Dragon's Child (43 page)

‘The city is quiet, like a warrior waiting for the call to battle. Uther bunkers in his city like a dying spider, but he’s caught in Morgan’s machinations rather than his own. Beware of her, Artorex, for she hates all things that are Uther’s - and you are his greatest legacy. She’ll do you greater harm, if she can, than simply keeping that old monster alive with her vile concoctions.’

Artorex’s lips twisted bitterly. ‘Life was infinitely simpler when I had no blood kin.’

‘Your mother has returned to a convent near Tintagel, regardless of the whispers that her absence has caused. She has become a penitent and rumour says she has taken a vow of silence. She whips her body to save her soul.’

Artorex merely raised his eyebrows.

‘Don’t you care, boy? You’ve lost a wife in a foul murder, but Ygerne lost her husband through trickery - and then her child was taken from her. She believed you were dead for countless years, and she has finally fled from the man who wronged her so deeply.’ Myrddion shook his head slowly. ‘Don’t you feel curiosity, at the very least, about her motives in marrying Uther?’ Myrddion was showing signs of impatience, and Artorex turned away from the older man’s concerned scrutiny.

‘I find it difficult to care what penances a spoiled queen belatedly offers to her god. In my heart, my mothers were Frith and Livinia, one a Saxon and the other Roman. And both were fine, upright women who had no guile or cowardice in their natures.’

‘You’re overly harsh, Artorex, for Ygerne was a tragic victim. I was the one who helped Uther deceive the fairest woman of the Britons - another sin upon my conscience. My only justification is that it was important to our cause that she should give birth to Uther’s successor.

You may judge me if you must, but save some pity for a frail woman who has suffered far more cruelly than you have.’

Artorex snorted.

‘Allow me to speak, Artorex,’ Myrddion demanded. ‘Ygerne was a famed woman. She was a beauty, but she was also able to read and write, to sing like a nightingale and was so good of heart that her physical charms were the least of her talents. Men loved her on sight and longed to earn her smiles, but her heart was fixed upon her husband, Gorlois, the Boar of Cornwall. He was an ally of Uther Pendragon.

‘At a feast, Uther met the fabled Ygerne. I remember that night, for so much misery stemmed from a simple meal. He saw her, he wanted her and he sickened to have her. Waking and sleeping, Ygerne filled his thoughts so that Uther neglected his duties. Nothing I said deflected him and no other woman slaked his desire.

‘Well you might laugh, Artorex, but you’re not past forty, as was Uther. And the man had fallen in love for the first time in his life. Uther had enjoyed any woman he wanted in the past, but now he had found a paragon whom he couldn’t have, and his obsession almost cost him his reason.

‘Yes, I eventually found a way to trick Ygerne so that she welcomed Uther into Tintagel and she lay with him as her husband. What could Ygerne do when she discovered the ruse? Uther raped her once she proved unwilling and planted you in her womb. Yes, I watched as he sent Gorlois into a suicidal battle. And I watched as he made the outcome certain by declaring that the Duke of Cornwall was a traitor and had him killed. Can you imagine how Ygerne felt when she saw her husband’s beloved head raised on a pike over the gates of Venta Belgarum?’

‘She could have arranged her own death,’ Artorex interrupted brutally.

‘She’d already quickened at the time of which we speak, and she thought the child came from the seed of Gorlois. She couldn’t take her own life! She had two daughters, and Uther had used them as hostages to take the queen to his bed and ensure her compliance. I ask you, Artorex, what would you have done?’

Artorex reddened along his high cheekbones at his mentor’s implied criticism.

‘My name may still be Artorex, but I’m no longer the boy who bore that name,’ the young man stated matter-of-factly. ‘Unfortunately, the happy life that Artorex knew and loved is long dead. Regardless of the sins she endured, Ygerne still has nothing to do with me, although I’ll acquit her of the flaws of vanity and cowardice. I accept that Uther has turned many innocents into sinners.’

‘You’re angry, and you’re hurt to the heart, my boy. I wouldn’t have had you suffer, as you well know. In this instance, you’ve been required to sacrifice something of yourself for the sake of the common good.’

Artorex drank deeply from his wooden wine cup, and then spat the lees on to the sod floor. He raised his eyes to his friend and smiled in the old, trusting way while, outside, a chill wind rattled the stiff cowhide covering at the door lintel and stirred his loosened hair.

‘I hope you’ll forgive me, friend Myrddion. I feel lost and only Saxon deaths seem to imbue me with purpose. I’ll think on your words and, if I decide to make my peace with Ygerne, then I’ll do so. Regardless of my decision, I’ll always be grateful for your guidance and advice.’

They clasped hands as they stood inside the warm room and, wisely, determined to avoid painful subjects.

‘How does Caius?’ Myrddion asked, curiously. ‘I still find myself wondering about that young man, for those incidents at the Villa Severinii still haunt me.’

Artorex grimaced a little in memory.

‘Does he make a suitable horse captain?’

‘He does well enough, and his tactical ability demonstrates a certain ferocity. I need him, despite my reservations about his lack of judgement, because he hates the Saxons even more than you or I. Sometimes, I don’t believe that he sees them as human beings but, rather, as wild animals. I believe that Caius is one of those men who enjoys warfare and who are at their best in times of violence. But enough of Caius! What brings you to this godforsaken place?’

‘This and that, Artorex. I’ve sent several good men into the heart of the Saxon east to bring me intelligence. They risk their lives to keep us both aware of Saxon intentions.’ Myrddion’s face was sad. ‘These men often die for us, and they are unhallowed and unsung. Like you, I often feel their shades clustering around me, so I regret the desperate need which forces me to order such brave men into enemy settlements. But they - and we - serve as we must, for it is only the land that matters.’

Myrddion paced the small, conical room, refusing wine in favour of water, and for all that his advancing middle age was whitening his hair at last, his tortured face reflected all the bewildered pity of a boy.

‘Even as we speak, I am awaiting news from my best servant, Gruffydd, a peasant who grew up with the Saxons as a slave. His skill with the language has kept him safe for many years. I hope that Gruffydd will give you the disposition of the Saxon advance, for the east is now completely theirs.’

He peered at Artorex through the gloom with a concerned expression on his smooth, still-youthful face.

‘I fear we will be driven out into the lands far to the west, Artorex, and all the civilization that Romans and Celts have built will be burned to the ground.’

‘Not while I live.’

‘Nor I, Artorex,’ Myrddion replied. ‘But now we play a waiting game, for Uther lives on, against all nature. The tribes are divided and Morgause has many sons. When the High King does die, as must soon happen, claimants to the throne will rise like nettles to seize power for themselves, and the old alliances will be cast aside like straws in the wind.’

‘I have no desire to fill Uther’s shoes, for the duties of the Dux Bellorum are onerous enough for me,’ Artorex replied honestly.

‘My boy, there are no claimants to the throne who would dare to let you live. You must have a care, Artorex. You can trust no man except those who are tied to you by bonds that cannot be broken. You must understand that the lips of those who aspire to greatness may smile, but the serpent in their hearts can be impossible to recognize.’

Artorex rose to his full height, so that the tall, willowy form of Myrddion was forced to look up into his eyes.

‘And what of you, old friend? Would you betray me for the land?’

‘I could lie and say that my love for you outstrips all other duties, but I won’t burden my soul any further. If you bring blood and death to our people, then I’ll be forced to choose against you. But I swear by the love I hold for you, as the son I never sired, that I will never use Licia as I’ve used you.’

Artorex nodded gravely.

Although he did not realize the importance of his words, Myrddion had passed Artorex’s greatest test. He had spoken the purest truth.

The young man offered Myrddion his sword arm, and the two men embraced.

‘Thank you for your honesty, my old friend. I expected no less from you but I had to ask those ugly questions. You can blame my tainted blood for my coldness and my suspicious nature.’

‘Tainted? Oh, no, my lord. You are what Uther should have been but wasn’t. For you have a love for those people who are the strong spine of our lands. Uther always used his warriors without a qualm for the cost, but you care for the men who die for our cause. You are your mother’s child.’

‘But which mother would that be, Myrddion? That’s the question that haunts me.’

‘Perhaps you belong to all of them. Have you considered that possibility? Livinia’s sense of duty, Frith’s courage and Ygerne’s steadfastness have all helped to shape you, so who can say which woman is your true mother?’

Artorex shrugged.

‘You’ll find your way, my lord, because you must. But for now you must point me to a warm bed because I must be gone by morning.’

That night, Targo noted that Artorex smiled more easily and the cares that had bowed his shoulders seemed to have lifted a little.

‘That Myrddion is a clever devil,’ he told a half-comprehending Odin. ‘But, whether Artorex knows it or not, he is the master’s true edge.’

Wisely, Odin said nothing. But when Myrddion’s shadow touched him, he clutched his amulet to his chest for luck.

CHAPTER XVI

 

Gruffydd arrived late at the burning village, having ridden his lathered horse almost to death during the long ride from Venonae. Covered in mud from the swamps of the Wash and with his temper frayed from hours in the saddle nursing his exhausted horse, he was coldly angry to discover that the small settlement had already been put to the sword.

The village of Durobrivae had only one stone building, a remnant of the old Roman garrison. The years had weathered the stone and neglect had permitted lichen to cover the façade with a brilliant display of greens, silver and the occasional flash of rust-red. The rest of the town was raised on heavy wooden piers, for a river ran beside Durobrivae, while the Wash was notorious for its floods and swamps.

Gruffydd’s nose twitched with distaste. Innocent villagers and Jutland warriors alike had been killed, many burned in their homes, for they had feared to venture forth into the rain of arrows ordered by the captain of the Celtic troop. The attack had been brilliant in its way, for it spared many soldiers from the dangers of hand-to-hand fighting, but Gruffydd was a man of the Marshes and he scorned such safe carnage.

The stink of blood and roasted flesh was everywhere. Groups of men were sitting at their ease, a few plucking chickens for roasting and others, with soot-covered hands and faces, had been busy plundering the dead. Gruffydd felt his gorge rise.

As he dismounted from his horse, a dark-haired young man in a brass breastplate moved forward carrying a Roman helmet. His indolent manner and fine features marked him immediately as Lord Caius, foster-brother to the Dux Bellorum of the West, the invincible Artorex.

‘Well met, friend,’ Caius greeted him cautiously, as he casually tossed his helmet to a waiting youth. He commenced cleaning his Roman sword with a bloody rag, but Gruffydd was not deceived.

The black eyes of the troop leader were alive with curiosity and something else that Gruffydd could not quite recognize.

‘You must be Captain Caius,’ Gruffydd stated. ‘I bring orders for you from Lord Artorex.’

Caius nodded with an inborn elegance that was at odds with his bloody gauntlets and the brain matter he was cleaning from his sword.

‘You are summoned to Venonae, my lord,’ Gruffydd began. ‘I have been sent to gather in the wolf packs that harry our enemies in the Wash. Lord Artorex has information that he wishes to impart to all his commanders.’

Caius looked about the blackened remains of the village with genuine regret.

‘Is there no one left for our warriors to kill?’ Gruffydd asked sardonically.

Caius ignored him. ‘When does my brother require my presence?’ He asked indolently, his eyes seemingly busy with the cleaning of his armour.

‘Three days hence, my lord. Yours is the last troop I have had to search out, although rumour had it that Durobrivae was about to be attacked by your troop.’

‘Durobrivae is destroyed - at least around the edges,’ Caius muttered with amusement.

Some of the soldiers within earshot looked up from their various tasks and snickered, or grinned, in acknowledgement.

‘You may eat with us, messenger. As soon as darkness falls, we will ride to meet with my foster-brother.’

‘My thanks, Lord Caius,’ Gruffydd replied with a respectful lowering of his head.

The warriors lounging nearby groaned their displeasure in the manner of all soldiers, but Gruffydd had no doubts of the affection they seemed to hold in their hearts for Caius. The messenger was aware of Caius’s reputation for cruelty and cunning but, while he approved of the way the young man could generate loyalty in those he commanded, he could never approve of the callous way that Caius encouraged his men to strip bodies of their wealth, and casually consign even infant children to the flames.

Gruffydd had accepted Caius’s offer of food with both civility and caution, for Myrddion had warned him of Caius’s dangerous temper that came to the fore when he was crossed.