M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (55 page)

Disaster, when it comes, is not necessarily loud, noisy or bloody. The worst defeats are often anti-climactic and bloodless, at times when both warriors and officers can lose hope in the future. Bran ruled the largest and strongest of the remaining tribes except for those held under the iron hand of King Bors of Cornwall. Mountains protected the Ordovice, but should this natural barrier be penetrated the Britons would be slaves of the Saxons for ever. Bran had publicly vowed that he would die before he permitted Saxons to stand on his soil. Privately, he knew that such a fate was inevitable.

Calleva emptied while Bran raged at all that was happening around him. Then the ruler of the northern tribes approached him, begged his pardon and informed him that they would be returning to places of safety. They had considered the options available to them and had deemed the entire south now lost to the Britons. With every man who left them, the army was weakened and less viable as a fighting force. Bran understood the northern tribes’ decision, but his outward demeanour remained angry and betrayed.

Ironically, Bran was being defeated through collective fear without Cynric’s having to strike a blow, and he knew it. Now Bran’s caution was to become his greatest enemy, for he was paralysed by indecision. Should he disperse the troops and return to Viroconium without attempting to slow the Saxon advance? He would be forced to watch his borders gradually whittled away by an encroaching Mercia. Or should he go to Venta Belgarum and risk the last army of the west?

He called Bedwyr and his son to a private meeting as Calleva turned into an echoing ghost town where looters removed anything of value before they themselves deserted the city. Bran permitted their worst excesses, for he believed the richer citizens of Calleva deserved nothing if they had the good fortune to be able to return to the town at some future time. Bedwyr and Arthur watched the blatant theft as they approached the inn where Bran was now staying. The innkeeper didn’t quite have the arrogance to depart while King Bran was in residence, and cursed the timber merchant who had foisted the king onto him when that wily trader had made his flight from the city with all his possessions intact.

‘The town is full of thieves, my lord, and there’ll be nothing left at this rate,’ Bedwyr began. ‘What do you intend to do now?’ The master of Arden had expected to feel some triumph, but he was overwhelmed by sadness as the town continued to empty.

‘I’ll release the troops soon and allow them to return to their tribes. There’ll never be another army of the Britons. I don’t regret my use of Marine Fire, because it saved many tribal lives. I’ve called you here to tell you my plans, which will allow you to make your own arrangements. Arden is more important than ever, but I wish to caution you of probable future events, Bedwyr, in gratitude for your long service to my family. Arden cannot stand alone for ever, so don’t permit the Saxons to outflank you or you’ll be trapped and I’ll not be able to save you. I have drawn a line in the sand stretching from Deva to Viroconium and onward to Glevum. I will defend everything west of this line. The Britons are finished now and our defeat will come quickly.’

Then Bran looked directly at Arthur, whose eyes were discreetly turned downward. ‘Most of what you accused me of was correct, Arthur, but I stand by what I chose to do. My plan was always risky, but I realised a long time ago that I had to save as many of my warriors as I could. You may be right in thinking that I resented you for your resemblance to Artor, but I believe that I would make the same decisions again if I were given the same choices. Perhaps I should have let Calleva burn while I waited to discover Cerdic’s intentions, but I hate waste. At least give me the credit for the escape of the townspeople. They have a chance of survival now, which they didn’t have before I used Marine Fire. We’d never have beaten the Saxons here without it.’

Arthur considered Bran’s confidences seriously and nodded his head. ‘I understand, kinsman, but I can’t forgive you entirely. You should have trusted me, and you should have called for volunteers to serve on the line.’

‘Should I? But the best and the bravest would have fought to participate in the action. How would that help the cause of the Britons? Losing my best troops was never a part of my battle plan. I suggest that you think about this conundrum in the years ahead. Perhaps you’ll change your mind with the benefit of experience. In any event, King Artor once told me that a king must be prepared to sacrifice his own moral code if such action would serve to save his people. I believe he was correct. Think about that when we are strangers in our own lands.’

He smiled a conciliatory and bitter smile at the young man standing before him. ‘Now, kinsman, you are free to leave. I’ll not expect you to watch the disintegration of King Artor’s army. It will be hard enough for me to bear; there is no need for you to share the pain.’

Bowing silently, father and son left Bran to his demons. Bedwyr was in tears as they crossed the threshold of the inn, and Arthur asked him why he wept for one such as Bran.

‘He has proved to be a noble man. If there is a world beyond the shadows, and if our spirits endure beyond death, then Artor will be proud of Bran. His road has been hard, and the worst is yet to come for him.’

Arthur shook his head in genuine perplexity. ‘I don’t understand politics . . . I really don’t. You were angry with Bran and resented his lack of honour in using Marine Fire – yet now you are weeping for him.’

‘I thought the Britons had a future then. I was a fool.’

And no matter how Arthur coaxed him, Bedwyr refused to elaborate on his words.

For two days, Bran did nothing, while Calleva emptied around him like smoke in a strong wind. Then he called together the remaining kings and captains, and ordered that the army should disperse.

But one last task remained before Calleva was left to wither and die. To punish the population if ever they should decide to return at some future time, Bran ordered that all the wells should be poisoned, their walls collapsed and the holes filled in. Long-lasting contaminants were used to ensure that the water supply could never be used again, either by the Celts or by the encroaching Saxon hordes. Thus, Bran decreed, Calleva Atrebatum would remain deserted until the end of time, and neither Saxon nor Briton would ever again live in the ghostly mansions or walk the silent streets that had once been alive with industry and vigour.

Then Bran rode away, his head held high. He did not look back.

CHAPTER XVII

THE WAY TO THE NORTH

No state can exist without the confidence of the people.

Confucius,
Analects
, 12:7

‘Look, Arthur. There it is, Tintagel the fair,’ Eamonn cried, one arm pointing over the green, rolling land towards a grey headland thrusting out into an equally grey ocean. The companions were still too far away to mark any details of the fabled fortress, but the word
fair
had not immediately leapt into Arthur’s mind.

‘I’m at your disposal, Eamonn. Lead the way.’

Three horses and a hardy pack beast were spurred into a steady trot as Eamonn, Arthur and Gareth moved steadily through the long, brittle grasses of winter. From where they rode, the grim cliffs appeared to plunge straight down into the sea.

‘Father will return before too long, Arthur, but before he does I’ll have a chance to show you this wondrous place. It has never fallen to its enemies, even to Uther Pendragon, who was forced to use a ruse to enter the citadel. My home is as timeless and as defendable as any place on this earth, as you’ll soon see. We don’t have to tease ourselves with fear of the destruction of all we love. Nothing is gained by it, and what Bran chooses to do can’t be changed by any of us.’

Behind Eamonn’s back, Gareth grimaced. His experiences of Cornwall thus far had convinced him that this country was perfectly safe from any Saxon ambitions. ‘It’s the far end of nowhere,’ he had told Arthur privately in camp the previous night. Arthur had defended the magic of Cornwall, for many great men and women had emerged from its rolling countryside, deep-set wells, vestigial forests and foam-edged cliffs beetling over stony and precarious beaches. This timeless earth had nurtured Gorlois, a warrior of unimpeachable virtue; Ygerne had lived in Tintagel for much of her life and died in a nunnery not far from where they were now, and her beauty still echoed down the passage of decades; King Artor had been sired here, and what man had not heard the heroic tales of the Dragon King? And who could forget Morgan and Morgause, those two women who were superficially very different and yet were the most influential and feared women of their age other than Wenhaver and Nimue. This strange, glamour-drenched country had spawned legends and Arthur was certain that more would be born from its green and grey magic.

Besides, in the quiet reaches of the night when his companions were asleep around the campfire and the stars were so brilliant that Arthur felt he could reach out his hand and grasp them, he knew that in Cornwall he needed no one to guard his back. Here, friends were true and strangers didn’t automatically earn his suspicion. Bran’s arm was long, but Arthur was safe with Eamonn in this powerful tribal state.

Calleva Atrebatum was a memory now, one that lay six months behind Eamonn and Arthur. The erstwhile friends had met again as the last of the army disbanded and began to head north and west into an uncertain future. Eamonn’s father had promoted him into manhood early and the lad had ridden in the second cavalry charge, but he seemed untouched by the horrors of that gruesome, unequal fight and Arthur envied his air of nonchalance and enthusiasm. When they bumped into each other at the west gate, Arthur had been struck immediately by Eamonn’s impressions of the battle, Bran’s behaviour and the use of Marine Fire. Eamonn had obviously seen totally different aspects of the conflict from those Arthur had observed, and Arthur had found his view very interesting.

‘How lucky you were to stand in the line,’ Eamonn had said with genuine envy. ‘Not only did you have the opportunity to see the Jutes up close, but you also had the chance to be heroic. I only saw horses’ arses from where I was positioned in the rear rank of the charge. I struck out at a few Saxons, but Jesus alone knows if any of my blows landed.’

‘You were lucky then, my friend,’ Arthur replied with a bitter, sardonic edge to his normally pleasant voice. ‘That day spent facing totally unprepared Jutes who were surrounded by Marine Fire is graven into my memory. Bran was very foolish to have used such a weapon.’

‘But consider the number of casualties we would have suffered if our forces hadn’t had access to it. We were outnumbered by at least two to one, and even though Cynric has moved into the south he will spend years replacing the warriors he lost at Calleva. He’ll curse Bran’s name for decades.’

Marvelling at how men’s perceptions varied when their experiences in the battle were considered, Arthur let the topic drop. He’d not really considered the lives that had been saved by the use of the terror weapon, and he was struck by Eamonn’s compelling argument. Lives
had
been saved, probably thousands of them, and saved manpower mattered in the larger context of a deadly war of attrition. However, Arthur couldn’t separate the practicalities of the battle of Calleva from the honour of those whose ethical considerations had been compromised. Eamonn would have explained, in his usual cheerful fashion, that they were fortunate not to have to make such difficult decisions. A king could not afford to be a man: a man could not understand the duties that lay on the shoulders of a king.

Besides, in a convoluted, wholly British fashion, Eamonn and Bran were related through the bloodlines of Queen Ygerne, the Flower of Tintagel. Best, Arthur decided, if Eamonn kept his illusions for as long as possible.

Calleva had provided one more piece of news before the friends had left its silent streets, where leaves and detritus were already piling in dark corners after being chased there by the winter winds. Ghosts already seemed to inhabit its deserted houses, which held the expectant air of rooms awaiting a mistress who has merely stepped outside for a moment, and will soon return to her duties.

Then, surprisingly, a rider came to the city gates with bitter-sweet news.

Cerdic had died on Vectis. The old monster had finally drowned in blood from burst blood vessels in his lungs. He had perished before Cynric had brought him the news that Venta Belgarum had fallen to the Saxons without a blow’s being struck, so he didn’t live to see the sacking of the town’s ancient church, or the refugees who clogged the roads leading to the west. So many of the poor perished in that brutal winter that the rout of Venta Belgarum was remembered as the Flight of the Innocents, a fanciful title, for most of the souls who perished hardly fitted that description. For months before the siege, the more respectable citizens, accepting the inevitability of invasion, had fled with their strongboxes and their prized possessions. The whores, innkeepers, day labourers, thieves and frightened poor chose not to run, or had been unable to leave what little they had, so the toll upon them had been very high when Cynric had stripped them of everything of value and cast them out. Their frozen bodies were buried along the roadways, to be exposed in pitiful rows when spring finally returned to the land.

There were no harpers to sing of the loss of Venta Belgarum, Portus Adurni and Magnus Portus. There were no songs of courage, no fierce battles and no great outpourings of grief at these disasters. What had begun with the death of the Dragon King was now advancing inch by inch, and the land and its masters were changing. ‘Britannia’ was dead. When Arthur heard the name Angleland being used to describe his homeland for the first time, something seemed to burst in his chest and he began to understand Bran’s frustration.

To preside over the land and to be both king and Dux Bellorum at a time when the tribes were being chopped up piecemeal and driven into the sea was worse than torture. Bran suffered the ignominy of following generations of heroes whose spirits were pressing him to save their people – and he did not have the resources to do so. Whatever he did, the erosion of his power filled his nostrils with the stench of decay. If he was considered at all, he would be remembered as the king who lost the kingdom of Britain.