, he’ll be killed without cause by the High King.’

‘Do you also hate Artorex, Morgan? If he is Uther’s son, then he is the poisoned fruit that was born out of your father’s murder.’

Morgan stood upright, and her eyes saw beyond the room, perhaps beyond time and the imperishable stars themselves.

‘I will always detest him, Mother, but it is not my place to lift my hand against him. The fates have already decided that another will bring him to ruin - a woman with yellow hair.’

Ygerne sighed again and Morgan stroked her hand as the chill wind moaned outside and keened through the corridors of Venta Belgarum like a pack of foraging wolves.

 

In the Wild Boar Inn, Artorex washed and scraped at the stubble on his chin with a sharp blade and longed for the calidarium and his battered strigil. Hunger made his stomach growl, yet the thought of food revolted him. Tonight, he decided, he would wring answers out of Myrddion, or he would leave this ugly, freezing place that was ruled by a mad, blood-soaked king.

At supper in a private room, Artorex seated himself on a bench in the Celtic fashion and presented his ultimatum to the three lords.

‘Either someone explains what is going on or I’ll ride for home at first light. I know that I owe you a great deal, including my education and my safe childhood at the Villa Poppinidii, but I’m heartily sick of being treated like a child.’

‘But you won’t be permitted to leave, Artorex,’ Luka exclaimed impatiently. ‘You’ve sworn to battle one of Uther’s best warriors on the morrow.’

‘I can do as I please, Luka. How many times must I tell you that I am no man’s tool?’

‘Very well, Artorex. Very well. I will explain what I can,’ Myrddion said calmly, although Artorex could see that his narrow hands trembled slightly. Myrddion took a deep breath and spoke quietly, for the walls in Venta Belgarum had ears.

‘Uther wasn’t always the shell you saw today. He was once a fighting man of greater skill than any of us here and, perhaps, possessed even more talent than you, my young friend. I became his servant during my youth when he was still in his prime, and he used my intelligence and my knowledge of languages the way you use your knife. I rose high in the courts of the King, but now, in his old age, he trusts nothing and nobody, not even me.’

Artorex coughed awkwardly, because he could feel the hot regret behind the calculating eyes of his friend.

‘Morgan, his stepdaughter, is a seer and a Druid priestess, and she’s risen as high in that order as any woman can reach. Even as a child, she hated her stepfather and foretold that a child with russet hair would eclipse him. Uther was angry beyond reason and no well-born child with fair colouring was safe from his murderous retribution.’

Myrddion paused, and then continued.

‘You are highly born, Artorex, as your name implies, but I cannot reveal your father’s name to you; not even if you leave us and bring all our long years of work to nothing. You must accept that your father handed you to Lucius and eventual safety, for Lucius sent you far from Uther’s court to keep you free from harm. We’ve watched over you for much of our lives, young man, and even though we fear and despise what Uther has become, we never planned to use you as a weapon against him. The High King has but little time to live, as you have seen.’

The wind shook the shutters of the room and slid its way along the cracks to wind its cold fingers through Artorex’s hair.

‘I know. He smells like carrion already.’

‘You must be seen as a worthy warrior by the tribes and gain a name that reflects the skills that Targo has taught you, so that you can serve the people when the old king dies.’

‘Perhaps you might even become High King yourself, ’ Llanwith rumbled.

‘Don’t jest, Llanwith. I lack the authority to become High King.’

‘But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t use your hard-won skills to help Uther, if he resumes his war against the Saxons. If he doesn’t go to war, or if he dies, you can fight to assist his successor. Most citizens have heard the prophecy of the russet-haired warrior so, should you succeed against Uther’s champion, people will believe that a new hero has come and will ask the High King to renew the defence of our lands. How could such actions harm you? Or hurt your family?’

‘It can’t hurt my family but I’ll be risking . . .’ Artorex’s words petered away.

‘You’ve promised Uther that you will fight tomorrow. It may have been in a fit of pique but you made a vow to the High King,’ Llanwith stated. ‘He’ll want to know how highly you value your word.’

‘That’s a low blow, Llanwith!’ Artorex turned to face the Ordovice king. ‘I’ve been manoeuvred into some kind of contest for reasons that aren’t very sound.’

‘Uther obviously has no liking for you,’ Luka said. ‘But a smart man would have been meek and compliant, regardless of how rude his sovereign was.’

‘So now it’s my fault that I’ve been coerced into armed combat. Please, Luka, I’ll need a better reason than that to face Uther’s man.’

‘Uther’s court is Celtic in its nature; but you’ve been raised with one foot on the Roman way and the other in tribal cultures,’ Myrddion continued, his dark eyes full of fervour. ‘But we now have need of the old Roman virtues.’

Luka took up the argument. ‘We Celts are too passionate. Left to ourselves, we’d squabble and fight with each other, just as we did for untold generations before the Romans came. How else could the Romans have defeated us? Their strategy of divide and conquer worked perfectly.’

‘The great Caesar picked us off, one by one,’ Llanwith cut in roughly, in his usual curt fashion. ‘The Saxons will do the same to the west if we don’t have a strong hand to unite and guide us. But you may leave if such is your wish, Artorex. After all, like all Celts, you resent being told what to do. I, for one, won’t stop you.’

‘Very well,’ Artorex growled in irritation. ‘I won’t leave. But Uther will order me to be killed tomorrow, in combat and before the people, if he truly wants me dead.’

‘Are you strong, boy?’ Luka asked grimly.

‘Aye, lord. Strong enough,’ Artorex replied.

‘But are you fast, boy?’ Llanwith continued.

‘Aye, lord. Fast enough.’

‘And do you know how to cheat, lad?’ Targo added, his grin wide and mischievous.

‘Yes, I know how to cheat, and to think, and to fight on ground of my own choosing, using either hand,’ Artorex replied with an ironic grin.

‘Then you won’t die tomorrow,’ Myrddion responded. ‘You’ll survive.’

Artorex smiled sardonically and began to eat a light meal under the watchful eyes of his elders. He drank fresh water instead of mead or ale and took care not to overfill his stomach, for he would need his body to be strong and faultless on the coming day. When he finished, the four men who had been his guardians for most of his life rose to their feet and ordered him to bed.

Targo was the only man to offer practical advice.

‘You must clean, sharpen and oil your weapons at dawn tomorrow, Artorex. You saw the size of those Celtic brutes in Uther’s Hall - no insult intended, gentlemen,’ he apologized for the racial slur.

‘None taken, friend Targo,’ Llanwith rumbled.

‘Do you want my shield? It is yours for the asking,’ Targo offered.

‘I’ve never cared overmuch for a shield, so I’ll use my dagger and sword. If I lack the skills to avoid the reach of Uther’s warrior, then I deserve to be defeated.’

‘Remember—’

‘One mistake and I’m dead,’ Artorex finished for him.

But for the first time that night, Artorex’s heart was light, for now he would, at least, be doing something he understood.

 

The morning was as cold as ever. After breaking the rime of ice in a bowl and washing himself as clean as possible, Artorex dressed in a leather jerkin over a woollen undershirt and encased his legs in soft leather trews.

Targo entered Artorex’s room as he was contemplating his feet.

‘Those boots you wear are heavy and likely to slip on the stones. But barefoot your feet will freeze and become numb, so the outcome will still be the same,’ Targo said in his practical, hoarse croak.

He offered Artorex a pair of knitted woollen sleeves, the footwear used by old men in the village as they dozed before the fire.

‘Try wearing these sleeves instead of your boots. I believe you can fight in them for a time, bootless, as long as the ground isn’t wet.’

‘I’m not in my dotage yet, Targo,’ Artorex protested.

‘Try them,’ Targo pressed.

Artorex slid the wool over his long feet and up to mid-calf and Targo lashed the leggings into place with narrow strips of leather.

‘Try moving about in them,’ the veteran ordered.

Artorex jumped and spun, parried and thrust in pantomime. To his surprise, his toes could grip the flags through the rough, knitted wool and the soles were not slick and likely to betray him. The socks were even quite warm.

‘I told you I’ve fought in places where you could piss ice,’ Targo laughed. ‘We barbarians know a thing or two, especially about combat. If I’d known we were coming to this place, I’d have fashioned kid boots for you without a heavy sole. They would’ve given you extra traction, but these will do until we have the time to cobble together some better accoutrement for you.’

‘My thanks, Targo.’

‘Enough, boy. Llanwith has sent a cloak and Luka has sent a helmet - just an iron cap with cheek guards and a nosepiece, but it might save your thick skull,’ Targo said with a smile. ‘And Myrddion sends you these.’

From his cloak, Targo pulled out a pair of wristbands, each four fingers wide. They were made of iron, and the metal was embossed with the Winged Worm insignia of the Celtic Legion - its long, sinuous tail and small legs marked this dragon as a creature other than Dracos of Rome. Its wings spread as it rode on the curve of the metal.

‘These will protect your wrists. They’re not particularly heavy, and won’t save you from an axe blow, but soldiers of the Legion learned that a wristband could deflect a sword blow.’

He smiled at his charge once more.

‘I wish we had time to find you a mail shirt and a breastplate. You can bet your opponent will be protected by armour from head to foot.’

‘Then I’ll be lighter than Uther’s man,’ Artorex quipped, although he felt a shiver of alarm. ‘I’ll simply remember the Scythian woman and how fast she proved to be.’