M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (53 page)

Arthur had finally hit a nerve, and Bran paled. His canines were exposed by his sneering lips as his handsome features were twisted into ugliness by active dislike, leaving just an angry, ageing and embittered man.

‘I don’t want anything of yours, my lord. I never did. When I swore allegiance to you, I did so for life. And that oath remains strong, despite what I know of you now. Leave me be in Arden, Bran, where I will happily support my brother when he becomes the king of the forest. Please understand that I have no ambitions – none. I have seen the responsibility for our people twist you out of shape and I want nothing of it. You can assure my sister that she should never doubt my loyalty, but from this point onwards I’ll not dance to anyone’s tune unless I know the steps.’

Bran laughed. ‘You’re so melodramatic, Arthur, like a bad harpist’s song. I won’t pursue you, because too many people would notice. Believe it or not, I care for you. I’ve watched you grow to manhood. I’d prefer that you were short and fat, with two left thumbs and bad coordination, but in these days when all glory and beauty is going you’re a reminder of what the Britons were in days gone by.’ The truth shone out of him. Arthur remembered Bran’s history and wondered if he could have borne Bran’s burdens. ‘I’ll be forgotten in the destruction that is to come. I’ll be just another Dux Bellorum trying to maintain the status quo in a time of rapid change. I wish I could stop the wind, or halt Fortuna’s wheel, or whatever fancy metaphor Taliesin would use to describe these times. But I’m just a man who has had the great misfortune to be the last heir of a legend. Even Artor failed, and soon all this beautiful land will be in the hands of Cerdic and his ilk. Yet you look at me with scorn because I have used dishonourable means to even the odds. Don’t be a baby, Arthur, for the Dragon King would have understood. I swear to you that if it was in my power I would use Marine Fire in every Saxon town until I had burned them all – alive or dead! I’d not lose a single night’s sleep over it. You may call me mad if it makes you feel better, but I know exactly what I’m doing. I don’t have the luxury of honourable scruples, because too many people depend on me. When you’ve walked in my shoes for a while, come back and tell me again that I’m a dishonourable monster.’

Bran was breathless with unleashed passion when he finished his speech, and Arthur gaped at him. He had never considered the demands of kingship, having a boy’s glamorous and sanitised vision of total rule. He had comforted himself with the idea that Bran was crazed with hubris: he had never considered that Bran understood what he had done and had chosen this way because he believed it to be the least damaging answer to a hopeless dilemma. For the first time, Arthur saw traces of nobility and real courage in his kinsman. His face must have shown his sudden understanding because Bran turned away.

Bran had seen something in Arthur as well, something Arthur had no idea of. His eyes had caught the flat grey panes of Arthur’s stare and he realised that he’d seen a similar expression many years earlier. Artor had worn that same look, and the High King had never lied. He had never wished to be High King. Cautiously, for Bran was a wise man despite his acquired bitterness, the king of the Ordovice tribe drew back from intemperate action, his face smoothing almost magically with his decision to let Arthur live.

‘Very well, Arthur. Enough has been said between us – probably too much. I will hold you to your word, so just keep out of my sight.’

As Bran strode away through the thickening snow flurries, Arthur wondered what had brought the king out in such inclement weather to see the results of his decisions. Perhaps decency was not quite dead in Bran. Perhaps he had spoken the truth, in which case he was to be pitied, and Arthur had simply lacked the sensitivity or the years to understand.

‘But I don’t care either way,’ Arthur whispered to himself. ‘This dishonour will be punished. Neither the Saxons nor the gods will be mocked. Such weapons cannot be stolen and used with impunity.’

The population of Calleva Atrebatum ventured out from their houses and viewed the cost of their deliverance. Some of the citizens had watched the carnage from the walls of the town and felt odd about the means used to save them, but most of the townspeople were happy just to be alive. When the Saxons had arrived on their doorstep, Calleva had known what would happen to it if the walls and gates should be penetrated. So, out of gratitude for the raising of the siege, the inhabitants stripped the surrounding woods of dry firewood to finish what the Marine Fire had started, the cremation of the dead.

Given the steadily falling snow, Calleva put on her shiniest face to welcome her benefactors. Citizens huddled in bright woollen blankets and knitted gloves pressed fresh bread, dried fruit, sticky honey sweetmeats and garlands of ivy, green foliage and holly on the relieving warriors. One woman passed a silver ring into Arthur’s hand. The large fish adorning it had a single eye, a freshwater pearl. He tried to return this bounty but the woman was swept away by the crowd.

Many of the celebrating citizens recognised Arthur as the tall lad in the red cloak in the centre of the line at the front of the ditch. Somehow, they had discovered his name and he heard it shouted adoringly by a hundred voices. The experience was very odd, but pleasant. The young man basked for a few minutes in the praise of the common folk as he rode with his friends among the foot soldiers who had held the line at the mound, until he realised how few they were. Eanraig looked up with a cheerful, twisted grin for Arthur, which the young warrior returned with a gaiety he didn’t feel.

‘Old men and boys – that’s what we were. A ragtag of an army!’

‘But the ragtag showed Bran how men can fight and die when they are committed to an ideal,’ Germanus whispered to his pupil. Only then did Arthur realise that he had spoken aloud.

‘Wave to them, Arthur,’ Gareth suggested from his right side. ‘The girls love it – and they love you as well.’

So Arthur waved and the girls did indeed love him, if only for that cold, pure afternoon. Their eyes shone and their rosy cheeks were glossy with youth and pride. They ran, skirts swirling to reveal knitted stockings and sensible boots, as they followed the young warriors to the forum. Arthur was ecstatic to discover that the heroes of the hour had been billeted in the public baths, which courtesy of the hypocaust were warm even in the midst of winter. With a crow of pure enjoyment, Lorcan claimed a space for their possessions in one of the dressing rooms, while Germanus took their horses to an area close to the inn at the southern gate where picket lines had been set up. There was insufficient stable room to house the cavalry mounts, but the hardy beasts would survive happily within the city walls, as long as blankets covered their withers and a plentiful supply of hay and water was available.

Arthur and his fellow warriors enjoyed the pleasures of the baths and of the glossy red-cheeked girls in the quiet of the more private places within the confines of that public building. But they were also forced to endure the questions of the townsfolk, who suddenly found that the need for cleanliness overrode their dislike of bathing in public. They had seen the explosions of Marine Fire and the after-effects, and they were eager to know what it was, where it had come from and the likelihood of its being used again in future battles. Arthur tried to be frank, but he judged any detailed description to be unnecessary. After all, why should he do Bran’s work for him?

So the days turned into several weeks, until the citizens of Calleva Atrebatum began to wish the hungry army would take itself elsewhere. Winter was never a good time for an army to be eating its way through a town’s supplies, even a wealthy place like Calleva. Long ago, the Romans had set up potteries, iron workshops and sawmills here, and a large sector of the current population still worked at these skilled employments. Four- and five-storey
insulae
had been built close to the business centre, and now the lives of the inhabitants were affected by the squads of swaggering and drunken warriors who clogged the heart of the town.

Meanwhile, on the outskirts, where the villas of the richer citizens were surrounded by fruit trees, the populace also felt the onerous effects of supporting an army, for these richer citizens had the excess food and space to quarter the kings and their retinues, all at no cost to their guests. Hospitality becomes grudging when an occupying army makes no move to leave its comfortable billet and return to its home. Gratitude wears thin. In a spirit that was far less charitable than Bran expected, the citizens began to duck their heads so the warriors couldn’t see the active dislike that darkened their expressions.

Arthur would have left in the first week, but Bedwyr asked him to stay with the remnants of the army. ‘I’m not sure why Bran chooses to remain here in Calleva. To all intents and purposes, we’re waiting for Cerdic and his son to reappear, probably somewhere near Noviomagus.’ Bedwyr grimaced in disgust. ‘I refuse to call it by that Cissa name, even if it’s only old men like me who still call it by its Roman title. Anyway, Bran expects reprisals from Cerdic and Cynric once they have made good their escape. When Cerdic departed he took only six hundred warriors with him, but that is still the basis of an army, especially if he can find reinforcements in the south and the east, so Bran is becoming increasingly nervous. And we won’t have Marine Fire to back us up in any future battles.’

Arthur grinned and Bedwyr wondered when his son’s smile had become so cynical and world-weary. ‘It serves Bran right to be worried. Cerdic’s single most important aim will be to destroy the army of the Britons, and Bran in particular. I’d still prefer to leave this gilded cesspit and go back to Arden, because I can only enjoy so many Roman bathhouses. Besides, the riff-raff is fouling the pools.’ Bedwyr laughed, exactly as his stepson intended. ‘The people of Calleva want us gone even more than I want to leave, Father. And I can’t really blame them.’

‘I agree. They’re being eaten out of house and home and none of their women are safe. I’d like to think you haven’t contributed to the disgrace of some of Calleva’s daughters. I’ve seen the way they look at you, my boy.’

‘Father, one advantage of reaching manhood is that I’ve discovered how to take advantage of willing and generous ladies. Don’t worry – I have no intention of seducing any innocent young girls. I have too much to learn, and there are lovely matrons and widows enough to keep me more than happy.’

Bedwyr covered his ears, but Arthur saw his lips twitching. Then the Arden Knife began to laugh, the first honest mirth the old man had shown since before the battle. The two men ended up rolling on the tessellated floor of the baths, where Lorcan was guarding their possessions while Germanus and Gareth were off on some nameless business. The priest watched with avuncular amusement while father and son wrestled like overgrown children.

Given Bedwyr’s reservations, Arthur wasn’t surprised when a courier rode up to the south gate of Calleva Atrebatum shortly after the town gates had been closed for the night. The evening was perfect, clear and bright, with deep snow and no breeze to burn the eyes, although the heavy cloud cover had been blown away by gale force winds in the upper air. Stars shone whitely on a velvety black background, while from the top of the wall the scars of Marine Fire were covered by deep blankets of soft, unblemished snow. Into this peaceful scene the courier’s frantic knocking with the hilt of his knife was an intrusion, and its sound was only drowned out by his bellowing demand to be allowed to enter the compound.

Eventually, the gatekeeper emerged from his small lodge and opened a door set into the large, latched gate. Swearing vilely, the courier was forced to dismount, lead his horse through the entry, and then remount before insisting on being taken directly to King Bran.

Arthur observed the courier’s arrival from the walls. He had taken to going to the south gate for a few hours every night to relax and watch the tracks that met at this ancient crossroads. He had a feeling that circumstances were rushing together, as if their actions at Calleva had finally been judged in some higher court and punishment was about to be meted out by the gods. He chose the south gate because that direction seemed the most likely to deliver news of the Saxons. When he saw the courier approaching, he immediately tasted something metallic in his mouth, as if he had bitten his tongue. He sensed the promise of difficult times ahead.

In the grand villa that had been taken over by Bran and Ector, lamps were soon lit and warriors were despatched to the adjoining villas where the other kings were billeted. Arthur saw Bedwyr coming at a shambling run, and decided to join him. He might not trust Bran, but he might as well find out what was going on.

‘Where did the courier come from, Father? I saw him approaching from the south.’

Bedwyr put his forefinger over Arthur’s mouth to silence him. ‘Keep your tongue between your teeth, boy. Listen if you must, but this courier comes from Venta Belgarum and there’s no likelihood of good news from that quarter.’

The villa’s atrium had been selected for the meeting, for the open space was large and possessed a number of stone bench seats and an area of dry, brittle grass where other men could sit on cushions. Bran had already ensconced himself on a marble seat beside the pool, over which a melancholy, immature willow tree was drooping as if in mourning for the loss of the old ways. When the leaders of the tribes had been seated, including the younger generation such as Mareddyd and Eamonn, Bran rose to his feet.

‘I have just received distressing news from Venta Belgarum.’

The room buzzed with sudden consternation, as if a hive of bees had been disturbed.

‘Cerdic reached Vectis over a week ago, and although he was sick with a lung infection he ordered his sons to crush all opposition at Magnus Portus, Portus Adurni and Venta Belgarum itself. Reinforcements from Noviomagus and Anderida had been summoned in readiness even before he besieged Calleva Atrebatum. We fell into a well-conceived trap when we threw our weight against the forces surrounding this town, because the whole Saxon plan was a feint to bring us into the field here. Venta Belgarum had been the real goal all along.’