M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (57 page)

‘When did you become a poet, Gareth, and put us all to shame with your eloquence?’ Arthur asked, mock serious, hoping that Eamonn’s mother would not be offended by Gareth’s fulsome praise.

He need not have been concerned, for the queen laughed unaffectedly and patted Gareth’s cheek. ‘I am Valda, wife of King Bors and mother of this ragamuffin here. Allow me to lead you to the room that has been prepared for you. Our living spaces in Tintagel are small, for fortresses are not constructed for leisure, but we can offer you soft beds and all the comforts of a great palace – or so we think. If you desire anything further, please tell my servants and you shall have it.’

Both youngsters bowed, touched that she would choose to honour them with her birth name. Valda! The sound of those five letters caressed the tongue, yet the name was as short and as decisive as she was. Arthur was charmed.

Queen Valda led them to an upper room. It was small and snug, but bright, and well-built shutters, whitewashed so that the wood seemed new and crisp, were closed tightly over the long window opening to keep out every tendril of cold air. Two beds filled most of the space, strange well-constructed rectangles of wood with carvings of seagulls on the posts rather than the usual complex interlace so beloved of the Cymru people. The carver had been a master of his trade, and the gulls had been imbued with personalities. They seemed to watch over the sleepers with sharp, beady eyes that had been rubbed even darker by generations of fingers.

Plump palliasses of coarse, unbleached wool had been laid on the woven leather straps that formed the bases of the two beds; blankets and flaxen sheets covered the itchy wool and proclaimed the wealth of the household. The floor was of raw adzed timber, split many years earlier and polished by thousands of naked feet so that they seemed to stand on old honey, partially covered by a rag rug which had been woven by a long-dead mistress of Tintagel. She had used woad, onion skins and precious tree bark to dye her wool in various shades of blue, clear yellow, deep brown and a single stripe of viridian. From the glazed terracotta jug of water to the soft, upholstered bed, Tintagel offered comfort and luxury, for everything in this small room had been prepared with love and the industry of busy, willing hands.

‘My thanks to you, mistress. No king could be better housed than we will be in such a room.’ Arthur bowed once more out of genuine respect, touched by Queen Valda’s hospitality.

Valda waved away their thanks and left the young men to complete their unpacking.

After ridding themselves of the dirt accumulated along the road and changing into clean clothes, Arthur and Gareth attempted to find their way back to the dining hall. Corridors and small rooms abounded, and although the mistress of the house had placed sweet-smelling oil lamps at intervals along the walls, which had been worn smooth by the touch of countless hands, the lads were lost within moments of latching their door.

‘Tintagel is a maze,’ Arthur muttered softly, his forehead furrowed in annoyance.

‘It’s a rabbit warren that has been carved out and added to over hundreds of years,’ Gareth added. ‘I’d call it a rat-hole were our hostess not such a wonderful woman. Taking this fortress would be nigh on impossible: holding on to it would be so easy that a child might succeed. There is plenty of water, and if the fortress had food stores it would be able to resist an army with only a vestigial force of warriors. I don’t think it could even be attacked from the sea, for the water’s like a churn. Any direct attack would be suicidal.’

‘Aye,’ Arthur replied shortly, remembering the circumstances of his father’s conception.

Then, as they tentatively entered a passageway that turned suddenly to their right, they met Eamonn coming to find them.

Eamonn spent the rest of the day introducing them to the wonders of Tintagel. The isthmus was surprisingly large, and had its own well in the centre. Eamonn took them to the headland, where a large depression in the exposed bedrock suggested a footprint, as if a giant had risen out of the ocean and bounded onto the land like a Leviathan that had come to free his fellow Titans from some unimaginable fate. Arthur stood at the very end of the isthmus and looked out at the ocean.

‘What’s out there, I wonder?’ he whispered aloud as his eyes searched the distant horizon.

‘When I look out of my window, I always wonder that too,’ Eamonn replied. ‘If I were a braver person, I’d take a boat and sail west. They say the Isle of Heroes lies in that direction, as does the drowned land of Westernesse. Some people say they can hear her bells ringing when storms churn the waters, but I’m sure that’s just foolish superstition. Still, there must be something out there.’ Eamonn’s profile was clean and pure, reminding Arthur that the Dumnonii prince was little more than a boy and good to the core.

As they returned to the fortress, Arthur marvelled at the narrowness of the paths that linked the small stone cottages of the servants with the upper levels of the castle. Hanging over the boiling sea, a hundred feet above the water, these windowless conical dwellings were made of layered slate and snugly thatched to protect the occupants against snow and rain. But Gareth pointed out that one careless slip by a tired homegoer could easily be fatal.

‘Look at the children,’ Eamonn explained as they watched two little boys chasing each other between cottages. Considering the narrowness of the paths and the steepness of the fall, the boys were as nimble as mountain goats. As in every part of this charmed, ferocious but beautiful place, flowers were thrusting up colourful heads in the long grasses, and small patches of vegetables clung to the cliff face like limpets.

‘Here’s the carving that Mother mentioned. It says
Pater Coli avi ficit Artognou
, although I haven’t the faintest idea what it means. Do you know, Arthur? Gareth told me that you have learned several languages.’

‘Hmn. I believe it says
Artognou is the father of the descendant of Col
.’ Eamonn looked blank. ‘Artor wouldn’t have carved this,’ Arthur added. ‘He lacked the leisure time to carry out the task. But earlier, when Myrddion Merlinus stayed here after the rape of Queen Ygerne, the seer could have left the carving as a sort of puzzle. I think
Col
could be the Emperor Constantine, but other than that I haven’t the faintest idea what it means.’

As they stood and reflected on the odd message from the past, a clod of earth sailed past Arthur’s ear and hit Eamonn squarely in the back, knocking him partly off balance so that Arthur had to grab him by the collar.

‘Ow! What the devil?’ Eamonn cursed. He turned, as did his companions, to confront a girl of about eleven. She made a face at Eamonn and scampered away, laughing as she made her escape.

‘Who, or what, was
that
?’ Arthur asked, for the child had been very dirty and seemed to have been playing in the mud. Her lanky limbs had the poor coordination of someone who is growing too rapidly to maintain grace, and her dress was tied in large, ungainly knots between her legs to create the illusion of trews. To top off this grubby attire, her long, coal-black hair was uncombed, and as filthy as her small, heart-shaped face.

‘That, my friend, is my youngest sister. She’s called Blaise, which of course is really a boy’s name, but under all that dirt she is definitely a girl,’ Eamonn explained. ‘Once we get close to the walls, she’s likely to drop clods of earth on us from above, so look out. She enjoys causing me embarrassment. She resents her name . . . and me . . . for reasons best known to herself.’

‘Why has she been given a saint’s name? It sounds pleasant enough, but it seems a little odd,’ Arthur said, checking the wall above them for missiles. As they mounted the steps he caught a glimpse of a tousled head, and warned his friends to hug the walls as they climbed.

‘My father was sure that the baby would be a boy and wanted to call it Blaise. Mother agreed. She said a man’s heart was beating inside the unborn babe, and was sure that even if she bore a daughter the girl would be courageous and generous. In the delirium of birth she swore that a vision came to her that the coming child would sail wild seas and rule in far-off places, so they decided to keep the name even when the baby turned out to be a girl.’

‘Well, it’s an interesting name, but she’ll have to be extraordinary to live up to such a vision,’ Arthur said thoughtfully.

‘She has few good qualities and a vile temper, so she’s very lucky to be betrothed to a man of distinction, if we can ever get her to him,’ Eamonn added. ‘King Geraint of the Otadini tribe has chosen her to marry his eldest grandson, Gilchrist. In time to come she’ll be a queen and live beyond the wall where the Saxons will find invasion difficult, so Father wishes to send her off as soon as possible. She’s unhappy about it, and you’ve seen how she responds when she’s in a bad temper.’

‘She’s not happy that she has been betrothed, then?’ Arthur asked. His previous experiences had suggested that all girls welcomed marriage to a man born to become a king.

‘She’s never happy, but she’ll obey Father, or he’ll send her to Gilchrist tied to her horse. It’s time that Blaise learned the ways of the world.’ Eamonn stamped up the steps and avoided a handful of dog dung that was thrown with a careful eye, barely missing him as he ducked. ‘See what I mean?’

Arthur laughed. Blaise seemed to him to be high spirited and amusing, although she definitely required a bath. He didn’t envy the escort who would have to deal with her tantrums when she travelled north. Nor did he have any plans to see much of her himself, for he disliked having dung thrown at his face by a girl who should have known better. He preferred young ladies who were less beautiful but sweeter natured.

The younger children were in their rooms when Eamonn and his guests ate a simple but delicious meal of fish, oysters and a soup concocted from many types of seafood, including seaweed, which Arthur found odd to the taste and chewy in texture. But the bread was fresh and the cheese was remarkable. Even the winter apples were still crisp and delicious, while a concoction of honey and thick cream was both unusual and flavoursome. Arthur and Gareth devoured everything in sight after so long on bivouac with the army. Dried meat becomes boring in time, and the fresh produce provided by the Villa Poppinidii had been eaten far too quickly.

That night, in a bed of such softness that Arthur felt like a Roman sybarite, he swore that he’d like to remain as Valda’s guest for as long as he was welcome.

The next day was overcast with grey rain, typical weather for the time of year. Eamonn found a coracle and offered to row his guests round the headland on the ebb tide to see Myrddion’s Cave, a prospect which Arthur found exciting, although the thought of sitting in such a flimsy craft dulled his enthusiasm a little. Regardless of Eamonn’s confidence in these small vessels, Gareth refused point blank to sit set foot in the circular boat.

‘If I’m fated to die young, Master Eamonn, I’d rather meet my maker on good solid land. I’m not meant for sea travel,’ he said with sufficient force to convince Eamonn that any pleas were useless.

‘I understood you intended to follow your master,’ Eamonn joked. ‘Even into the jaws of hell.’

Gareth flushed a little. ‘I will pass this particular opportunity by if I can only get to your cave by sea. I thank you, Master Eamonn, but I’m not prepared to risk a cold and wet grave.’

Later, with the help of the ebbing tide and Eamonn’s expert use of the paddle, the hide-covered coracle slid along the coast of Tintagel, the two occupants enjoying a crazy, dizzying view of the peasants’ cottages that were clustered around the fortress like chicks around their mother’s breast. Then, as Arthur felt the coracle scrape along the weed-edged rock, Eamonn waited for a count of ten, judged the force of a small wave and shot out into the current. Like a leaf in a downpour, the boat was whisked into clear water before riding the wave into a huge opening under the roots of the promontory.

Arthur realised he had been holding his breath.

‘You can open your eyes now, Arthur,’ Eamonn said. ‘It’s only been called Myrddion’s Cave during the last few years. Before that, it had a far nastier reputation, and was rumoured to be the entry to the womb of the Mother. Although I’m a Christian, this place always gives me the creeps. According to gossip, Morgan the Fey was part of a very nasty coven of witches that dabbled in human sacrifice – right here in this cave.’

Arthur looked up at the dripping roof and the dank, encrusted walls. ‘Is the cave entrance covered at high tide?’

‘Of course, but we have hours before that happens. Would you like to see the caves above the high-water line? I’ve not explored the half of them and I’ve been coming here all my life.’

‘As long as we can’t become trapped in here. I’ve always believed I was meant for something better than drowning in an underground cavern, especially one devoted to
her
.’

‘Who may not be named? There’s a stone effigy of her here that might interest you.’

Eamonn drew the coracle up to a weathered, barnacle-encrusted post of iron set into the rocks. A brass ring indicated that boats could be tethered there, but once Arthur had clambered out of the flimsy vessel Eamonn picked it up and pulled it above the high-water line where a passage led upwards into the heart of Tintagel’s rocky mass. There, an area of clear space opened out before them, wide and dank, with a deep pool at one end containing midnight-black water. The limitless depths were oily and vile in appearance, and the water smelled very different from the turbulent waters outside. As the companions moved further into the cave the smell became stronger.

‘Ugh!’ Arthur shivered inside his warm tunic, but the cold came from something other than the ambient temperature. ‘Old death!’ he exclaimed, his nostrils quivering. ‘This place reeks of old and unhallowed death.’

‘And many other things that are too dark to think about. I’d rather not know what foul acts have taken place down here,’ Eamonn murmured. He was uncharacteristically glum. ‘I’ve always tried to avoid this chamber when I explored these underground caves. It gives me the night horrors!’