M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (67 page)

Blaise’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I don’t think I overly fancy that prospect,’ she decided. ‘It would be fine to live and work together, but I don’t know about the other parts of it.’

‘There always seem to be drawbacks to the way we are expected to live our lives, don’t there?’ Maeve’s voice was sad.

The girls settled down in their simple leather tent, which was barely big enough for two. Outside, the wind sighed quietly in the coppice and an owl screeched as it killed something small in the enveloping darkness.

Arthur stepped away from the shadow of the trees. While not spying, he had heard every word the sleepy girls had uttered inside their tent, and he had a mountain of unfamiliar emotions to consider. Like most men, he had never really considered the plight of women, having been raised to believe they lived the lives that they desired. What Maeve and Blaise had described was a form of slavery. With something perilously close to shame, he looked skyward and thanked the Christian God who had seen fit to have him born a male.

While Arthur was experiencing his new appreciation of the nature of womanhood, Mareddyd waited at the inn for the messenger that he had been told to expect. The go-between did not appear, and as he was unused to waiting for anyone or anything Mareddyd’s temper was stretched to breaking point.

Out of a dearth of choices, the young prince took his pleasure with the plain serving woman who lived at the inn. Typically, he never paused to consider her status. She was just another female, conveniently close to hand, whose plain looks and servile manner made her a non-person in his eyes, simply a convenient receptacle for his juices.

As he was staying in the best room of the inn, it required only an order to the innkeeper for the woman to present herself at his room. She soon arrived, shivering, and trying to look as small and inoffensive as possible.

‘Strip,’ Mareddyd ordered from the grimy, flaxen sheets on the bed. ‘Have you bathed recently, girl? I’d like to stay clean.’

‘I wash every week, master. My hair was cleansed only yesterday.’

He had wondered what was different about her and now he saw that her hair had the fluffy look of freshly washed locks. It was golden blond, speaking of northern heritage, but the amber lights in the lamplight reminded him of Arthur, so when he took her roughly on the coarse mattress he made no effort to be gentle or to spare her. Before she was kicked unceremoniously onto the floor, her body was covered with bruises and bites, and her quiet weeping had left runnels of tears and snot on her plain, high-boned face.

When she fled from the room, he caught a glimpse of the innkeeper waiting in the corridor with a woollen blanket, which he draped around the girl’s shoulders as soon as she appeared. But Mareddyd barely bothered to wonder why a man of substance would care about a serving wench. In fact, he was asleep within moments of blowing out his candle.

On the morrow Mareddyd was feeling a little better, especially when he had broken his fast with a bowl of unsalted porridge, new milk and a boiled egg. It was served by the same girl, whose swollen face and livid throat showed the marks of his fingers, leaving him with an odd feeling of mixed shame and triumph. In his mind, he had defeated Arthur on her body in some weird exchange of human desire and transmutation. By the middle of the day, however, forced inactivity and a sense that he was being treated with a marked lack of respect had blunted his pleasant mood.

As he left the inn to face a day of heat and steamy rain, a disreputable man in a dirty grey cloak, hooded to disguise his face, came up behind him.

‘Master Mareddyd?’

The Dobunni prince nodded tersely.

‘The man you enquired after will meet you at the cross of Saint Fidelma, two miles to the north. One hour from now – right?’

Before Mareddyd could answer, the man had disappeared into a narrow back alley. Mareddyd was disinclined to follow him, since he reeked of the distinctive smell of the piggery. Besides, the alleyway was dark and forbidding.

An hour later, the Dobunni was pacing impatiently on the only road leading north which boasted a crossroad of sorts, if the track that crossed the paved Roman construction could aspire to such a lofty description. Its only mark of distinction was a single standing stone, decorated with Celtic interlace, that formed an ancient rustic cross.

Suddenly a group of four very tall men appeared out of the long grass at the side of the road. They were as silent as ghosts. One moment the road was empty; the next second they were ranged around him on the shoulder of the passageway. The men were very fair, robust and white of skin. They were armed to the teeth and he was at their mercy.

‘Are you Mareddyd, the so-called tribal prince from the south?’ the tallest man asked in guttural, halting Celtic. He was clearly uncomfortable with the language, but as Mareddyd had never bothered to learn a single word of Saxon he was forced to persevere.

‘Yes, I am the heir to the Dobunni throne. I am Mareddyd, but names are unimportant considering our business together.’ His arrogant tone failed to impress the warrior, who merely raised one pale eyebrow and looked down at him with pale eyes that said nothing, but lacked the respect that Mareddyd felt was his due. As he gazed at the warrior, he saw the suggestion of a sneer around his bearded, thin-lipped mouth.

‘What business could we possibly have together?’

‘One involving mutual profit,’ Mareddyd replied crisply. ‘You’ll earn a large cache of gold from our exchange, and I’ll get satisfaction from taking my revenge on an enemy of note.’

‘I like plain speaking,’ the northerner answered. ‘What coin can I earn, and how must I earn it?’ He leaned negligently on a long, single-bladed axe, one that was quite unlike the normal Saxon weapon. By its long handle and the warrior’s casual use of its shining length, Mareddyd registered that he was a man of some importance among his race.

‘I cannot accept that you’re a Saxon,’ he said bluntly, and the tall man narrowed his eyes with suspicion.

‘What could a man like you have heard of a man like me?’

‘I asked certain mutual acquaintances if they knew of a band of northerners who would have the balls to capture a group of aristocratic British tribesmen and women for the certainty of the gold involved in selling the prisoners back to their kin for a ransom. Preferably alive. If you go by the name of Stormbringer, you were recommended to me by a mutual acquaintance.’ Mareddyd chose his words carefully, glad now that he had taken the precaution of placing a bowman from his entourage in the crown of a nearby oak. The slightest turn of Mareddyd’s eyeballs in the direction of the tree would result in an arrow firmly embedded in Stormbringer’s back. Mareddyd felt a moment’s disgust and contempt. Did this oaf think that an obvious alias like Stormbringer would make him anonymous?

‘Don’t look for your bowman, Mareddyd, or whatever your name is. Your archer is now wearing an extra grin. I’m not fond of men who plant assassins at my back. It indicates a lack of trust on your part.’

Mareddyd suddenly felt alone and unprotected, so he hurried back into speech. The promise of coin might save him yet. ‘In a few days, a party of eight men and four young ladies will be riding in this direction. They are bound for Onnum in the north. The party is distinguished, although you’d scarcely know it from their mode of dress. Two of the women are barely of age and are of noble birth. The black-haired bitch is the daughter of King Bors of Cornwall, and she is betrothed to the son of King Geraint of the Otadini tribe who dwells north of the wall. The red-haired piece is the daughter of the Arden Knife, the master of Arden Forest. You may have heard of this man, who goes by the name of Bedwyr.’

‘Yes, I have heard of Bedwyr. These girls will be good for ransom, or as noble slaves. And . . . ?’ Stormbringer realised that the fate of two prepubescent female children meant nothing to the prince, certainly not enough to turn him against his own kind. Careful to keep the distaste out of his expression, Stormbringer waited patiently for the real point of this meeting.

‘The leader of this party is a tall, red-haired lad not yet out of his teens. He’s an excellent warrior, so don’t treat him casually. As the eldest son of the Arden Knife, he is ripe for ransom, but you may want to consider using him in another way. He is the unacknowledged son of Artor, the Dragon King, who was the last High King of the Britons. My heart will not weep if you sell him into slavery beyond these lands, or kill him. I leave the decision to you. But I must warn you that he carries Artor’s Dragon Knife and wields a sword wrought by the best metalsmith in our lands. He will not be easy to capture.’

‘Is there anyone else you’d like me to assassinate or send into slavery?’ Stormbringer asked sarcastically. Such was Mareddyd’s vanity that he missed the contempt in the warrior’s voice.

‘A shorter, dark-haired warrior travels with them. He is the third son of the King of the Dumnonii tribe, who protects vast acres in the south-west of Britain. His name is Eamonn pen Bors. Whatever you decide to do with him is up to you.’

‘Who else travels with them? Such important personages should not travel unguarded.’

‘Arthur’s bodyguard is a blond-haired warrior called Gareth. He will not be easy to subdue as he is oath-bound to his master, who is known as the Last Dragon. Five Dumnonii warriors accompany them, along with two serving maids for the girls. You may do with them what you will, because I don’t care if they live or die.’

‘Why are you giving me this information, Mareddyd?’ Stormbringer asked.

‘Do my reasons matter? I have given you information that will bring you gold. Surely I can keep my motives to myself. Why should you care?’

‘I am Dene. I like to know why I’m hired to kill someone.’

Mareddyd caught a trace of Stormbringer’s disdain. The man’s use of the term Dene puzzled and wrong footed him, for he had never heard of the Dene. Puzzles normally made him nervous, but his desire for revenge continued to burn inside him and caused him to give the man a little more information than he had intended.

‘Arthur and I have been enemies for years. He has shamed me, but he has so much power and reputation that I would never be permitted to meet him in open combat so I cannot retaliate, no matter how he insults me.’

Something of Mareddyd’s passion overrode the lie, and convinced Stormbringer that this Arthur had already proved too powerful for this Dobunni cur to overcome in mortal combat. This pact was a dirty business all round, but it could prove to be profitable on many levels for Stormbringer if he was successful. Mareddyd, on the other hand, could rot for all he cared.

‘Very well. You may expect that this party will not reach its destination. Ride on to Onnum, and await word from me there. Your . . . friends and countrymen will not arrive.’

‘Good.’ Mareddyd would have mounted his horse and ridden away, but the Dene stopped him with a guttural command.

‘I take nothing without payment,’ he muttered. He tossed a leather bag towards Mareddyd, who was forced to catch it awkwardly. Something inside the bag clinked dully, but by the feel it wasn’t coin. Mareddyd pulled the drawstring open and found five large rings of pure silver, linked together, inside the bag. Each of the rings was large enough to be worn on a man’s wrist but they were obviously a means of exchange, and not for decoration.

‘I want no payment,’ Mareddyd snapped. ‘What do you think I am?’

‘I know exactly what you are, Briton. I choose to pay my debts as they become due.’

Every mile travelled northwards sent the itch in Arthur’s brain into increased urgency and soon interrupted his sleep. Attuned to his master’s every expression, Gareth confronted him once they had left the relative safety of Vinovia. They had just crossed a Roman bridge over a wide river when the itch turned into a hard, painful moan that added to Arthur’s woes. Ahead, hills led into the mountains, and Arthur knew the heights offered greater safety. The lowlands provided greens, berries, fruit and a plentiful supply of small animals for the cooking pot, when Arthur permitted it, but until he reached the hills the leader of the party would be unable to rest.

‘What’s wrong, Arthur? You’re pale, your eyes are never still and your hands remain painfully close to your sword hilt.’ Hesitantly, Gareth reached out to touch his master’s shoulder. Normally, Arthur would have shrugged off the small gesture of comfort, but this time he accepted the sign of affection and concern. ‘What do you know that we don’t?’

‘I don’t know anything, Gareth, but I can sense that danger is very close to us. If anything should happen to me, I want you to protect the women. Promise me.’

‘Of course, Arthur, but I don’t understand.’

‘I do,’ Eamonn muttered as he loomed out of the darkness from the direction of the picket lines. ‘It’s that voice in your head, isn’t it? It tells you that something dangerous lies in the hills ahead of us.’

‘Yes, but I can’t for the life of me understand what it is. Our path through the North has been unremarkable, so I’m at a loss to understand how anyone could have divined who we are or where we’re going. All these weeks on the road have made us a ragged lot.’

Eamonn grimaced in agreement. Their clothing had lost their sharp, vegetable-dyed colours in the summer sun and even the simple act of washing it in the river water had weakened the fabric in places so that many of Arthur’s tunics had split along the seams.

‘I won’t be happy until we reach those mountains. They’ll provide some protective cover that we don’t have here. We’re exposed in this flat country.’ Arthur thought for a moment. ‘Tell the girls to rest well tonight, for we’ll be riding hard and fast tomorrow until we reach the foothills. We’ll only take enough rest to keep the horses alive. I know it will be hard going, especially for the women, but needs must. We’ll sleep easier when we reach the mountains.’

Mareddyd was drunk and belligerent. He had kept to his room, taking his food there and keeping out of sight from the time he had heard from one of his warriors who had been tasked to watch the gates of Vinovia and warn him of the arrival of the Dumnonii party. Mareddyd knew he must not be seen by Arthur or his friends.