M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (41 page)

‘You’ll follow me, even if I refuse to allow it?’

‘Yes, Arthur. My task is to protect you from harm and to serve you for the rest of my life, whether you like it or not.’

Arthur snorted with disgust. ‘Why did your great-grandmother saddle you with such a curse?’

Quickly, Gareth outlined the family history. Frith had been Livinia Major’s nurse, and when the infant Artorex had come to the villa she had looked after him, although she was already an elderly woman. She had loved Artorex with her whole being and had cared for his wife Gallia and their daughter, Licia, with great pride. She had given her own grandson, Gareth, to young King Artor as his protector, swearing that her house would serve King Artor and his heirs for ever. With a sinking heart, Arthur realised that his real opponent was a wizened, white-haired old woman who had been dead for nearly sixty years.

‘If you wish to come, then I suppose I can’t stop you,’ he responded at the end of the tale. ‘But you’re not permitted to call me master, or lord, or any other servile form of address. I won’t tolerate it. Hear me, Gareth? You will call me Arthur. And you will respect Father Lorcan and Germanus, for they are my friends as well as my tutors. I have known them for half my life and I love them like kin. Do you understand my terms?’

‘Yes, master . . . Arthur.’ Gareth smiled. ‘I’ll keep Frith’s comb, although I suppose you’ll object if I attempt to tidy your hair.’

‘Exactly so!’ Arthur said with a grin of his own. ‘However, you can help me to plait this mess as I’m going to have to purchase armour that fits – and a discreet helmet.’

‘Wait one moment, lord . . . Arthur. I think I can solve some of your problems.’

Gareth strode away on long legs that obviously wanted to run, but were held in check by the lad’s natural dignity, and returned within five minutes, lugging a heavy wicker chest over one shoulder. With a flourish, he swept open the lid and drew out a helmet. ‘This was my father’s armour. He was wearing it on the day the great king died.’

The plain helmet was shaped like a centurion’s helm with a corresponding crest of stiff, red-dyed horsehair. The nose plate and cheek guards were smooth and undecorated to give no purchase to any attacker’s descending blade. The neck protection flanged outward to deflect blades in the same way, but on the back of the head an artisan had enamelled a huge red dragon to spread its wings protectively across the back of the neck.

‘This helm is beautiful, Gareth, and you’ve kept it in excellent condition. But I can’t accept this armour. Your father intended it to be used by you.’

‘I have my own armour, Arthur, designed specifically for me by a master metalsmith. This chest contains the armour that was presented to my father by the High King. As far as I can see, it originated with your father and is rightfully being returned to his son.’

‘A master smith made these too,’ Arthur murmured as he examined the mail gloves, as flexible as superfine hide and lined with fine lambskin. The helmet was cushioned with the same fine leather. A breast and back plate, buckled at the shoulders and the sides, was made of smooth, beautifully crafted metal, undecorated except for the red dragon rampant across the chest, and the shirt of mail worn under it was so light, flexible and strong that Arthur was sure that, in all the land of the Britons, only Rhys ap Myrddion had the skill to produce armour of a like calibre.

A short knife, a shield, dragon cloak pins, greaves, a codpiece and an odd short spear that was used for stabbing rather than throwing completed the items in the wicker chest. ‘They’re all yours, Arthur, by my father’s express bequest. He always knew you’d come, and that my life would have purpose. He left me his sword, for he knew you would wish to find your own. I also have a series of gifts that the High King showered on him over nearly forty years of service. They are mine to give, so if you should want any or all of them, you only have to ask.’

‘Don’t be foolish, Gareth. I’ll become cross if you so much as hint that you should give me your birthright. I’ll accept the armour with thanks, because I’m sure you’ll be difficult if I don’t – and I’ll need it in the battles ahead. But I won’t touch what your father gave to you under any circumstances.’

Gareth bowed his head. ‘Yes, Arthur.’

‘Well then, we shall be leaving shortly after dawn in the morning, so you’d best make all your goodbyes before you go to bed. It would be impolite to wake the house early on our behalf.’

‘We keep farm hours here, Arthur, so I don’t believe there’ll be any problem with leaving at any time suitable to you.’

When Gareth had gone, Arthur lay staring at the same whitewashed ceiling that Artorex had gazed at sixty years earlier. He smelled the same scents of wood smoke and stew on the ovens as Artorex had. The rough wood slats, the leather straps on the bed that creaked whenever he moved, the sliver of light that shone through the primitive latch from the colonnade were all the same, as if the room had waited for its master to return and was now happy that it once again had a purpose.

Lulled by the past and the strength of his fertile imagination, Arthur fell asleep.

At Cunetio, Arthur quickly settled into the old pattern of life that had shaped him in Arden and honed his skills at the Warriors’ Dyke. Tired and stooped with arthritis, Bedwyr was a grey-muzzled old wolf, but only a fool would look into his hooded eyes and assume that great age had finished him. The Arden contingent was large, but Bedwyr had left his borders adequately guarded during his absence. He was fully aware that any competent strategist would attack at just this time and cleave their way into the centre of Britannia like a hot, sharp knife through new cheese.

Not since the last call by King Artor to crush Modred and his conspirators in the civil war had so many tribesmen gathered in one place. And only a matter of the greatest urgency could have prompted the tribes who lived far away in relative safety behind the Walls to risk their best warriors in a major battle.

Calleva had been an important city for many generations before Caesar had brought the Romans to Britannia. The Atrebates had ruled all of southern Britain from it because of its plentiful water, the excellent defences of the hill on which it was situated, the forests that surrounded it and the mild and healthy climate.

The Romans came and judged that the Atrebate kings had been clever in their choice of capital. Plentiful firewood fired industry, the city had a formidable wall which the Romans built even higher with an accompanying ditch and, when they built their road network, the site was perfect as a natural crossroads that was easily defended. One road headed north-west to Corinium, another south-west to Durnovaria near the coast; another road headed east to Londinium while, to the south, a fourth road headed straight and true to Venta Belgarum and, from there, to the port of Magnus Portus.

But Calleva Atrebatum, as it had been called during Roman times, was in a gradual decline, slow but inexorable. Venta Belgarum had eclipsed it as a British centre during the reigns of Ambrosius and Uther Pendragon, perhaps because the brothers had a nervous need to have an escape route at their backs following their terrifying childhood experiences. However, the political situation had changed in recent times, and with it Calleva Atrebatum had regained much of its lost prestige: so much so that it was now under siege, in winter, by a determined Saxon force.

Cissa, the king of the Suth Seaxe, had finally died, leaving no offspring to take his place. In the power struggle that ensued, the more ambitious thanes began to consolidate their hold on the broad, rich lands of the south between Londinium and Noviomagus that had been in Saxon hands since King Artor had been a boy. The power vacuum which should have been a blessing to the British actually marked the beginning of a slow and terrible slide into irrelevancy for the old tribes of what was increasingly being called
Angleland
. The thanes of old Verulamium and Camulodunum, on the other hand, the Western Saxons, backed by the lords of Mercia, welcomed it. The invaders knew that many rich acres of land covered with black-faced sheep were there for the taking. The wealth of the old Roman cities lay open for strong arms to take, and so, lest the tribes organise in the wake of Cissa’s death and use a civil war within the Suth Seaxe to strengthen their hold on the south and the west, the thanes struck boldly. Had the climate not been so mild, the advent of winter would have crushed their plans, but that year had brought no snow before the solstice, and the Saxons’ gods promised them a great victory over their enemies. Pontes, west of Londinium, had long been a town where Britons and Saxons had co-existed amicably for the sake of trade, but now the thanes ordered the tribal citizens of Pontes to be put to the sword, the churches burned and the town placed under the banner of the White Dragon of the East.

Havar Havarsen, the White Dragon of Jutland, had come to Camulodunum in search of land for his people who were streaming in from the north of Europe. The huge, savage Dene had invaded Jutland and soon carved out a kingdom for themselves that left the Jutes homeless and lost. Bereft of pride, Havar and the thanes who had settled to the north of Londinium were quick to recognise the strategic advantage of taking and holding Calleva Atrebatum. They were unconcerned about the lateness of the season, for in Jutland the land was always covered with deep snow, and famines were common. For the Jutes, Britannia was a warm, ripe apple that dangled tantalisingly within their reach, so Havar and his Saxon allies encircled Calleva Atrebatum and settled down to wait.

Arthur was under no illusions. The Saxon force expected them. They were dug in and waiting for them in great numbers and he knew that the Britons had no choice but to do battle. But even success at Calleva would only ensure a little more breathing space, a little extra time before the inevitable destruction of the tribes as they were inexorably driven towards the sea. Arthur shuddered within his crude sheepskin coat, thrust roughly over his armour, as he watched the encampment prepare for the long task of moving to do battle at Calleva.

Bedwyr came up behind his stepson on deceptively silent feet and thrust a tin mug of hot water, herbs and honey into the lad’s hands. ‘Warm your fingers, boy. You’ll need every one of them where we’re going. We’ve too little cavalry and too few archers. Pelles has done his best, but you can’t pluck men out of thin air. Still, according to the intelligence that’s come from Calleva, the Saxons continue to see no need for cavalry and archers, so it’s an edge. It’s small, but real.’

‘I’m confused, Father. I’m excited because I know what a battle is like, and I know I’ll kill many men. But I don’t know how I should feel about it. Our enemies have wives and children, mothers and siblings – people who will grieve for them when they die. To be a successful warrior is to kill, but I know I will regret the deaths of strangers at my hands.’

Bedwyr’s face suffused with colour and he slapped Arthur hard across the cheek with an open palm.

‘Did that blow hurt? Good! You’re talking weak-bellied shite, Arthur. We’ll be at the gates of Calleva Atrebatum tomorrow, and we’ll kill every Saxon warrior who faces us – or we will die ourselves. It’s as simple as that, you fool. Who’s been putting these nonsensical ideas into your thick skull? If it’s Gareth, I’ll shake his head clean off his shoulders.’

‘No, Father!’ Arthur’s voice was strident with alarm. ‘No one’s been talking to me, least of all Gareth, who’s just as anxious to kill Saxons as you are. I’ve just been considering what a waste of time it all is.’

Bedwyr looked at his wife’s son with blank incredulity.

‘Don’t you remember what happened to Rab and the Crookback family? Answer me, you young fool! Don’t you remember them?’

‘Yes, of course I do. But our peoples are caught up in a killing spiral that is impossible to break. Sooner or later, we’ll be forced to sue for peace.’

Bedwyr snorted in disgust. ‘I want you to come with me, you fool, for there is something you must see if you are beginning to think such nonsense as this. Lorcan!’ he roared, and nearby foot soldiers and archers flinched at the tone of his voice. ‘Where the fuck are you, Lorcan?’

Seemingly out of nowhere, the tutor appeared in his homespun robe, his fine onyx and pearl rosary attached to the raw flax of his belt.

‘Inform Lords Ector and Bran that I will be absent until nightfall. This prize idiot of a son of mine needs an object lesson in the form of what the Saxons left for us at Spinis.’

‘Aye, lord. But . . .’

‘Don’t interrupt me, Lorcan, and don’t ask questions. If your pupil is to have any chance of survival when we meet the Saxons, whether it’s tomorrow or next week, then he has to have an incentive to fight. He must learn what the enemy is capable of, peace or not. Tell them we are going to Spinis. With luck we’ll be back in about seven hours. Arthur, you’ll need a decent horse. Now hurry, because you’ve made me seriously angry.’

Confused by his foster-father’s attitude and running to find his sword and a horse, Arthur refused Gareth permission to accompany him. He knew his servant’s presence exacerbated Bedwyr’s temper, although he had no idea why.

‘No, Gareth. You don’t know Bedwyr the way I do. For some reason, he’s as angry with me as I’ve ever seen him. If I allowed you to accompany me, he’d be even more furious than he is now. I’ll have to face the demons in Spinis by myself.’

‘You need me with you, Arthur. Heaven only knows what your father wants of you.’

Gareth’s mouth was set in an uncompromising line, so Arthur knew that he ran the risk of angering his new servant as well as his stepfather. ‘Sorry, Gareth, but if you ask Germanus and Father Lorcan, they’ll tell you that Bedwyr is formidable when he’s in a good mood and an unstoppable force when his temper is strained. I’ve done or said something to upset him, so I must hurry. Being late would be the final insult.’

Choosing the horse with the best staying power, Arthur joined Bedwyr beyond the picket line.

‘When we ride, Arthur, oblige me by being silent. I spent too many years as a Saxon slave to be able to listen to your generous view of these animals. I watched them kill my friends in an unspeakable way and then they raped me. Once I was grown, I was forced to become their dog and ill treatment drove me to madness. I swear that only the faith of King Artor and the unqualified love of your mother gave me the strength to face my demons, else I couldn’t have borne to hear you say what you did. You will now remain silent until I permit you to speak.’