M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (58 page)

He had brought fish oil with them in a hide container, and Arthur prepared an old torch that had been left in the cavern to illuminate the dimly lit spaces. The first object that came to his attention was a large flat stone, some seven feet in diameter, which seemed to have been used as some form of table. The smoke was acrid in the enclosed space and reeked of fish oil, but the flickering light showed black stains spider-webbed around an unmarked area of stone that was roughly human in shape.

‘I’d swear those stains are blood,’ Arthur said softly when he caught the distinctive but faint scent of rusting iron. ‘Faugh! I hate these places. The Romans swore they had driven out the old bad ways, but I’m certain this cavern has been used for evil purposes more recently than that.’

‘King Gorlois put the entire coven to death when he discovered that his daughter was hoping to acquire arcane powers by taking part in rituals involving human sacrifice. Like you, I have a feeling that this cavern has been used since then.’ Eamonn looked distressed, as if the events that had taken place in this chamber had sullied his home and his family, as Arthur supposed they had. ‘Anyway, the effigy is in that alcove over there.’ He pointed to a dim corner. ‘Even Gorlois feared to lay impious hands upon
her
, so she resides in this place of infamy in stillness and perpetual darkness.’

‘But not quite alone,’ Arthur murmurred as he followed Eamonn towards the strange stone figure. The statue had no arms, only vestigial legs, and no features on its lumpish face. The grotesquely swollen breasts, buttocks and belly parodied the awkward form of a pregnant woman, but it was dehumanised, as if it came from some primal, ancient branch of nature that civilisation had attempted to banish. Sticky blood had coated the figure and dried over her surface many times, until she was eventually glazed with a dull, sanguine coat that welded her to the stone of the alcove. Offerings of rotten fruit, perished flowers, shells and a single child’s hand, desiccated by time, lay on a plate before her.

Arthur swore and turned away.

‘I’m sorry, Arthur. I didn’t expect this place to still be in use. I haven’t been down here for years.’

There was no light in the cavern except for the torch Eamonn held above his head. Still, Arthur was able to see a glint of superstition in the younger man’s eyes.

‘I really want to get out of this place. The air seems to hum, and I’m developing a headache.’ Arthur felt that tell-tale itch at the back of his skull come alive, as if something in this dank, dark place was trying to crawl into his body through his skin. He knew that if it burrowed into him, like a tick or a parasite, he would carry its evil with him for ever.

He began to panic; a blind, unthinking fear that had never attacked him when he faced a living adversary. To name this unhallowed place after Myrddion Merlinus was a grotesque parody, for the healer would never have aligned himself with such wickedness. This evil was real, potent and determined to undermine anything good. He needed to run – fast.

‘I’m sorry, Eamonn, but I’ve got to get out of here. Can’t you feel
her
presence? It’s either the goddess, or something that has usurped
her
place and
her
person.’

‘I’ll tell my father and older brothers what we’ve seen here. The caverns along this coast are obviously being used for evil purposes and he must stop the practice before our own name is sullied. Morgan’s reputation has obviously led simpler souls into covens that search for her kind of power.’

‘Tell me, Eamonn, do you ever have odd experiences? Taliesin told me that those who belong to the house of Gorlois sometimes have strange skills.’ Arthur’s face seemed casual and unconcerned in the torchlight, but his voice gave him away. Eamonn understood that Arthur’s question was in deadly earnest.

‘No, my friend. I’m not aware that any of my family carries the curse. It’s generally accepted among us that our talent for prophecy came from Ygerne the Fair, who inherited it from her father Pridenow, a man of extraordinary skill and vision. But he was beset by head pains and died when he was still a young man. Why do you ask?’

Arthur had reached the coracle and helped Eamonn to launch the frail vessel before seating himself in the rear of its leather hull.

‘When we reach the shore I’ll tell you everything I know about the family curse. The time has come when I must share a terrible secret with you. You could betray me through a slip of the tongue and if so I’d probably die because of your mistake – but I trust you. Apart from Gareth and my tutors, you’re my only real friend.’

The short journey from the cavern to the shore had to be negotiated with considerable seacraft, since the cavern seemed unwilling to relinquish its hold on the two young men. Eamonn was forced to draw on all his skills and knowledge of the tides, the wind and the water to force their way back to the shingle shore.

Once the coracle was stored away in the garrison they re-joined Gareth, who was looking grey and strained with concern. As they collected their horses, all three men heaved a deep sigh of relief.

‘I feel lighter somehow,’ Eamonn said as they spurred their mounts to the top of the steep roadway, the wind blowing his black hair into a bush of curls. ‘I’ve never had the strange feelings I experienced just now on previous visits to the caves, and I don’t plan to suffer them again. They were vile!’

‘Aye, my friend, vile is an accurate description,’ Arthur replied. ‘The sun has decided to shine, so let’s ride to the next headland and remove the air of that hideous place from our lungs.’

On the next headland a large number of sea birds were busy hunting for small creatures that would keep their newly hatched chicks fed. When Arthur dismounted he drew the fresh air deep into his lungs, and felt his headache start to ease in the sweet, salty air.

Once the three had settled themselves comfortably in the long grass, which was beginning to show the first daffodils of spring, they opened the packs of food provided by Tintagel’s kitchens. Like all young men, they devoured every crumb.

‘What I’m going to tell you could place you in some danger, Eamonn, so forgive me in advance. If you don’t want to hear the details, speak out now and we’ll say no more on the subject. But I believe you ought to know my secret and how it could affect you in the future.’ Arthur stared at his long, powerful hands, still smeared with slime from the cavern. With an oath of disgust, he wiped away all evidence of that inner room with clean grass while Eamonn nodded slowly.

‘I don’t know what your secret is,’ he said, ‘but how could such knowledge harm me, provided I don’t repeat it? You’re a good man, Arthur, and I’m proud that you’re my friend.’

‘Perhaps you’ve heard people say that I resemble the Dragon King when he was a young man?’

Eamonn nodded.

‘I am his natural son. I was born just before he died at the Battle of the Ford. For obvious reasons, my status was kept secret. My foster-father, Bedwyr, has been the most generous and loving father imaginable and I am proud to be his foster-son, but you can understand how I’m an embarrassment and a threat to King Bran, and also to my friend and kinsman Ector. My existence threatens the stability of the remaining tribes of the west. I have sworn allegiance to Bran, but he still suspects me. In all honesty, I can declare to you that I have no desire to take his place.’

Eamonn’s eyes were very wide. ‘So we are almost kinsmen, at least by marriage, although I don’t believe we share the same blood.’

‘No, we share no ties of blood, but I’m technically part of the Dumnonii tribe. I’m also a member of the Atrebate and Cornovii tribes, so my position is rather unusual. I also share Ygerne’s gift, but in my case it’s manifested as a warning which I hear when I’m in danger. I’ve been able to survive many attacks on my life when I should have died. Do you understand now why Bran placed me in the front line at the battle of Calleva?’

Eamonn paled. ‘But that means that Bran tried to have you killed. It makes sense. He’ll not move against you openly, but he wouldn’t shed tears if you should die in battle.’

‘Exactly! So you see that any friendship with me is dangerous. I’d not have your life threatened by any relationship with me while you were unwarned.’

Eamonn found a forgotten apple in his pack and munched on it reflectively. ‘Are you certain that you hold no ambitions to usurp the High King’s throne?’ he asked carefully.

‘None. I have no desire to preside over the fall of the west. I’ll fight to the death to avoid our defeat, but I believe the union of kings is finished and it’s going to be every tribe for itself. I just wanted you to know why I’m treated oddly at times by those who rule over us. Gareth knows, of course, for his father trained him to take his place as my bodyguard, just as Gareth Major was the Dragon King’s companion for most of his life. I’ll truly understand, Eamonn, if you choose to terminate our friendship for your own safety. After seeing the cavern today, an evil place which is part of my aunt’s legacy to both of us, I knew I had to tell you everything.’

‘Say no more, Arthur. Your sire is only of minimal importance to me. I would hope I’m a good judge of men, and that’s all that counts. Now, how about a week or two off the leash? I know a series of inns where we can find some willing girls and have a proper holiday away from mothers and difficult siblings. You’ll see trouble enough in the years that lie ahead of us, and I have no gifts to bring to you apart from good common sense. So for today, let’s just enjoy ourselves while the opportunity is here. We should all have fun, even Gareth, who seems unwilling to ever crack a smile. Damn it, man, how was it possible for you to be born so old?’

‘I take my duties seriously, Master Eamonn,’ Gareth replied, a little tersely. He was affronted, but neither of his companions noticed.

The friends remounted and returned to the castle, where they packed their few belongings and informed the queen that they’d be away for a week. Then, with Valda’s motherly warnings ringing in their ears, they rode away with all the enthusiasm and excitement of young men who have no cares or duties to restrain them.

CHAPTER XVIII

JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS

In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments – there are consequences.

Bernard Ingham,
Some Reasons Why

The courier reached the three travellers in a fishing village well to the south of Tintagel. King Bors required his son and his guests to return to Tintagel, post haste.

The three friends had enjoyed a leisurely journey through the sweet early spring where the villages, no matter how tawdry and poor, had been washed clean by fresh showers and the fields were green with spear-points of new growth. Cows stood up to their udders in new, sweet-smelling grass, and the milk they produced seduced the senses as effectively as wine or cider. The young men drank rather more than was good for them, but they also ate well and used their combined muscle to assist war widows with repairs to their cottages, or ploughed the fallow fields to sow crops for the sustenance of bereaved families. Sadly, they found enough charity work to occupy their time well beyond the single week they had initially planned, and a month flew by on floral feet.

The young men worked for nothing. Eamonn took his obligation to his people seriously, and Arthur found pleasure in meeting the needs of those who needed his help. Gareth was happy just to keep Arthur out of trouble.

In the early evenings, they dined like kings on fresh, homely fare and drank sweet cider and strong ale with other men, or danced impromptu ring dances from the ancient past, heads garlanded with flowers from the girls who were more than willing to share the joys of springtime with pleasant young men of quality. Eamonn and Arthur wallowed in the generosity of sweet young things with rosy cheeks, unbound hair and soft, downy thighs. Pillowed on firm young breasts, Arthur found a blessedness of physical sensation that gave him happiness, for it was untouched by the exchange of coins experienced in Aquae Sulis.

Gareth was a special favourite with the ladies, perhaps because he was a little diffident and was unwilling to spend his seed randomly. The three had decided at the start of their journey that they’d not seduce virgins or hurt good men by accepting the subtle blandishments of wives, but there were enough willing girls for all. Arthur wondered a little at their popularity, until Gareth set both young nobles straight with his characteristic bluntness.

‘The girls and their families court pregnancy,’ he said. Arthur and Eamonn paled at the thought of fathering bastards, but Gareth explained the peasants’ points of view succinctly.

‘Who would you rather have to father your child or your grandchild? A village man, a fisherman or a farm hand? Or would you prefer to have your progeny sired by tall young noblemen who will give the family strong sons or clever daughters? The old granddams aren’t stupid. Girls and boys will always meet and mate, so it’s better for these people to have the best for their daughters. They won’t demand anything of you, for you are the givers in this case. But don’t get swelled heads, because any tribal warriors would meet their requirements. Even Mareddyd would be welcome here, although they would probably find him less likeable.’

So Arthur luxuriated in physicality throughout the early spring, acquiring many skills that had not been possible to master in Arden. He learned to swim far better than his few early experiences in rivers and tarns had permitted. He helped the fishermen and became adept at cleaning fish and repairing nets. His skin was soon as brown as old honey, his eyes vivid in his tanned face. He was completely and thoughtlessly happy during those sweet days and long nights. He learned how to give and take for mutual pleasure and discovered the sensitivity and blunt practicality of women for the first time.

Only one cloud blotted his final lessons in what it was to be a man. An old woman asked them if they could repair the thatch on her roof, which was thin and mouldy with age, so after some simple tutelage from a village elder they clambered over the roof and covered it with sweet-smelling rushes cut from a patch of marshy ground near the river. Arthur in particular enjoyed making the wooden pegs that held the rushes firmly in place. In thanks, she gave them wonderful baking from her simple clay ovens and fed them like kings, treating them like her grandsons, who had all died in Bran’s wars.