M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (35 page)

‘I’m not unreasonable, Arthur, and some of our disagreements in the past have been my fault. There, I admit it! We’re like two bantam cocks in the same hen house. But I can afford to be magnanimous, now that I’m a man and a warrior. Since it’s the reason for our disagreement, I have decided that you should hand your trifling knife over to me. I will then consider all matters of honour between us to have been settled. You say that the weapon is an heirloom, so I will ensure that it is kept safe in my house. In point of fact, it will be safer there than in yours, for you have put it at risk through a silly bout of boasting. But I require your acknowledgement of my magnanimity, given the insults that were directed at me. I suggest you consider your options, and advise me of your decision after everyone has finished their meal.’

Arthur flushed red along both cheekbones, until his pale eyes seemed to stare out at the world from a narrow mask of white skin. Rage flooded his body so potently that he could barely speak, aware that he had no room to manoeuvre in this nasty exchange. To the listening warriors and young aristocrats Mareddyd’s terms seemed reasonable and Arthur knew it. But the audience wasn’t aware of the significance of Artor’s Dragon Knife, which had disappeared at his death and was now largely forgotten. If Arthur bared the knife now, he risked shaming his mother and drawing attention to her relationship with the late High King. But if he didn’t show the knife to the audience, he risked losing his family’s most precious heirloom as well as the goodwill of his peers.

Ignorant of his enemy’s dilemma but confident that he would capitulate, Mareddyd had turned away to show his contempt. Only the unmoving shadow of Arthur’s tall form warned the Dobunni warrior that Arthur had stayed rooted to the spot. He turned back to face the younger man.

‘No,’ Arthur stated flatly. His voice offered no hope of eventual capitulation.

Somehow, Mareddyd had managed to impress some of the watching warriors. His calm, reasonable tone of voice, even the length of time he allowed Arthur to think about his demands, sounded generous. Even Germanus was impressed with the young warrior’s words, although he knew that the Dragon Knife could never be handed over to a mere prince of the realm. Arthur’s single word of refusal was curt, abrupt and threatening.

‘I will not relinquish the Dragon Knife to anyone. This weapon was passed to Bedwyr by King Artor, High King of the Britons, at his death. The Dragon Knife was his to give and Bedwyr has been magnanimous in allowing me to train with it. I proved my childishness through boasting, for which I apologise again to everyone involved, but I cannot give up a weapon that does not belong to me. As I have shamed my family’s greatest link with the late High King, I believe I must demonstrate that Mareddyd’s demand to own this knife is deliberately designed to humiliate and enrage me at a time when he knows that I cannot comply with his wishes, even in defence of my honour. Therefore, behold the Dragon Knife of King Artor, High King of the Britons.’

With an innate sense of drama, Arthur rolled back the dark fabric to reveal the golden hilt and long blade. He rested the blade on his palms and held it at shoulder height, while turning so that every person in the open tent could see the glorious weapon in the fading sunlight.

A collective exhalation of breath told Mareddyd that Arthur had eluded him once again – by his simple use of the truth. No single man could ever again own the Dragon Knife, so it couldn’t be given away, lost or allowed to be stolen.

Arthur turned to face Mareddyd again. ‘You have been very generous towards me, lord, and you have the right to heap any form of indignity upon me.’ Arthur bowed his head, accepting that Mareddyd could demand anything else of him that he chose. But Arthur had won the approval of a large slice of the crowd through his honesty, and Mareddyd knew it. The Dobunni heir’s stomach roiled sourly with his undigested meal and he longed to beat the submissive face of his enemy into a bloody paste.

‘Then I demand satisfaction, man to man and face to face,’ he shouted to the assembled audience. ‘This Cornovii is unnaturally tall for his years so there is no advantage on my side, although I am the older. In fact, he has the longer reach and the stronger thighs. I will trust to Mithras to determine the outcome of this combat. The warriors’ god will see through this boy’s pretensions of nobility and expose him for the charlatan he is.’

‘I will accept any terms determined by Lord Mareddyd, but I ask to fight without weapons. As I have said, I own that the fault for this breach of good fellowship is mine because of the jealousy generated by his fine sword.’

Young men love a fist fight and this audience was no different in the pleasure it derived from the prospect of a test of physical strength without any fear of serious injury to either combatant. Within a moment, the tent floor was cleared of trestle tables and long plank seating. The central area of green sward, not yet churned to mud by the movement of many feet, was swept clean, and all dropped pottery, wooden platters and any other detritus that could cause harm was picked up and removed. Germanus took the Dragon Knife and rewrapped it out of sight of avaricious eyes, while Lorcan helped Arthur out of his leather jerkin and stout work sandals, for Germanus had already decided that having a good footing on the slippery grass would be more important than the odd broken toe caused by Mareddyd’s heavy boots.

Several enterprising warriors were taking wagers on the outcome of the bout and when Taliesin arrived, intent on stopping the fisticuffs, he realised that he would find it easier to clean their makeshift stables with his mother’s eating spoon than to stop what had now turned into unexpected entertainment. Trusting that Arthur wouldn’t be hurt too badly, Taliesin laid down some rudimentary rules and instructed the captain of the dyke’s guard to maintain order within the makeshift fighting circle.

And so the two combatants prepared for battle after the Cornish captain insisted that each youth bare his sleeves to ensure there were no hidden weapons. ‘For you are supposed to be gentlemen, sirs,’ he warned with a wide grin. ‘Remember, no honourable man bites another man’s balls, or tries to gouge out his eyes, but there be no further rules to worry you. Fight fair, and we’ll let the gods decide.’ Then the elderly warrior winked and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘I’d be obliged if my choice would win, as well. I’ve a tidy sum riding on one of you, though it wouldn’t be fair to say which one. So be at it, young men, until I call for a break.’

Niceties were in short supply in tribal fisticuffs, although their Roman masters had raised the brutal sport to the level of sanctioned, skilful murder. Neither Mareddyd nor Arthur had received any formal training in the sport, as it was not deemed suitable for aristocrats. Mareddyd had watched a number of contests, bloody, drawn-out affairs that had been conducted between professionals for coin, but Arthur had never seen a fistfight in his life, other than the odd scuffle between warriors during drunken sprees. However, Lorcan had received some unusual training in the monasteries of Rome where the use of personal defensive measures was condoned, and Germanus had also given his young charge some preliminary instruction in how to fight an opponent after being disarmed.

Lorcan’s simple moves required practice and involved the knowledge of pressure points on blood vessels that could be used to incapacitate an enemy. He had shown Arthur how the ball of his palm, or the calloused outer edge of the hand, could be used to render someone unconscious with relatively little effort. There was no doubt that Arthur, with his superior height and excellent tutors, should have enjoyed an edge over his opponent, but Mareddyd outdid him in one thing.

He hated – and he hated hard!

From the moment the Cornish captain stepped aside, the Dobunni prince went for Arthur with the express intention of causing him permanent bodily harm.

He struck his opponent as soon as Arthur’s hand began to drop from the customary handshake at the start of the bout. The swift blow to the face blinded Arthur for a moment, and the prince wound his fist in his enemy’s curly hair and proceeded to pound the side of his head with his fist. Arthur would have lost at this point but for his experience of dealing with drunken warriors. Trusting that his skull was thicker than Mareddyd’s, he head-butted the other boy, using the heavy bone of his forehead as a ram. The skin across Mareddyd’s eyebrows split open like an over-ripe melon, exposing the red pulpy flesh inside.

Both boys fell onto the grass while their supporters screamed for them to regain their feet. With little skill but much enthusiasm, the pair rolled, kicked, bit and thumped each other whenever any uncovered flesh appeared. When Arthur managed to drag himself to his feet, Mareddyd rose with him because the Dobunni heir had wound his legs round Arthur’s hips and was pummelling him crazily on the back. When Arthur shook him off with the strength of a bear, Mareddyd was sent careering across the floor before he stopped his wild tumble by winding an arm round a tent pole.

And so the conflict would have continued, half ferocity and half farce, had the Dobunni prince not lost his temper. Arthur’s reasonableness had always eroded Mareddyd’s nerves like pieces of glass grinding together, and now its effect on the young warrior was volcanic.

‘This is stupid, Mareddyd,’ Arthur panted as they circled each other. He was bleeding from a swollen lip and a split along his hair line but, so far, his golden looks were still undamaged. Likewise, except for the cut on his brow, a thick ear and a bent nose, Mareddyd’s only serious injury was a mortal wound to his pride. ‘I’ll apologise to you again if that will stop this nonsense. Think, Mareddyd. We’re only going to hurt each other for no purpose if we continue. We should be killing Saxons.’

‘I won’t be surrendering to you – ever,’ Mareddyd screamed, and Arthur understood that he must finish this fight quickly before something tragic happened.

He feinted with each hand and then moved forward to pin and lift Mareddyd like the shaggy golden bear he resembled. Consolidating his grip, he began to squeeze. The Dobunni prince realised he had to break free of those iron-hard arms or he would be forced to surrender. But Arthur had spent years pitting his strength against the hard muscle of Germanus, a full-grown man. Nothing short of death would break his hold on Mareddyd.

Mareddyd slid his right hand downwards towards his foot, even as his other hand clawed at Arthur’s eyes. Arthur automatically responded to the tearing fingernails by closing the lids to protect his eyeballs, and Mareddyd managed to reach back and down and pull out a curved, narrow knife that had been secreted in his boot.

‘Knife!’ Germanus’s roar rose above the cheers and jeers of the crowd, most of whom had not yet seen the narrow, glittering weapon.

Germanus had survived the worst of encounters in the lands of the Franks and the Goths. While he could never hope to teach Arthur how to counter even half the dirty tricks he had seen during his wanderings, certain rules could be learned that would help a warrior in many desperate situations. He had taught Arthur that the moment he heard the word
knife
he must remove himself from proximity to his attacker and keep him at greater than arm’s length.

Both eyes leaking tears and blood, half-blinded by Mareddyd’s raking nails, Arthur reacted immediately. With reflexes honed by years of practice, he tossed the Dobunni prince like a piece of kindling clear across the tent the moment he heard his swordmaster’s warning.

But he was already too late. Warriors such as Mareddyd trained as assiduously as Arthur to react instinctively when under threat, and he contrived to slash across Arthur’s abdomen even as he began his involuntary flight across the tent. The captain of the guard stamped hard on the weapon before it could be used again.

Arthur felt the sting across his belly: not particularly painful, but sharp. Through streaming eyes, he looked down and saw a long slash through the leather trews that were laced into place on the outside of each leg. The brown leather had been neatly split from his hipbone across the full width of the body, although only a sluggish trickle of blood was staining the scuffed, worn edges. His heart in his mouth, Arthur used both hands to explore the wound while Germanus and Lorcan exploded out of the crowd to reach their charge. No, he hadn’t been disembowelled – and yes, his manhood was still in place.

‘What the hell have you done to yourself this time, boyo? Are you determined that your father should behead both of us because you’ve gotten yourself killed?’ Lorcan’s voice was harsh, but his hands were gentle as he forced Arthur to sit on the churned grass. ‘Do you have a competent healer in this place, Taliesin?’ Only the stridency that lay under Lorcan’s even voice warned those who knew him that the Hibernian was beginning to panic. Serious abdominal wounds were invariably fatal.

‘He’s already coming,’ Taliesin answered in a tense voice. Around him, the audience quietened as they recognised his obvious concern. ‘My brother is the only healer here, but he was trained by my father. Arthur could not ask for a better.’

Germanus grumbled something inaudible within his large moustache as he used his knife to cut the side lacings of Arthur’s trews. The leather fell apart and revealed a wound that was obviously meant to kill. The point of Mareddyd’s blade had entered Arthur’s body on the edge of the hipbone in a long sweeping motion designed to gut him like a staked deer. Fortunately, the blade had barely penetrated the skin as Arthur tossed Mareddyd away from him, but although the wound was superficial it presented considerable danger because of the threat of infection. Even the untried boys present understood the peril that Arthur faced, and realised that something shocking and dishonourable had taken place.

‘Let’s have a look at this wound of yours, young Arthur,’ a rich, seductive voice demanded. Despite his reluctance, Arthur bared the sluggishly bleeding wound for the second time. ‘Well, well, young man, you’ve clearly gained the sympathy of the goddess. In this part of the body the major organs are close to the skin, but you’re scarcely bleeding, which tells me that nothing vital has been breached. Fortuna obviously has a purpose for you.’