M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (6 page)

Kept naked except for a filthy blanket, he was always cold. Lightless, his eyes forgot the warmth and vividness of the sun; verminous and filthy, he lost the power to smell his own stench. With pleasure, the people of Deva refused him any dignity or honour, and treated him worse than the Saxons treated their captives, for he was no longer granted the status of humanity.

So King Mark awaited his fate in torment, while around and above him Deva healed herself. Life went on.

CHAPTER II

JUDGEMENT

I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls.

Job 30:29

Life for life,

Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,

Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.

Exodus 21:23

Mark the traitor, erstwhile king of the Deceangli tribe and co-conspirator with Modred, the Matricide and Regicide, cowered under a filthy, flea-infested blanket in a deep cell in Deva. The golden city had suffered hideously in the War of the Matricide, when Modred had broken the laws of the High King and the tribes that had held sway since the legions had manned its venerable walls. For Modred had chosen to send a message to the kings that the ancient code of neutrality that had protected the port of Deva for so long no longer existed under his regime. No more moots would be held in Artor’s circular hall, which had been built by that master of wild magic, Myrddion Merlinus, for the Picts had burned it to its foundations of stone, leaving the rafters gaping open towards the sky. The unarmed citizens had perished in its broad, straight streets where they were cut down like autumn grasses by the tyrant and his allies, the hated Picts, to the perpetual shame of his Brigante tribe.

The ruins of Artor’s hall were sad reminders of the waste of human life. Close to the water, on land that overlooked the long neck of river which led to the open sea, the venerable Roman construction took advantage of a small area of flat land on a ridge that jutted over the wharves and the hustle and bustle of trade ships that had brought Deva her wealth and her protected status. Impious hands had never been raised against her stout walls and fine old buildings until Modred loosed the Pictish vermin upon their common enemies, the Latinised Celts, and raped the gracious, civilised town in a welter of fire and blood.

Standing beside his mother, Bran surveyed the ruins with a melancholy nostalgia for happier days. He had first seen his grandfather, Artor, High King of the Britons, on these cracked and broken stones, which had once served as the stage of a Roman amphitheatre. He had been a boy at the time, and had come with his father to a meeting of the kings, but no one had then informed him of his true relationship to the High King.

Through the eyes of a twelve-year-old boy, the other had seemed a living, breathing god. At the height of his powers, Artor had dominated the great men in the room by sheer force of intellect and personality, but Bran had been most impressed by his muscular grace and his clever manipulation of the squabbling kings who consistently opposed him. His armies had been fresh from their stunning victory over the Western Saxons in southern Cymru, but for all his military prowess Artor’s proposal to restrict the Saxon advances along the mountain spine of Britain had been fought every step of the way by that fractious, ambitious group.

Bran sighed as he remembered the faces of men who had become legends through the telling and retelling of their exploits. His mother, herself enshrined in the songs of the poets, looked at her son’s anguished face with concern. In this ruined place, she too was remembering, thinking of the tall, ascetic figure of Myrddion Merlinus whom the Saxons already called Merlin. The barbarians spoke of him with awe, for they believed him to be a magician and a wielder of wild magic. In their arrogance and simplicity, they could not imagine how Artor had defeated them, again and again, except through sorcery. With affection, mother and son remembered old Targo and stolid Odin who had stood at their master’s back and protected the High King with their heart’s blood. And there was Gruffydd, disreputable and irreverent as always, but holding Caliburn, the High King’s sword. The younger Bedwyr, scarred by the Saxon slave collar but bearing deeper wounds that shadowed his eyes, stood in the background and expressed his disgust with the kings and their recalcitrance in every line of his whipcord body. Now all that strength and hope had gone into the shadows, or been defeated by time.

‘This place is full of ghosts,’ Anna sighed. ‘If I close my eyes, I can still see them and hear them, but then the dreams are shattered when I gaze on these ruins. I am grown old, my son.’

‘Aye, Mother. This hall was more than just a meeting place, at least to me. Three High Kings served the people here, in equality and duty, but all that was finest in their ideals was washed away by Modred’s civil war. The amity has been broken for ever.’

Both looked up at the sky through the burned rafters that Myrddion had designed for King Ambrosius with such imagination and brilliance. Most of the circular wooden wall was irreparably damaged, as were the captured Saxon banners, looted and burned by the Picts and the Brigante. Charred timbers were evident in the tall ceiling, while cracked and fire-scarred stone was empty of the cushioned seats where the kings had lounged with their retinues. Bran stroked a broken stool that Artor himself had used, shunning panoply for efficiency, valuable now because it was all that was left of a grand idea.

‘We shall judge Mark of the Deceangli here. Fitting, don’t you think, Mother? It was Ector’s idea, which surprised me. I never thought him to be a vengeful lad, but in the short time he knew King Artor he learned to worship him. And now he thirsts for Mark’s blood.’

Anna sighed. As Artor’s only legitimate child, she had the right to demand Mark’s death as her own blood price, but many long years of secrecy had protected her real identity from the High King’s enemies, and she had no desire to demand more bloodletting. She still feared for her grandson’s future, for the boy had little of Artor in him, but much of his father. In her heart of hearts, Anna doubted that either boy or man had the necessary long view to defeat the Saxon advance, or the cold-blooded authority to save the Celtic people. They were, simply, too decent to do what needed to be done in the dark days that were upon them. She sighed. The times were bleak when goodness was a character flaw. She was loath to make this admission to herself, knowing that their futures lay in dutiful but ultimately futile hands. But none of her inner despair showed on her lined and tranquil face.

‘Ector will soon learn that the actuality of judgement is very different from his desire for revenge. Any decisions made here will have repercussions which he must learn to endure. The boy is still very young to lose his childhood, but the Saxons won’t wait until he becomes a man.’

‘I have called the kings to Deva, Mother, and most will come of their own accord. The Brigante tribe has been ordered to attend with the gold they have gathered in reparation. Fortunately, their new king is little more than a boy and took no part in the civil war. In fact, Modred put a price on the boy’s head, fearing that any living kinsman would threaten his grip on the kingdom. I’ve never met Scoular ap Seosamh but I hear the name is apt. He’s overly educated, I’m told, and values old scrolls and knowledge from the past more than people. Obviously, he will lean on trustworthy Brigante lords, if there are any such persons, but he seems to mean well. Ironically, those butchers will now have a king who can write, which will be an interesting challenge for them.’

Anna laughed sardonically and her son was reminded that she was Artor’s daughter, her thoughts very much like a man’s, particularly in practical matters. ‘But Luka was a Brigante. You never knew him, Bran, but he was full of laughter, fun and loyalty. Artor loved him very much and killed his murderers in a bloody display of personal grief. Don’t allow yourself to damn the whole tribe because of Modred. He was his mother’s son, only twisted, and Morgause herself was a creature of vanity, ruthlessness and cold ambition. Your kinfolk were terrible people.

‘A little education won’t hurt the Brigante sensibilities,’ she continued reflectively. ‘And it won’t hurt them as much as being ruled by a madman like Modred. No, I wrong him. Modred was so full of his own importance that he willingly sacrificed the honour of his tribe for his own advantage. That’s not madness: that’s hubris in its worst form. Father always said to beware of hubris. Artor’s own father was consumed by it, and many had good reason to know how brutal Uther Pendragon became. You should remember his legacy, my son, and stay free of the seductiveness of power.’

‘Of course, Mother,’ Bran answered, too easily for Anna’s liking. Her son was quiet and self-contained, but he was proud too, and Anna knew that this flaw was one of the deadly sins that could allow hubris to enter his heart, where it would flourish, grow and destroy his finer feelings. Regretfully, she set the topic aside. First things first, as Artor often said.

‘When will the kings come? Deva can provide very little comfort or hospitality if we should receive too many visitors. The citizens will worry that they will fail as hosts, and I would like to allay their fears.’

Bran grinned appreciatively. ‘You’re always thinking about other people, Mother. You may tell the city fathers that the kings will provide their own victuals, wines and tents, for themselves and for their retinues. You can also assure the councillors that Deva will not be judged by its hospitality, given its suffering during the wars.’

Anna smiled in turn, and her son could see her agile mind prioritising a list of questions inside her head.

‘The kings will begin to arrive within the week. For the sake of their continued safety, I hope the Brigante and the Deceangli kings come early, and that the last of the blood price arrives with them. There, Mother, is that what you needed to know?’

Anna nodded and her face cleared. ‘I’ll discuss your plans with the new magistrate when I speak to him later today. The previous incumbent was murdered at the city gates, so his replacement will be relieved to oversee the end of this matter. The sooner the Deceangli traitor is gone, the sooner we can all start to deal with the essentials of living. You’ll have much to do before the start of the next Saxon summer. The barbarians will realise how weak the Celtic tribes have become by then, my son, so they’ll attack in force this time.’

‘I know. That is the next matter the kings must discuss after we have determined Mark’s fate.’

So mother and son strolled in perfect amity between the ruined columns and the burned trees of Deva. The day was bright, with blue skies, scudding clouds like the tail of a white mare and a gentle warmth that coaxed flowers and nettles to bloom through the cracks in the marble paving. Both waited impatiently for the day when the full contingent of kings had gathered and the past could be laid aside – once and for all.

The kings came. Some tribal lords arrived with their wives and eligible daughters, hoping to arrange advantageous marriages if they could. Others, like Scoular ap Seosamh, were accompanied by a few old men who served as advisers. Surprisingly, the Brigante king’s sole protection was two young warriors whose task was to guard a heavy wooden chest and a grizzled, scarred man who wore power like an invisible cloak. Bors Minor came from Cornwall, the land of the High King’s mother, where the harpers still sang of the fair Ygerne and how her wild beauty drove Uther Pendragon to distraction. And the new Deceangli king came with a retinue of silent, solemn men who were unable to meet the eyes of their peers. After three days of arrivals, Bran called the assembled lords, their warriors and their wives to Artor’s ruined hall so that justice could be dispensed at last.

Once the huge contingent was seated, wrapped in furs and wool to protect them from the draughts in the hall, Bran walked into the centre of the cleared space that had once been a Roman amphitheatre. Slowly, the massed crowd settled into silence. Some of the kings were eager for amusement, while others were anxious for revenge; some were simply irritated that they were still required to answer the ancient call of the High Kings, and they looked upon Bran as a usurper who wasn’t worthy to stand where legends had once forced them into collective action. Bran felt their impatience. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he began the long and difficult task of bending these recalcitrant men to his will.

‘The news from the east is worrying, and the union of kings hangs in the balance,’ he began, pushing his long red-brown warrior plaits away from his careworn face. Although he had dressed with some thought, his appearance was sombre and funereal by comparison with his peers, who had chosen to display their status through finery and robes. ‘We must arrive at a decision on how we are to meet the Saxon threat or there will be no land left for you to rule. The Saxon thanes multiply like ticks on a mattress and we lack the resources to stop them.’

‘We know the situation with the Saxons as well as you do,’ the hulking king of the Atrebates, Artair, muttered darkly while pulling his cloak tightly around himself. ‘Why do we have to meet in these ruins? Venta Belgarum could have hosted this council, and the weather is far warmer in the south.’

Pelles Minor leapt to his feet, his short frame quivering with affront. ‘Many years ago, Artor decided that Deva was to be our permanent meeting place. It was a good decision because it was central to all the tribes of the west and allowed these meetings to be held on neutral soil. The Celtic chiefs have met here and argued in this structure since long before I was born. These cracked stones remember
legends
, you oaf: history that came into being before the Atrebates were anything but Uther Pendragon’s playthings.’

‘With respect, sirs, this is no place or time for discord,’ one old man grumbled from a prominent place in the forefront of the ruined hall. As Artair took exception to being described as an oaf, the interruption was timely.

The old man was surrounded by three strapping men, all seasoned warriors, and two women, who were quick to hand him a length of cloth when he began to cough. ‘Excuse my infirmity, my friends, for I’ve caught a cold on the journey to meet you. My daughters, Gwenydd and Gwyllan, would prefer to have me cosseted in wool and seated at the fire like a grandsire, but I’d not miss a meeting such as this for the sake of my late uncle and my memories of old wrongs.’