The Hallowed Isle Book Four (18 page)

But Martinus of Viroconium, newly succeeded to his father's seat, would stand behind him, and so would Caninus of Glevum, whatever his father might say. The boys from Guenet, Maglouen and Cunoglassus, though young, came of
noble kin. Where the sons were seduced by dreams of glory, the fathers might be persuaded by lower taxes and a more accommodating authority.

Medraut waited, poised as the hawk that hovers over the field, until all had taken their places, waited until the silence was becoming uncomfortable, before he got to his feet in an easy movement that focused their attention. He had dressed with care in a long tunic of Byzantine brocade dyed a crimson so deep it was almost purple. His black cloak was lined with wolfskin. Around his neck glinted a king's torque of twisted gold.

“Lords of Britannia, I bid you welcome. It is the queen who has called you here to council, as is her right. I speak in her name—” He bowed to Guendivar, who inclined her head, her features as expressionless as those of a Roman statue beneath the veil.

“And why does she—or you—summon us here?” Cataur called out in reply.

“To take counsel for the future of this island, for ten long years bereft of her king.” He waited for the murmur to subside.

“Have you had word of Artor's death?” asked Paulinus of Viroconium.

“We have had rumors only. There was a great battle with the Franks, and many were killed. My informants saw a funeral pyre and were told that the Britons were burning their king.”

The outbreak of response to this was sharper. Many here had resented Artor's rule, but he had also been much loved. Guendivar looked up abruptly at his words, for she believed the confused tale of Merlin's prophecy, that it was Riothamus who had died.

“Perhaps he is not dead”—he shrugged—”although I do not understand why, if Artor lives, he has not sent word. Perhaps they have made him emperor, and he no longer cares for Britannia.” Medraut spread his hands. “My lords—does it really matter? He is not here! Is that the act of a lord who cares for his people?” he exclaimed.

“The season of storms is on us, bad for sailing,” said someone, but the rest of the men were shouting agreement.

“Is that the way of a Defender of the land? The way of a king?” Medraut continued, drawing more shouts with each repetition.

He moved away from his seat and began to pace around the circle. “Last year men from the North attacked the coast of Anglia. I led a troop of British warriors, and rode with Icel's son Creoda to defeat them. We parted in friendship, but do you think the Anglians did not notice that Britannia has no king to defend her? They accepted me only because I am King Artor's . . . kin.”

Medraut saw eyes flickering towards his face and away again. They had become accustomed to him—time to remind them who he really was.

“I spent nearly nine years among the Saxons, and learned their tongue. After a time they forgot to watch their words around me. They are quiet now, but they have not given up their dreams of conquering the rest of this isle. For a decade the fear of Artor's name has held them, but a new generation of warriors is growing up who have not learned to respect British arms. Whether by fear or friendship, they must be fettered anew, and this can only be done by a king.”

The fire wavered as the pressure inside the hall was changed by a gust of wind outside, as if to echo his words.

“And do you claim the kingship?” cried one of the Dumnonian lords.

Medraut took a deep breath. For this he had been born; he had been trained up by his mother to be her weapon against the king. Now that Morgause had renounced vengeance, to take Artor's place would be his revenge on her. And he wanted it, more than he had ever wanted anything, except perhaps for his mother's love, or Kea, or Guendivar.

“I do. I have the right, whether you count me as son or sister-son, and I have the will.” His voice rang through the hall. “Artor wasted your sons and your wealth in a senseless foreign war. I will keep both safe in Britannia. He kept a tight rein on the princes of this land; but the Saxon wars are long past, and we can afford to rule with less central authority.
There must be one man with the power, and the prestige, to deal with them. All these things I will do as your king!”

“What says the lady Guendivar?” asked Constantine.

Medraut turned to the queen and held out his hand. She rose to her feet, paler, if possible, than she had been before.

“Artor has abandoned us,” she said in a low voice. “Let Medraut take the rule. . . .”

He bent before her, then straightened, standing of a purpose where firelight would veil him in gold.

“Medraut!” called Martinus and Cunoglassus, and after them a dozen others took up the cry. They shouted his name till the rafters rang, and when the acclamation died away at last, Medraut sat down in the great carved chair of the king.

A.D.
515

A
RTOR SPLASHED THROUGH THE ICY WAVES, STRUGGLING TO
keep his feet against the surge, until the tide retreated behind him. A few more steps and the stony shore was solid beneath his feet. He sank to his knees, plunging his fingers deep into the swirled ridges of pebble and sand.

Britannia!
For so long, as winter storms lashed the narrow sea, he had thought he would never get here. But this holy earth was truly his homeland—it spoke to him as the soil of Gallia could never do. He bent and kissed the stones.

The ground trembled to the tread of the men and horses that were struggling ashore all around him. As he straightened again, the mists thinned and he saw the pale glimmer of the chalk cliffs that flanked the harbor. For two months they had haunted him, seen first in the dream that had brought him home. Even now the images made him writhe: Medraut in the king's high seat, Medraut with his arms around Guendivar. At first, he had thought the vision some bastard offspring of his own fears. But the dream had the flavor of Merlin's power, and as Artor got his men into winter quarters after that last, triumphant battle, he had begun to
believe it, even before Theodoric's storm-battered galley brought the news.

Medraut had proclaimed himself high king. He held Camalot and Londinium, and Dumnonia stood his ally. He had made his own treaties with the Saxons, and the rest of the Island was on the verge of civil war. And Guendivar had pledged herself to be his queen.

That was the blade that pierced Artor's heart. Until she betrayed him, he had not realized how much of his soul he had given to his queen. He lifted his head, trying to see through the mists. He had half expected to find Merlin waiting for him to come ashore. If the Druid knew enough to warn him, why had he not put a stop to Medraut's treachery?

“My lord! Did you fall?” Goriat's tall form bent beside him.

Artor shook his head, but the damp of the voyage had stiffened his joints, and he accepted a hand to help himself get up again. There was not much left in Goriat of the youth who had once served in the kitchens of Camalot, he thought grimly, except for the innocence in his eyes. He looked much like Gualchmai, both of them hard muscled and fair and taller than the other men, though Gualchmai's sandy hair was laced with silver now. Aggarban and Gwyhir lay in the earth of Gallia. Since hearing the news from Britannia, the two brothers who survived no longer counted Medraut as kin.

“Well, at least there's no enemy here to meet us—” Goriat squinted past the remains of the old fortress of Dubris towards the downs.

Artor nodded. No doubt that was why Merlin had shown him these cliffs in his dream. In the season of storms he dared no longer crossing, and Dumnonia and the lands the south Saxons ruled would be held against him. Only in Cantium could he hope to land unopposed, if Rigana and Eormenric stayed true.

He looked around him, shading his eyes as the pale February sunlight broke through the fog. Shadow shapes of boats darkened the shoreline. The strand was a confusion of horses and men. It was the warriors of Britannia he had with him— the others had been left with Betiver in Gallia. Men fought
best for their own land. The sorrow here was that the same might be said of both sides.

“Get the gear unloaded and form up the baggage train. I'll want to meet with troop commanders as soon as possible. We'll march on Cantuwareburh in the morning.”

A day later, Artor was sitting in Hengest's hall. The beams were darker, the walls covered by embroidered cloths, but otherwise it was much as he remembered from Oesc's wedding to Rigana, some twenty-one years before. The year before Mons Badonicus, that had been, when Oesc was killed. Rigana's slenderness had become a whipcord strength, her features sharpened by maturity; in appearance, she seemed little changed. He did not think that she had mellowed, though she seemed to have her temper under better control. But Eormenric was grown to manhood, and Artor winced to see his father look out of his eyes.

Oesc, wherever he is now, has more reason to be proud of his son than I do of mine
, he thought bitterly.

“Oh yes, Medraut has sent messengers,” observed Rigana, as if she had read his thought. “Gifts as well. We smiled, and took them. Why not?” she went on. “There was no point in defiance until we knew your plans—” She untied a soft leather bag from her belt and plopped it in front of Artor with a musical clink of gold.

“What, did you think I still held Oesc's death against you?” Rigana added wryly. “It was Cataur and Ceretic who destroyed him. And the West Seax and the Dumnonians are Medraut's allies.” She turned to her son, whose face had changed at the mention of Ceretic's name. “I know you fear to face your friend Ceawlin in battle, but this is the way of the world. When he thought it needful to avenge me, your father went even against Artor, whom he loved. . . .”

The king watched his own fingers clench on his drinking horn until the knuckles whitened, and forced them to release again. “If you will raise the men of your
fyrd
to follow me, under a good commander, I will be grateful,” he said harshly. “But you, boy, stay home to guard Cantuware. This conflict
has set brother against brother and father against son already. I will not ask you to fight against your friend.”

Rigana's gaze softened. “I see you are still capable of mercy. Remember it, when you have the victory.”

“Do you think I will win?”

“When the people see that you have come back to them, they will turn to you,” she answered him, “save for those who have been driven so far they think no forgiveness is possible.”

“You are talking about Medraut, and . . . the queen?” Odd, how he could not say her name.

“Consider this—Guendivar supports his cause, but she has not married him. Leave a way open for her to come to you. . . .”

Artor stared at her, thinking on the things she did not say. Rigana was the Lady of Cantium; she knew the queen could bestow the sovereignty of the land on the man who served her well. Perhaps Guendivar had not yet given herself to Medraut, but he himself had been no use to her either. He recognized now that it was one reason he had stayed away.

“She must hate me—” he whispered, knowing that until he was able to forgive himself, he could not forgive his queen. And until then, he had no choice but to press on with the bloody business of war.

The king's forces marched swiftly through the chill spring rains, taking the old Roman road westward towards Londinium. At Durobrivae their camp was attacked in the hour before dawn by tall, fair men whose sleek ships had crossed the estuary of the Tamesis. By the time they were beaten off, several wagonloads of supplies had been burned and a number of men killed. The one prisoner they took told them he was a Northman from the settlement Gipp had made on the coast of the Anglian lands, and then, laughing, tore off the bandage with which they had stopped his bleeding and died.

The art of making friends with barbarians, thought Artor grimly, was a gift his son seemed to have inherited. But he said nothing, and ordered his army to continue on.

There were several skirmishes before they reached Londinium,
but the city was not held against them. There was no need. Medraut had already stripped it of all supplies. Even in Artor's youth the city had been decaying. There was little left of it now. Still, it was good to take shelter beneath such roofs as remained intact while the king's scouts tried to find out which way the enemy had gone. There he found Betiver's son by the Votadini girl who for nearly twenty years had been his concubine. To have the young man at his side was some small consolation for having had to leave Betiver with the rest of his troops in Gallia.

Thus, it was the middle of the month of Mars before word came that the rebel forces were gathering near Ambrosiacum on the great western plain.

Medraut stood before the Mound of the Princes, watching his father's army form up across the plain. They were armed, as were his own forces, but had not put on their helmets. Artor had called for a parley. Medraut wondered if it could possibly succeed. A chill wind rustled the husks of last year's grass and ruffled the new blades of green, its force scarcely checked by the ancient stones of the Giant's Dance, and he refastened his wolfskin cloak above his mail.

He had not done so badly, he thought, looking over his men. The South and much of the West had declared for him, and those few who resisted, like Eldaul of Glevum, had been overcome. But except for a few skirmishes, the rebels had not yet faced Artor's army, and the old king's reputation was worth a legion. It was Constantine who had insisted that they try negotiation now.

Medraut wondered whether he was confused by old loyalties or simply afraid. Artor's men might be veterans, thought Medraut as he watched uneasily, but they were
old
; experienced they might be, but their strength had been worn away in the Gallian campaigns. He told himself there was no need to fear.