Dragon's Child (60 page)

Then she pointed at Artorex, and addressed the crowd.

‘This man took Uther’s symbols of kingship by trickery and he will bring us all to ruin, just as his family dishonoured my father, Gorlois of Cornwall. This man is the poisoned seed of a diseased tree. I have known the face of the dragon, and it is evil! Myrddion’s ambition placed Uther’s sword into the hands of Artorex, for only dreadful wickedness would dare to place the crown upon the head of a child of Uther. Uther’s hound conspired with Uther to trick my mother so this man could be conceived, so how can you trust the word of Myrddion Merlinus? Did Myrddion not conspire with Uther to make every day of my mother’s marriage filled with pain, indignity and humiliation. How can you depend upon the decency of Uther’s son? Beware, people of the west, for you’ve been warned!’

Again, the crowd rumbled, but this time with disapproval, not because Morgan was female but because her vitriolic diatribe was obviously motivated by hatred. Morgan had made the error of exaggeration.

Myrddion answered her charges in a ringing voice that could be heard from one end of the great square to the other. He won the immediate attention of the crowd.

‘Trickery? Evil? Wickedness? No, woman, it is obvious that spite and hatred distort any truth in your words, so that all men who look upon your face flee as if you were a leper. Your words are emptied by hate and you play with innuendo as if it were a lute. You claim prophecy, but how may we trust your words when you blind your eyes with a strip of skin from the spine of a child, a penance demanded by your masters in return for your evil gifts? Does evil not lie? And your foresight belongs to those who practise the black and arcane ways of wickedness.’

Before the crowd had time to shudder at his words, he continued, but in a voice that was sad and slow.

‘Yes, I counselled Uther. I even mixed a sleeping draught so he could insinuate his way into Ygerne’s bedchamber. I discovered his plans for Gorlois far too late to warn your father. Yes, I felt shame when Uther showed Ygerne the head of her husband and she discovered that she had opened her body to her husband’s murderer. Yes, I shuddered with guilt when I learned that he raped Ygerne while Gorlois’s dead eyes watched this cruelty. Yes, I would have given your mother up to Uther for a single night, if that would have kept Uther’s feet on the path that protected the people of the west from the menace of the Saxon hordes. But did I trade my soul to the Dark Ones for the honey in my words? No! My sins, my errors of judgement and my dishonour when your mother was raped were my own transgressions, they weren’t the work of demons. I was too young to bear the mark of prophecy that we both wear.’

He pointed to the white band in his hair.

‘But never, woman, would I wantonly sell my soul for the satisfaction of revenge.’

Morgan seemed to shrivel in her black robes at the loathing in Myrddion’s voice. Without giving her an opportunity to respond, Myrddion glanced across at Gruffydd, who was standing directly behind Artorex.

‘Stand forth, Gruffydd, sword bearer of the king-to-be and loyal warrior against the Saxons,’ Myrddion roared, so that all people in the great open space could hear.

He held his open arms out to the crowd.

‘I beg leave that this servant should speak. For he was present at Glastonbury when Artorex successfully recovered both symbols of Uther’s power. Only Gruffydd, Prince Gawayne and the pious Bishop Lucius of Glastonbury Monastery can bear witness to the validity of Artorex’s claim of being the rightful heir to the throne of High King of the Britons.’

At last! many in the crowd thought. Now we shall hear the truth of this matter from one who was present when the hand of God revealed the location of these magical relics.

‘Let him speak! Let him speak! Let him speak!’ they cried aloud as one.

Morgan knew the force of her words had been eclipsed, so she backed into the crowd, where even Lot’s retinue avoided her shadow.

Gruffydd stepped forward. He was obviously nervous and his first words marked him as an ordinary man of the people.

‘I am Gruffydd of Venta Silurum and, for ten years, I have served Master Myrddion Merlinus in the Saxon cities, collecting information of planned attacks by our enemies. My hands are not clean of Saxon blood, for I have often needed to kill those barbarians who crossed my path, especially those who were a danger to our cause and to our people. For the blood I have been forced to shed, I am a sinner in every sense of the word, but the gods themselves chose me as a witness of what occurred at Glastonbury.’

Then Gruffydd told what he had seen, simply and eloquently. He repeated the decree given by Lucius, that only the true High King of the Britons could find the sword of Uther and draw it forth from the stone. Even as Gruffydd spoke, Myrddion felt the mood of the assembled kings begin to waver, for Glastonbury and the relics themselves married both Christianity and the old religion, so none were untouched, regardless of their faith. Yet the real force of the truth of the tale was Gruffydd’s simplicity, his sense of awe and the rightness of events as they unfolded. No man doubted that Gruffydd believed he had seen a prophecy fulfilled.

Only one other king stood forth to make a belated attempt to muddy the waters of Artorex’s claim to the throne. The crux of King Mark’s complaint was that Artorex was tainted with the old Roman ways of the past. Ector bristled at the slur and would have replied himself, but the Magistrate of Aquae Sulis restrained the old man.

The magistrate stepped forward and took Ector’s place on the stairs.

‘Hear me, people of Venta Belgarum! I am Vestus of the Vestulii, Chief Magistrate of Aquae Sulis for a decade or more. I am of Roman lineage. I am also a proud Briton, and I serve our people to the very best of my ability.’

He paused.

‘You speak of the taint of Roman culture, but much of what you are comes from your Roman past and the gifts the Romans brought to our peoples.’

The magistrate had the attention of the entire assembly.

‘But on this occasion I come to this assembly of notables not to speak of the glories of ancient Rome but to tell you a tale of a simple steward who braved a terrible evil to save the life of a child.’

This tale was new and the crowd sucked it in greedily.

‘At the time of which I speak, Artorex was still a youth. He had barely reached manhood when he became aware of the activities of a vile band of monsters who were involved in the ancient practice of pederasty. This cult, led by the Severinii, a powerful family who lived near Aquae Sulis, had inflicted torture, starvation and death on a number of young male children who had been stolen from the local villages. By defiling these young children, and starving their victims to death, they crossed the boundaries of what any Roman community would accept.

‘When he became aware of the vile activities of the Severinii family, Artorex determined to bring the perpetrators of these crimes to justice. With the aid of his foster-brother, Caius, Artorex entered the lair of the Severinii and saved the life of Brego, a child of the local village, from certain rape, torture and death. Brego was ten years of age, and he was the sole surviving captive. The bodies of a number of previous victims were recovered at the same time.

‘I ordered the criminals to be crucified and their villa burned to the ground. Artorex could have made a great fortune, for he was given the opportunity to plunder the store of precious objects collected by the Severinii, but he scorned to touch such tainted things. Instead, he permitted the elderly slaves of the Severinii, who were free of guilt, to take what they needed and depart. Do you want magnanimity? Do you want courage? Do you want compassion in your king? All these qualities were present in the attributes of this young man who bravely accomplished this task.’

The magistrate assessed the mood of his audience.

‘The bodies of seven murdered children were recovered and burned that night. I watched the face of the young Artorex as he endured this trial. He was sickened - as any decent man would be - but he acted as a witness and returned the ashes of the lost children to their humble parents. Who among you great leaders of the west would have cared so personally about the kin of the murdered children? Who among you would have chosen to bear witness to their pain and offer comfort to the families of those children? Who among you would have
bothered
? But this man did! His Roman upbringing - and the honourable teachings of his Roman foster-parents - did him no harm.’

Vestus, with his Roman toga firmly in place, and with the seal of his office around his neck, pointed proudly to Artorex.

‘The remnants of Roman Britain will fight for Artor and for the west. We will go to battle with no other leader. None of the tribal kings have earned the right to request our loyalty.’

The nobles were silent. No more voices were raised in argument, although Myrddion was not fool enough to believe their opposition was finished, merely driven underground by the howls of protest emanating from the warriors and the assembled population.

‘I call the Bishop of Venta Belgarum to crown the king-to-be before you,’ Myrddion called out loudly. ‘And those who choose may take Mass on this most auspicious of days.’

The doors of the stone church opened wide and the Bishop of Venta Belgarum, accompanied by Lucius of Glastonbury, came forth.

The bishop lifted the crown high above his head with both hands, so that the awed and amazed townsfolk saw it for the first time.

Brother Simon had changed the design entirely, so that now the massy band consisted of a dragon motif, with the beast centred at the brow and the wings rising for flight over the head of the wearer. All the garnets and rubies had been placed upon the dragon, with the largest in its eyes and in the centre of its forehead. The smaller gems decorated the scales of the beast so that they seemed to glister in the morning sunshine, as if the animal was alive and about to belch forth fire. The band itself was of simple gold, except where the beast’s clawed feet roosted on it.

‘Stand forth, Artor of Aquae Sulis, Dux Bellorum, and accept your birthright as High King of the Britons!’

Artorex knelt on the stone steps, so that the bishop could place the exquisite crown over the daisy chain that adorned his brow. The incongruous pairing ought to have been amusing, but when Artorex turned to face the people, the ruddy dragon rose aloft out of a nest of flowers.

‘Hail Artor, High King of the Britons! Hail!’ the bishop roared.

‘Hail Artor, King of the Britons! Hail!’ the crowd responded in turn.

Their faces were flushed with excitement that was mingled with awe.

Then Lucius came forward, beckoning Gruffydd to his side.

‘Kneel, Artor, High King of the Britons, and accept the weapons that will hold the west in safety.’

Artorex knelt and Gruffydd fastened a great belt of gold-studded leather around the king’s hips.

Lucius held the dragon knife aloft, with its hilt and pommel in the form of a twisted dragon, now sheathed in gold.

‘This is the dragon knife of King Artor,’ he informed the assembled nobility. ‘It was forged by Bregan, a smith, as a gift to the High King for saving the life of his son.’

Lucius then turned to face Artorex.

‘Sire, please accept this knife in your left hand, and swear that this weapon will not rest while Saxons raid our lands.’

‘Thus do I swear,’ Artorex replied.

Then Gruffydd slipped the knife into its waiting scabbard.

A priest handed Lucius a long leather-wrapped bundle, which Lucius unbound to expose a huge and glittering blade.

‘Sire, this is the sword of King Uther that has been reforged to become the weapon destined to be worn by the High King of the Britons. Do you swear, King Artor, that it will not rest while enemies assail your peoples?’

Lucius held up the sword that bore the identical hilt and pommel as the knife, but which was now cunningly adorned with gems so that the dragon seemed to twist and turn while the light played on it.

Latin script ran down the flat sides of the blade.

‘ “He who bears this sword is the rightful King of the Britons,” ’ Lucius translated in a loud, stentorian voice.

‘Do you accept and swear that you will use this sword in the rightful pursuit of all that is noble for the welfare of your peoples?’

‘I do!’ Artorex replied. He turned to face the assembly, fully armed and incandescent in his acceptance of his destiny.

Myrddion stepped forward. ‘From the Isle of Apples at Glastonbury monastery, the place of the Blessed, comes this Holy Sword which I name Caliburn, the Dragon of Britain.’

‘Go forward then, King Artor, Golden Bear of the Britons,’ Lucius stated proudly. ‘And let the dragon take flight to protect the lands of the west both near and far!’

The people roared their approval, as Artorex handed the weapon to Gruffydd who then lifted it high in both hands. The rays of the sun were reflected from the metal, so that flame seemed to burn down the edges of the blade.

‘And now to Mass, for those among you who choose to enter our Church,’ Lucius concluded. ‘We shall then feast the coming of King Artor, High King of the Britons.’

The dignitaries in the crowd, both pagan and Christian, surged forward to gain places within the Church. The ordinary citizens, barred from the ceremony by the sheer weight of numbers, clustered on the forecourt in a great sea of colour. A surge of joy, excitement and, beneath the fervour, a tide of relief, set men and women to dancing, casting flowers or cheering with abandonment. The smallest child would remember until its deathbed the feeling of hope that poured into the hearts of the revellers on that golden day. Peace would come again, and security would enrich the land with the crowning of a new king.

Over the babble of the crowd, the bells of Venta Belgarum began to ring. Trumpets added their brazen voices and every musician contributed to the sweet chaos and the cacophony.