M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon (40 page)

Careful not to disturb the large fish that lurked under the water weed in the pond as it waited for an unwary dragonfly to skim too close to its watery home, Arthur leaned out to touch the surface of the rough-cut stone.

The itch became more pronounced, but he felt no threat, only a cold, heavy watchfulness, as if the monolith had seen rites so old and arcane that human memory had blotted out any memory of them. It seemed to recognise him – or someone like him – and the sensation was strange but not unpleasant. Like his father before him, he wondered what that tilted cup had been designed to hold, and instinct told him that the stone held a significance far beyond his understanding. Regretfully, he drew his hand away and moved through the forecourt to examine the remnants of walls that were thick with climbing roses and clematis, the crumbling stones bound together by great drifts of ivy and briar.

‘See? That urn is rumoured to hold the earthly remains of Targo, while the ashes of Gallia and her woman Frith lie under the wild red rose over there. Across the forecourt, you can see a seat of old limestone which is perfectly placed for contemplation. Ector Major is inhumed beneath its plinth. As Artor’s beloved foster-father, he earned his place among the noble dead who originally inhabited the villa. Men who are far more knowledgeable than I have said that the High King wished to lie here as well. Only Caius, the last of the Poppinidii gens, lies elsewhere, for Artor refused to permit his murderous foster-brother to befoul his loved ones. I speak frankly because I assume that you are all privy to the High King’s secrets, judging by your speech. If I do wrong, then the good God will punish me, but I feel no censure in any of you.’

While Arthur wandered through Gallia’s garden, Germanus and Lorcan sat with Mistress Luned, and were told much of the history of the Villa Poppinidii. She had met Artor on several occasions during her youth, for the High King could never completely forget the place where he had spent so many happy years. Whenever he was forced to travel to the north, he always contrived to deviate to the villa on the hill and the gardens that lay beyond.

As the sun lowered in the sky, heralding the approach of twilight, a man came running towards them from the villa. Luned rose from Ector’s seat, straightened her skirts and waited for him to reach the small group.

‘Ah, Gareth, I should have called you myself. Arthur has come to visit the family. You may have heard of him? He is the son of Lady Elayne and Lord Bedwyr of Arden Forest.’

Lorcan and Germanus exchanged glances. Clearly this Gareth was not privy to the secret of Arthur’s birth.

Gareth was younger than Arthur and not as tall, standing at six feet and one inch. His wide shoulders and narrow hips indicated a superb physical specimen, but his blond hair, blunt-cut at the shoulders, was unplaited, so he had yet to attain the status of a warrior.

‘Gareth?’ Lorcan queried. ‘One of King Artor’s famed bodyguards was called by that name.’

‘Aye, he was my father. I was born in his old age, after the death of his master. It was a time when he felt that his life belonged to him again. I am a direct descendant of Artor’s nurse, old Frith, and my father’s ashes lie beneath the daisy bank where they placed Targo’s urn. They were friends for most of their adult lives.’

‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Gareth,’ Lorcan said smoothly, grateful for Myrddion’s scrolls which had helped him to sort out the tangled skeins of familial relationships that the High King of the Britons had left in his wake.

Gareth’s tanned, boyish face lit up as Arthur joined them, his blue eyes so wide with surprise and pleasure that Arthur was amazed that they didn’t pop out of the boy’s skull. ‘My father was right, Mistress Luned,’ he said. ‘My day has come, just as Father said it would.’

‘We can discuss your father’s predictions later.’ Luned sounded a little irritated by the interruption. ‘What has brought you to us in such haste?’

‘A courier from Aquae Sulis has just arrived, my lady. He is rousing the countryside and calling on the levees to assemble.’

‘The levees?’ Luned’s face suddenly became ashen with concern.

‘Lord Ector and King Bran have called all good Britons to assemble at Cunetio in the hills. The Saxons have invaded Calleva Atrebatum and the city is besieged. Our ancient enemy has attacked in force, and in winter, which is against all their usual practices. Massed warriors from Mercia have also been intercepted heading into the south. Our intelligence tells us that the true prize is Venta Belgarum, which they intend to take after Calleva Atrebatum falls. The Saxon kings have decided to strike deep into the heart of Britannia in an attempt to drive us into the sea.’

He panted out the last words. ‘All men are urged to come to Cunetio. The Britons go to war.’

CHAPTER XII

THE CHURCH AT SPINIS

What I say is that “just” or “right” means nothing but what is in the interest of the stronger party.

Plato,
The Republic
, Book 1

In Roman times Cunetio had been a small, fortified town in the hills not far from the headwaters of the Tamesis river, but the long skeins of civilisation had worn very thin in the century since the legions had left Britain’s shores, and now the ramshackle township had reverted to the tribal village it had once been. The meadows outside its low walls had been appropriated by foot soldiers and cavalry from as far away as the lands of the Selgovae, north of the Vallum Hadriani. Gawayne had finally succumbed to old age and death, and the new king of the Otadini was still feeling his way in his role, but he too had sent a small cohort of warriors as a reminder that all Britons should stand together against the Saxon interlopers.

Their banners flew in the winter wind, a little bedraggled by sleet and frost. On their stiff, frozen surfaces, representations of lions, leopards, griffins, serpents, sea-monsters and mailed fists rioted with other images and threatened the dark air. The largely illiterate foot soldiers and archers found their allocated areas by dint of these pictorial devices, while many other leveed troops wore their tribal devices on their ox-hide breastplates to identify them without the need for words. Although the encampment lacked the ordered efficiency of a Roman camp in that empire’s heyday, the Britons indicated their unity of purpose and the serious nature of the coming battle by the absence of tribal arguments over old, unforgiven resentments.

At first, the Brigante and the Deceangli had expected to be ostracised for their part in the rebellion against King Artor in the civil war, although they were among the first to answer Bran’s call to arms. However, the ever-diplomatic Ector gave express orders that the two tribes were to be treated as if no enmity had ever existed, and for the most part he was obeyed.

‘We’re done with petty squabbles over right or wrong. Ancient Calleva is like to be destroyed by the Saxon invaders, so the past is the past, and any man who raises his hand against any member of these tribes will answer to me.’

Excited, but rather frightened, Arthur and his tutors had left the Villa Poppinidii to travel directly to Cunetio, judging the call to arms too urgent to detour via Arden. They would have ridden that evening, but Mistress Luned had insisted that they rest so their mounts would be fresh for the journey. When she produced a rough map that showed the Roman roads leading directly to their destination via the village of Verlucio, Lorcan was amazed.

‘Ector Major, who was the patriarch of the family and King Artor’s foster-father, developed a passion for maps when he studied with Myrddion Merlinus. When Artor fought his twelve great wars, Ector recorded the details for posterity. Mother said that Ector used to show her and Licia the places where the king had fought. We all gained an understanding of the world and how we fitted into its wonders through Ector’s maps and charts. As you can see, Father Lorcan, the track from Aquae Sulis runs directly to Cunetio. You couldn’t be better placed to arrive swiftly at your destination.’

Later, she led Arthur to a small, sparsely furnished room not far from the scriptorium and explained that this monastic cell had been King Artor’s room when he was a boy.

‘Such a wonder. The room seems unchanged,’ Arthur murmured, amazed that a man of such greatness had spent his boyhood days in such basic surroundings.

‘We have other accommodation for guests, but I thought you might like to sleep where Artorex spent his nights,’ Luned said. Arthur was touched.

‘That would be wonderful, mistress. Thank you for your kindness.’

‘Our hypocaust is still in use, so you may bathe if you wish. We have a ready supply of fresh water so you needn’t fear to leave us wanting,’ Luned added. ‘Perhaps I can find a wide-toothed comb to handle your mop of hair. I think there’s one in Lady Livinia’s box that belonged to Artor when he was just a nameless boy with untamed hair. I’ll see if I can find it.’

As Arthur tied to express his gratitude for so much unexpected hospitality, Luned brushed aside his words and glided away down the colonnade on silent feet.

Arthur availed himself of the baths, taking time for a thorough soak and to wash his wild hair until it was squeaky clean. He enjoyed the entire solitary process, and jumped when the lad called Gareth entered the dressing room carrying a coarsely carved wooden comb and began to untangle the mat of his amber curls.

‘I’m old enough and ugly enough to service my own needs, Gareth, but I appreciate your efforts on my behalf,’ he said, punctuating his words with a smile for the benefit of the young lad.

‘My great-grandmother Frith used to untangle Artorex’s hair just so, my lord. She bound our whole family to Artorex long before anyone now living in this villa was even born, but the oath still stands to this day.’

Being a sensible young man, Arthur admitted to himself that Gareth’s deft ministrations were far more effective than his own usual efforts. The wide tines of the comb seemed to be made for his hair, so easily did it glide through the tousled mane.

‘Yes, lord, Frith carved this comb with her own hands when Artorex was barely six years old. I would have known you anywhere, master, for your hair and your height are legends within my family. We are hand-fasted to you and yours for as long as the sun shines and the rain falls.’

‘But that’s hardly fair. No one has the right to own another person, least of all children who are yet unborn,’ Arthur replied. He was genuinely surprised by Gareth’s air of pride and purpose at the closeness of their respective kin.

‘I belong to
you
, master. My father prophesied that you would come to the villa one day and that I would have a great man to serve, as he had, until death came to take me. I admit that there have been times when I doubted that such a person even existed. Even if you were alive and well, I could not see how you would ever find me in the backwaters of Aquae Sulis. But you are here now, and my father’s promise was true.’

The boy was so proud and so clean in face and body that Arthur was ashamed. How could such a strong and intelligent youth desire, above all else, to serve him and his heirs for a lifetime? Arthur was no fool, for all that he was only sixteen years old. He was aware that the duties of high birth could be onerous for a young man, but never more so than when other people were happy to enslave themselves because of an accident of birth or the nature of his dead sire.

‘When do we leave, master? Gareth asked.

‘Do you plan to leave here with me?’ Arthur yelped, aghast. He had only recently come to the full realisation that he already had two men in his service, Germanus and Father Lorcan, two men who were tied to him by bonds of respect and friendship. To have another servant was a terrifying prospect. ‘I can’t ask you to do that. We are off to war, and we could be travelling to our deaths.’

‘I have been raised to serve and guard you, master. What else am I to do with my life? My father saw that I was trained with all weapons so that I could stand at your back. He sold his jewels to purchase the best armour available for me, and he ensured that I could read and speak sufficient Latin to be a credit to you. I have no other purpose than to serve you, and if you reject me I will have failed the ancient vows of my blood.’

Something obsessive in Gareth’s eyes suggested to Arthur that the boy might do something desperate if he was refused. He considered his options. ‘But you can’t just leave Mistress Luned. You’re her servant first, rather than mine. Besides, I don’t have servants. I don’t even believe in owning other people’s labour.’

‘I’m paid for any work that I do in the villa. My father amassed great wealth in gold and gems during a lifetime as King Artor’s bodyguard, he spent little during a long lifetime of service. I am my own man and can go or stay where I choose. I must follow after you regardless of your wishes, so you might as well surrender.’

Such arrogance would normally have infuriated Arthur, for he hated being manoeuvred into decisions he disliked. But Gareth smiled so widely and with such evanescent joy as he offered his ultimatum that Arthur was helpless. From Gareth’s point of view, he had found his purpose in life, one promised to him by his father from his earliest days. Arthur found that he envied the boy who was so close to him in age, yet so much more certain of his place in the world.