Dragon's Child (51 page)

‘Of course she must be told,’ Gruffydd retorted. ‘But we should wait until she can fully understand, and we should give the girl her mother’s hairpin at that time. Let us hope that she becomes a Celt before that day and has ceased to be a Jutlander.’

‘The blood price you asked for her has surely been paid,’ Gallwyn murmured nervously.

‘Aye. But Nimue is under Artorex’s protection, so I fear for her safety in the years ahead. He has set his seal upon her and she may grow to resent what it represents.’

‘I’ll do my best to guide her along the paths she must travel, Gruffydd, for I’ve a good few years left before I’m done. I’ll raise her right.’

‘At any road, Lord Myrddion has sent word that he and I will ride to Venta Belgarum tomorrow. He is planning Artorex’s strategies, so we must prepare for his next campaign.’

Gallwyn gave a brief shudder. ‘I always hated Venta Belgarum. Uther was like a thin, white slug, and his slime was everywhere. Take care, my friend, for there are rumours among the common folk that Lord Artorex must declare himself High King if he is to fight off this Katigern creature. If he waits too long, a pretender could steal his crown.’

‘That’s the whole trouble,’ Gruffydd responded dourly. ‘At the moment, he doesn’t know where to find the crown, or even if it still exists.’

In hundreds of other rooms throughout the kingdoms, innumerable men dreamed of the sword, the crown and the legacy of Uther Pendragon. Some of these men were honest at heart, while some were almost wholly devoured by lust for power. Some were noble and others were vicious opportunists, for the sword of Uther Pendragon had a lustre and allure that did not depend upon its gems and its blade. The sword was the key to the kingdom, and the crown was a mark of the favour of the old gods.

In the frozen north, King Lot was desperate to find Uther’s sword. He and his family had excellent claims to the throne through his marriage, while his eldest son, Gawayne, was even more likely to win the crowd’s acclaim, for he was a handsome young man with more than his share of natural charm. More importantly, Gawayne was mad for glory and had begged his father to allow him to serve in Artorex’s army.

Artorex had been nonplussed by Prince Gawayne’s open admiration and his total inability to lie. Quixotically, he had sent Gawayne to lead the garrison at Venta Belgarum in the full knowledge that Gawayne would have been urged by both parents to search out Uther’s sword. He had gambled that Myrddion’s best guesses were right and that Uther had hidden the sword elsewhere. Gawayne had indeed searched assiduously for the sword, but it had remained stubbornly elusive.

At first, as Dux Bellorum, Artorex had been unfettered by the absence of the symbols of power, for he was the war chieftain and that role was more powerful than the inherited status of the tribal kings. The Dux Bellorum could demand troops from the tribes and was solely responsible for the shape and outcome of the war.

Artorex was already a king in all but name.

But Gruffydd knew with certainty that Katigern Oakheart had a legitimate claim to the throne of the High King of the Britons through his grandfather. Gruffydd also understood that Vortigern himself would not have approved of the wanton destruction that the barbarians had brought to the east. The White Dragon, a creature of ice and cold, came as predicted and it had spread its wings over the land of the Britons and killed them with its frozen breath.

It remains to be seen if the Red Dragon of Artorex can withstand such an onslaught, Gruffydd thought. The Saxons fear prophecies even more than we do, while Katigern knows our history. He’ll do anything in his power to hinder Myrddion’s search for the sword of Uther Pendragon.

Venta Belgarum was Celt and would remain so until the whole kingdom turned to dust. The High Kings had been crowned in its church, where once a sacred tree had flourished in the days of Druid ascendancy. Venta Belgarum was not the heart of Britain, but it was the blood of the body.

The city was unchanged from Uther’s time, because Artorex kept a strong garrison to combat the Saxons who had refortified the coastline near Anderida. Artorex had chosen Gawayne as leader after seeing the young redhead in battle, as icy and as controlled as Myrddion himself. But off the battlefields, the boy had roguish charm, rash passions and a natural bent for leadership so, in the teeth of objections from Llanwith and Luka, Venta Belgarum had eventually become Gawayne’s charge.

Thus far, Artorex had found no cause to regret his choice. Gawayne may have been subject to his parent’s ambitions, but he was a loyal Celt with a ferocious desire for victory.

When Myrddion and Gruffydd arrived in Venta Belgarum, after several gruelling days on horseback, Gawayne was quick to welcome his visitors. After the usual bowing, scraping and detailed reports, the two men were permitted to rest before preparing for the night’s feasting. Gawayne was determined to impress his noble visitor with his hospitality and planned a night of enforced carousing for his guests.

So, instead of resting, master and servant made use of the afternoon to visit Uther’s erstwhile apartments.

‘These rooms have been tightly sealed since the death of Uther, my Lord,’ Gruffydd reported. ‘To be honest, the servants are terrified of this part of the palace and would refuse to clean it anyway, so we can expect clouds of dust once we are inside.’

‘I’m certain the relics aren’t here but I wish to understand the bishop a little better. It may help me discover what he chose to do with his difficult inheritance.’

Privately, Gruffydd believed that Myrddion was indulging in superstitious nonsense, but his master was very nearly always right when he assessed a situation.

Gruffydd took a long, iron key and inserted it into the great doors to Uther’s private apartments.

The door fittings protested as rusty metal hinges ground against equally rusty supports. The doors seemed jammed, although only six months had elapsed since the entrance was sealed, and both Myrddion and Gruffydd had to use their best efforts to force open the great oak planks. Uther’s servants had obviously neglected his apartments during the period before his death.

With a groaning and a splintering, the doors finally gave way.

‘The stench in this room is foul,’ Myrddion exclaimed. ‘I smell the works of Morgan here.’

I smell something long dead, Gruffydd thought irreverently.

A mantle of dust lay thinly on every surface, and Myrddion drew his finger through a cobweb that masked the entry to Uther’s bedchamber.

‘There’s something evil resting here,’ Myrddion shuddered. ‘I can feel it.’

The great bed with its thick coverlet of fur had been neatly made. On one side, to the right, a cushioned stool was placed so the bishop could hear Uther’s confessions. Every corner of the room was hazy with dust motes, a patina of neglect and a miasma of sickness.

But the white furs on the bed had been ruined forever by the remains of a large crow with outstretched wings that was pinned to the bed by long nails. Its skeletal body and empty eye sockets still seemed to shriek with life. With distaste, Myrddion realized that the torn wing feathers around the nails holding its carcass to the bed indicated that the bird had been alive when it was fixed in place. It had been left to starve to death - or to be devoured alive by the rats.

‘What is that, lord?’ Gruffydd whispered, pointing towards a cloth-covered shape across the great window of the bedchamber.

So vast was Uther’s prestige that his window had been constructed of small pieces of imported glass, so that no chill should find entry and attack his old bones. Gruffydd knew the window existed, but now it was completely shrouded by a dusty length of black wool.

‘Pull that blanket down and let in some light,’ Myrddion ordered.

Gruffydd approached the black cloth.

He gripped the fabric, and pulled - and almost screamed with shock.

The corpse of a woman had been nailed to the window frame by her spread-eagled hands and feet so that her remains formed an obscene cross. The rats had left evidence of their presence on the dried corpse and Gruffydd was revolted by this proof of Morgan’s malignancy. Transfixed by the grim scene, Gruffydd realized that the stains on the floor, and a gaping wound in the throat, indicated that the woman had been dead or dying when she had been nailed into position.

‘What sickness is this abomination, lord?’ Gruffydd asked in a whisper.

‘It’s nothing to do with her Druid teachings, and it’s nothing Christian. But it’s all Morgan. I believe she intended to keep Uther’s spirit locked within this chamber forever. She placed the woman to guard the window and used the crow as the vessel for his soul. Then she attempted to have the apartments sealed off for a long, long time.’

‘She’s a strange woman, master. And her hatred is appalling.’

‘Pitiful is a better description of Morgan,’ Myrddion replied. ‘She needs to believe that she can still control Uther’s body and spirit even after his death. How unutterably sad.’

‘Sad?’ Gruffydd spat, and then crossed himself. ‘The woman is demented.’

‘Morgan has probably been crazed for years. She has buried every natural desire in order to take her revenge on Uther during the many years she remained with him. But this! It’s so petty - and such a dreadful waste.’

‘Well, I’m not going to spare any sympathy for the witch.’ Gruffydd was affronted by the barbarity of Morgan’s actions. ‘If anyone should be staked out like this, it’s Morgan.’

‘No. Morgan is more to be pitied. Even with Uther dead and gone, she cannot give up her hatred. But staring at these old crimes does not serve our purpose.’

Myrddion looked across the corpse at the superstitious face of Gruffydd, and then issued his instructions.

‘Leave this unhallowed place and find servants, and a warrior or two. I want these apartments completely refitted for the High King when he comes to Venta Belgarum. Every stick of furniture, every piece of cloth, every fur and every trace of the presence of Uther and Morgan is to be burned.’ He gazed around the dust-filled room. ‘And you must find a priest to pray for this girl’s soul and give her a decent burning.’

Gruffydd hurried off to obey his master’s wishes, glad to be released from the mouldering room that was still full of implacable hatred.

Myrddion knelt upon the dusty stool beside the bed and rested his forearms, as if in prayer, close to where Uther’s head must have lain. This was the position where Uther’s priest had spent many hours, even years, listening to Uther’s confessions throughout the period of his slow decay. Here, in the final days, the bishop would have given extreme unction to the dying Uther, even though he was close to death himself.

Myrddion was no Christian, but he had considerable knowledge of the Roman sect. He understood that the unfortunate Branicus, in his piety, must have crushed his natural feelings for years. In Myrddion’s imagination, the final confession of Uther Pendragon must have been grotesque.

How often had the bishop knelt here? If the embroidered stool was any guide, a pair of knees had flattened the plumpness of the stuffing. How many hours had the bishop listened to the savage ravings of a decadent old tyrant as he struggled to bring that unrepentant soul to his God? Uther would not have parted with his sword and his crown during the final stages of his illness, fearing that Morgan would lay her henna-tipped claws upon his symbols of kingship. Lot as High King would have been nearly as bad as Artorex, for Uther loathed Morgause nearly as much as her sister.

No, Uther would have hidden the sword and the crown when Artorex became the Warrior of the West. Seen from Uther’s point of view, what other choice did he have? His body was betraying him, Botha was dead and Artorex was beloved by the people.

No, the sword and the crown were long gone by the time Uther reconciled himself to the certainty of approaching death.

Myrddion knelt and tried to imagine the filth that had poured into the ears of the bishop. He tried to understand how Branicus must have felt when he had taken these ritual objects that were so soiled and degraded with lust, murder and ambition.

Accompanied by two warriors and four terrified menservants, Gruffydd knocked quietly on the door before entering. But, engrossed, Myrddion didn’t hear him.

The grisly remains of the once virginal girl were removed from the window, while Myrddion continued his reflection. And, when the crow was gingerly pulled up as a mere tangle of black feathers and stick-like chewed bones, Myrddion’s concentration was so deep that he didn’t even acknowledge the presence of servants in the room.

He was far away inside the mind of the long-dead bishop.

As the servants tiptoed around him, glancing fearfully at his still, white face and tightly closed eyes, Myrddion was thinking. When he suddenly opened his eyes, they blazed with a new understanding. One of the servants squealed like a frightened pig when Myrddion suddenly leapt to his feet, ignoring his cramped leg muscles.

He picked up the prayer stool and thrust it into the arms of the servant.

‘Take this confessional stool to the new bishop at his church. Tell him that it is a gift from me. You will further inform him that his predecessor, a good and holy man, used this prayer stool while he interceded with God for the soul of his master, Uther Pendragon. And you will also tell him that Branicus’s stool deserves great honour.’

The servant scuttled away to carry out Myrddion’s bidding, while Gruffydd doubted that the poor man would remember even a sentence of Myrddion’s words.

The room was ruthlessly dismantled, and lest the servants were tempted to steal Uther’s possessions, Myrddion explained that Morgan had cursed all items of value within the apartments. Because he was deemed to be so strange and so magical, his words were believed, causing the servants to flinch every time they touched an object with their bare hands.