M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (59 page)

One by one, she took their strong young hands in her own shrivelled palms and turned her eyes up into her head. Her face was wiped clean of the years and the suffering that had scored her features, revealing the strange otherness that characterised the glamour shared by all wise women.

‘Master,’ she said to Eamonn, ‘you will travel far and visit lands where the Celtic people have not been seen for a thousand years. During your absence, many changes will occur in your homeland, but you will perform heroic deeds that bring honour to your tribe. Your kin will continue to rule in Tintagel, and your line will endure down the centuries, even after your fortress is abandoned.’

Then she turned to Gareth, who would have pulled away had Arthur not insisted he stay lest he hurt the old woman’s feelings.

‘And you, son of a great father, and father of a great son. You will also journey far as you search in the wild places to find that which you have lost. Do not despair when the days seem darkest, for you will find what you desire and settle at last on the soil of your own land, where you will start anew and keep many of the good ways alive. Do not forget the garden that has sustained you, although the old one will have disappeared and you will have to rebuild to enjoy its fruits again.’

Gareth thanked her courteously, although the tingling in his hands disconcerted him. The old woman had meant well, although her appearance reminded him more of a witch than a simple woman of the countryside.

Then, with an odd sigh of resignation, she turned to Arthur. At her first touch, he felt a shiver start in his toes and rise through his whole body. Her bead-like brown eyes seemed very distant as she began to speak.

‘You, master, are the Last Dragon. You are the last of the Great Ones. Because of a traitorous whisper, you will be forced to labour like a slave with your weapons torn away from you. But fear not, Lord of Mother Sea, for you will go to far-off places where the cold is a living thing. There you will regain your weapons, because the gifts from the Mother have prepared you for a special purpose. You are destined to lead men in great wars where you will win high renown and much gold. Then, when you return to your home and find that your forests are cut down and everyone you knew and loved is dead, you will make something new and bright out of your losses. Your star will shine throughout the centuries and your children will change the north for ever.’

‘I thank you, Mother,’ Arthur murmured with a rueful grimace. ‘I can’t say that your prophecies sound very cheerful. Will I find love? Or will I be the Last Dragon in truth and perish alone?’

‘Have no fear.’ She cackled with an odd girlishness. ‘You will win the heart of a woman too good for you and beget sons on her. Your kingdom will be powerful down through the ages, long after the Celts have become a shattered people who will never recover from the disasters that will befall them. You will hold your faith, and all that lies before you will be as I have predicted.’

That night, inevitably, the companions spoke of the widow’s prophecies. Eamonn was inclined to scoff, but Arthur could tell that he was impressed by the old woman and had been comforted by her predictions.

The next day, the courier from King Bors tracked them down. The brief holiday was over.

Stopping only to rest the horses, the three companions rode to Tintagel as if the devil were at their backs. Eamonn was anxious, for only a matter of some urgency would have prompted his father to send a courier to recall them. As always in these dangerous days, he automatically expected the worst, from family sickness or death to warning of imminent invasion, so he led the way on his roan hill pony at the best possible speed.

‘I would have thought that if there was an urgent problem in Tintagel, your father would have alluded to it in the message he sent with his courier,’ Arthur murmured as he tried to reassure his friend. ‘I don’t feel any warning signs in my head, and I know I’d have signals of apprehension if we were riding into danger. You’ll find your father just wants to see you and sent a courier to bring us back into the fold. After all, we were enjoying ourselves far too much to hurry home of our own accord – you especially.’

Arthur grinned, and Eamonn couldn’t help but respond. His lips twitched at first, but then he smiled widely. ‘I was just collecting your left-over women, Arthur. Between you and Gareth, a normal-sized man doesn’t stand a hope of catching the attention of any pretty maids.’

‘I hope those nubile girls were attracted by our brains rather than our . . .’

With a muffled laugh, Eamonn tried to cover Arthur’s mouth from the saddle, almost tipping both of them into a hedge. Gareth joined them on his grey horse, an indulgent smile on his face. ‘We’d reach Tintagel a lot faster if we stopped comparing the length of each other’s appendages,’ he muttered with a smirk. The tone of Gareth’s voice showed that he had unbent considerably during their impromptu holiday. No longer as quiet and servile as he had been, he was now an equal in Arthur and Eamonn’s eyes and had gradually begun to act like a young man rather than a superior servant.

On the late afternoon of the second day, the cliffs surrounding Tintagel hove into view. The fortress was lit from the west by the last of the sun as it sank towards the horizon, bathing the stern battlements and towers in a roseate glow. A fast trot down to the Neck was easily achieved and Eamonn decided that on this occasion they would ride over and stable their horses on the peninsula itself, in case there was a need for them to make a hurried departure.

As day turned into night, the rocks became black and the sea turned to the colour of molten lead in the dregs of the daylight. Even the stairs seemed easier to mount, as all three men knew that warm beds and loving arms awaited them at the top, provided Blaise hadn’t taken a supply of mud and dog turds into the fortress with her. Arthur decided that even a wilful, spoiled child might think twice about pelting her brother and his guests in the presence of her father, the Hammer of the West.

Bors was waiting for them in the main hall of Tintagel where, uncharacteristically, the whole family was at dinner. At five feet eight inches Bors was not a tall man, but his demeanour was charged with the old Roman quality of gravitas, so that he seemed like a giant who had been forced to fit the scale of his fortress. His face was neither fair nor ugly, while his hair was neither curled nor straight, and was a midnight shade of black. But his features were firm and his clipped beard was so vigorous that any warrior meeting him for the first time instinctively deferred to him as a master without the need for introduction. Like Tintagel, Bors was a force in the British domains, and men spoke of how Gorlois had come again to keep the Dumnonii safe in these parlous times.

Arthur knelt to him immediately, with Gareth also on his knees at his side, his head lowered.

‘Well, Eamonn, you’ve decided to return to your home after sowing your seed all over the south, I don’t wonder. Your mother has told me about your friends. Rise, Arthur, Gareth, and let me take a good look at you both.’

The king’s voice was deep and gruff, rather like stones grinding together, but Arthur heard no anger or resentment in it, so he rose to his full height. As he examined his guests, Bors was forced to look up into their faces, although such was the force of his personality that he lost nothing by his lack of inches. But if Arthur had been able to read the king’s mind, he would have been disconcerted by what he found there.

By Ban’s head, this young man is the living image of the Dragon King, Bors thought to himself. Because of the filial ties between his family and King Artor in days gone by, Bors Minor had spent many years at Cadbury Tor, where he had observed the High King dispensing justice, and had served with the loyal forces in Artor’s war with Modred.

This boy has the look of Artor, without the sadness that was ever present in the High King’s eyes. But would this young man have the strength to rule if the opportunity presented itself? Would he tear apart what little is left of the tribal structure? We can scarcely survive another civil war. If he has an inclination to usurp Bran’s throne, it might be best to kill him now, Bors thought. But no trace of his ruthless conclusion was revealed on his craggy face.

Arthur was no tyro in the game of secrecy. Since entering his teen years he had been forced to negotiate dangerous conversations, always watching every word lest he should display some trace of ambition that would be sufficient reason for a knife to find a gap between his ribs in the dead of night. No one had ever needed to teach Arthur how to hide the innermost thoughts that lay behind his grey-green eyes, which seemed so deep and clear yet actually revealed very little of what went on below the surface.

So when the king of the Dumnonii, the Hammer of Cornwall, stared deeply into Arthur’s eyes and examined his features for the faintest hint of falsity, all he saw was a mild, agreeable young man who was blessed with great strength and attractiveness, and possessed an amiable nature to match.

And only the faintest sign of an itch warned Arthur that Bors was a man who should not be underestimated . . . or completely trusted. Bors would protect his lands and his people, regardless of the cost to others.

‘Eamonn, Gareth, I ask you to sit and eat, for I’d like to speak privately to our young guest before he and I take our ease. We will join you shortly. Will you come with me, Arthur of Arden?’

‘How could I deny any request from the Hammer of the West?’ Arthur replied.

‘You were right, Valda, my beloved. He speaks with the courtesy of a king,’ Bors said cheerfully to his wife, kissing the top of her neat head as he passed her place at the long table. At the door, he stood aside to allow Arthur to leave the room before him.

‘You are doing me an unearned honour, your majesty,’ Arthur murmured as he entered the short hallway. Bors led him to the flagged courtyard outside, where a servant hurried to place a lit torch in a wall sconce created by the blacksmiths for that purpose. The night still had a slight chill of winter upon it, as if the Winter King were unwilling to loosen his aged blue hands from the sea winds, but the light from the narrow, unshuttered windows of the hall sent cheerful bands of gold over the flagged surface, despite the nip of cold.

Bors began to pace and the wind lifted his black hair to expose small, almost womanish ears. One lobe had been pierced to hold a golden ring with a cabochon stone set into a small basketwork setting. The simple decoration caught the light and the red in the stone’s heart glowed like a single drop of blood.

‘I’m aware of your parentage. No man who knew the Dragon King in his middle years could fail to recognise his offspring. I was only a boy at the time, but I remember those days of blood and glory with some regret.’

‘I am the foster-son of Bedwyr, the Arden Knife, who has all my love and loyalty. I want nothing more, regardless of my birth father,’ Arthur replied, careful of every word he uttered.

‘There’s no need to tell falsehoods to me in this house, boy, for I will recognise any fabrication. I wish to ask you some impertinent questions, and you would be within your rights to consign me to the devil. But consider your answers with care, if you do comply. It is important that I know whom my son calls friend, although he will not inherit Tintagel unless the Lord Jesus sees fit to take his two older brothers from us. Will you answer me fairly, Arthur of Arden?’

‘Willingly, my lord.’

‘Then, my first question is whether King Bran knows of your true relationship to him?’ Bors was frank, and this question struck deeply into the tangled politics of the remaining kingdoms of the Britons. Arthur understood his concerns and was as truthful as possible.

‘Yes, my lord, he does. He has known since I was seven years old and King Gawayne, my cousin, was still alive. My sister Anna and my kinsmen Bran and Ector are all well aware of my birth and have accepted my oaths of fealty. I would die before I betray my kinfolk, Lord Bors. So, before you ask, I will state that I have no desire to be aught but what I am, the foster-son of Bedwyr of Arden. Such distinction should be enough for any man.’

Arthur’s jaw jutted out with his passion, and Bors could see the shark eyes of his old master clearly enough to know that this younger man spoke the truth as far as he knew it. His eyes fell to Arthur’s sword belt and he saw the Dragon Knife.

Arthur’s eyes caught that quick glance and he knew, without being told, what the king was thinking.

‘Before King Artor died after the Battle of the Ford, Artor gave this knife to Father Bedwyr to pass on to my mother and, eventually, to me. He owned it before he became king of the Britons, so it was truly his own to do with as he wished. This relic is all I need of the past, Lord King. I am the son of two fathers, and I make my own way in this world, not lust after the possessions of my kinsmen. I was raised by Elayne, my mother, and her husband Bedwyr, the Arden Knife, two of the wisest people in Britannia. With them, Taliesin has watched over me all my life. I speak the truth, Lord Bors, although you have only my word for it.’

‘Give me your hand then, young man, and I’ll know what is within your heart by the clasp of your palm in mine,’ Bors said equably. Arthur complied without hesitation.

‘I’m satisfied,’ the king said softly. ‘A man’s hand is the only oath worth giving. I see nothing false in you, and Valda swears you’re true. She comes from the hill people who are . . . sensitive in the ways of the spirit. I also like to think that Eamonn is a good judge of character.’

The silence drew out between them as Bors seemed to consider some matter that required a decision on his part. Then, brusquely, he walked towards the parapet that hung over the dizzying black drop to the shore below.

‘Would you be prepared to commit to a service for me that is very important? Would you be willing to journey to the Vallum Hadriani at the head of a small band of warriors to deliver a very special package?’

Arthur thought quickly. He had never travelled to the north. Nor had he seen Hadrian’s Wall, which was built to hold back the savage Picts. Between the wall and Arden, Saxons had built settlements that would need to be avoided, not to mention the new kingdom of Mercia. Only narrow strips of country on the east and west coasts allowed for safe passage, but tribesmen could still travel if they were careful, although only God knew how long that state of affairs would continue.