Dragon's Child (54 page)

Artorex was weary, but he realized from Myrddion’s manner that secrets waited to be shared. He consumed a light meal of bread and cheese and then dismissed his guard.

For once, the pyrotechnics in the dark heavens made Myrddion’s windowless room far more comfortable than usual. The fierce lightning strikes, so rare in these mountains, seemed to shudder through the bones of the fortress, demonstrating a natural power that no king or army or string of fortresses could match.

As usual, Llanwith pen Bryn and Luka were present in the windowless room, having heard of the return of their friend. Gruffydd served wine to the assembled group, although he, too, was very tired and saddle-sore.

‘What news, Myrddion, that you keep me from my bed? First you vanish so thoroughly from Venta Belgarum that poor Gawayne becomes sick with worry. And now you return during a driving storm. At this rate, the people will believe you are the storm bird.’

The kings laughed politely at Artorex’s jest, but Myrddion did not bother to join them.

‘I hope you are not too exhausted to ride with me to the Isle of Apples at Glastonbury - within the hour.’

‘I’ve no intention of taking to Coal’s back in this inclement weather. Contrary to the beliefs of my warriors, I like being warm and dry.’

Artorex was prepared to hold by his statement. He had spent half the day in the saddle, and the other half deploying troops along a critically strained defensive line.

‘You must come now, Artorex, for it’s imperative that you collect your sword and crown from Lucius. The bishop holds both safe at Glastonbury, but he will not give them to me or to any other man in the kingdom. As Uther’s legitimate heir, you are the only person destined to discover them, although all-comers are entitled to carry out their own search if they wish to do so. By now, half the kingdom will be guessing that I have found Uther’s relics, so I’m determined that you shall go, even if I have to drag you to Glastonbury.’

Artorex’s face flushed with anger.

‘In case you haven’t noticed, Myrddion, I’m capable of making my own decisions.’

‘You are the High King by birthright, Artorex, but if you grow careless and ignore the urgency of our task, you may find yourself bending the knee to King Lot or to some other pretender - immediately before he cuts your throats. Would Lot save the west, or would he skulk in safety behind Hadrian’s Wall as Uther did at Venta Belgarum? Think, Artorex! You must travel to Glastonbury, for all our sakes. Even Gawayne is not so thick that he won’t arrive at the correct conclusion eventually.’

Artorex longed to refuse the demands that Myrddion was making, for the thought of possessing Uther’s crown and sword made him ill with loathing. The blood of Gallia stained these relics of power and Artorex knew that he could never forgive his father as long as he drew breath.

But Artorex also understood that he was no longer a simple man of flesh and blood who could consider his own future in isolation. The needs of his followers were far more important than his own desires. Ban’s dying demand of him often came stalking into his mind, reminding him that the future of the Celts depended on his facing Katigern Oakheart on an equal footing.

The logical part of Artorex’s brain had known for weeks that he must seek out the relics in person. For even as one hand flinched from the symbols of power, the other itched to hold them closely to his breast.

I am my father’s son, he thought sadly, while an inner voice whispered in his ear that power was the ultimate means of doing good.

Those words are lies. Gallia would have known that this argument belongs to the Dark Ones, and that power, taken and desired for good reasons, can eventually twist the soul.

But what choice do you have? his other self answered quickly.

None! he replied silently for, above all things, Artorex had trained himself to be a realist. Only Gallia had seen the passion and the poetry within him - but that idyll was long dead.

‘Very well. I’m ready to claim these trappings of rule and will accept your demands,’ Artorex finally agreed aloud. ‘But first I intend to organize a captain to take my place during my absence. The Saxons are beginning to stir now that spring has arrived.’ He sighed deeply and ran his hands through his tousled hair.

‘No. That’s not wise, Artorex,’ Myrddion argued. ‘You’ll give an advantage to your enemies if you bring anyone outside this circle into your confidence.’ Myrddion was uncharacteristically abrupt but Artorex was ready to defy the older man’s strength of will. The air within the stuffy room crackled with the first clash of conflicting purposes.

‘I’d be prepared to act as your captain during your absence,’ Llanwith volunteered. ‘I hate to miss the fun, but Luka generally gets the shite work, so it’s my turn to remain and face the music. Be assured that I’ll do my best to ensure that Venonae remains safe during your absence.’

Both Myrddion and Artorex sighed inwardly, for this offer allowed them to step across a mental chasm that had been opening at their feet.

‘That is generous of you,’ Luka quipped. ‘I’m usually left out - just because I’ve gained a little weight.’

As Luka was still reed-thin, except for a small paunch around the waist, this sally was an old joke. Myrddion didn’t bother to smile.

‘We waste time, Artorex, for we should leave within the hour. And we should attempt to make our journey inconspicuous, if that is possible.’

‘He’s bossy tonight, isn’t he?’ Artorex asked of no one in particular.

‘Gruffydd, my loyal servant, I’m afraid that I must also ask you to join us on this journey,’ Myrddion added. ‘I know that you’ve been in the saddle for near to two weeks now, but someone may trip you up if you remain here, and you could inadvertently reveal our destination.’

‘Lord . . .’ Gruffydd’s voice trailed off. He was thoroughly offended at the suggestion.

‘Or they could put you, or your family, to the torture. Few men can survive physical agony silently. You know that.’

Gruffydd felt ill at the thought of Morgan questioning him. Those eyes! The woman had watched, uncaring, as a young girl had been crucified at Uther’s window. What would she care for him if he fell under her power?

‘Aye, you’re right, my lord.’

Myrddion gazed around the assembled group. ‘Then we depart in one hour. We’d best leave this room separately and meet outside the gates.’

And so Artorex, in company with Myrddion, Gruffydd and Luka, was forced to sneak silently out of his own stronghold.

A sleepy stable boy saw Myrddion and a cloaked man leave late that night, and the next morning, the child noticed that Coal was gone. Inevitably, the whole garrison soon knew that Artorex was wandering with Myrddion while Llanwith had assumed command of the garrison.

Morgan ground her teeth in rage, but there was still hope. She knew that Gawayne was vigilant, and even Artorex couldn’t hide forever.

 

Myrddion drove his already exhausted companions with the urgency of a man who knows that wolves are hot on his trail.

As they were.

Gawayne, master of the High King’s city of Venta Belgarum and the eldest son of King Lot, was sent word of Artorex’s departure by a horseman who near killed his beast in his frantic haste to deliver his message. Morgan left nothing to chance.

Caught up in a family curse that he had never exactly understood, Gawayne reacted like a well-trained hound. His warriors were soon searching for Artorex and his three attendants.

Unlike Artorex and Myrddion, Gawayne paid scant attention to the health and welfare of the horses used by his warriors. He appreciated the urgency of his mission and spurred his troop on to greater efforts.

Gawayne guessed that Coal would be the weakness in Artorex’s efforts to avoid detection. The stallion was a showy animal and left a clear trail of villager attention, so Gawayne simply followed the horse’s spoor through villages along a route that eventually pointed directly to the Isle of Apples and Glastonbury.

Artorex’s party arrived at the monastery a mere hour ahead of Gawayne.

‘Hail, Artorex!’ Lucius greeted the Dux Bellorum and his companions with his usual courtesy and calm countenance. ‘You have grown tall - you resemble your father.’

The Dux Bellorum repressed a shudder of disgust at the comparison. ‘Spare me such a fate, good Lucius. Were it not for the peril to the west, I would never seek any object that came from Uther’s tainted legacy.’

Lucius pressed the young man on the shoulder with his gnarled old hands.

‘Your face and your hair are his, Artorex, as is your stature. But your soul is your own, to mould as you choose. The sword you seek is only a weapon and you have the power to shape it, and to use it, as you choose. A crown? What is a crown but precious metal and gems? Who remembers that the evil Vortigern wore it in days gone by, and that he welcomed the first Saxons who arrived on our shores as his friends? You may follow your own destiny but you must display the courage and the strength to mould it as your heart dictates.’

‘Are you now prepared to help us, Lucius?’ Myrddion demanded. ‘For other claimants pursue our little band.’

‘I will tell Artorex what I will tell all other claimants. God, and God alone, will determine who is to become the High King of the Britons. However, I am pleased to say that you are the first to seek the relics.’

Lucius smiled kindly and proceeded to describe the hiding places of sword and crown in rather bad verse.

‘There. I have now revealed the resting place of the sword to you.’ Lucius seemed pleased at his obscure doggerel.

‘My thanks, Lucius,’ Myrddion responded with thinly veiled sarcasm. ‘Could you please repeat the rhyme? Your skills as a priest far surpass those you have just displayed as a poet.’

Lucius shrugged amicably. Smiling, he repeated the rhyme once more, while Myrddion committed it to his formidable memory.

‘And the crown?’ Luka asked.

‘Ugh!’ Luka growled. ‘That rhyme is even worse than the first. It says nothing! How can we find something that has been so successfully hidden for so long when the clues you give are laughable?’

‘Do you say that I am a cheat?’ Lucius eyed Luka directly, his Roman gaze stern and unamused. The sudden chill in the old man’s voice, coupled with his authoritative air, ensured that Luka’s eyes were the first to fall.

‘No, I don’t think that you cheat, my lord,’ Luka muttered softly. ‘But you could give us just a hint of a chance.’

‘And then I would need to reward those warriors who are galloping towards us, even as we speak, with the same clues.’ Lucius pointed towards a flicker of light reflecting from shields and body armour as the approaching warriors moved out of the eastern woods into the sunlight.

‘We’d best be at it then, Myrddion,’ Artorex decided. ‘At least Lot’s boy is a cloth wit - and we should be grateful that he’s the one who leads our pursuers.’

Myrddion found a stray piece of raw chalk in his tunic pocket and scrawled the doggerel on the wall of a rough wooden stable.

All four men stood back and stared fixedly at the words, as if they could be forced to give up their secrets by determination alone.

‘The sword is
sheathed in stone
,’ Myrddion murmured. ‘And the use of the word
spires
suggests that it could be in the chapel.’

He turned to Luka.

‘You’d best check the church tower - and do it before Gawayne is close enough to see what you’re doing,’ he ordered.

‘Don’t forget that the sword has no hilt or guard,’ Gruffydd reminded Myrddion. ‘So we’re looking for a small piece of metal tang.’

Luka trotted off as Myrddion nodded his thanks to Gruffydd.

‘As for the crown, I cannot make head nor tail of the priest’s meaning,’ Myrddion muttered, pacing nervously as he considered the problem.

‘It’s hidden where it can’t be seen, yet it’s in plain view. Lucius hasn’t suggested that it might be buried so that rules out a hiding place inside the walls,’ Gruffydd offered, thumping the sod walls with his fist.

‘And the floors must also be excluded. That’ll save us a good deal of search time,’ Artorex exclaimed. ‘The key line is where Uther made it so. What did Uther do to affect the crown? As far as I’m concerned, he made the crown a symbol of murder. He stained it with blood.’

‘Of course! The Bleeding Pool of Glastonbury,’ Myrddion muttered. Artorex looked at him, the excitement of the hunt obvious in the eyes of his old friend.

‘The Bleeding Pool?’ Artorex asked, and both men ran to find it. Gruffydd brought up the rear.

Neither Artorex nor Myrddion knew exactly where they were going, but the ever-practical Gruffydd simply asked one of the priests for directions.

Behind them, Lucius was already bidding a courteous welcome to Gawayne and his exhausted escort.

The Bleeding Pool was a natural underground reservoir, a result of the marshes and limestone formations that surrounded this cup of earth, crossed and recrossed as it was by ditches and streams in the mysterious ways of nature. Once Myrddion, Artorex and Gruffydd had negotiated the set of roughly-cut steps leading down into a series of tunnels, they were plunged into darkness.

In the entrance, Gruffydd discovered a torch that was already soaked in pitch waiting on one wall. He immediately struck fire from his flint box and the cavern erupted into a ruddy sea of light.

The pool was small and still, except where the stalactites hanging from the roof above dripped gore-hued droplets into the waters below. Ripples shivered the surface, disguising the depth.