M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (45 page)

Arthur’s skin was paper-white, his eyes flat and deadly like pale holes burned into his skull. Behind him, Gareth readied himself for trouble and Idris heard the boy slide his sword up and down in its scabbard to check that it wouldn’t jam. Only the greatest exercise of will prevented him from drawing his own weapon in response, an action which would have precipitated disaster for them all.

‘I’ll not raise my hand against King Bran and Lord Ector, who have given their youth and their lives to protect the tribes. Nor would I usurp the position of the rightful rulers of this land even if your deductions were true. I’ll not be King Bran’s Modred! Do you hear me, Idris? I should separate your head from your torso for even suggesting that I could be a traitor.’

Idris examined Arthur’s face and decided that the young man spoke in deadly earnest. He knew he must repair the damage Cadwy had wrought out of love for the British people, but how could he convince this fierce young man that his foster-father harboured no traitorous intent? He fell to his knees and bared his neck in supplication.

‘You may kill me if you believe I suggested treason, master. Cadwy wished with his whole heart to find a tool that would assist King Bran to defeat the Saxons. He is no traitor, although I can understand how it must have sounded to a stranger. You don’t know Cadwy, but he worshipped your father, and would die happy if he could see you lead the Britons. Please try to imagine how he feels. He stood with Modred and so was partially responsible for the death of the High King and a thousand tribal warriors who cannot be replaced in this time of need. He looks at the ever-expanding gains made by the Saxons and his guilt is more than he can bear.’

Arthur paced, his muscles tensed and pumped for action in this trial by fire. More easily than he had expected, he resisted the temptation to strike and waited for Idris to go on.

‘My foster-father is not a wise man, but he is good,’ Idris continued. ‘I tried to explain to him how his petition would sound, but he couldn’t understand what I meant. He has no treason in his heart, only a longing for a chance to redeem the errors committed in his past.’

Gradually, Arthur’s breathing and his frenetic pacing began to slow. Germanus came to the tent flap to check on the commotion, but Arthur waved him away. The fewer men who knew about Cadwy’s foolish offer the better, even men he trusted as implicitly as his tutors.

‘We’ll speak no more of this matter, Idris. Get on your feet, man, for I’m unlikely to behead you after you’ve eaten at my table. You can tell your foster-father that I bear him no ill-will for his lack of understanding of my character. I am Bran’s man and Ector’s man until my death. Even if I were Artor’s natural son, he could not have wished me to be High King. You must understand, Idris ap Cadwy, that I’ll not be used by anyone, even men who have given their lives to the cause of the Britons. Finally, I beg that you never discuss this matter with anyone, else great harm might come to innocent men and women.’

‘Thank you for your understanding, Lord Arthur. I’ll persuade my foster-father to be prudent, but don’t be surprised if he wishes to offer his fealty and his apologies in person.’

‘If Cadwy Scarface approaches me, I’ll not spurn him or make him feel any guilt. But leave him in no doubt where my loyalty lies.’

So Arthur passed an unexpected and disconcerting test of honour. Cadwy Scarface sought Arthur out on the morrow and embarrassed the young man by lying before him face down and full length in the mud with his arms outstretched in a cruciform position. Passing warriors stared at the odd tableau and the tall young Cornovii gained an extra gloss of reputation because of it.

‘I’ll remain your man until my death, Arthur,’ the old man murmured. ‘If the gods take pity on me, I will win the opportunity to die well in this campaign. Forgive me, Arthur, for I should have guessed that you would be a man of unimpeachable honour, one fit to be the son of the greatest man I have ever known.’

The old man was broken, and tears streamed down his scarred face in such profusion that Arthur took pity on him. ‘All is forgiven, Cadwy, and I will pray that you join your master soon. Now stand on your feet like the true man you are, knowing that all is forgiven.’

But Arthur could not forget his test of integrity as he drifted off to sleep for the second night in the bivouac.

And, although the Britons were not hiding, the Saxons still did not come.

CHAPTER XIV

THE LAST MAN STANDING

Man, false man, smiling, destructive man.

Nathaniel Lee,
Theodosius
, Act 3, Scene 2

Three days passed while nothing in particular actually happened. Inside Calleva Atrebatum, the citizens looked down at the Saxon hordes, busily digging at the base of the eastern gate, and dropped hot pitch and boiling water on them. The activity was much the same on the main western wall, but there the besieged townsfolk could see the Britons in the relieving force as they worked like ants along their own trench, now clearly in two sections divided by a narrow causeway leading to a gap in the wall behind it. The spirits of the townsfolk were cheered by the energy of their allies. A few embittered persons complained that both Saxon and British forces seemed to be settling in for the winter but, largely, a celebratory mood fuelled optimism in the population of old Calleva.

For those with eyes to see, the Saxons showed less efficiency than the Britons in the complicated logistics of a protracted siege. Latrines were rudimentary, and should the months stretch out for too long, then disease would kill more Saxons than Bran’s warriors. Saxons disliked sieges because they demanded patience rather than the glorious red work of hand to hand combat. There was little glory in starving an enemy to death.

In the abandoned amphitheatre outside the city walls, Havar was in the midst of a Jute tantrum, an awesome sight when the warrior in question was immensely tall, broad and prone to shouting to win any conversational disagreement.

‘We should have scoured out those little black rats two days ago,’ he roared, one arm pointing at Calleva and the British camp beyond it. ‘Fighting men do not sit on their thumbs waiting for the gods to give them the victory.’

‘What would you have me do, Havar?’ Cerdic responded in a dangerously quiet voice, while his personal guard stood straighter with malignant red glints in their eyes.

‘We outnumber the bastards and they know it. Attack them and they’ll run like rats. Calleva will then be forced to surrender.’

Cynric smiled from behind one hand while his father stared blandly into Havar’s congested face. ‘And what strategy would you pursue, Havar? You should remember that this Bran, the king of the Ordovice tribe, is a kinsman of the Red Dragon who used Roman tactics against us for thirty-odd years. We never defeated him in all that time, regardless of how much we outnumbered his forces.’

‘So that’s why we’re cowering here? You’re afraid we’ll lose the coming battle because Bran’s a kinsman of the Dragon King? Artor’s dead and rotting. You don’t need to be frightened of a ghost.’ Havar’s tone was insulting, and Cynric’s face was stripped of its condescending smile. ‘No matter how many times the Dragon King beat you in the past, he’s just a collection of old bones. If we attack in force, the Britons will break.’

‘I considered attacking them as soon as their relief column started digging their ditch, but we didn’t have the time to marshal all our troops before they were securely behind their wall. I’m left wondering now what they have in store for us. Everything I’ve heard of this Bran suggests that he’s a cautious planner but an audacious fighter, which is a dangerous combination. I have survived as your bretwalda in this land because I also remain cautious, and I use the enemy’s skills against him. Calleva is just one miserable city. We fight for larger stakes: for Venta Belgarum, and the mortal blow to the Britons when the city falls.’

Cerdic coughed. It was a hacking and painful sound, but the Saxon king hadn’t finished.

‘Calleva Atrebatum is as nothing in the scheme of things. I’d wait for a year outside this fleapit if it gave us the time for our troops from Noviomagus and Vectis to take Portus Adurni. The Britons believe that Venta Belgarum is special because those Roman fucks, Ambrosius and Uther Pendragon, used it as their capital and the Dragon King came to power within its walls. Think, Havar, for once in your life. Calleva is just a ruse, a feint, but it’s one that seems more important than it really is because of the roads that it commands. In fact we can do without the roads, and when Portus Adurni, Magnus Portus and Venta Belgarum fall, it won’t matter a shit what happens to Calleva Atrebatum.’

‘But the Britons grow stronger with every day we wait. They were joined by a contingent from Venta Belgarum today. The gods know those cringing cowards have been hiding behind their walls for months since you claimed Vectis, but now they grow over-bold, and are crowing that their Red Dragon king has come again to save them.’

‘You’re still not listening, Havar,’ Cerdic answered with a sigh. ‘You’re thinking with your balls rather than your brain. Let the British make a stand here and there’ll be fewer warriors for us to fight at Venta Belgarum. I don’t care if they dig in here for months, although I’d not be overly happy about it. I’m prepared to lose half my forces at Calleva if it keeps the British tribes focused on this minor town rather than Venta Belgarum, where the real battle will take place. The Britons move like the wind. They’re not rats, Havar. They’re not cowards and they’re definitely not stupid, although you seem to think that their brains are measured by body size. They’ll be the death of you if you continue to underestimate them.

‘And what of this Red Dragon we keep hearing about? Bran’s spies are using our own fears and superstitions against us. They know the effect of the Dragon King on our thinking. By Baldur’s balls, the man was unstoppable, and I thank the gods he’s dead. But a number of his advisers are still alive, and Bran is a kinsman so something of the dragon lives on in him. If they’ve found yet another bastard they can use I’ll be worried, mainly because it’s difficult to defeat an idea. The ghost of King Artor of the Britons could become both an idealisation and a rallying call. If this Red Dragon truly exists, Havar, you have my permission to kill him by any means at your disposal. I don’t want a new hero appearing out of the ruins of Calleva Atrebatum or Venta Belgarum to give the tribal kings someone new to rally around. They still won’t win, because we possess too many of Britain’s broad acres now, but it would slow us down, and we’d only inherit smoking ruins. So tell me: what have you heard about this Red Dragon?’

‘According to one of their scouts who was caught behind our picket lines, a fresh young King Artor has come to Calleva to set the city free. You know better than I do how true these rumours can sound, but there’s no doubt that a very tall warrior has been seen working on the ditch they’ve been digging. Apparently he’s about my height, which makes him extremely tall for one of the Britons.’ Havar paused. ‘Their scout died, but he was defiant to the end. I agree with you – I don’t think we can afford to allow any rumours about a new Red Dragon to grow. I will kill this man personally, if necessary.’

Cerdic gazed into Havar’s eyes to judge the Jute’s worth. ‘I will give you one thousand warriors to support the two hundred warriors who make up your personal guard. You can attack in the darkness just before dawn. As the Britons have chosen to mass their troops only on the western side of the city, I will move the bulk of my men there to intimidate the Celts as they attempt to repel your attack. The reserves can remain beside the west gate and watch your victory. They need only be pressed into service when you have breached the ditch. Does my strategy please you, Havar?’

That evening, the itch was screaming a warning at the back of Arthur’s brain. Fortunately, he was saved from the embarrassment of having to explain his fears to King Bran when an indiscreet Saxon scout strayed too close to the picket lines. Bedwyr brought the hobbled, spitting captive to Bran’s tent, with the added intelligence that the Saxon scouts watching the cavalry were all moving closer, probably to make accurate assessments of the strength of the British forces.