M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (10 page)

A tug on her sleeve pulled her back into the present. ‘Are you playing with me, Mother? Who is our visitor? You haven’t told me whom Ector plans to marry, so the stranger could be anyone. You just want me to be good and not complain about having to take a bath. But I’d have one anyway . . . because Ector is coming.’

‘I always play fair with you, sweetling, but I
have
been teasing you. Ector is to marry Gwyllan, whose name means seagull. She is the daughter of . . .’ Elayne allowed her voice to fade away, dragging out the pause until Arthur jumped up and down with impatience.

‘Who, Mother? Who? You’re teasing me again!’

His face screwed up and she saw a brief flash of anger pass redly through his grey-green eyes. But then it was gone as fast as it had appeared, to be replaced by a cheeky grin. ‘Our visitor is no one important. You just want me to be good and remain quiet.’

‘Ah, sweetling, the man of whom we speak is King Gawayne of the Otadini. He was the right hand of King Artor, and he was the west’s greatest swordsman in his younger days.’

‘Is he the father of Prince Galahad who sought and died for the Cup? The nephew of King Artor?’ The boy’s eyes were so wide that they were almost starting out of his head. ‘Truly? King Gawayne is coming
here
?’

‘Yes, Arthur, he is. King Gawayne is coming here, so be off with you to your bath, or he’ll think you’re a young Saxon rather than a true-born Celt.’

In fact, all the Cornovii lords, high and low, knew that Bedwyr had not sired the cuckoo in his nest, but none dared lay the name
cuckold
on such a noble warrior. Moreover, Lady Elayne was universally loved by all who lived in Arden Forest, so though the peasantry whispered around the winter fireplaces that young Arthur had been fathered by a great warrior, the most able in the land, no one was willing to name the dead high king. And so the boy grew without care for or knowledge of his birthright, exactly as his father had intended. The isolation of Arden Forest protected the lad from the scrutiny of those Celtic lords who would have guessed his parentage from a single glance at his wild hair. Bedwyr had even grown to like the boy, for in his grey-green eyes and calm face the Cornovii lord could see all that remained of his beloved master, now long buried in the wet earth of holy Glastonbury.

So matters stood in the year of our Lord 527, when Ector and his father led a loose confederation of western tribes that were seeking to keep the Saxon menace at bay. And now they had come to the Forest of Arden on a visit that would change the pleasant days of Arthur’s childhood out of all recognition.

The retinue that rode up to the wooden hall and spreading house of Bedwyr Slave-scar was fine indeed. Ector of the Ordovice, the chosen heir of King Artor, was a young warrior of seventeen years whose dark hair and flashing eyes bore the stamp of otherness, that odd quality some men possess that sets them apart. He was a little above middle height, and had the unmistakable muscle of a skilled fighting man. He rode a large stallion of a rich dun colour that pawed the earth when he drew it to a halt, as if it were still eager to gallop wildly and only obeyed its master because it judged Ector’s will to be stronger than its own.

Beside him, a woman sat astride a white hill pony. A long veil obscured her face and protected her complexion from the weak sun and the dust of the road. Fine kidskin gloves covered her hands, and the wool of her cloak was finely woven with a pattern of checks in dull green and dark blue. As Ector assisted her to dismount, she lifted her veil, and the crowd that had gathered in welcome saw the face of Gwyllan, the daughter of King Gawayne, for the first time. Their indrawn breath paid tribute to her beauty without the need for words.

Gawayne had always been a handsome, charismatic man, and elements of his blond beauty had been inherited by his daughter. Her skin was like his: fine and thin and very fair, with a light feathering of golden down that caught the light with a shimmer like gold dust. Her mother, Queen Enid, who had not made the long journey to the Forest of Arden, had been a dark, tiny beauty in her youth, and it was from her that Gwyllan had inherited the thick, dark brown hair that was as glossy as a horse’s tail and braided in long plaits that fell almost to her knees. Her brows were also dark and fine over guileless blue eyes that, like Gawayne’s, glowed with intelligence and sensitivity. Her fragile strength, her tiny voluptuousness and the delicacy of her bone structure brought out protectiveness in any man with red blood in his veins.

Gawayne must have been busy keeping the young bucks away from this one, Bedwyr thought with a wry smile. An appropriate punishment for a reformed womaniser! Bedwyr had first seen the girl at Deva when Mark had been brought to justice, but in the intervening years the daughter of Gawayne had grown into a beautiful woman, a female whose every movement spoke of sexual promise. Even Bedwyr felt the tug of that innocent invitation and his loins tightened against his will, so that the ageing warrior was reminded again that a man was forever prey to the devils of his sexual appetite.

Anna and Bran had accompanied the young lovers. Bran and Ector had visited Arden on many occasions, for Bedwyr was a trusted ally who guarded the approaches to the Ordovice lands. But, despite her liking for the forest master, Anna had never joined them before, for she had felt a certain apprehension at the likelihood of meeting Elayne and her son. However, the coming nuptials had forced the issue. Throwing caution to the winds, she decided to travel with the wedding party to visit their Cornovii allies. There, she could observe the boy and his mother, and perhaps satisfy her hopes that her father’s old friend was happy at last.

‘You have too many trees here, Bedwyr, not to mention rabbit holes that are determined to finish me off.’ A booming voice drowned the jumble of courteous welcomes from Bedwyr and Elayne. ‘Help me off this fucking horse. I’m an old man and long rides are becoming too difficult for me.’

The last great legend of the west, King Gawayne of the Otadini, dismounted with a boy’s grace, putting the lie to his complaints of decrepit old age. Straightening his back slowly and surveying the stout defences set into a copse of mature oaks, Gawayne nodded and acknowledged the crisp, disciplined admiration of the warriors manning the palisades. In return, they honoured him with a wholly Roman salute, their fists thudding against the centre of their breasts.

Gawayne was as grey as an old lion, the creature he most resembled. His hair was a wild long bush around his head, resembling a mane, and his handsome features still retained the ghost of his old beauty, although his jowls sagged and deep pouches below his blue eyes revealed the many years he had lived. His gaze remained as open and as welcoming as ever, so women still blushed when he patted their cheeks, or other parts of their bodies. Even Elayne flushed as she acknowledged the flair of this man who had entranced three extraordinary women. Queen Enid of the north, Queen Wenhaver of the Britons and Mistress Miryll from Salinae were all great beauties, and while no one spoke openly of Miryll’s pregnancy and death, many stories had been sung of Gawayne’s legendary charm.

Introductions were made with due pomp and ceremony. With pride, Bedwyr introduced his eldest son, red-haired Lasair who was six years old and a fine, sturdy boy. The next child was a daughter, whom Elayne had called Nuala in honour of an aunt who lived beyond the Hibernian Sea. The small, red-haired girl was five and she giggled when Gawayne swept her up into his arms and tickled her chin. The youngest was another boy, Barr, who was little more than a toddler and darker in colouring than his siblings. He bowed low, and almost fell in his eagerness to demonstrate his new-found skill. Gwyllan was charmed and clapped her hands in congratulation, while little Barr blushed a bright, beetroot red.

‘And this is Arthur,’ Bedwyr said, without any further embellishment.

If Arthur was embarrassed at being ranked below his baby sister, it didn’t show in his eager face. Like a miniature young man, he stepped forward and made his bow, producing a posy of wild flowers from behind his back and offering it to Gwyllan with a brilliant smile.

‘These flowers are for my lady,’ he murmured, ‘but they are not as fair as you.’

Anna’s heart stuttered with shock as she realised she had always suspected the truth. Indisputably, she recognised the wildly curling hair that had been forced into some kind of order, and the tall, loose-limbed grace that set him apart from his siblings. Anna paled a little and looked away.

‘Goodness!’ Gwyllan laughed gaily, unaware of a sudden undercurrent beneath the courtesies of the meeting. ‘A little gentleman! Thank you, Arthur. How lovely your flowers are.’

Any awkwardness over Arthur’s appearance was dissipated by the charm of his simple gift. Ector grinned proudly, and Bran nodded his approval. Only Anna and Gawayne were silent, and Elayne glanced at them nervously. She could tell by their expressions that they recognised the man in the face and form of the boy.

Gawayne had not been told that Artor had fathered one last child on Lady Elayne, so the presence of Arthur came as a shock. The boy he saw was tall for his age, wide shouldered and narrow of hip and with little of the baby fat that blurred the outlines of most children of seven. He had his father’s red-gold hair, as wildly curly as Artor’s had been, even into old age. Gawayne sensed his parentage at a glance, and felt a kick of love and presentiment under his breastbone. Then the boy turned to him with curious, measuring eyes and Gawayne felt like a young lad again under the fond regard of his own uncle. Although Arthur’s eyes were different in colour, having a green rim around the irises, they examined the world with the same careful gaze. Gawayne returned the boy’s bow, his face radiant.

Anna also felt her heart begin to ache. Her own hair had curled just so in childhood, and she recognised little mannerisms that had belonged to her father. The boy had cocked his head slightly to the right as he considered something, just as her father had done. She had feared this moment, this meeting with a child who could usurp the heritage of her beloved Bran and Ector, but she had not expected that the boy would be the image of her father.

‘Hello, young Arthur,’ she said softly, kneeling in the dust to look him in the eye. Fearlessly, he gazed back at her with a smile so wide it almost covered his face. ‘Was it your idea to pick the flowers for Lady Gwyllan? If so, then you are a very courteous young man.’

‘Mother says I’m an urchin, my lady. She says I will bring dishonour on the family if I don’t mind my teachers. I can’t see why anyone would care what I do, but Mother says everyone will be watching for me to make mistakes. Is that true, Lady Anna? Not that I think Mother would lie to me . . . but she might be exaggerating.’

‘You’re a little judge, I see!’

Listening, Gawayne smiled uncertainly, almost unwilling to believe that fate would leave this last cosmic joke to tease the Celts with what might have been. This exceptional boy was a bastard at best and not technically worthy to bear a sword.

‘Your mother speaks the truth, Arthur,’ he said carefully, for the child’s eyes, compelling and clever, had turned to him. ‘The world will watch you and look for any mistakes you might make. One day, your mother will tell you why you are a very important young man, and everything will then become clear to you. Meanwhile, your friends want you to grow to be a fine warrior who will bring great honour to your father’s house.’

Gawayne had spoken quietly, but his voice carried to Bedwyr and Elayne who both flushed hotly, each reading correctly what Gawayne meant when he used the words ‘your father’s house’.

The moment was allowed to pass, and Bedwyr’s home was soon boiling with servants preparing the obligatory feast. The master’s hounds got under everybody’s feet and the children were hustled away by their nurse. Like any good host, Bedwyr led the men to his personal room for a welcome cup of ale, while Elayne took Anna and Gwyllan to a small courtyard which she used for weaving and gossip with her women. Servants bustled to unpack the guests’ saddle bags while ostlers saw to the horses and assisted the troop of cavalry who had escorted the guests. Meanwhile, the smell of roasting meat set mouths to salivating and nearly drove Bedwyr’s hounds mad with anticipation. In a riot of colour, haste and energy, the day drew on.

Gawayne lifted his dirty boots onto a small table in Bedwyr’s room and stretched his stiff muscles luxuriously. Although his body was at rest, his emotions were in turmoil at this new and unexpected development in the history of the west. Forever tactless, he was about to say the unthinkable and bring Bedwyr’s secrets out into the light of day.

Smiling, he accepted a mug of ale. ‘Bedwyr, my friend, you caught me by surprise when you presented your son to us, and I’m far too old to be given such a shock. It’s none of my business, of course, but I thought I’d swallow the last of my few remaining teeth when I saw the boy.’

Appalled, Bedwyr stared back at his friend. So the secret was out. But then, perhaps it was best, after all, that Arthur’s parentage should be considered by these three men, all kin to the boy, before he grew into manhood. He chose his words carefully.

‘If you mean that Arthur is not my son, you are right, of course. I was angry at first . . . any man would be if he found himself in my shoes. But Artor and I had a long talk before the last battles, and he told me what had happened on the night of the snowstorm when Elayne was abandoned by Queen Wenhaver in that damned shelter and they were forced to lie together to conserve body heat. I was away with your son at the time, you remember. Of course, I knew that Elayne and Artor were fast friends and I was aware of the queen’s jealousy, but I still believe that my wife didn’t betray her vows willingly. Before you try to knock me flat on my backside, I’m not accusing the High King of rape, but when death seems very close few of us act normally. Elayne called that night “time out of time”, and Artor was adamant that no blame should be cast on her. They had little protection from the storm during their hours of peril and both thought they would freeze to death before morning. I have come to believe that the pregnancy was the result of a single moment of weakness. Fate, if you like.’