M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (19 page)

‘So he broke his word in small ways,’ Arthur said slowly.

‘Yes, boy, and he’d probably been telling falsehoods since he was very young. About your age, in fact. Let me give you a simple example. Everyone knew that his mother had refused to raise him, yet he suggested that he was raised as a Brigante out of some kind of personal choice. Now, Modred had some excuse for his lies because he had no living father or mother who was interested in teaching him how to behave honourably. You, on the other hand, have the advantages of loving parents and a tutor who will hold you to your word.’

‘I think I understand,’ Arthur said readily, but when Father Lorcan shot him a piercing glance his eyes dropped again and he said angrily, ‘No, I don’t, Father. I don’t see how avoiding saying something or embroidering the truth as the Matricide did is anything like forgetting to practise my Latin when I promised I would.’ His expression was mulish, and Bedwyr had to crush the urge to shake him.

‘Well then, see if you can follow this example. You remember what your mother told you about the history of your birth?’

‘Yes,’ Arthur replied, confused by the sudden change of subject.

‘What if you were told by a servant that everything your mother had said was a lie?’

‘I’d not believe the servant because my mother speaks truthfully, even when it pains her.’

Bedwyr nodded. Both boy and man had forgotten the presence of the priest, who was very interested in the conversation. Lorcan had deduced some time earlier that his pupil was no ordinary lad, but he was now beginning to realise that Arthur might not be Bedwyr’s natural son.

‘What if your mother insisted that the servant had told a lie, and you then discovered for yourself, irrefutably, that the servant had told the truth? How would you then feel about your mother?’

Silence dragged out between Bedwyr and Arthur, while Lorcan held his breath, fascinated by this keyhole view into the family of his patron.

‘I think I would forgive her . . . but I’d never believe anything she told me again. I’d always have to check what she said for myself.’ The words came out in a rush as Arthur dealt with an almost unimaginable betrayal.

‘But would you believe her word in small things?’ Bedwyr persisted.

Arthur thought hard. ‘No, probably not. I’d worry that she was trying to spare my feelings.’

‘What if she said you were the most handsome of all her sons?’

‘I’d be happy,’ Arthur answered, puzzled by yet another change of direction.

‘But would you believe her?’

‘I don’t know. It would depend on whether I thought it was true or not,’ Arthur admitted finally.

‘In other words, you wouldn’t believe your mother in any matter unless you already knew what she said to be true. Her word would be compromised because it had already been proved to be false.’

Lorcan saw comprehension begin to dawn on Arthur’s face. As the boy had yet to learn how to hide his feelings, the workings of his clever brain were easy to follow and the priest knew that his student finally understood the meaning of personal honour.

‘A lie is a lie, big or small, and we are judged by how truthful we are. If we give our word, we are obliged to keep it, even if it’s hard.’ Arthur’s voice was firm at last and the wide, handsome brow cleared.

‘Exactly so,’ Father Lorcan said triumphantly.

Bedwyr hadn’t relished the interview, but was pleased that Father Lorcan seemed to have the matter of Arthur’s moral education in hand. He dismissed tutor and student and went away to find Budoc.

‘You see now, don’t you?’ Lorcan said, trying hard not to betray his pleasure. Finally, Arthur had passed the test and come to a new understanding of oath-breaking, even if the priest wasn’t quite sure what lay behind the conversation between Bedwyr and his son.

‘Y-y-yes,’ Arthur stuttered. ‘I’m sorry I argued with you.’ He was making a real effort not to cry. As he said, he was no longer a little boy, so he needed to act responsibly as a true son of his birth father. Father Lorcan’s lesson had been very painful, but also very necessary.

‘You were arrogant, Arthur,’ Lorcan explained. ‘Do you know what that is?’

When the boy shook his head, Lorcan explained that arrogance meant believing he knew better than anyone else, regardless of respective ages, experiences or birth. Arthur had the grace to look even more ashamed, if that was possible. For the next two hours, the priest had a very attentive and polite young student.

At the end of the lesson, Arthur lurched into heartfelt speech. ‘Father Lorcan, I swear to study hard and practise my letters. I’ll not make excuse or lie. If something stops me, then I’ll tell you, honestly, and I’ll take any punishment you give me without complaint.’

‘Good,’ Lorcan replied easily, giving most of his attention to putting a scroll into its casing. ‘I would expect nothing less of a lad of your breeding. Now, go and enjoy the remainder of the day. You will begin your arms training soon, and you’ll not have a spare moment.’

One day blended seamlessly into another and Arthur found that the learning went more easily. True to his promise, he practised his letters wherever he was, but Lorcan was too clever to show any overt approval of the boy’s diligence. Praise, when it was offered, was for efforts beyond the ordinary, so Arthur strove even harder to please his tutor.

Maeve continued to thrive and Anna was sure that she could leave the babe in Elayne’s capable, motherly hands, but Ector had yet to return.

‘The boy is probably enjoying the fleshpots of Glevum or Abone,’ Gawayne decided irritably, while Bran glowered at the old man for criticising his son.

‘Ector takes his duties very seriously, Gawayne. I can guarantee that he will be sparing no pains to find a suitable arms master.’

‘I hope he hurries then, for I can’t remain in Arden for the winter. I’m needed at home before the first snowfall.’

‘At least we should be safe from Saxon incursions in the months to come,’ Bedwyr soothed. An all-out brawl between kings was unseemly and insulting to Bedwyr’s status, so he reminded both parties that they were his guests and had no need for harsh words. ‘I’m confident your journey north will be relatively uneventful, because those buggers usually stay put during the winter months. I think the danger time will be during spring and summer. They know Artor is dead so they’ll attack in force then. The border lands have remained far too quiet, especially in the hives of old Corinium and the swamps of Durobrivae. I believe they’ll make their move on Ratae and Venonae.’

‘As long as you slow them down in the forest, I can smash them along the borders of Arden,’ Bran replied confidently. And Bedwyr had no doubts that the Ordovice king would do exactly as he said. A great deal of political influence and many valuable acres depended on Arden’s remaining an impediment to any Saxon advances from the east.

‘At any rate, without insulting your hospitality, Bedwyr, which has been excellent, we must be gone in two days at the most. Despite Ector’s continued absence, we still have to take the bride to Viroconium so that the nuptials can be completed.’ Gawayne looked grumpy and dour, which was understandable in a man who had long outlived his time and whose every joint caused him pain. ‘And then I can go home.’

‘Of course, Gawayne.’ Bedwyr understood immediately. After all, he too had passed his fiftieth year, and he felt all the aches and grumblings of a fighting man’s body that had slowly grown old. ‘We have been honoured to have your presence here for so long. As for the situation with Arthur . . . well, your help has been invaluable. You might be old, my friend, but you’re not finished yet.’

Gawayne glared at his host from under his sandy-grey brows. ‘I tell you, Bedwyr, Artor had the best of it. He died gloriously, having killed his enemy. Not for him the slow decay into blindness and senility. I envy him at those times when my bones ache so badly that my physician is forced to give me an infusion of poppy. But it’s only a temporary cure. Would you believe that the great Gawayne would rather
talk
about seducing a pretty lass than bed her? Aye, it’s true. And I’m ashamed that I’ve been reduced to this slow decline. Seeing young Arthur sometimes makes my heart hurt. Artor lives again, and who’s to says he doesn’t see us through the eyes of the boy? Fuck it, Bedwyr, getting old and into my dotage is almost more than I can bear.’

Bedwyr recognised that honesty rather than self-pity lay at the bottom of Gawayne’s complaint, so he clapped his friend on the back. ‘It comes to us all, Gawayne. I don’t relish the prospect myself, but I scorn to wait passively to have my throat cut by the Saxons as I sit at my fireside. Let’s pray that the gods will grant us a quick death with our swords in our hands.’

‘Aye, friend. We can but pray that such will be our lot.’

So the Arden household and its guests heaved a sigh of relief when a small party on horseback, with Ector at its head, hove into view during the late afternoon. A very tall stranger in full battle garb stood out in the forefront of the troop, just behind Ector’s sturdy figure.

‘At last!’ Gawayne muttered,
sotto voce
, as the gates opened to admit the troop. ‘Ector has arrived at last, and with a barbarian arms master, if these old eyes don’t betray me.’

Ector leapt off his horse with a young man’s vigour and strode across the forecourt to greet Bedwyr and the two kings. Having observed their approach from the apple orchard, Arthur skidded to a halt before his kinsman.

‘Ector, you’ve come,’ he piped in his boyish voice. Ector ruffled the lad’s wild hair absently and addressed Bedwyr with a broad smile.

‘My apologies for my tardiness, but good arms masters are hard to find. However, I believe we’ve been lucky enough to secure a man well qualified to serve your purposes, Master Bedwyr, so allow me to introduce him.’

Ector motioned for the large barbarian to join them. The huge man had dismounted from his horse, and now strolled nonchalantly towards the kings. When he reached them, he bowed low and then stood at his ease, perfectly comfortable in his own skin.

‘As I promised, this is Germanus. He insists on using this name and refuses to give his father’s gens or nomen. He has sworn allegiance to the Merovingian king and also served the lords of the north. He was trained as an officer in the old Roman style of the Frankish kingdoms, which accounts for his moustache and his bare chin.’

‘You are a mercenary then, Germanus?’ Bedwyr asked bluntly, because a warrior for hire suggested a man who had no personal loyalty that led him to fight for a cause, payment in gold being his only motivation.

‘No.’ The flat syllable was unequivocal and Bedwyr raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘No?’ The response from Gawayne was immediate, and Germanus swivelled his body to face this new questioner. He had already assessed the three men who stood before him with a warrior’s practical eye for detail.

‘I’m a professional, masters, and I go into battle to earn my coin. I sign on, or I did, to serve any master who pleases me. I do not sell my services to the highest bidder, and I resent any suggestion that I would.’

‘No offence was intended,’ Bran apologised. ‘But we require an arms master for Bedwyr’s son, young Arthur here, who may become an important man in the west in years to come. You must understand that few good things are spoken of mercenaries in this land, for most such men are famed for changing sides when it becomes expedient for them to do so.’

‘Not me. I serve those masters who are worthy of my talents. I’m getting old now, so I came to Britain to settle down, marry and perhaps father a family. I’ve a tidy sum put by, so I don’t need your coin. I am not yet convinced that I should waste my talents on a mere stripling.’

‘Well, then, we must try to persuade you.’ Bedwyr’s voice was slow and reasonable. He had not taken to the barbarian, but the man was obviously powerful and the array of weaponry, both on his person and attached to his saddle, pointed at proficiency in a wide range of the instruments of death. He was tall, near to six feet three inches, and hugely wide across the shoulders. His legs were long, as were his arms, and his whole body was ridged with hard muscle.

‘However, before I sing young Arthur’s praises, I must ask whether you are Saxon, Angle or Jute in origin. As they are our sworn enemies, I’d be a fool to take one into my household.’

‘Like Hengist and Horsa before me, I am Friesian on my mother’s side, but I was trained in a Librone troop in the lands of the Salian Franks. I have no interest in local politics and wish to be left alone. The role of arms master would suit me well, for I’ve shed enough blood for one lifetime and wish to retire permanently. Does that answer satisfy you?’

‘I suppose it must,’ Bedwyr replied, and Germanus snapped his head back aggressively, a reaction which did the barbarian no harm in Bedwyr’s eyes. Any man whose word was doubted would naturally be insulted.

Germanus’s face was open, possibly because he was clean shaven except for a pair of bristling moustaches that were reddish-brown in colour. His hair was much lighter, tawny like a good ale, with highlights of blond like sun-kissed sand. His armour was workmanlike, very scarred on the leathers, while some of the iron plates were buckled. Gawayne noted that every item, from his sturdy gauntlets to his breastplate and groin guard, was polished and oiled. His boots were also clean, and very soft, to permit his feet to find purchase on any terrain, while the exposed hair on his bared head was neatly braided and ready for the unadorned helmet that rested in a pouch on his saddle. A spear, a long knife, a sword, a bow and a rectangular shield were also beautifully maintained and unembellished.

Arthur stared openly at the warrior who might teach him the martial arts. He was keenly interested, but disappointed that Germanus’s accoutrements looked so plain, and surprised by Gawayne’s obvious approval of these unadorned weapons. The old king had spotted the gladius that rested in a scabbard attached to Germanus’s saddle, close to the Friesian’s right hand.

‘May I examine your gladius, Germanus? I sense that my request impels you to send me to the Christian devil, because you know it means I don’t trust you yet. But only a foolish man would stand unprotected before a seasoned warrior until he knows the person he faces. Your blade will tell me much about you, if you are indeed a true master of weaponry.’