Dragon's Child (57 page)

‘They must be collected one week before the summer solstice when the coronations will take place at Venta Belgarum,’ Myrddion said. ‘Soon, all the world will know that Artorex is to be crowned there as the moon waxes and wanes. Fail us not, Brother Simon, for you have but three months to complete your task.’ Myrddion’s face was grave, but Gruffydd could tell that his master was greatly amused at the handling of these delicate matters.

Luka broke through Myrddion’s self-satisfied contemplation with a question that Gruffydd had also been longing to ask.

‘Why the pearl ring, Artorex? There are stones in the box that are more valuable by far.’

Artorex grinned, and Luka could not tell if pleasure or pain was the source of his smile.

‘I will use it as a reminder, friend Luka. I will only need to run my fingers over the pearl, as Uther often did, to remember what manner of man he was.’

Luka was struck dumb by Artorex’s reply.

When Brother Simon had left the simple room, clutching the box, crown and weapons awkwardly to his chest, Lucius stared intently at Artorex and then slipped a plain gold ring, much worn, off his thumb.

‘I ask that you accept the gift of this ring that has always been part of my secular house, Artorex. I am the only member of my family who is still alive and it would cease to be of value to any person, other than yourself, once I’ve left this mortal world. If you look at it carefully, the cypher can still be seen upon it, where countless paterfamilia of my house pressed it into heated wax. See? The imprint is in the form of a clenched fist.’

‘I can’t take your ring, Father Lucius,’ Artorex exclaimed with horror.

‘I should have cast it away forty years ago, for it chained me to my past when God was my only future. I’ve no children, and you are the closest to kin I have had since you were carried out into the snow to die. Then, when I picked you up and you clutched at me with baby fists, I thought of the cipher and its meaning. This ring prompts fond memories for me and, if at some time you look at it and remember your friend, then I will be content. You, my lord, must clench your fist around the west and never let go until death takes you.’

Artorex couldn’t refuse. He slipped the ring on to his left thumb where it fitted snugly.

‘While we are all in such a giving mood, I needs must give you a trifle as well, my young friend,’ Luka said. He laughed. ‘Are you fast, boy?’

‘Fast enough,’ Artorex replied in memory of the old game played with Llanwith.

‘Then catch this!’

Luka’s electrum torc, with the serpent symbol embossed on it, spun across the table towards Artorex’s head.

Artorex caught it in a simple reflex action.

‘Please,’ Artorex begged. ‘I can’t accept this! Your torc is a proud possession of a noble family.’

The torc, of two serpents devouring each other, had always been round Luka’s neck, and Artorex could not remember a time when he had not wondered at the delicacy of such a beautiful object.

‘I still have my torc of kingship, which I must begin to wear more often.’ Luka smiled at his young friend. ‘One grows into the habit of wearing it, it’s rather like the process of growing old. My son will have another made for him at the appropriate time and it will be the twin of this one. So, before you protest that this bauble rightfully belongs to him, it’s worth remembering that I see more of you than I do of him.’

Once again, Artorex was forced to gratefully accept a magnificent gift.

‘Now, I suppose you’re going to give me something, friend Myrddion. This High King nonsense is altogether more complex than I can stand.’

‘Never fear, Artorex.’ Myrddion smiled back at him. ‘I give you nothing to wear, or to protect you. But I will give you a gift that will endure long after you have gone from this world.’

He paused, having gained the attention of all present.

‘As High King, you must select the standard by which your subjects will know you, and by which you will be remembered, for good or for ill. When Uther became High King, he adopted the dragon symbol that was part of his own name, but I would not have you borrow anything else of his. If you’ll grant me a boon, my liege, I wish to suggest your final standard.’

Artorex was acutely embarrassed. He spied the glint of a tear in the eyes of his friend, and Myrddion Merlinus had never been known to weep.

‘After the summer solstice, I’ll accept any name you care to choose for me. But if you choose something too unwieldy, I’ll curse you throughout our lands. You may have your boon, my friend.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Myrddion replied. ‘For many reasons, I ask that you be crowned as King Artor, renowned as the Great Bear, who is a noble and kingly beast. It is a shortened version of your own name that your subjects will readily adopt.’

Artorex felt tears prickle in his tear ducts, but he held them back with an effort. He knew that Myrddion had never approved of his brief marriage to the Roman Gallia. He recalled how she had called him Artor in the still of the night when they lay entwined, and how she had taught him to laugh and see goodness even in sorrow and wickedness. While he had never really considered the roots of the name, he knew that Myrddion was paying him a great honour by the comparison with an animal that, while it was known for its ferocity, was also devoted to family and to the protection of home.

Myrddion was giving him a memory of Gallia to hold close to his heart.

‘Thank you, friend Myrddion. It is a noble name - and it is one with pure, golden memories for me.’

He smiled at the assembled group of friends.

‘At least I shall not have to learn to listen for a name that is new to me. I have answered to the name of Artorex for as long as I can remember, so I am pleased.’

 

Artorex returned to Venonae where he endured the obeisance of a joyous Llanwith, and received the gift of a strange, gem-encrusted cloak pin from his friend, before resuming his defence of the mountain stronghold.

Word of Artorex’s new stature spread inexorably over the land. On his return to Venta Belgarum, Gawayne told of the wonders he had seen, while Myrddion sent couriers to all the great personages in Celtic Britain, the kings of all the tribes of the west and north, all the bishops and chief Druids of the west, requesting their attendance at the coronation of Artorex as High King at Venta Belgarum during the summer solstice. There were many aggrieved and disappointed claimants to the throne, and many minor kings and dignitaries vowed they would not attend, not even if their tongues were drawn out with red-hot pincers. But all the great ones of the west knew that the princelings would take their places in the great church of Venta Belgarum - out of curiosity, if for no other reason.

Far away, in a silent nunnery in Cornwall, word came to Queen Ygerne that her son would be crowned as King Artor, High King of the Britons, and she wept tears of mingled bitterness and joy. For days, she knelt on the stones of her cold cell, until her fellow nuns feared she would die, so deep in prayer was the once beautiful woman.

Finally, bare of foot and in the white robes of a penitent, she made arrangements with the Abbess to walk the many miles to the coronation.

In Venonae, Gruffydd’s new status was a wonder to all within Artorex’s circle of courtiers. Who was this dishevelled red-headed man, seemingly more Saxon than Celt, who stood behind Artorex’s chair at all times, along with the shadowy figures of Targo and Odin?

‘Really, I cannot help but feel that Artorex should have chosen one of you to be his sword bearer,’ Gruffydd apologized to the bodyguards late one night over mugs of ale.

Targo answered for both men.

‘No. You’re wrong. The boy is damned clever and he doesn’t do anything without a good reason. Either of us would have accepted in a second, but it wouldn’t be right and it would raise objections that the boy doesn’t need.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Gruffydd replied.

‘We aren’t Celt,’ Targo responded. ‘I’m a bastard Roman, and the gods alone know what Odin is. No, Artorex couldn’t choose either of us, even if he wanted to. So sit back and enjoy the fun, Gruffydd. For life around Artorex is never dull.’

‘Dull?’ Odin looked puzzled. ‘What is this dull?’

‘I’ll explain to you later, you dumb ox,’ Targo replied in a familiar game that both men obviously enjoyed.

In the kitchens, Gruffydd was greeted with hysterical congratulations. His successes were shared, in part, by every servant in the garrison, for no one in those nether regions of kitchen, bakery and cider press had ever mixed with the great ones, least of all stood behind the High King at table.

Only Gallwyn was unimpressed with Gruffydd’s new status.

‘Look at you, you heathen,’ she snapped. ‘The Lord Artorex will be fair embarrassed by a woolly-faced ruffian in a tunic that looks like it’s been dragged through a thorn bush.’

‘I’m fairly sure it has been dragged through a thorn bush,’ Gruffydd answered seriously.

‘How will your wife and sons feel any pride in you if you are standing in the church at Venta Belgarum looking like a scarecrow?’ she scolded. ‘In the absence of your good wife, I will be taking you in hand.’ Gallwyn folded her arms over her ample bosom.

Gruffydd’s eyes opened wide, like those of a nervous horse. He had been married for several years, and his experience told him that he only understood women to the extent that he was certain that he didn’t understand them at all.

‘That hair has to be forced into some sort of order. It will be washed and plaited, hear? And if I’m not satisfied with the efforts you make, I’ll wash you myself. ’

Gallwyn had barely commenced her list of demands.

‘And that beard must go.’ Your master is clean-shaven so find a sharp knife and scrape off that puny excuse for a beard.’

Gruffydd growled audibly. ‘Odin wears a beard.’

‘Odin is a savage, and you are a good Celt,’ she responded. ‘Don’t complain, my fine young man. At least you don’t have to pluck out your beard in the Roman fashion, as I’ve heard the Lord Artorex does. But you have to get rid of it for the coronation.’

Gruffydd shuddered at the grotesque and painful thought of plucking out each and every hair on his chin.

‘You must ask the advice of Lord Myrddion on these matters, for he will decide what you should wear that befits your station as sword bearer to the High King.’

‘You’re worse than my old mother, Gallwyn,’ Gruffydd complained with a rueful laugh.

‘Good. And no doubt she would approve of my carping. You’re no longer a scurvy spy whose sole purpose in life is to look and act like a Saxon, for now you serve at the right hand of Lord Artorex, High King of the Britons.’

At that point, a rosy, almost naked young baby cooed and gurgled its way into their attention. Gruffydd noted that, surprisingly, the babe’s head was still quite bald, except for an almost invisible fuzz of white-blond hair.

‘Nimue!’ Gruffydd crooned, seeing the tattoo upon her dimpled flesh.

‘Ga, ga, ga!’ the child responded, her blue eyes alive with intelligence and merriment.

‘She is barely seven months old,’ Gruffydd marvelled. ‘My boys could not stand until they were nigh on twelve months of age. This one is crawling - and she can almost stand.’

‘She is a wonder, is little Nimue,’ Gallwyn replied with a loving, proud smile. ‘She is so quick to learn that you wouldn’t credit it, and I dread the day she speaks her first words.’

‘Why?’ Gruffydd asked, in the age-old ignorance of men.

‘Because we’ll have no more peace. I’ll wager that she’ll talk and talk until all the legs fall off the chairs and the tables. As it is, we had to burn her little fingers on the fire because she thought the flames were very pretty. She’d have toddled straight into the hearth.’

Gruffydd shuddered.

‘Now you can see her whenever you have completed your duties for Lord Artorex.’ She smiled at her friend, her cheeks flushed and ruddy in the firelight. ‘You have been missed during your absence, Gruffydd,’ she said simply.

‘To be honest, I didn’t have time to miss anyone when we were in Glastonbury. You wouldn’t credit what I have seen - pools that looked like blood, and swords in stones. At times, my head’s been fair addled with what was happening.’

Gallwyn’s eyes gleamed with interest and an unholy pleasure.

After her kitchens, and Nimue, gossip was Gallwyn’s third great love. She now had the opportunity to score a coup over the house steward, who put on airs because he was the bastard son of a Roman priest.

She crossed herself for having thoughts of such impiety and vanity. But, inwardly, Gallwyn was gloating.

‘Sit down, Gruffydd, over here by the hearth where you can be comfortable.’ She held out a chair and ushered her friend into a central position near the kitchen fire. ‘Perce, get the sword bearer a cup of our best ale,’ she instructed her helper. ‘And you girls will have no skin left on your backs if you burn that venison. You can listen - but only if you keep working.’

The kitchen maids grinned irreverently.

Gallwyn had a good heart and never really beat her staff. However, she kept a long birch cane that seemed unable to miss the tender parts of a lazy girl’s rump, so the staff continued to baste and stir, scrub and boil, their ears twitching for every word of Gruffydd’s story.

Turning her attention back to Gruffydd, Gallwyn nodded at her friend to indicate that he could commence the tale of his travels.

Of course, rumours of Artorex’s exploits had spread through Venonae and into the countryside beyond. Even under the threat of a ‘Saxon summer’, a term now given for Saxon raids, the common people were enthralled by the tale of a boy who had been raised far way in the provinces, where he was protected from the enmity of his own father, and who came to achieve his birthright through the possession of Uther’s magical sword. Within the next two months, Gruffydd heard the tale of the sword repeated on many occasions and was amazed at how much the story was embellished with each repetition.