Dragon's Child (41 page)

‘The desperate act of an impotent man,’ Llanwith agreed, with contempt.

‘Yet Uther was once a great king and a gifted leader of men, my boy,’ Myrddion murmured. ‘It’s important for you to remember this lesson.’

Artorex chose not to reply.

He stood mute, for not long after he arrived at Venta Belgarum, Caius had joined him after a furious ride from the Villa Poppinidii.

The preceding night had been fine and cloudless, white stars visible at last. After seeing to the welfare of his men, Artorex had returned to the Wild Boar Inn where the drinkers’ voices had been stilled by the changes wrought in the raw young man during his trial by combat.

In his room under the eaves, Artorex had prayed to Mithras, to the Christian Jesus and to the Celtic Duan de Dartha to protect his family. But even as he intoned the intercessions to all the gods that he knew, he could feel a heavy weight pressing on his chest.

The arrival of Caius was no surprise.

His foster-brother was travel-weary and mud-stained, his dark hair awry and his impeccable clothing marked by the headlong pace of his journey. With new eyes, Artorex saw a thin stain of dried blood on Caius’s cloak that was almost concealed by mud, and Artorex realized dispassionately that the other man could not quite meet his unwavering stare.

His foster-brother was afraid.

Caius told his tragic story simply and sparely, hoping to shield this new, wholly alien stranger from the worst excesses of sorrow.

‘Ector mounted a great funeral pyre for Gallia, Frith and your servants. They have gone to the gods in glory together, just as they lived in life,’ Caius explained slowly.

Artorex merely nodded.

The silence dragged out painfully.

‘Our father mourns with you, and he holds little Licia as close as his own grandchild. Gareth guards her day and night - and his sorrow knows no bounds.’

At last he looked Artorex directly in the eye.

‘Gareth has sent this talisman that he took from Gallia’s body. Frith made it, and Gallia wore it, so Gareth believes that it is meant to be in your care. It is a final gift from two women who have played an important part in your life, so I pass it on to you.’

Artorex took the small pregnant form and caressed its swollen belly with his thumbs. He should cast it away lest grief overwhelm him, but the warm fragment of hazel felt so smooth and so full of love that, eventually, he decided to keep it. He folded his hands over the amulet and nodded his head in thanks.

Later, much later, Artorex would wear the tiny figure on a golden chain round his neck so that it would lie over his heart.

Caius felt decidedly uncomfortable and burst into hasty speech.

‘The vermin who killed her are dead. We burned their bodies, and scattered their ashes to the winds so their souls would be lost forever. But first, we let the carrion eat their fill.’

Something of Caius’s old cruelty had returned to his eyes as he told his tale, and Artorex thought, irrelevantly, that here was a tool fit for his use if ever he had such an ugly need.

Like father, like son, Artorex thought coldly, for he had finally reasoned out his kinship to Uther and his importance in the scheme of Myrddion’s plans.

He felt as though tainted blood was running through his veins and yearned fervently for the opportunity to be alone with his grief.

‘Only one of the assassins survived the battle, so we did everything in our power to ensure he revealed the reason for the attack on the villa,’ Caius added. ‘He was hamstrung by Gareth inside the villa, and couldn’t move, except to crawl on the earth like a snake. Julanna applied her own ministrations in an attempt to extract information from the man by slicing his body in those places where the nerves are closest to the skin. I would never have believed my wife could act as she did.’ Caius shook his head at the memory, for the young man was lost in the no-man’s land between admiration for his spouse and the sudden fear that strikes when a harmless pet is found to have turned into a rabid animal.

He sighed.

‘All we managed to extract from him was his name - Botha. He did not try to hide his identity, or mitigate his actions, regardless of torture.’

‘In his own way, then, he was an honourable and loyal man,’ Artorex said reflectively.

‘He died hard, my brother. Ector and Julanna saw to his suffering, for I find I have had my fill of inflicting pain. Other than saying his name, or to pray to his gods, or to beg the pardon of the house, he said no other word. His ashes were scattered in the fields.’

‘Thank you, Caius. It is my wish that you attend me in the morning when I visit the High King,’ Artorex replied distantly. ‘We live in strange times, brother, when women are the pawns of power, and I find that your great mother knew that one day I’d have need of you. I bound myself to you with my promise to Livinia and I’ll always remember that promise.’

When Caius eventually found a spare sleeping pallet, still caked with dirt from his travels, he marvelled that the tender flesh of the boy he had called Lump had become the fully grown, cold and confident leader of seasoned warriors, some of whom he had just spoken to.

I never knew him at all, Caius wondered with a sense of unease. This new Artorex makes my blood run cold.

In the morning Caius washed carefully in the Roman manner, dressed and armed himself as a Roman nobleman and joined Artorex and his friends in the forecourt of the High King.

Caius carefully seized the opportunity to mend his reputation with his foster-brother and the three travellers. Coldly, and with an eye to the main chance, Ector’s son began to tie his fate inexorably to the destiny of Artorex. He blessed his mother, for she had recognized the quality in her foster-son and had bound him to her family through an oath.

Only Targo, as faithful and as intuitive as always, had entered Artorex’s small room during the night. He came late in the evening and found his master wracked by voiceless tears as he clutched Gallia’s amulet to his lips.

Long was Artorex’s grief, and deep, for all its silence; Targo could do little except offer a soldier’s company to a fellow soul who was in torment. When Artorex had wept all the tears his eyes could shed and had fallen into a restless sleep filled with blood and murder, Targo stayed on watch, his heart breaking from the memories of little Gallia and her lost, evanescent joy.

Artorex never wept again. In the long years that followed, he would know hideous loss but never again would he weep so honestly and so free of shame.

As he had done in the past, Uther underestimated the ultimate effect of his discourtesy to Artorex. The soldierly mien of Artorex and the oddity of several tribal kings and a Roman nobleman left cooling their heels in the forecourt was natural fuel for gossip, and the rumours did little credit to the High King. Artorex and his companions never complained. Silently, they stood at attention when other men would have wearied. Eventually, the High King realized his foolishness for, after two long hours, the brazen doors were opened and Artorex was summoned into Uther’s presence.

The man who entered, flanked by Caius and Llanwith on one side, and Luka and Myrddion on the other, was no longer a youth but a man. His face was unlined and his hair as golden-red as ever, but his features had settled into an expression of measured authority, unencumbered by passion or wild emotion. His eyes glittered in his face, and they were unreadable, direct and beyond fear. The courtiers and priests who were present in the throne room shrank from his presence, for Artorex was the true king among them, relegating Uther to little more than a shrunken, ancient mummy, a shadow of his former self.

‘I have brought you Anderida, as demanded, my liege.’ Artorex’s voice filled the furthest corners of the room. ‘I bring you greetings from Ban, Firebrand of the West, who joined the glorious dead at the siege of the Great Hall of the Saxons. I bear the spoils of the Christian churches of the south-east as your portion and I ask your lordship’s permission to wage war against the Saxons wherever they may be!’

Artorex raised one hand, and Odin advanced, bearing a great chest. At the foot of the dais, he bowed his head, opened the heavy, brass-bound lid and exposed the golden relics of the Christian churches that had been looted by the Saxon hordes. The gasping admiration of the court washed over him in waves.

Odin backed away to stand directly behind his master.

Uther did not deign to gaze upon the heaped religious treasures. ‘Ask? Ask? You’re not asking! You’re demanding! What right do you have to instruct your king in the niceties of warfare?’ Uther looked contemptuously around the court as if inviting laughter, but the room remained unnaturally silent.

Myrddion stepped forward fearlessly.

‘My lord, Artorex is the true hero of Anderida, your leader who captured the impregnable fortress. He is the truest of warriors who fights in your name - and your name only. He is the Warrior of the West!’

Uther snorted as Myrddion stepped back.

Llanwith took his place.

‘Artorex determined our strategies, planned our victories and personally caused the destruction of many Saxons. They burned like logs of wood in your brazier. He is the supreme Warrior of the West.’

Llanwith stepped back into position.

When Luka took his friend’s place, he grinned at the assembled courtiers with a smile that held little amusement.

‘My lord, Artorex alone holds the trust of all men, whether high or low, who know him. He alone can stand in your stead as your supreme warrior, now that age has brought your sword hand low. He has borne the burden of the death of our warriors bravely, and he has proved himself to be the Warrior of the West.’

Uther paled, and the crowd stirred like dry leaves in an autumn wind.

Finally, Caius took Luka’s place and Uther peered at the unknown man, wrapped in a toga and armed with a Roman short sword.

‘My liege, Artorex is the hope of the helpless, the bearer of burdens and the last Dux Bellorum. He is the Warrior of the West - regardless of the fact that he is my brother.’

Consternation filled the hall, and voices rose, twittering like birds or calling like gulls towards the blackened ceiling. Uther impatiently raised his hand and silence fell over the court.

‘Who is this Roman?’ he demanded.

‘Caius is the son of Ector, guardian of the Villa Poppinidii and the Old Forest of Aquae Sulis,’ Artorex stated in a loud, clear voice. ‘His mother was Livinia, the last of the pure Poppinidii line, and he is my foster-brother. He brings you greetings from Botha, who remained true to his vows unto his death.’

Artorex’s face was cold, unemotional and grim. The mention of Botha, captain of Uther’s guard, caused the audience to whisper and speculate, while Artorex waited to spring the trap.

Uther was dumbstruck. His grey face became pasty and his hands and mouth trembled as if in the grip of palsy. No one in that cheerless, imposing room could fail to notice that the King had been struck a body blow. His twisted, ivory fingers clenched and unclenched on his bony knees and Caius thought the old man would faint with shock.

So that’s the way of it, Caius thought calculatingly. Uther wants Artorex dead. I wonder why.

The High King’s guards, who were unaware of Botha’s mission, were startled at the mention of their captain’s name, while the faces of Myrddion, Llanwith and Luka were frozen in amazement. Only Caius and Artorex remained outwardly unmoved.

‘The Villa Poppinidii stands strong, and continues to control the route to Aqua Sulis. No Saxon will pass while Ector, or I, draw breath,’ Caius swore. ‘And no flames, no treachery, and no murder in the dead of night will breach its ancient walls.’

If any man knew and understood that every word spoken was charged with a silken threat, then none dared to give any sign of that knowledge. Caius felt a wave of exultation course through his blood, for Uther seemed to reel and shake as if from a seizure.

Ygerne stiffened and Morgause simply gaped. Morgan smiled vaguely - and played with her knucklebones.

But Uther knew. He realized that his scheme had failed and that Artorex was leaping above his tragedy like a phoenix rising out of its own ashes. Aghast, Uther finally understood that Botha’s raid had strengthened Artorex’s position and, in the process, he had lost his most loyal servant. Now, surrounded by enemies and the merely curious, the High King seemed to deflate from within.

‘You may do what you will - and we thank you,’ Uther whispered in a voice that was as thready as the wind that slid through the cracks in the door.

And then, anti-climactically, the audience was over

 

But Uther Pendragon, victor of so many battles, was not yet finished. Beyond doubt, the young man was from his loins, but the knowledge gave the old monster no pleasure. All Uther still possessed was pride, now grown hugely into hubris, and he swore that not even his own son would live to rule in his stead. Better that Celtic Britain fall into ruin than for his fame to be eclipsed.

To that end, the High King set his sharp mind and his iron will to develop his strategies.

For many hours, Uther schemed in his web like the spider he had become, until he eventually determined to send his sword and his crown to the Bishop of Venta Belgarum, thereby charging the Church with the selection of his successor. Uther trusted to the jealousies and fears that divided Christian from pagan to keep his throne free from the iron fist of Artorex.

In her sumptuous room, surrounded by fine cloth, jewellery and Roman glassware, Ygerne decided that Venta Belgarum would never be her home again. Her daughters were twisted and embittered by her bad choices, and to watch Morgan’s cruelties and the vanities of Morgause prolonged Ygerne’s pain. She’d return to Tintagel as soon as she could, leaving all the fripperies of her position behind her. Myrddion would know what to do. He’d been the architect of her fall from grace, albeit unwillingly, so he should be inveigled into helping her escape from her gilded, uncomfortable cage.