M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (68 page)

He never went anywhere without a troop of ten armed guards. One man had been executed by the Dene at the cross-roads, but the other nine were ordered to remain in their quarters until such time as Arthur and his travelling companions had left the town. Once they had gone, everyone heaved a sigh of relief.

‘Innkeeper,’ Mareddyd shouted over the hubbub in the small bar. ‘Hoi! I want to talk to you.’

Alarmed by his tone, and eager to lessen his belligerence, the innkeeper left his accustomed place at the bar to personally serve his noble guest.

‘Sit down with me, innkeeper,’ Mareddyd demanded in a voice that was just a little too loud because of his fuddled wits. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Of course, sir,’ the innkeeper replied soothingly as he eased himself down onto a bench seat. ‘My name is Ossian, son of Ottar, and you know my daughter Myfanwy, who has served you many times.’ The innkeeper kept his face servile and pleasant, but his heart surged with resentment.

‘Little deer!’ Mareddyd scoffed, choosing to sneer at the meaning of the girl’s name. He had never possessed an understanding of other people and had never exerted himself enough to try. Had he bothered, he would have wondered why the father of a ravaged daughter could sit so easily with the man who had assaulted her.

‘Yes, my lord, it is an unfortunate name. How may I help you?’

‘Who and what are the Dene? I’ve never heard of them until I met one today. I’m curious.’

Ossian paled a little. Enough Jutes passed through this northern town to give him some familiarity with a race that even they feared.

‘I’ve heard that the Dene came to Jutland from places even further north. It’s said that their homeland is a place where half the year is dark with no dawning, and the remaining half of the year is light with no sunset. Perhaps these tales are lies, because I can’t imagine such a place, but the Jutes swear it exists.’

Mareddyd mumbled drunkenly and nodded his head like a man on the verge of unconsciousness.

He won’t remember a word of what I’m saying in the morning, Ossian thought sullenly. I wish I was a braver man. I’d cut this animal’s throat for Myfanwy’s sake. This brute seems to enjoy inflicting pain on the powerless.

‘The Dene invaded Jutland some hundred years ago and, mile by mile, they’ve taken all the decent land. They’re great sailors and fierce fighters. Their excessive height makes them almost impossible to defeat in combat and they worship Ice Dragons and northern gods that are very much like those revered by the Saxons. The Dene and the Saxons are distant relatives, although the Saxons are shorter.’

‘Shite!’ Mareddyd focused on the innkeeper’s face. ‘They value dragons, do they? Let’s hope that admiration doesn’t extend to the human variety.’

‘I don’t understand, my lord.’ Ossian’s confusion was written clearly on his face.

‘Don’t worry, Ossian.’ Mareddyd drained his mug and struggled to his feet, patting Ossian’s head as he weaved towards his upstairs room. ‘You serve good beer!’ He leered across at his landlord. ‘My thanks for the information, Ossian. Oh, and you can send Myfanwy to my room, right now.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ Ossian replied, his voice both servile and sullen.

As usual, Mareddyd didn’t notice.

The next morning, as Arthur’s troop rode at a steady trot along the straight road through the late-summer countryside, Eamonn spurred his horse to join Arthur at its head with a raw-boned warrior at his side.

‘Arthur, I have just gleaned some information that makes me distinctly nervous. Trefor here saw something in Vinovia that could be the source of your nervousness.’

Arthur glanced up from under his leonine brows and Eamonn noticed that his friend’s eyes were very pale today. They were almost wholly grey, while the whites were red from lack of sleep.

‘Trefor, my good fellow, tell us what you saw.’

Trefor was thin and dark. Not overly tall for his people, he probably owed much of his ancestry to the Picts who had been driven out from the tribal lands many generations before the arrival of the Romans. During their long journey, Eamonn had come to respect the warrior for his obedience, flexibility and observational powers. If Trefor saw something that caused him some concern, it was worth repeating the tale to his leader.

‘When we rode into Vinovia from the south and passed through the gateway, I thought I saw a man whose homespun cloak was lined with the Dobunni squares. They’re distinctive in colour, as Leodegran chose the closest colour to purple he could make from vegetable dyes and mixed them with squares of a rusty red. I’m sure it wasn’t my imagination, and I’ve thought and thought about a reason for a Dobunni warrior to have travelled so far north. I know they trade widely, but this man was not a trader, although I only caught a glimpse of him. I should have told Lord Eamonn earlier, but I wasn’t sure. I hope I’ve caused no harm by keeping silent.’

‘That can’t be helped now, so I thank you, Trefor. If you see any more of that distinctive check, let me know at once. Let all the men know, for that matter. And the girls, because forewarned is forearmed. You can resume your position in the line now.’

‘You’re not angry with me, my lord?’ Trefor asked nervously.

Arthur smiled and shook his head, so Trefor drew rein and retraced his steps back through the line of travellers, passing the message as he went.

‘You don’t think Mareddyd’s around here somewhere, do you, Arthur?’ Eamonn asked, a line creasing the skin between his brows.

‘I can’t think of any reason for his venturing this far north, but I can’t discount it. That man wants both our heads. Meanwhile, there’s a knoll ahead of us that’s a perfect spot to rest the horses and have a meal. We’ll stop there for a few hours.’

The horses were urged into a brisk canter. The trees grew much more thickly along this part of the road and some spreading branches met overhead, turning the light of noon as green as grass, or the skin of a dead man. Then, suddenly, the hum in Arthur’s skull began to keen and a sense of urgency exploded through every vein in his body.

‘Ride! Ride! Ride! There are enemies here somewhere! Keep tightly together and ride like hell for the top of the knoll.’

Obedient and disciplined, the warriors obeyed. The girls’ faces whitened at the unaccustomed speed they were forced to maintain as they raced along the rough track. The knoll was close and they had almost cleared the thickly encroaching tree line when a section of rope netting sprang up across the track, directly in front of Arthur and Eamonn who were leading the troop. The web-like obstruction swept both warriors from their saddles and brought their horses down in a tangle of legs and screaming, open mouths.

Huge bearded men swinging long-handled axes sprang out from their hiding places and felled the horses of the warriors at the rear of the column with the same stroke that women used when wielding twig brooms. Shaking his head to clear it as he struggled to his feet, Arthur’s last view of the brief battle was seeing Trefor suddenly beheaded. The warrior who performed the execution stood at Arthur’s height and used his single-bladed weapon with exquisite economy of movement. Arthur was still staring in surprise when Trefor’s head sprang from his shoulders and rolled away into the brambles beside the road.

Then something struck Arthur on the side of the head and he felt his senses start to slide away. The screaming in his head was so loud that it seemed to fill the whole world as Gareth sprang over the tangle of horses and gutted the man who had struck Arthur with the blunt hilt of his sword.

‘Ride, Gareth, and find help,’ Arthur ordered with the last of his wits. ‘God damn you, Gareth! Ride – and ride fast! We’re done here, so go.’

Then the darkness embraced him with sounds that were full of raucous noise and a voice that cried and cried.

‘Stay alive, Arthur! No matter what happens, you must stay alive. Stay alive!’

In Vinovia, Mareddyd awoke with a vile headache and a taste in his mouth of bile, vomit and something rotten. He gagged as he sat upright, because the pain in his head from the ale he had drunk seemed to fill the universe with its sharp, blinding totality.

To avoid disgracing himself, he quickly found the pot that was kept under the bed for guests to use during the night. Then, embarrassed, he vomited into the malodorous receptacle, whose reek caused him to sicken still further until he felt raw inside and out. His stomach was completely voided.

An uncontrollable thirst claimed him.

Mareddyd sought out the jug of water for washing that sat on a rickety table in his room, but the ewer was almost empty. He drained the lukewarm water in it at a single draught and then bellowed for more.

‘What happened last night?’ he asked himself aloud. He was sick, dazed and unable to remember anything after his conversation with the innkeeper. ‘Just my luck to pick the one group of cut-throats who are likely to admire Artor and Arthur because of their links with dragons.’

The afternoon had the steady heat of an unusually settled summer’s day. The bedding stuck to Mareddyd’s naked back and sweat pooled in his armpits, his groin and the hollows behind his knees, while the reek of vomit made him dizzy. His head ached sullenly and his thirst was unbearable.

‘I need water!’ he bellowed again, careless of the hour and the display he was making in front of other guests staying at the inn. ‘Myfanwy, you bitch, get your lazy arse moving and get me some water. Now!’

The simple latch opened and the door swung gently inwards. Myfanwy was standing tentatively on the threshold with a jug of water in her left hand. Her right arm was splinted and bandaged.

‘What did you do to your arm?’ Mareddyd asked casually as he snatched the jug from her and began to drink.

‘You broke it, my lord. I was a little slow to undress you.’ The girl’s expression was flat and colourless. Mareddyd decided that she looked half witted.

‘Get me another jug, woman. This one’s empty.’

In obvious pain, she padded away on silent feet.

Mareddyd lay back on the bed and sighed. He felt better already because he had realised even as he drank that Stormbringer’s thugs would already have dealt with Arthur and his enemy’s future would have been decided, for good or ill. Oh, the sheer pleasure of that thought, and the revenge he had achieved. The Dobunni heir groaned with exhilaration and absently scratched at his testicles.

The door opened again and Myfanwy entered quickly. This time, she had brought a bowl of fruit, a mug and a large pottery jug filled with water. She balanced the tray on her bandaged arm, but took most of the weight on her good hand.

Before she could place the tray on the rickety table, Mareddyd grabbed at an apple and bit into it. The taste was wonderful, for it was flavoured with his new-found freedom from the quest for revenge that had consumed him for so long. Myfanwy had poured a mug of water and set it on a stool beside his bed, so he drained the contents swiftly, and his brain began to work again.

‘More water!’

Then a ghastly, frightening nightmare surfaced out of the tangle of thoughts that had been so pleasing a moment earlier.

He knocked the ewer from her hand, causing the heavy jug to fall onto the rush mats on the floor and spill water over the planking. But it didn’t break. Absently, the girl picked it up.

‘Are you half witted, you slut? How could you let me drink water? If I get bellyache I’ll string you up by your hair – and your father with you. And I’ll burn this fleapit to the ground. You know that water is poison in these parts, so if I suffer for it I’ll make you suffer ten times worse. Do you understand, bitch?’

‘You told me to bring the water to you,’ Myfanwy said dully. ‘If I hadn’t brought it you’d have beaten me anyway.’

Mareddyd knew she spoke the truth. Oblivious of his nakedness, he sat upright on the bed, and found himself filled with a God-like feeling of power. ‘Don’t you understand, that’s what you’re here for?’ He leered across at her. ‘You can get me some decent ale now, and something better to eat than this shit.’

He threw the apple core at her with his full force. It hit her bruised cheekbone with an audible thump. Then, disgusted at her bovine expression, he turned his back on her.

The ewer was in her hand. Seemingly, it developed a life of its own and she swung it up and brought it down across the back of Mareddyd’s head with a soft, mushy thud.

Mareddyd fell back onto the bed, his eyes full of the last sight he would ever see: the ewer, already stained with blood and hair as it flashed down towards his head again.

Myfanwy struck at Mareddyd’s handsome face again and again until the heavy earthenware finally broke in her hands. She looked down at a reddened, shapeless mass of broken teeth, splintered bone, pulpy eyes, and a fractured skull. Fluid leaked from both ears and grey jelly oozed from a deep split in the forehead which finished at the crown of the head.

Then her vomit joined the reek of Mareddyd’s voided bowels and bladder, until she forced herself to cover his body with a ruined sheet. She stared at him one final time, and then walked through the open door where her father was already waiting.

And so the heir of the Dobunni tribe perished. A rudimentary investigation was conducted but no one seemed to know any details about Mareddyd, or why he was so far north of the Dobunni lands. Nor could anyone in the town have profited from his death. Perhaps robbery was the motive, although five silver rings were found on his person.

An urn carried his ashes home to his father, who made token shows of tears for reputation’s sake, but it soon became the talk of the Dobunni tribe that Tewdwr immediately commenced a search for a younger wife on whom he could sire a new heir and so maintain the succession after the death of King Ifor.

After all, Tewdwr was only forty years old and the tribe must have a new prince. Tewdwr soon found a girl of the Dumnonii tribe with a good pedigree. Fortunately, this voluptuous young princess swiftly earned King Ifor’s approval now that his contentious grandson, Mareddyd, had gone to meet his maker.

Everyone was rather pleased that Mareddyd was no more.

God, Fortuna or Satan had once more turned the wheel, and life went on.