M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (52 page)

‘You are speaking treason, Arthur,’ Gareth interrupted, his eyes jerking towards the temporary platform where Bran was surrounded by his captains. ‘So be silent.’

‘Treason?’ Arthur shouted, and every man on the dais turned his head in their direction. ‘Treason is standing here shamelessly and watching while murder is done.’

Then he turned on his heel and trotted down the mound to reach his quarters in the midst of the sea of tents. When Germanus and Gareth arrived later, they found him asleep on his pallet, still in his armour and entangled in the wool coverlet. He thrashed in his sleep, cursing invisible enemies and thrusting at them with nerveless, fumbling hands.

Germanus pointed at Arthur’s shield, sword and knife where they lay on the camp table in the afternoon light.

‘He has cleaned his weapons. Although he was heartsick with shame, he still cleaned his weapons. Whether Bran wanted to kill him or not, he has created a
weapon
that he can never control again. He has been a prize fool.’

‘Then Arthur will have an even greater need to keep us by his side,’ Gareth responded drily. ‘Crucibles don’t only melt metals so that we can skim off the dross. Today, Arthur was tested in a crucible of fire. I cannot guess what is to become of him, but I will follow him anyway.’

‘And I,’ Germanus sighed. ‘To death, if need be. The good God has a purpose for Arthur, so we must ensure that his promise is fulfilled.’

‘Aye,’ whispered Gareth, and his young eyes were very old.

CHAPTER XVI

THE WHEEL TURNS

Hic iacet Arthurus, rex quondam rexque futurus.

(Here lies Arthur, the once and future king.)

Thomas Malory,
Le Morte d’Arthur

Bells rang loudly and raggedly with the arrival of morning. The basilica in Calleva Atrebatum celebrated the town’s deliverance in joyous song as a light snow began to fall. Out on the battlefield, where workers from the British baggage train attempted to determine which charred corpses were Saxon or Jute and which were Briton, the sounds were oddly comforting and the snow was a godsend. It hid what must be concealed.

After the battle, Rhys ap Myrddion had vomited until his stomach and throat were raw. He swore by everything he believed was true and pure that he would serve Bran no more, and the secret of Marine Fire would be lost for ever in these isles, even if he should be tortured for the recipe. He and Taliesin had wept together, for like most intelligent and gifted men they had never expected Bran to actually use their father’s weapon of last resort so ruthlessly. Together, they decided that their mother must not be told what she had been made a party to, for Taliesin appreciated that the ageing Nimue would demand recompense from King Bran for the men he had murdered so casually. By demanding reparation, the Lady of the Lake would place herself in peril in these days when honour was superficial. Taliesin had passed on to Rhys the substance of Arthur’s accusations against Bran, and the smith would have been sick all over again if his stomach had still held anything.

‘We betrayed those fine young men. Not deliberately, but just as certainly as Bran betrayed them when we gave the Marine Fire to him. We didn’t want to know. Father would say we were too pleased with ourselves for having solved the puzzle of Marine Fire to consider for a moment the outcome of our gift. We were arrogant.’ Rhys began to weep silently, and Taliesin had no words of consolation in him.

‘Aye, Rhys, we were, but mine is the greater guilt. I knew these powerful men, while you did not. We have become that thing we have fought so hard against – all to maintain a little power for ourselves. I am more ashamed than I can bear.’

Arthur stood on the mound as the snow began to fall. He was clean and scrubbed now, although he had had to break the skin of ice that lay over the water bucket before he could wash away the dirt. When he had finished, the water had the dirty, red-brown colouring of old blood. Dressed in full armour and clean clothes, he had rinsed his soiled possessions like a common soldier, desperate to remove every trace of his clash with the Saxons and Jutes.

Sleepily, Germanus had tried to convince him that he had fought cleanly and fairly. He assured him that he would never be called to account for anything he had said the previous day, adding that whispers were already passing through the camp of his courage and the cruel ruse that had been played on the defenders at the ditch by Bran and the other rulers.

So Arthur had gone out into the grey morning feeling almost at peace, if not happy. Once outside, he avoided the churned mud that threatened to mar his clean boots until he reached the mound. There, he was content just to watch the hard labour of the muffled peasants as they dealt with the detritus that had once been two thousand fighting warriors. It felt right to be here as the field was cleansed, almost as if he could put the betrayal and dishonour behind him if he saw the battle through to the very end.

A sweet cacophony of sound rose behind him, reedy and eerie, as a Hibernian warrior played an odd musical instrument consisting of a bellows and pipes. Its sound was a tuneful wail, the perfect accompaniment to a simple reed flute played by another gnarled warrior of uncertain antecedents. The third man in the cloaked group was Taliesin, and Arthur spied his brother Rhys standing behind him as he marked out the dolorous beat on a small drum.

When the four men reached the top of the mound, Taliesin began to sing of loss, guilt and betrayal. His song had no name and referred to no particular place or time, but in it a warrior lamented his betrayal of his honour by cheating to win his heart’s desire from another suitor. The words were ambiguous, but Arthur spotted the relevance of the dirge immediately, and hoped that Bran was not abroad to hear it. The sweet, light notes of the harper, who had chosen to leave his instrument in his tent, rose over the killing field as his voice changed to that of a woman swearing to desert the man she loved because his honour had been besmirched by his love for her.

Arthur shuddered as the pipes wailed and Taliesin’s voice wept for happier times. Then the woman, the cause of the dishonour in his song, chose to die because two fine men had been destroyed because of her. Although innocent, she blamed herself for a tragedy brought about by her deceptive, unwanted beauty. She tore at her thick white skin and cut her long, raven hair. Then she pressed a knife against her snowy breast as she sang. Arthur could see it all.

Snow, fall upon my gravestone and erase it.

Cover every mention of my name,

Or else some other foolish girl will read it

And envy my dishonour and my shame.

Beauty is the curse of foolish creatures,

Empty, useless and beyond our feeble will.

Let me lie, and lay no flowers upon me

For beauty such as mine will surely kill.

Winter winds, come freeze the earth around me,

And drive away all memory of my fame.

Forgive those souls who sinned because they loved me

And let me be forgotten with my blame.

Then Rhys, in a voice rusty with disuse, sang a simple country song about a man who loved his cat and mourned it with a terrible weeping when it finally died. Only at the end of the song did the listener realise that the owner of the cat had accidently killed his pet while seeking to poison his wife.

Arthur didn’t know whether to laugh or to weep, but the song seemed appropriate as he watched the stoic peasants divide the grotesque bodies of the two armies into two unequal mounds. In this damp weather cremation would prove difficult, and one wit below the dyke joked crudely that it was a pity that all the Marine Fire had been used, as a little fire-starting fuel would be a useful tool for their labours. To their credit, his friends turned their backs on him.

Both Saxons and Jutes had fought with courage against a weapon that could not be countered with muscle or skill. Arthur had seen many heroic acts performed by the enemy from his position before the mound as the attacking warriors sacrificed themselves for friends or kinfolk, daring to rip blazing armour off a suffering warrior and burning their own bodies in the process. Still more hardy souls had bravely faced superior numbers of cavalry with fire behind them, so that there was nowhere for them to run. These courageous men included Havar, a man whom Arthur had previously loathed.

‘If the gods were to ask where the greater honour lies, I’d rather stand with the dead than live in the fading, degraded shadows of what we once were,’ he said to the falling snow.

‘So that’s how you feel, Arthur?’ a voice murmured silkily at his back. ‘I thought so.’ Bran had come up behind him, free of his usual guards for once. He had clearly heard Arthur’s words.

A few inches shorter than Arthur, the king was irritated because he was forced to look up to see directly into his uncle’s eyes. He was conscious that a few strands of grey hair streaked his plaits and suggested infirmity. Suddenly Bran felt old as he stood beside this boy, so tall and strong, with the certainty of youth shining in his eyes.

Arthur swivelled so that he half faced his kinsman and swallowed hard. Bran saw the Adam’s apple jerk convulsively and made the crucial error of assuming that Arthur was afraid of him. In truth, Arthur was having considerable difficulty in coping with the screaming noise in his head and in resisting an almost primal urge to strike the king’s smug, handsome face.

‘Many less generous men would read treachery into that comment,’ Bran added. His smile was open, frank and friendly, but Arthur knew his family very well, their superior intelligence, their talent for subterfuge and a shared charismatic charm. Bran was the least adept at wielding the family social skills, having been shy and retiring in his youth, but once he stepped out of the Dragon King’s shadow and became the last hope of the tribes in the struggle to preserve their way of life he had gradually gained in confidence and ambition. Even Ector, Artor’s chosen successor, had initially been considered a threat by his father, but Ector had failed to live up to Artor’s expectations, not because he lacked ability, but because the time of High Kings of Britannia was over. Artor had made these isles shake and brought all men to their knees, but now Ector, his heir, was only another tribal claimant. Bran was now the supreme commander, the Dux Bellorum of the army of Britain, so he could gaze on Arthur with equanimity.

‘You may read what you want into my words, Bran. You showed by your use of me yesterday that you have little liking for me. If we weren’t worth the truth when we were in the line facing the enemy, why do you care what I think now?’

Two spots of colour appeared on Bran’s cheekbones. ‘Are you accusing me of trying to arrange your death on the battlefield?’

In his inexperience, Arthur found he was actually enjoying this bitter exchange. He was learning that having the opportunity to speak his mind released the anger that burned within him. ‘I don’t need to accuse you of anything, Bran. Every onlooker, every fellow warrior on the line and every cavalryman on the battlefield had their opportunity to observe and judge your behaviour. So were the other kings judged, and found wanting for their avoidance of danger. Don’t frown, Bran! As the overall commander, your personal courage is not in doubt – but men such as Artair clearly avoided their duty. I don’t need to say a thing. The king of the Atrebates was too cunning to command his troops from the front and chose to remain behind the lines in relative safety. Essentially, he left a boy of sixteen in charge of three hundred warriors and, by default, so did you, although you ordered Artair to the line. Furthermore, you ordered me to make myself a target by wearing that red cloak at the front of my warriors. Why?’

‘You are similar in appearance to my grandfather,’ Bran replied candidly. ‘The very name of the Dragon King inspires fear and awe in the Saxons, for they deem him to be magical because they couldn’t defeat him. As I told the council, I decided to use you to remind them of his promise that he would return one day when the Britons were in need of him. I decided to let the Saxons sweat a little by suggesting that the great man lives again. Was I wrong to use their superstitions against them?’ Bran’s light eyes were direct and demanded an answer.

Arthur considered the question for a moment. ‘No. I would do the same in similar circumstances, but I should have been told what your plans for me entailed. I’d have volunteered anyway – most of the men would – but you didn’t give anyone that chance.’ Suddenly, the whole conversation began to sicken him. He felt physically ill, and this verbal exchange was no longer fun. ‘Anyway, all I really want of you is an explanation. You pretended to value me as a kinsman and you acted as if you loved me, when it is clear you consider me to be some kind of threat. I loved and trusted you, Bran. I respected you as the head of the family and I would have done anything within my power to further your cause. I feel like a fucking idiot now, because I fought for someone who could release those horrible weapons on an unprepared enemy – and me!’

Bran sighed. ‘We won, Arthur – we did what we had to do. We don’t have sufficient men to lose a single battle from now on, but more Saxons are crossing the Litus Saxonicum every year. Yesterday I was forced to kill as many as possible for the smallest losses on our part. If you don’t like the methods I use, that’s too bad. In my place, you would have done the same thing. The difference is that I shoulder my duty and try not to whine about it.’

Would I have done the same, Arthur wondered? Perhaps I would if my back was to the wall, but I’d have called for volunteers rather than sacrifice novices just because they’d be the least missed. And so, out of innate honesty, Arthur chose not to answer his kinsman, who shook his head with irritation.

‘Think what you like, then, but don’t try to take anything that belongs to me,’ Bran responded coldly. ‘We will remain civil at all times, for family ties mean something to me, regardless of what you believe. Remember what you are. You are a landless bastard and you’ll only hurt your family in Arden if you cause me trouble.’

‘You warned me often enough about the poison in our blood – I was almost paralysed on the battlefield with the terror of it. I never expected to see that madness in you, Bran, for you always seemed the most reasonable of men.’