Dragon's Child (59 page)

Alone, except for his three companions, and with neither sword belt nor scabbard, Artorex rode Coal into the outskirts of Venta Belgarum. With the wolf pelt cloak cast back over his right shoulder, to trail over the shining black flanks of his horse, Artorex was an imposing sight.

His hair, unbound and waving in the breeze, spread out over the pelts like red-gold silk.

At each village, the populace stared at him with their mouths agape for, in their simple imaginings, he seemed like a hero out of legend who had returned to the earth. But then he grinned boyishly at the villagers while bowing deeply to the left and the right. The villagers shook the air with their cheers, while maidens ran to strew flowers from the fields beneath the feet of his horse. Daisies, lavender, buttercups, mint and late-flowering bulbs scented the air as Coal strode proudly over a carpet of colour.

As Artorex entered the fortified walls on the outskirts of the city, he continued to smile, wave and bow his head to the elderly without a hint of Uther’s sullen disdain. He gave special smiles to the children and gratefully accepted their offers of flowers. The crowd loved the sight of their heroic warrior king, while many of the populace joined the procession of townsfolk that followed behind him in a multicoloured tail.

Before Artorex reached the fortress, the gates swung inwards. The noise increased as, on cobbles thick with flowers laid out before him by young women and girls, Artorex made his stately, courteous passage through the narrow streets. One old beldam, dressed in her best finery, stopped him and offered him a circlet of daisies, and the young man bent his head low over the horse’s mane, allowing her to reach up her old arms and place it over his head. Then, when he kissed her arthritic fingers, the crowd howled its approval.

The closer Artorex came to the stone, cruciform church, the heavier the air became, and fewer bursts of new cheering rose to greet him. But with each step that Coal took, Artorex maintained his smiling demeanour and exhibited an impenetrable courtesy. He even smiled when King Lot stared ostentatiously over his head from the top of the church steps, and Queen Morgause pointedly turned her back on him.

Lot was dressed with eye-popping gorgeousness in a vast woollen skirt of woad blue and dull green stripes and checks of various widths. His huge chest was encased in a richly embroidered, woollen shirt under a breastplate coated with gold. Gargoyle faces with open, leering mouths decorated the breastplate, which was laced over his broad girth with cords of gold and silver. His cloak was bound at the shoulder with an enormous pin that was intricately carved and decorated with cabochon gems. It was as large as a grown man’s hand span.

Beside Lot’s huge bulk, Queen Morgause seemed tiny, but she could never be negligible. Unlike her husband, her dress subtly implied mourning, for her overskirt was of pale grey gauze over a heavier kirtle of dark, sanguine red. She had covered her hair with a confection of golden wire and red wool, while her whole ensemble was covered by a long black cloak that puddled at her feet.

Her sister outdid her in funereal black, without even the pretence of jewellery as ornamentation. Because she was a maiden, Morgan wore her hair unbound and her long, raven tresses, as straight as a spear shaft, hung down her back to her knees. That hair should have softened Morgan’s appearance but, instead, it merely heightened her unnatural glamour.

King Leodegran of the Dobunni tribe wore a toga and cloak edged, quite inappropriately, with imperial purple. His hair was curled around his smooth face and his hands dripped with rings and chains of gold and precious gems. By comparison, his companion, King Mark of the Deceangli, was elegant in a simple robe of grey wool with borders of black and silver. Mark’s lack of ornamentation was reflected in his pursed, disapproving lips and his womanish eyes.

En masse, the collection of kings, nobles and their ladies appeared in a tangle of colours and styles that were as contrasting and as conflicting as they were. The King of the Silures wore fur and leather, braced with plates of bronze, while the Dumnonii queen, wife of Gorlois’s brother, wore gauzy linen that had come from the looms of Egypt by trade ship. Few would even deign to speak to their nearest neighbour for it was only the old pacts enforced by Uther that had brought them together.

The clerics conspired to stand as far from each other as possible. The Druids wore homespun and carried tall, intricate staffs. Some had decorated their long hair and beards with garlands of mistletoe or ivy while others wore bands of gold or silver across their foreheads. Some Druids appeared to have walked, barefoot, out of the wild places, while others were obviously intellectuals and sophisticates.

Some of the Christian priests wore black that was slashed with red to represent the blood of Christ, while others, like the monks from Glastonbury, were dressed in unadorned homespun tied at the waist with simple rope. As with the rest of that great gathering, no unifying thread of shared thought, belief or empathy joined the clergy into one.

Artorex gazed at his guests who were so symbolic of his divided, complex and vital people, and felt a very natural thrill of inadequacy.

But no hint of his inner turmoil was reflected in his calm face.

Artorex dismounted at the steps of the church and climbed the shallow incline to a curule chair of the Roman style, chosen specifically by Myrddion because it suggested power without the grandiosity of a throne. Artorex then turned to face the assembled kings, princes, priests and bishops, while Myrddion stepped forward to speak of the crowning of the king that would be.

Myrddion wore sable black which emphasized his white-streaked hair. He wore no ornamentation, needing no embellishment other than his fine-boned face and his fierce, dark eyes.

The crowd hushed as Myrddion stepped before the assembled guests and townsfolk.

‘You know me, great lords of Britain, priests and proud people of Venta Belgarum. I am Myrddion Merlinus, once called the devil’s spawn and, later, to my shame, I was Uther’s hound. But ever have I fought for the freedom of these lands and, sometimes, the weapons that kept you safe in your warm beds were unworthy of you. Uther Pendragon was one such weapon that I used in defence of the realm. Above all other men, I knew the depravity of his various sins, but for all that Uther was a cruel and unscrupulous man, he won your safety with many years in the saddle, as he fought tirelessly to drive away the barbarians and the Saxon hordes.’

Myrddion paused and his eyes swept the kings, Druids and priests with faint scorn.

‘Uther forced us to fight our enemies as a single, undivided people. You, the tribal kings, had squabbled amongst yourselves for generations, allowing the Saxons to decimate our peoples and to destroy our villages and farms. Without Uther, flawed as he undoubtedly was, you would not possess the luxury of your various realms. You would be forced to flee into the mountains to starve in the snow. Uther was, indeed, High King.’

Myrddion allowed his voice to soften, so the honey of his words slid easily into the ears of all those souls who listened, except for the most obdurate who would never trust the servant of Uther Pendragon.

‘Here sits Uther’s son, Artor, who has come to this place to claim his birthright as High King as successor to his father. He is made in the likeness of Uther, is he not? But Artor is not his father’s man. Cast out by his sire, he was raised in the Roman lands to our north. He came to you two years ago and was named the Warrior of the West. Later, Uther gave this young man the title of Dux Bellorum.’

Myrddion paused, and looked directly at his audience. Each person felt, irrationally, that Myrddion was speaking to him or to her alone.

‘Why, do you ask? I can tell you. Not one inch of Celtic earth has been taken by the Saxons since Artor took up the sword against them.’

A rumble passed through the great multitude, mainly from the townsfolk and the villagers, but several kings nodded in agreement as well.

Still, Myrddion recognized that many faces were stony with disapproval.

‘And yet too many of you turned your backs on your fellow Celts. You sent no men to serve the Dux Bellorum. And you gave no thanks to a man who, like Uther before him, risked his life in a hundred skirmishes so that you could feast and drink daintily, and safely, at your tables, without the need to risk your own skins.’

A growl of dissent came from the assembled nobles, but Myrddion ignored their outrage.

‘He now comes before you with the sword of Uther reforged, bearing the crown of the Britons remade. Speak now, those among you who would deny Artor’s claim to his throne, or accept his right by birth, and by battle, to rule the Britons as High King.’

King Lot stood and moved to address the multitude. His great girth was impressive in the yards of tartan edged in gilt thread, and his grey beard and hair framed a face that was reddened with passion.

Artorex sat like marble in his white cloak and watched.

‘This pretender to the throne is Uther’s bastard child at best. How are we to know that he has any right at all to rule the Celts? And why should we place our futures in the hands of a man whom even his father did not trust - if his father was, in fact, Uther Pendragon?’

Some sections of the assembled nobles roared out their agreement, so that Gruffydd felt himself redden and tense in response to Lot’s carefully staged insults. On the fringe of the assembly, Prince Gawayne cringed in shame, but Artorex continued to smile courteously and sit at his ease, his back ramrod straight.

Myrddion would have answered, but a thin, white-clad nun stepped out of the portals of the church behind him, supported by Lucius of Glastonbury.

Wearily, she ascended two steps, to stand directly in front of Artorex. She turned and kneeled in deep obeisance before her son. Artorex would have lifted her to her feet, but she rose painfully and turned to face King Lot and the huge assembly. Her voice was larger than her thin body suggested, and the crowd leaned towards her to capture every word.

‘You know me well, Lot of the north, for you married my daughter, so don’t insult me with your slurs and innuendo. Did you believe I wouldn’t make the long journey from my convent to see my son assume his rightful place as High King of the Britons? Are you so cowardly that you’d think to blacken my reputation in my absence?’

‘I didn’t intend . . .’ Lot began, but the frail woman raised one pale hand to silence him.

‘I am Ygerne, widow of Duke Gorlois, the Boar of the Dumnonii. Uther Pendragon murdered my husband and raped me while I was forced to gaze upon the bloody head of my beloved Gorlois. I, alone, may speak of the birth of Artorex and if he was, indeed, born as the true son of Uther Pendragon.’

Ygerne paused to control her shortening breath.

‘I quickened with child and Uther wed me, seeking to take Cornwall without more effort in lives and time. And I agreed, to ensure the safety of my living children. How I loathed the child I carried within my womb. How I wished us both dead. God forgive me for my acceptance of marriage to Uther Pendragon, for I was destined to spend many grim and bitter years as his possession, and I allowed hatred to eat my heart away.’

Tiring, she paused yet again.

‘Then, as the child stirred within me, I found my heart had not quite died. When I bore the child, I saw his ruddy hair and long limbs that were so much like those of his father. But he also had the eyes and features of my own dead father, and I found I could hate the child no more. For many years, I believed my son was dead and I mourned for him bitterly. My proudest day came when he returned to Venta Belgarum as a fine and strong young man, a warrior who’d been cleansed of the poison that came with Uther’s seed.’

Behind Artorex, Gruffydd watched Ygerne’s pale face that was nearly as white as the coif that covered her shaved head. She had been a famed beauty, Gruffydd had been told, and he could see the last of that loveliness with his own eyes. But the singers of songs had never spoken of her courage, which Gruffydd now witnessed as she exposed the deepest feelings of her heart - her disappointments, her tragedies and the long, patient years as she was forced to sit on a cushion at the feet of a monster.

‘I am Ygerne, Queen of the Britons - and a humble penitent,’ she continued. ‘Hear me, my people. The man who will soon become King Artor is the legitimate son of the Pendragon line, and of myself. His is the throne - by right of birth!’

The crowd was utterly still as Lucius led the thin, fading woman away.

As she passed Artorex on her painful journey into the portals of the church, Artorex rose, knelt before her and kissed her tiny, bandaged feet. One hand fluttered lightly over his hair - and then she was gone.

Like the slow thunder of a breaking wave, the crowd murmured at the courtesy and gentleness shown by the Dux Bellorum.

‘The question of parentage is settled, unless one among you chooses to doubt the queen’s word,’ Myrddion dared the angry faction of the crowd. ‘Who else will speak against Artor?’

A woman in black stepped out of Lot’s retinue and a storm of protest cried out at the effrontery of this hated woman who dared to speak before the assembly.

She threw off her cowl, causing many of the townsfolk to hiss in fear as Morgan pointed one white finger at Artorex.

‘Would you order me to be silent, Artor? I, Morgan, am the eldest child of Gorlois of Cornwall. And I’ll speak here today, for the murder of my father at the hands of Uther Pendragon gives me that right. My father had no son to stand for him.’

Artorex nodded his head in agreement. He rose to his feet.

‘You have earned the right to speak, my sister. But I would remind you, Morgan, that you yourself are not without guilt.’

As the crowd murmured in agreement with Artorex’s words, Morgan and Myrddion faced each other. They were so alike in features, but so different at heart.