M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (47 page)

Taliesin paused momentarily. ‘Even now, I wish I could undo what my brother and I have done. Better we should fight and die with clean, honourable hands than live with the certain knowledge that the weapon we provided came from the realms of darkness.’

The tent was silent except for the noise of a freshening breeze as it shrieked through the trees around the picket lines. It sounded as if the Mother was keening already for her dead sons.

‘I wish with all my heart that Bran did not know that Marine Fire exists, for I don’t fully trust him,’ Taliesin added. ‘But he might easily be the last ruler of our tribe, and this night could be our last time together, so we must be honest with each other. At least Arthur’s enemy, Mareddyd, will not be defending the ditch, so we don’t have to fear treachery from that direction.’

‘Mareddyd? The Dobunni brat? That upstart is one of the cavalrymen in my troop. What’s his argument with my boy?’

Arthur realised that the call to war had come before he returned to Arden from the Warriors’ Dyke, so Bedwyr was still ignorant of his disagreement with Mareddyd. While Taliesin described Arthur’s close call at Mareddyd’s hands Bedwyr insisted on viewing the scar, and both Taliesin and Arthur could tell that the mood of the Cornovii had not improved.

‘If Bran knew that the Dobunni heir was Arthur’s sworn enemy, then my son would probably find that young man standing beside him in battle,’ Bedwyr growled. ‘Or, worse yet, defending the lines behind him. Bran may be considered by some of our tribe to be a fine man, but Artor had excellent reasons for keeping his son’s birth a secret from his own kinfolk. Few men are free of the sin of envy and Bran feels its sting no matter how he tries to like my boy. When Arthur was barely seven years old, Bran perceived him as a threat to the realm. Since then, Arthur has grown into the image of my dead master. At times, in tricks of the light, I almost fall to my knees before you, boy, so greatly do you resemble your birth father. But if Bran knew you as I do, he would have no fear of you. The violence of Uther Pendragon that overshadowed Artor’s whole life is well buried inside you, for your mother’s love has driven any taints in your heritage far away. My Elayne could make nothing that was wicked or false, so Bran should hold you close as one of the few men who will support him through thick and thin.’

Bedwyr gnawed at one fingernail and his hooded eyes gleamed with a slow red anger. ‘But men always judge others by what they see in themselves. Bran is a good ruler and a cautious man, but like his grandfather and his great-grandfather before him he has a ruthless streak that will always sweep obstacles out of his path. Artor wasn’t always fair or good. Those men at fair Melandra who saw Artor’s punishment meted out on the men who murdered his friend and mentor King Luka observed the worst excesses of the Dragon King. That monstrous rage lives within Bran as well – but in our king it’s cold, icy and considered. Bran will not weep if Arthur should perish tomorrow. In fact, he is making my boy a target by insisting that he should wear that bright red cloak you brought, Taliesin. A clever ruse! Praise God that Cerdic has very few bowmen with him, else Arthur would be turned into a pincushion as soon as the battle begins.’

Taliesin was aghast at the message inherent in this statement. ‘Are you suggesting that our king would deliberately kill his kinsman out of jealousy?’

‘Yes,’ Bedwyr replied harshly. ‘He has no love for my boy, for he fears that Arthur is too much like his birth father. Envy devours him.’

‘But . . . but why?’ Arthur asked, and Bedwyr’s heart ached for Arthur’s sudden education in weakness. The understanding of family inheritance was a hard lesson to learn, even for grown men with few illusions. Arthur loved his kinfolk without reservation and it had never occurred to him that they might not feel the same affection for him.

‘He fears you might want his crown or, worse still, declare your intention to be crowned High King of the Britons. Other men would follow you, simply because of your appearance.’ Bedwyr was brutally frank, but he knew that Arthur must be warned of the danger in which he had been placed.

‘It’s a good thing I have Gareth, Germanus and Lorcan to guard my back.’ Arthur smiled, although he’d really have preferred to cover his face with the cowl of the fine red cloak and weep.

Taliesin embraced Arthur and whispered words of affection and hope into his ear, then left father and son to their private conversation.

‘Does Bran really hate me, Father? I couldn’t raise my hand against him, even now when you say he’d prefer it if I was dead. Have I done anything to antagonise him? Lorcan says I rattle out the first thing that pops into my head without thinking – is that it? Surely Bran knows I’d never want to steal his throne.’

‘You’re so like your mother, Arthur.’ Bedwyr cupped Arthur’s face with his right hand and felt the firm, smooth flesh and warm curls of the handsome, vigorous young man who still scarcely needed to shave. ‘Like my Elayne, you see the good in others first. It’s to be hoped that you won’t become bitter, because you will meet many people who are false. I can assure you that most souls are good at heart most of the time, or at least they try to be. We are betrayed again and again in this life, but when we look for kindness it’s there as well. Think of the people you’ve met in the past year. This Mareddyd appears to be a vicious bully, but how many other boys did you encounter who were like him?’

‘Aye. I understand what you’re saying, Father. Bran is just one member of the family, and I shouldn’t judge the whole by one of the parts.’ Arthur laughed. ‘In fact, I could have been guilty of all the treasons he suspects without raising a hand in rebellion.’ He told his father about Cadwy Scarface’s misguided offer, careful to word his description of Scarface’s pleas so that Bedwyr would not be left with the impression that Cadwy could still be a traitor, and after a glass of wine, coupled with several pieces of hard cheese from Elayne’s cows and a fresh apple from the Villa Poppinidii, Bedwyr’s temper finally settled. But the old man still had other matters to share with his son, and Arthur was touched when he brought forward a sword-shaped package wrapped in coarse cloth.

‘You’ll not have the opportunity to enjoy the feast I would have liked to give when you became a man, nor will your mother have the pleasure of plaiting your warrior’s locks for the first time, but you must at least have your own sword in this coming battle, one that celebrates your reaching the responsibility and honour of manhood, and winning the warrior’s mantle. This blade was prepared for the day when you would eventually reach manhood, and your mother and I are proud to present you with the best weapon that your family can provide.’

Bedwyr unwrapped the package while Arthur’s eyes grew wider and wider – and began to moisten with tears. The young man’s emotions were stretched this way and that, so that he hardly knew what to think any more. But he was certain of one thing: his parents loved him. Bedwyr’s gnarled hands were trembling as they unwrapped the sword and then, surreptitiously, the old man wiped his eyes with his forearm when he thought Arthur wasn’t looking.

‘Elayne insisted that I find the best swordsmith in the west to create a weapon that was fitting for our eldest son. I found the best: Rhys ap Myrddion, who made this blade especially for you. We named it Oakheart, a plain name perhaps, but wherever you travel with it you will remember Arden, and us, with love.’

Then Bedwyr handed the sword to his son.

Oakheart was plain, to match its name. The blade was very long, as befitted a weapon made for a tall man. Only its name, inscribed in Latin on the base of the blade, provided any decoration, but the metal glowed almost blue in the strange, rippling light.

‘Rhys said this iron came from the stars and is stronger than any other blade he has made. He kept the ore for a long time, until he had a project worthy of a gift from the gods. Furthermore, he used all his skills to fashion it and would accept no payment for its making, saying that you had been useful on the bellows – whatever that means,’ Bedwyr told his son.

The tang slid sweetly and without seam into a short, blunt iron hand guard that possessed no cross-piece or decoration. The hilt itself was bound with layer on layer of fish skin, sealed with glue made from deer hide and bone, a process that was repeated again and again to form a surface that was hard wearing and beautiful as well as easy to hold, whether wet or dry. A single cabochon pearl was set into the end of the hilt, a strange, misshapen thing like a blinded or diseased eye. It should have been malevolent, but Bedwyr explained that the pearl was from Arthur’s mother and asserted that Lady Elayne would give nothing that was soiled or evil.

‘King Artor once wore this pearl on his thumb. He told me it had an ugly history and I believed him, for it had been soaked in blood on several occasions during the many years of his reign. When his grandsons Balyn and Balan died so horribly, your mother washed their bodies and gave them an honourable and dignified cleansing. King Artor was moved to give her this ring, not out of love, but out of gratitude for her service to his family. Although I was very angry with Artor when I discovered that Elayne was bearing his child, and would have thrown the ring back in his face, he told me that Elayne’s purity of spirit and greatness of heart would cleanse the demons in his family’s blood. I think he meant that you, too, would be born clean of the darkness that he had always recognised in himself.’

‘What can I say, Father? The sword is beautiful, simple and pure. I can’t find the words to express my love and respect for both of you. If I’m fated to die tomorrow, I could not have wished for a better father. I promise you that your name will not be sullied by any action of mine in tomorrow’s combat. I am Arthur ap Bedwyr until I die, and proudly so. Let Bran and his ambitions go to Hades. Living in Arden is more than enough for me and I swear that I will fight tooth and nail to ensure that it remains Cornovii so that your birth son Lasair can hold it in your stead when you eventually go to the fires.’

‘I will hold you to that, boy. Damn you, son, but you’ve made this soft-headed old man weep. Oh, well, tomorrow will be a trial for all of us, but tonight I am as happy as any man could be. Bran is a fool, and Artor may have sensed it, although I saw no sign of it. Poor exercise of power is a failing that the best rulers can succumb to, but I have no fears for you. You are what your birth father should have been had he been raised with love. Go with God, and let this old man try to pray – if I can remember any of the words.’

When Arthur chuckled to hear his father admit that he might have recourse to the Christian God at such a great age, Bedwyr chortled as well. Both men were soon laughing like loons, until the cavalrymen in the nearest tents shouted for quiet and some of the horses began to whicker nervously along the picket lines.

‘Waiting is the worst part of any battle,’ Germanus whispered quietly through the darkness. Three hundred men were crouching in three rows with one hundred men in each, with their tall, rectangular shields lying beside them as they huddled in position in the darkness. On the mound behind them, every archer in Bran’s army was waiting expectantly under the command of Pelles and his two sons, Pincus and Peredor, the elder of whom was named for the legendary family patriarch, now long dead, a one-eyed scoundrel who had fought in a group of mercenaries led by King Artor. The High King had always referred to them as the Scum. Now that Pelles had nothing to prove, he had called his son by the common Roman name used by those long-dead warriors.

Dawn was still far away. To the untrained eye the Britons were simply tussocks of grass covered with a rime of heavy frost, and a casual observer from the direction of Calleva or the Saxon lines would never spot the band of men who waited before the ditch, their faces muffled to prevent even their warm breath from betraying their presence in the freezing morning air.

‘We’re going to look fucking stupid if the Saxons don’t attack,’ Germanus whispered from Arthur’s right side.

‘They’ll come. See, Arthur? There’s a light coming from Calleva, near the gate,’ Gareth hissed from his master’s left. ‘Someone inside the walls has mounted the palisades and is holding a lantern to warn us. It probably means the Jutes are moving.’

Word came down the line barely ten minutes later to that effect. Absent from the fray, the king of the Atrebates sent an inspiring message by courier that all true Britons should fight to the death for the honour of their tribe on this auspicious day.

Germanus grunted his disgust. ‘Since when did good British kings leave their men to fight and die without their leader at their head? Bedwyr plans to ride with his cavalry, as do Scarface and Ector. At least they have sufficient honour to risk their lives with their warriors. Where are the tribal kings who should be here? I’ve no doubt they’ll be safely at Bran’s command post.’

‘King Artor would writhe with shame if he were to see what has become of his kings and their honour,’ Gareth agreed scornfully. ‘He always led the Britons into battle from the front where he could be seen. Always! And my father was always there, right behind him.’

‘We are living in brutal times when honour is becoming nothing more than a dusty memory blowing away in the winds of time,’ Arthur said, rather embarrassed by his own poetic metaphor. ‘The Jutes and the Saxons are our immediate problem. I am happy to trust my life to the men who’ll stand with me against the enemy. In fact, I’m proud to stand with them.’

Around him, other warriors had heard the conversation. And those who survived the coming battle would repeat it many times in the months ahead, for a glimmer of glory would shimmer over references to the battle of Calleva even considering the horrors of Marine Fire. Men would be proud to boast that they had stood with Bedwyr’s son before the mound and the ditch – and that they had bravely held the line, one of only three hundred, against a thousand enemy warriors.

‘So the Jutes really are going to attack in the darkness,’ Arthur murmured. ‘Their tactics are different from those of the Saxons, and I don’t believe those differences will work in our favour.’