Dragon's Child (46 page)

Gallwyn inspected the child and gave a hiss of superstitious dread when she saw the beginnings of a black tattoo around the child’s bruised ankle.

‘Did you ever,’ she exclaimed to the rafters of the kitchen. ‘It’s a good thing I took her to the priest when I did.’

A drawing of a serpent’s head was beautifully and clearly defined on the child’s delicate skin. On her fair, baby flesh, the pattern was an abomination.

‘That Morgan!’ the cook snapped. ‘She does as she pleases and counts no cost.’

‘Quiet, old mother! The walls have ears and Morgan is a fearsome enemy. Don’t you remember what happened to Uther?’

Gallwyn bit down on her lip. Every person in Venonae had heard tales of the illness of Uther Pendragon, High King of the Britons, and how he would have died raving and alone in Venta Belgarum if not for the expert ministrations of his stepdaughter.

‘When will Lord Artorex become High King, Gruffydd? Have you heard ought from Lord Myrddion’s table?’

‘Hush, woman! Are you mad? I may work for the great ones but there are a dozen men queuing to claim the seat of Uther’s power. I’ve no wish to die for another man’s ambition.’

Gallwyn looked around the kitchen with an eye that was skilled at finding the smallest fault. No servant dared to eavesdrop on her conversations but Gruffydd had a natural distrust of all persons other than Myrddion. And sometimes, in the darkest parts of the night, he even wondered about the motives of his secretive master.

‘I’ve heard rumours that Uther’s sword has vanished,’ Gruffydd said softly. ‘And until it’s found by a rightful claimant, there’ll be no High King to rule the west. As Dux Bellorum, our master is safe because he holds the mountains against the barbarians and harries their villages and garrisons. Artorex gives them no peace and no chance to set down deep roots, so even the most envious and vicious kinglet knows that his safety relies on the iron fist of Artorex. But Artorex himself must soon make up his mind what he is to do.’

‘But nothing is forever, Gruffydd. Sooner or later, a king will rise and try to wrest power using Uther’s sword.’

‘If they can find it,’ Gruffydd replied.

Gallwyn’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I heard in the markets that King Lot of the Otadini looks higher than his mountain retreat. He is married to Lady Morgause, Uther’s stepdaughter, when all is said and done.’

‘Lot is a fat fool!’ Gruffydd snapped. ‘Someone will cut his bulbous nose off for him if he dares to poke it into the south.’

‘Morgan has stated that she will support Artorex’s claim,’ Gallwyn responded. ‘She professes to hate him, so why does she keep herself so close, if not to aid King Lot and her sister, Morgause?’

Gruffydd was bored with rumours of plots, weary of Venonae and cynical of the conundrums of power. In this city where the Dux Bellorum’s eyes forever wandered to the four points of the compass, even cooks became enmeshed in the plots of the great ones.

When he finally spoke, it was an honest warning.

‘You should concentrate on your ovens and your cauldrons, Gallwyn. If you want the advice of a simple man who must hear secrets beyond his liking, then you should mind what you say and what you ask. There are few true friends in Venonae, and even fewer honest men. You may ignore me if you wish, but I’ve a liking for you, gibble-gabble that you are, and I’ve no heart to watch you roasted in your own ovens.’

Gallwyn covered her mouth with her hands and her eyes fairly leapt from her head. But, for all his good advice, she continued to listen to gossip in the marketplace and, when Gruffydd asked for information, she repeated the rumours, even though she occasionally imagined that the flames were already licking at her skin.

On the third day, after the noon meal, Gruffydd was summoned to Lord Myrddion’s library. He barely had time to plait his wild, carrot-red hair before the messenger was hurrying him to the appointed meeting place.

Out of habit, Gruffydd slipped through the door on soundless feet. The library was lined with stone and lacked even a single window, so that jars of oil must burn both day and night and the air within the confines of the room was sultry and stuffy with smoke. Without a hearth, it was cold, and Gruffydd could not imagine why a man of Lord Myrddion’s distinction and sophistication would spend so much time in a chilly, dimly lit dungeon of a room.

Of course, Myrddion knew that no one could hear what words were spoken within these four impenetrable walls.

On recognizing the dignity of the three men who were seated at a heavy table, Gruffydd dropped to one knee and bowed his head low. He had met the three travellers on regular occasions, so he knew of the prestige that each held in his own right. King Llanwith of the Ordovice had shrunk a little with middle age but power still radiated from his bearded face and hawk-like eyes. The smaller, neater King Luka of the Brigante retained the volatility of his youth, but now his rashness and turbulence of nature had been tempered by the cares and discipline of kingship. Both kings seemed ill at ease. Only Lord Myrddion appeared calm and good-humoured as he lounged in his hard-backed chair.

Peering up from beneath his lowered brows, Gruffydd could see that the table was burdened by a large and rather battered chart traced on fine doeskin.

Booted heels entered the room from the door behind Gruffydd, and the agent heard the great latch drop into place. As Myrddion, Llanwith and Luka rose and bowed their heads in respect, Gruffydd stayed in his position of full obeisance. The tall figure of Artorex swept past him, so that Gruffydd caught a glimpse of long, blond-red hair that fell well below the wide shoulder blades.

Gruffydd bowed even more deeply from his kneeling position on the floor of the room.

‘Get up, man!’ the compelling voice of Artorex boomed in the enclosed space.

Turning to Myrddion, he smiled at his friend before nodding a greeting to Llanwith and Luka.

‘Why do you insist we meet in this ice-box of a room?’ Artorex asked of Myrddion as he threw himself into the only comfortable chair. ‘I know you have a passion for secrecy but I freeze half to death every time I enter this room.’

So this is Artorex, Gruffydd thought reverently as he scrambled to his feet.

Artorex poured a goblet of wine. The kings seated themselves at a wave of his hand and Artorex grinned at them with open affection.

Here is a man to love - and to die for, Gruffydd thought to himself, for he, too, was caught in the spell of the young leader’s open, white smile.

As if he read Gruffydd’s thoughts, Artorex turned to face Myrddion’s agent, taking in the red hair, the hide cloak and the barbarian boots with a quick measuring glance.

‘So this is your spy, Myrddion. Introduce us, my friend.’

‘This man is Gruffydd, of Venta Silurum.’ Myrddion smiled. ‘He does have the look of a barbarian about him, doesn’t he? And he has the most remarkable gift for languages. But Gruffydd is Celt through and through, and I trust him in all matters.’

Gruffydd found himself colouring in embarrassment at the unexpected praise from his master.

‘My lord,’ Gruffydd responded. He would have bowed again but Artorex ordered him to stop such nonsense.

‘Any man who travels the dangerous paths you tread has no need to bow to me,’ Artorex said softly. ‘What news of the east? And don’t tell me what you think I want to hear. The truth, please, Gruffydd.’

The spy sucked in a lungful of smoky air. The truth. How did one tell the powerful ones of this world the complete truth - and live to tell the truth at a later time?

Artorex’s grey eyes bored into his. Gruffydd was convinced the Dux Bellorum could read his mind.

‘The truth, please, Gruffydd,’ Artorex repeated softly.

‘Lord, the wolf packs we send out harry the garrisons and the villages, and this strategy works in that the Saxon fields are burned and we cause havoc. We’ll bring famine to some villages in the east this winter. But these barbarians are not like you, or Lord Myrddion, or any peasant in the west. These warriors were born in cruel lands where starvation is a constant bedfellow. We give them no respite, but they haven’t retreated.’

Even Myrddion was now staring at Gruffydd with hard, interested eyes. Spies reported what they saw but few were asked for an honest opinion of what they believed to be true.

‘And why do they not retreat, friend Gruffydd? Are the winters in these isles so mild that they can survive in the deepest snow?’

Gruffydd laughed shortly. Then, covered with confusion, he apologized profusely.

‘The truth, Gruffydd,’ Artorex reminded him.

‘They can’t retreat, lord, for their blood stains the land. Only a blood price will wash away the deaths that have already been given up to the west. The Saxons are a warrior race, and they despise our weakness when we attack only helpless villages. Should the Saxons, the Jutes, and the northerners unite under one commander, we won’t defeat them.’

‘You are convinced of this?’ Artorex asked flatly.

‘Aye, my lord. Even now, one powerful king is gathering his forces against you out of Camulodunum. If he should ignite the warriors of the south and the north, we would have to fight along the length of the mountains to save your forces in the west.’

Artorex stretched his neck muscles and flexed his fingers.

Gruffydd noticed, abstractedly, that his leader’s hands were free of rings. His face was grave, but his eyes were alive with a cold intelligence.

‘And who is this ambitious king?’

‘I have only heard the name of their new leader, I haven’t seen him. He is called Oakheart. It is whispered by the common people that they look to him to stop the rapine in the east.’

Artorex sighed deeply and shrugged in the direction of his three friends.

‘What can we do, my friends? We can raid their garrisons and slow their advance, but in doing so we feed their rage and entrench them further. I won’t consider retreat, and I won’t relinquish one inch of western soil, so we have an impasse beyond my intellect to break.’

Myrddion’s face was a chiaroscuro mask, half brightly lit by a lamp and the other half plunged into darkness.

‘You fight the Saxons with one hand tied behind your back,’ Myrddion stated in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Only a High King can rally the tribes, and only a High King has the stature to keep the princelings from each other’s throats. This Oakheart will have us all as food for the kites unless you take up Uther’s sword.’

Artorex leapt abruptly to his feet and began to pace. He strode up and down the small, stone room, his face set like a fine, unlined bronze statue.

‘And how am I to take what is hidden?’ Artorex replied. ‘For Uther’s sword is well concealed from me even if I decided to claim it.’

‘You can leave the search to me, Artorex,’ Myrddion stated confidently. ‘I only ask that you agree to use the sword to unite the tribes if I should find it.’

‘But I have no wish to acknowledge Uther Pendragon as my father. I’m sickened by the actions of that vicious old monster, and I desire nothing that was his.’

‘Swords can be reforged, my friend,’ Llanwith rumbled quietly in his deep voice.

‘Swords are only symbols, Artorex, and nothing more,’ Luka added. ‘Even so, they are powerful forces that can strike fear and awe into the hearts of friend or foe, so their usefulness should never be underestimated.’

By now, Gruffydd wished that he was far away in the warm kitchens where he could neither see the Dux Bellorum as a troubled man nor hear secret plans that could cause his head to be separated from his body.

Artorex turned his flat, grey eyes towards Gruffydd. The spy suddenly recalled a shark he had once seen that had been caught in the village fishing nets. Even as it bit at the spears that impaled it, and even as it suffocated on dry land, its flat grey eyes continued to hold the same nothingness that now filled the eyes of the Dux Bellorum.

Gruffydd shuddered inwardly.

‘You, at least, have spoken the truth as you believe it to be. I am in your debt, Gruffydd. If you have need of anything, then you may ask, and it shall be given to you.’

Gruffydd’s mouth was dry and he was forced to hawk to loosen his tongue. Of all the luxuries he could request for himself and his family, only one desire surfaced from the deepest roots of his Celtic heart. He had no hesitation in making his request.

‘I want the head of the beast who left the child Nimue to die.’

All the men in that small, dangerous room were silent.

Then Artorex found his voice.

‘Who is Nimue?’

‘She’s an infant, my lord. I found her at Durobrivae, a small farming village that was put to the sword a week ago. The child’s mother, who was on the point of giving birth, had been raped and used without mercy. Later, the baby had been hacked from the young girl’s womb and the tiny body was thrown on to the banks of the river. I discovered the babe and determined to save her if I could. The life of an infant barbarian is less than nothing in the scheme of things, but a Celt committed the abomination on her mother, a young girl who should never have been left to die in agony. By now, the Jutes will have found her body, so they will hate us all the more fiercely for our depravity. I saved the babe - and it now lives in your kitchens. It is my desire that the child will grow to adulthood in the Celtic way, and will believe in our way of life. This child can be the living symbol you spoke of, Lord Luka, but the responsibility for the sin of her premature birth is inescapably ours.’

Artorex’s head reared back and twin flames ignited the grey depths of his eyes.

‘Are you telling me that this young woman had her babe cut out of her living flesh? Tell me slowly what you know, and leave nothing out.’ Artorex’s face was a study in cold fury, and Gruffydd’s courage almost deserted him. He was alarmed, for this aspect of Artorex was unfamiliar to him.