M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (33 page)

‘I don’t know what gods are out there.’ Arthur gestured aimlessly with his hand at the sky and the distant hills. ‘I don’t know if the Christian God made everything, in which case he’s to blame for much misery and ugliness as well as great joy and beauty. I can’t guess which religion is correct, so I leave questions of faith to heads that are more clever and incisive than mine.’ Taliesin shook his head and Arthur saw him wipe away the merest trace of a tear with trembling fingers. ‘I’m sorry, Taliesin. I’ve upset you in some way that I don’t understand. I’d take my words back if I knew what I’d said to hurt you.’

‘You’re very much like your sire, Arthur. At times like this it’s easy to forget that Artor is long dead, because you look and think so much as he did. Many years ago, he once answered me exactly so to a similar theological question. He believed in purity of heart and goodness of action rather than the rhetoric and rituals of different faiths.’

‘Then I’m glad that my lack of belief gives you pleasure as well as pain. It worries my mother sick, as if the afterlife would be barred to me if I were to die a heathen. I told her that any true god wouldn’t care about the details if a man had lived a good life, but she’s not convinced.’

‘There’s no need to fret about my feelings, Arthur. A man who feels no pain may as well be dead. As your father said, leave matters of religion to the priests. He lived his life by a very precise set of rules which he wouldn’t break for any reason. Perhaps you’d not agree with all the commandments that he chose to keep over a long life, but they explain much about him and the ethics he admired. I believe our personal code of conduct explains us to any deity more truly than our choice of religion. I’ve never understood how a man can claim to be pure in the eyes of his god and yet kill the children of his enemies, as some priests suggest should be done. Children are not lice to be killed on sight. In fact, any religion that implies that some people have more right to live than others cannot be sanctioned by any god that I’d care to worship.’

Taliesin’s voice was soft and almost seductive, and for the first time Arthur appreciated the potential for danger that lay beneath the harper’s fair face. He was finally beginning to perceive the cause of the itch that Germanus felt whenever Taliesin was present. The Cymru poet did not possess the Sight, like his father before him, nor had he inherited Nimue’s gift for reading others; but he sensed the skeins of power that ran intertwined through any group of persons, rich or poor, gifted or talentless, aristocrat or peasant. Taliesin saw potential in bands of colour, good and evil according to their relationship with others, and the ribbon of light coiling round Arthur was the red of hearts’ blood, shading out to imperial purple.

Ignorant of what Taliesin saw so clearly when he looked at him, Arthur shook his head, showing his perplexity regarding the whole tangled question of the supernatural. Visibly confused, he put it aside to concentrate on more immediate matters.

‘Who’s coming this year, master? I’m looking forward to seeing Eamonn pen Bors again when he arrives. We had a wager when he left last autumn. He insisted that he wouldn’t grow in the intervening months, so I laid my sling down in the hope that he’d be wrong. I think I have the better of the wager, for his big feet are one sign he’s due for a growth spurt.’

‘Yes, Eamonn is coming, and he’s bringing his younger brother with him. Anyway, you young giant, who are you to speak about a growth spurt? How tall are you now?’

‘By the Roman measurements, six feet and four inches,’ Arthur replied with a grin. ‘But I haven’t grown for ages and my feet have stayed the same size for six months now. Mother is relieved, because my brothers already have a basket full of cast-off sandals that I’ve outgrown.’ Arthur stared down at his long and slender feet. ‘I’ll be glad to stop growing. I’m sick of being treated like some kind of freak.’

‘You’re not a freak, Arthur, just a superb specimen of manhood. Don’t be melodramatic! Your friends will be here soon and the skies are clear of rain clouds, which is surprising for the start of spring. Everything in our world is lovely, so you must learn to search for beauty. I remember well how your sire would pause on his horse to watch a dragonfly skip across a few inches of filthy water. He told me that the glories of the world almost stopped his heart sometimes, but it was the little things in nature that he loved most passionately.’ Taliesin shook his head to dispel a cherished memory. ‘You’d best set up your tent before the other lads arrive.’

As Taliesin turned brusquely away, Arthur felt as if he had been dismissed. The few minutes of shared intimacy seemed to have embarrassed the older man, and now he followed his show of affection by donning a cold, curt mask. What could Arthur do but obey this strange, other-worldly man who seemed to desire something of him, but steadfastly refused to tell him what it was.

As usual when he was puzzled or upset, Arthur went to his tutors for advice. Germanus and Lorcan were setting up their plain but comfortable tent on the margins of the meadow in company with the other mentors and servants of the princes who were already appearing at the encampment, wide with smiles and laughing over-loudly with the enthusiasm of young children on holiday.

Arthur thrust his head and shoulders into the opening of the tent and apologised for interrupting their work. Both men turned away from their unpacking, each with the same look of patient affection.

‘What’s worrying you, young Arthur? You’ve been looking forward to spring for months, and you’ve near to driven Arden crazy with your longing to be gone.’ Germanus carefully stored his armour in its fleece bag on a peg attached to the main tent pole, although Arthur couldn’t imagine any situation where the warrior would need full battle gear in this place. ‘I like to be prepared,’ Germanus answered his unspoken question. ‘Now, what’s stung you on the arse, boy? Out with it!’

‘Else we’ll never be unpacked,’ Lorcan added. Germanus scowled at the interruption, for Lorcan always liked to have the last word, and the two teachers had argued over this on many occasions, rather like a pair of old lovers. However, both men would have been mortally insulted if they were made aware of the appearance of their affectionate squabbling.

‘I’ve been speaking to Taliesin, and there are times when I don’t understand him at all. On occasion I seem to make him . . . well, angry . . . that’s the only description that feels right. He becomes so impatient with me that I can tell he wants to shake me. I’m almost certain that he has some sort of purpose planned for me, but when I indicate that I don’t know what it is he becomes even angrier. I
think
he intends me to follow in the steps of my father, although I’m younger and stronger than Artor was when Taliesin knew him. Am I right?’

‘Yes, but don’t be misled by his motives, for there’s nothing sexual in it,’ Lorcan replied casually, and bit into a huge apple with obvious pleasure. Germanus glared at his friend, and Lorcan turned on him. ‘What are you looking at, Germanus? You’ve gone all Saxon and stiff necked on me!’

‘You need to mind your tongue, Lorcan, especially when you’re talking about the actions of your betters. The High King never dishonoured Taliesin or vice versa, from what I’ve ever heard. And we would have heard it, because soldiers have bugger all to do but talk about their masters. Not that the High King found anything distasteful in the love that some men feel for others of their own sex. Master Bedwyr told me that King Artor regretted how little love existed in the world and how important it was to cherish true devotion wherever it was found. You’re confusing Arthur, you clod.’

‘I’m confusing him? You’re turning a simple sentence into a dissertation on human sexuality.’ Lorcan tossed the apple core at Germanus, who caught it easily because the Hibernian used little force and no anger in the throwing of it.

‘Father Lorcan, Germanus . . . I’m confused and you’re not helping. Are you saying that Taliesin was physically in love with King Artor? He’s certainly never made any advances of that nature to me. I’m not such a baby that I’d misunderstand him. It’s as if he becomes angry when I speak or act in ways that don’t conform to his idealisation of the High King.’

‘He loves the romance of what you are, Arthur,’ Lorcan answered carefully. ‘He was very young when he met his father’s friend, and the High King was already a living legend. He was entranced by the tragedy of Artor’s life and was full of hope for the future when he discovered that you’d been born. Even so, in the aftermath of the Battle of the Ford, he thought everything was lost. He was heartbroken when Artor died, for he loved him for his sense of duty and his courage. If you want to understand Taliesin’s soul, all you have to do is listen to him when he sings of the death of the king. Taliesin worships no god, for Artor represented everything that Taliesin judges to be fine in the human spirit. When you deviate from Taliesin’s view of his hero, he sees you as a traitor to the memory of Artor, so he’s angry. He can’t help it, so don’t be irritated with him. He’s a man who has lived with legends and has become one himself. His life has no meaning unless he can contribute to the formation of further legends, and he intends you to become the ultimate saviour of the west.’

‘He doesn’t want much, does he? Besides, I don’t think the west can be saved,’ Germanus added drily.

‘Are you suggesting the harper is a little mad?’ Arthur asked, his grey eyes wide. Taliesin was one of the great heroes of the age, a man who crossed borders at will and perpetuated the legends that had grown around the name of his famous master, Artor.

‘Most great men are a touch crazy, because they have wide-ranging dreams and see the future far more clearly than do ordinary men.’ Lorcan began to munch reflectively on another apple. ‘You shouldn’t blame Taliesin for his dreams concerning you. He cares about you deeply, and he knows you might be the key to the future of your people. He’d like you to live his way to achieve his aims, rather than your own. It’s wrong-headed thinking, I know . . . but you must try to understand his motivation.’

‘I get sick of being the one who has to understand,’ Arthur snapped sulkily. Germanus could tell from his tone of voice that Arthur really was tired of being used by powerful men, and the arms master’s sympathies went out to a boy who was yet to become a man, one whom everyone expected to act with calm reasoning and sensitivity to the needs of others when he was still only a stripling. There are special burdens placed on the tall and the strong, Germanus thought with a pang of memory for his own childhood experiences. He has needs too, and he only has fifteen years behind him. To break the mood, Germanus tossed an apple in Arthur’s direction, and then peered through the tent flap.

‘Eamonn has just arrived with a large retinue.’ Germanus’s eyes gleamed with impish humour. ‘And I do believe that the young man has gained a little height. Oh, and before I forget it, the Dobunni heir is here as well, although without his followers: apparently his train was so large it fell behind and won’t be here for a day or two yet.’ The arms master tossed another apple in Arthur’s direction. ‘That’s a prize for winning your wager. Now, get you gone, Arthur, and leave us old men to set our tent in order.’

Within days, the friendships and pleasures of life under canvas had re-established themselves as the young aristocrats of the southern tribes recommenced their backbreaking work on the Warriors’ Dyke. The toil was rendered more interesting by the building of two small circular stone huts to conceal the pulley system that would raise and lower the network that would block off the channel. Taliesin’s brother Rhys, a gifted blacksmith, was spending every daylight hour creating a series of graduated, interlocking chains that would complete the complicated structure. Arthur found a passion for the forge growing in him, and he took any opportunity to spend his free time running errands for Rhys and learning the rudiments of the blacksmith’s trade from the hands of a master.

Everything in Arthur’s life would have been exciting and fulfilling but for the presence of Mareddyd, heir of the wealthy Dobunni tribe and a natural stumbling block to any pleasant and friendly occasion. Mareddyd was now a warrior, and his blond hair was pulled back into plaits held together with ostentatious clips of gold. Although he had nominally come to the ditch to work, according to the scroll sent to Taliesin by his father Tewdwr, any bystander would have assumed he was there in a supervisory role.

Tewdwr had few illusions about the son who would one day be the ruler of the tribe that would benefit most from the construction of the Warriors’ Dyke. The kings of the Dobunni had always been odd, having succumbed to Roman ways very quickly after Caesar’s invasion. Leodegran, Wenhaver’s father, had been a notable epicure and was even rumoured to have been one of Morgan le Fey’s many amours. In contrast, his son Ifor, father of Tewdwr and grandfather of Mareddyd, was a man of iconoclastic leanings and simple tastes.

Ifor had originally been given the name of Fidius, Leodegran substituting the name of a Roman god for a Celtic title in order to glorify his son and heir. But Ifor refused to countenance such pretension and chose a good Celtic name to be his nomen. Ifor’s dislike for all things Roman and epicurean had not declined during a long and stern life. Now in decline, Ifor saw in his grandson the same flamboyance, greed and amorality that had infected Leodegran and Wenhaver. Tewdwr feared that unless Mareddyd was given a lesson in manners, the Dobunni king might cut them both, father and son, out of the succession before he died. Thus Tewdwr’s scroll to Taliesin begged that his son be forced to perform his share of the dirty work, and punished if he became a disciplinary problem.

From the first night at the encampment, the Dobunni heir flaunted his status as a fully fledged man. He was seventeen and of a good height, standing over five feet ten inches. His hair grew straight upward from the scalp so that his plaits refused to fall neatly from the crown of his head, and he made up for this small deficiency by binding the end of each braid with a small golden clip set with a river pearl. To risk such pretty baubles in the mud of the Warriors’ Dyke seemed foolish to everyone but himself.