The Bloody Cup (58 page)

When the king looked back several hours after they had left the citadel, he saw the hill rising through the woods, as if Cadbury, too, wore a diadem of oak leaves.

CHAPTER XXII

ET FINI

May God grant to the living * Grace
To the departed * Rest
To the Church & the World * Peace & Concord
And to us sinners * Eternal Life

(Stone on the outer wall of Westminster Abbey)

The Dragon wound its way northward. Like a ponderous and muscular beast, it slid and clawed its way across ground that could accommodate its girth. Artor’s army moved faster than most hordes but he wished that it could grow dragon wings and soar over the hills and rivers, so that he could seek out Modred quickly and rend him with the vast claws of his creature.

Uncharacteristically, Artor chose to bypass Aquae Sulis and the Villa Poppinidii as his army marched northward. In past campaigns, Gallia’s Garden had offered physical proof of the beauty of the west and had encouraged Artor to drag himself above his many weaknesses. But almost everyone who had known the youthful Artorex was dead, and the villa’s former comfort and companionship had vanished with the inexorable march of time.

The cavalry, a dozen mounted men across, moved at the head of the army. Behind the cavalry came the archers under the vivid battle standards of their masters and the flag of their commander, Pelles Minor of Ratae. Like their leader, the archers wore gay colours, for they rarely stood at the forefront of the battlefield and were not at risk of being singled out by the enemy. Their blues, greens, scarlet and gorgeous yellows enlivened the more sombre hues of the cavalry.

The foot soldiers followed, drawn from the peasantry. Trained in the old Roman styles of combat passed on to their elders by Targo, they marched with dignity in compact companies that moved with the mile-devouring steps of disciplined infantry, carrying all their gear lashed to their shields or on their backs, and bearing long spears and short swords. As the foot soldiers always felt the full force of the enemy in any engagement, their pride was a living testament to their loyalty and honour.

The rear guard consisted of heavy wains drawn by teams of white oxen. In the wains, parts of siege machines, weapons supplies, food and a team of healers with the tools of their craft kept pace with the foot soldiers. Armies must travel with vast provisions, or warriors starve on land burned black by the enemy.

But armies are more than just those men who fight and die, even a well-oiled machine like Artor’s. The camp followers brought up the rear, some on foot and some horsed; some were dressed in rich tunics that had been won for them by their men, while others walked in dun-coloured, practical leathers, leading children and pack animals with their few possessions. Ragtag, hopeful or inured to the rigours of the march, the women followed their men into danger.

Each night, in his leather tent, Artor drank his beer and pored over Myrddion’s old maps as he sought a battleground that would give him an advantage in the coming conflict. Like his warriors, Artor renounced his usual draughts of water when on the march, for only fools drank from streams and rivers when they were ignorant of the cleanliness of the water sources. Foul water killed more warriors than swords, if the troops were unwary, and each man had a supply of brewed beer and ale to drink.

As the army made camp on a Roman road to the east of Viroconium and north of the Forest of Arden that would later be called the Ryknield Way, Artor received news that Bran was approaching the bivouac.

Bran’s small cavalcade joined the vanguard of the army at sunset. By the light of the long, golden dusk, the High King saw a troop of Ordovice warriors riding as bodyguards to a tall, raw-boned woman mounted on a large bay horse. She travelled beside a litter being carried by six muscular servants. The woman’s hair burned in the last light with the colour of rust and dried blood.

King Bran was carried to Artor’s tent on his litter, irritably accepting that his wound precluded him from presenting himself on horseback. Even now, after rest and care for several weeks, he was waxen and grey from the relatively short journey from Vernemetum by wagon. But his eyes still snapped with confidence and determination, and Artor’s heart lifted to see that his grandson’s spirit was unbroken by his losses on the battlefield.

He was less confident when he gazed into Anna’s face, for so he now thought of her. This hazel-eyed woman whose high cheekbones had been hollowed out by sorrow had subsumed Licia, his joyous child. In her eyes Artor saw an emptiness, an aching void that could never be filled, and his heart was wrenched to see how the loss of her beautiful twins had extinguished her. When he bent to kiss her hand, his longing and regret threatened to overwhelm him.

Artor had not set eyes on his daughter for over twenty-five years, but he would have recognized her face anywhere, for something of Ygerne and the twins hid in the curve of her upper lip and nestled in the curls at the nape of her tender neck.

‘Little Anna, your beauty has scarcely changed,’ the king murmured. He longed to embrace his daughter and confess her parentage at last, but such desires were selfish and the time to submit to them had passed.

‘You have a smooth tongue when you choose, King Artor,’ Anna replied bluntly, but her sad eyes twinkled. ‘Time has been more generous to you than it has to me, so your polite compliments do honour to neither of us. I’m an old woman, my lord. We could be siblings, if we weren’t separated by twenty years or more.’

For a moment, Artor’s heart stuttered in his chest. Did Anna truly believe they were brother and sister, as the old lie had suggested?

‘Lord?’ Bran asked. The Ordovice king was acute and he realized that something lay between his mother and the High King. He had struggled to his feet from his litter and his face showed the cost.

Artor smiled and embraced him, king to king.

‘Welcome, Bran. Sit, my good man, sit! You’re very pale and it’s obvious that you’ve over-taxed your strength by greeting me in person. Forgive me, I should have come to you, but the north calls me urgently.’

Bran’s smile was broad and Taliesin caught his breath to see the reflection of Artor and Balan in it.

‘Your words are courteous, lord, yet they pain me since I cannot ride against Modred with you. The remnants of my army await you on the ridge line with orders to follow you. I’ve called every Ordovice tribesman who can lift a sword, whether noble or peasant, to stand behind you. They came with joy, my lord, and fierce determination, having sworn that no rebellious Brigante will be allowed to remain on Ordovice soil unscathed.’

Artor noticed that Bran’s hand trembled, although the young man struggled to disguise his exhaustion. A simple glance from the king to Odin sufficed, and the servant produced a cup of strong red wine that he pressed into Bran’s hands.

‘Thank you.’ Bran smiled at Odin with natural courtesy, and the old Jutlander’s heart was lost to this fine young man.

Bran drank and colour returned to his face, although he grimaced a little at the strength of the wine. ‘When you defeat Modred, as is inevitable, Your Majesty, permit me to punish the Deceangli tribe. I will enjoy selecting a suitable punishment for Mark and confiscating his treasure for your use. In fact, I believe the loss of his wealth will punish that miser worse than his death. Perhaps I’ll let him beg for food for a month or two, before I have him executed.’

Artor and Bran both laughed.

‘At the end of this campaign, when Mark goes howling back to his court like the mongrel he is, take his lands and treasure with my blessing,’ Artor said. ‘Your loyalty is unquestioned and I value it more highly than you might believe.’

Bran bowed his acknowledgement.

‘I also ask that you accept my eldest son as an observer of the coming battle. His name is Ector, in honour of my grandfather. He is only ten, my lord, but it’s time he learned what it is to be a man - and a king.’

In a silence so deep and charged that the air shivered, Artor cleared his throat lest his voice reveal the pain he felt when Ector, his dearly beloved foster-father, was honoured as Bran’s kin while he was not now - nor could ever be.

‘He is welcome, and Gareth will protect the boy with his life, if necessary, but are you sure you want him to see the brutality of war? Killing is an ugly trade, and he will be changed by what he sees.’

‘Thank you for your consideration, my lord. But my heir must know what his duties and responsibilities entail.’

With that answer, Artor was forced to be content.

Bran had aged in the last few years, although he had a young family and a handsome, spirited wife. Trouble, responsibility and loss had engraved heavy lines from Bran’s nose to the corners of his well-shaped mouth.

‘You’ve done more than your duty requires, Bran. In fact, you’ve done far more than any other king of the west. Your paternal grandfather, Llanwith, would have been proud of you.’

Bran flushed darkly across his high, pale cheekbones, but Anna nodded her head in agreement and approval.

Both Bran and Anna had an instinctive grasp of military strategy, and Artor warmed to their advice as they discussed the possible outcomes for the west once the usurper had been defeated in battle.

Ever the realist, Artor did not shy away from addressing the consequences of defeat on the battlefield.

‘In the event that I should fail, it will be your duty to withdraw beyond the Roman road leading to the north,’ Artor stated bluntly. ‘You must hold all the land from Pennel to Viroconium, and from Deva to Glevum, so that the remnants of the Celtic tribes might have a final sanctuary. If I fail, the Saxons will fall on us like a huge, drowning wave once our internal fighting begins, so you are ordered to unite what is left of our forces, bring Mark to justice and preserve the values of the Celtic people. Don’t attempt to take the throne, no matter what promises are offered to you. But it is my wish that young Ector be trained to become my heir.’

‘The lands of the Ordovice will not be relinquished to the Saxons while I, my sons and their sons still live,’ Bran vowed, his voice steady and restrained. ‘Ector shall become yours when you return from the fields of battle.’

‘I also make this promise to you, Artor,’ Anna said.

Taliesin shuddered inwardly at the iron in her eyes. Saxon bodies would fill the rivers to the brim before this oath would be broken.

‘It’s time for you to go to your beds,’ Artor said. ‘You are weary, Bran, and need to preserve your strength. I’ll not see you again until I return from the north, for I depart at first light. May Mithras stand at your shoulder and heal your wounds.’ He smiled his regrets at their parting.

Artor would have risen, but Anna pushed him back into his campaign chair with work-hardened hands. She bent over him and kissed each eyelid with lingering sweetness.

‘I remember talking to you a long time ago in the Villa Poppinidii, dear Artor. My brave father, as you described him, had died - or so you told me. I’ll pray that you sleep gently throughout eternity, if it is Fortuna’s plan that we never meet again. If you return, you may have my first grandson with my blessing. Your Licia remembers everything, my lord, and she forgives you for everything, even your silence. Licia always knew, and she understands the reasons behind the lies she was told.’

Artor had no words to express his feelings. He kissed her hands on each palm and closed her fingers over the place where his lips had rested.

After Anna and Bran had gone to the soft pallets prepared for them by the king’s servants, Artor slumped in his chair.

‘She knows. She’s known all these years,’ he whispered, his mouth dragging with regret at lost opportunities.

He spoke no more, and maintained his own counsel throughout the long night.

On the long march to the north, Artor seemed to become stronger and younger. Every mile covered saw the marks of time drop away until the old man’s spine was straight and strong, and his face shone with the ferocity and piercing intent of a snow hawk.

Once Deva was behind them to the west, the ranks of Artor’s army swelled with Cornovii archers and cavalry under the com - mand of a thin and careworn Bedwyr. Artor greeted him warmly but cautiously.

‘I’m grateful that you have come freely, Bedwyr, for I didn’t have the effrontery to ask it of you,’ the king admitted, once the army was in bivouac. ‘Many men in your position would have abandoned me to my fate.’

Shamed to his soul, the High King’s eyes dropped to his booted feet and his shoulders sagged.

‘You must know that Queen Elayne has given birth to a son. He’s a strong, beautiful child and is likely to grow very tall. She has named him Arthur.’

Bedwyr’s eyes were fixed steadily on his king. Artor couldn’t turn his gaze away, even as he felt himself colour with shame.

‘Do you have a message for my wife?’ Bedwyr’s sharp-edged voice demanded.

Odin’s chest rumbled warningly.

Artor continued to meet Bedwyr’s accusing eyes. ‘I wish your lady long life and health for the kindness she offered to an old man at a time when his life was in tatters and he had need of a true friend. As for the babe, may he grow strong and true in the forests of his father, the honourable Bedwyr.’

‘His father?’ Bedwyr sneered. ‘Plain speaking might be best between us, especially in private.’

‘Taliesin, Gareth and Odin are the only living souls who know the truth of what lies between us,’ Artor replied. ‘I’ll not complain if you seek satisfaction.’

Bedwyr heaved a deep, exasperated sigh.

‘I’ve persuaded myself that Elayne was guiltless in this matter. The gods placed you both together for a purpose, so I will accept the decision of fate. I’ve learned that nothing is absolute - not pride, nor loyalty, nor honour. I am angry, but what has happened, has happened. The quest taught me too much about my own flaws to dwell upon the weaknesses of other men.’