M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (7 page)

‘Thank you, King Gawayne.’ Bran bowed towards the old man who had seen it all: the drawing of the sword from the stone at Glastonbury, the battles to free the west, and the whole tragedy and glory of King Artor’s reign. ‘We are honoured by your presence, my lord. You and your sons have travelled far to be with us, and we welcome you to this union.’

Polite grunts were aimed in Gawayne’s general direction, which caused his sons to bridle a little at their lack of respect. But Gawayne grinned with the old insouciance that had won Queen Wenhaver’s heart, and the intrinsic honesty that had made him so valuable to the success of his uncle’s rule.

‘Continue, Bran. We are listening to you.’ Gawayne’s blocked nose blurred his commanding voice, but the king of the Otadini tribe was incapable of speaking without the unmistakable confidence of power. As an aged aristocrat with a sense of humour and innate charm, Gawayne retained the gravitas that had made him a legend in his glorious youth.

The kings settled back into their seats, and in the back rows, where the women watched with quiet interest, Anna sighed gently. She knew that Bran would never have the force of personality that would silence strong and greedy men with a simple word or an irate glance. It was the truth; and it would always be Bran’s weakness.

‘Before we deal with the difficulties of our relationship with the Saxon invaders, we have some unfinished business to conclude.’

The crowd hushed. They understood exactly what Bran meant by
unfinished business
, and each man present felt a twinge of relief that Bran’s quiet, reasoned animosity wasn’t turned in his direction. In his coldness, the king of the Ordovice was palpably Artor’s descendant.

‘Mark of the Deceangli tribe forgot his oath of loyalty to King Artor and the council of kings, and chose to follow his personal path of greed and resentment. In doing so, he allied himself with Modred the Matricide and our enemies, the Picts, in order to steal your lands, kill your men, lay waste your towns and burn your crops. He has been brought to Deva to be judged by you, the kings of those tribes who have suffered because of his treason.’ Bran turned to the four warriors standing behind him. ‘Guards! Bring out the traitor.’

Bran might not have possessed gravitas, but he had a spectacular sense of drama. The guards had been ordered to await his direct instructions before dragging Mark before the kings. When his dry, cold voice gave the cue, their footsteps were clearly audible to everyone in that tall, circular space. The dragging noises that accompanied their crisp march went some way towards preparing the audience for the filthy creature that was hauled into their presence.

Months below ground in the worst prison the Romans could devise had irreversibly changed the erstwhile king of the Deceangli tribe. His thin, narrow frame had always been elegant and self-contained, but now it was bent and skeletal. The black hair with the heavy swathes of white had always possessed an avian distinction, coupled with the long, prominent nose, jutting chin and ironic black brows, but the vile thing that entered the hall was no longer a hunting bird, or even a corvine scavenger. It was a travesty of a man, and each of the kings present was forced to turn away from what the jailers of Deva had created.

Mark’s skin, his hair and the single ragged blanket that covered his genitals were the same uniform shade of grimy grey, as if even his colouring had deserted him. His emaciated body could barely stand, so that his guards were forced to half carry, half drag him to a stool where he could sit. The muscles in his legs and arms were wasted, so that his skin fell in loose folds over his bones. His belly was hollow, and every rib and vertebra was clearly visible. Partly healed cuts and scrapes covered his limbs and torso and his filthy grey beard had grown outwards before straggling down over his sunken chest. The uncombed hair on his head was rank, tangled and knotted into a bird’s nest, while his sunken lips spoke of broken teeth that were rotting in his gums. Mark was pathetic; the traitor already smelled of death.

‘This creature is the erstwhile King Mark, whom we accuse of treachery, albeit he is a distant kinsman to most of us. This man has conspired to revolt against the council of kings, and has now been brought before us for trial. Many among us have no doubt of his guilt, but to judge him and kill him out of hand would be an act comparable to those carried out by the Saxon barbarians who beset us. We are a civilised race, so we intend to try our brother in this place, where any man or woman may speak in defence or in accusation.’

Bran’s words fell into the subdued silence like a stone flung into a very deep well. They had expected the Deceangli king to be dishevelled, dirty and cowed, but none of them had dreamed that Mark could be transformed into this subhuman bundle of stick-like bones.

A long sigh rippled through the crowd, half in sympathy, half in shock, as the former king stirred on his hard stool as if the pressure of sitting hurt his skin.

‘Who will list the traitor’s crimes?’ Bran demanded. ‘Who speaks against Mark?’

The room was silent, and Anna feared for a moment that the crowd’s sympathies had been touched by Mark’s physical decay. She looked across the room to the corner where the Deceangli contingent huddled behind their new king with their heads down in a wordless statement of collective guilt. Only one face was lifted and stared back at King Bran, with neither guilt nor anger imprinted on the bland young features.

‘Who is that young man?’ Anna asked her maid, the wife of one of Bran’s advisers. ‘The fair lad in the fourth row of the Deceangli attendants?’

‘I don’t know, madam, but I’ll ask.’ The woman rose and swept away in a swirl of heavy woollen skirts.

Bedwyr of the Cornovii had risen to his feet and joined Bran beside the sprawled figure on the stool. The atmosphere in the hall had a distinct taste and texture that was thick, expectant and almost sexually charged, as if bloodletting were a kind of orgasm. Bedwyr wore a heavy cloak of winter pelts taken from wolves he had killed with his own hands. A massy gold pin held the cloak together, and on the simple hand-span of gold a dragon reared its scaly head, reminding everyone within this ruined space that Bedwyr would be Artor’s man until death, and beyond.

‘I speak for Artor, who trusted Mark’s word and handclasp when he said he would forgo the lure of gold and preferment in order to honour his oath of allegiance. Yet when Mark came to Cadbury, an attempt was made on Artor’s life during a hunt held to entertain the visitors. Although the attack was unsuccessful, Artor was convinced that Mark had arranged for the bowshot to be taken. This treasonous attempt on the High King’s life occurred before Mark had openly allied himself with Modred, demonstrating that perfidy and cowardice had been breeding in secret over a long period of time. Later, when Artor received his death blow during the Battle of the Ford, I saw Mark and his lords on Modred’s side of the river in company with the Matricide. Mark’s treason is beyond argument, so I demand his death.’

With a straight back and a rigid face, Bedwyr turned and resumed his seat. Once again, heavy silence descended over the assembly.

‘Do the Deceangli lords deny the treason of their king and themselves? Do you have any justification for what you did?’ Bran demanded, his thin lips curled in contempt.

The Deceangli king rose to his feet reluctantly. Of average height, weight and colouring, his gaze was direct and he stood with the confidence of a man who had no reason for fear or shame.

‘My name is Deinol ap Delwyn. I am a distant kinsman of King Mark’s father, but I have been living far from Canovium out of choice. I am not a warrior, and neither was my father, and we stayed in the mountains to preserve our lives from King Mark’s depredations. Our ruler trusted no one, especially kinsmen. I cannot speak of the dreadful days that will live on in Deceangli memory for as long as we have hearts to feel shame, for I was not there. Therefore, I wish to call upon Gerallt ap Cadwy, a nobleman who was forced to comply with his king’s demands. Let no sword be raised against Gerallt, for he has served his people well, regardless of the shame that racks him for the crimes carried out against the High King.’

‘We will not harbour any animosity towards Gerallt ap Cadwy if he speaks out boldly and honestly,’ Bran answered in his measured voice. Few men would readily walk into that small, circular space and be unaffected by the weight of all those judging eyes as they assessed him and determined his worth. Gerallt ap Cadwy stood slowly, bowed his shoulders a little under the scrutiny of so many accusing eyes, and then straightened his spine and strode forward to face his peers with a clear, untroubled face.

Gerallt was neither tall nor imposing in build, but his thick neck and heavily muscled torso spoke of years spent training with the sword or riding for many weary miles across dangerous terrain. He was forty if he was a day, but time had done little more than edge his black hair with a rime of white around the hairline and add a few more creases at the corners of his pale blue eyes. When he spoke, his voice had the smooth tones of a naturally charismatic man who was an inspired speaker.

‘Gerallt ap Cadwy,’ Bran repeated. ‘Do not fear to speak, for it is the mark of a savage to harm the messenger who brings unwanted news.’

Gerallt bowed neatly, and then turned to the assembled kings and their retinues. Wisely, he ignored the resentment and red fury that lingered in the eyes of those warriors who still hated any man with Deceangli blood.

‘I was born and bred in Deceangli lands, in Segontium that is now called Caer Narfon on the Menai Straits. The airs are strong there, and a man’s word is weighed against the bite of the wind. We who were born a few miles from the beaches of Mona Island feel the weight of the gods pressing close to us, so we can distinguish right from wrong faster than those who live in softer climes.’

The crowd shifted restlessly and more than one king scowled with impatience.

‘I tell you this detail so that you will know that I speak the truth, even though I besmirch my honour in the telling of it. No man willingly makes himself appear less than he is, unless the gods impel him to speak.’

‘Get on with it then,’ Gawayne ordered, then sneezed with a huge spray of expelled air. The kings around him cringed, but Gawayne grinned wickedly. ‘When you’re as old as I am, there’s nothing like a good sneeze. It’s almost as good as sex,’ he said to no one in particular. His daughters blushed.

‘As you command, my lord, so I obey. I accompanied my king to Cadbury and we saw the great Artor in his hall. I heard my king attack his liege lord over the actions of the spymaster, Trystan, whom King Mark held accountable for the seduction of his wife, the Lady Iseult. King Mark became furious and threatened the High King when Artor refused to punish Trystan for what he deemed to be a family matter. I became concerned for my own safety and that of my companions, especially when an attempt was made on King Artor’s life soon afterwards.’

‘Do you know anything about that assassination attempt? Anything at all? Do not fear to speak, for I have already granted you immunity.’

Gerallt stared down at the filthy figure of his late master with a combination of pity and disgust clearly evident in his eyes. Mark felt the young man’s gaze and stared up at his erstwhile vassal. The king’s face was blank and uncomprehending, as if his senses had been driven out of his addled head, but Gerallt caught a flash of something crafty, as if a grey rat had scuttled across the bleak orbits of Mark’s eyes, leaving only an impression of a long, scaly tail.

‘I heard nothing of any such plot . . . not a whisper. But . . .’

The pause was evocative, as if Gerallt struggled with something internally.

‘You must answer, regardless of how trivial the information seems with hindsight. No man here will blame you if you speak openly,’ Bran repeated, as if he could read Gerallt’s mind.

‘The night before the assassination attempt, I undertook the task of evaluating the defensive ditches surrounding Cadbury . . .’ There was some muffled laughter as most of the listening men decided that the Deceangli warrior was either seeking out a willing woman or taking a piss, both good reasons to be abroad late at night. Gerallt pulled himself together and continued.

‘I heard voices in a corner outside the king’s hall, out of the wind. I could see Artor’s guard posted on the entry gate to the forecourt, but I had thought I was the only other person outside on a cold night that was threatening snow. My curiosity was roused. Because of the hour, I used stealth to approach the place the voices were coming from, for a prudent man takes care when he is in a strange fortress.’

Bran nodded. Gawayne grinned knowingly and whispered something indelicate to his elder daughter, who blushed hotly. Meanwhile, Gerallt registered every flicker of emotion that crossed the faces of the assembled kings and drew strength from their obvious neutrality.

‘As I neared the walls, I recognised Mark’s voice. He was having a discussion with a man in a black cloak. There was no light so I couldn’t see them clearly, but their shapes stood out against the brilliant white of a light snow cover. My king sounded very angry and was protesting intemperately. I heard him say that he’d have nothing to do with it, because he felt that it would fail. I confess I felt a twinge of suspicion, so I pressed myself back against the wall in case I was discovered. I couldn’t hear what the other man said, but he laughed unpleasantly and my master sounded afraid. When they parted, I wished I could sink into the earth, because that cloaked figure radiated danger.’

‘Did you recognise him?’ Bran demanded hoarsely. Common sense told him that Gerallt must have been very close to the conspirators if he heard parts of the conversation. ‘Can you prove what you say?’

‘I saw Mark’s face clearly and I know his voice, so I could not have made any mistake. Then, when the cowled man walked past the niche where I had concealed myself, a stray shaft of moonlight revealed the lower half of his face, which was clean-shaven. I would wager on the soul of my mother that he was Prince Modred, the bastard son of Queen Morgause of the Otadini tribe and the king of the Brigante.’