Warrior of the West (20 page)

Bedwyr didn’t hesitate, but plucked the shaft free. Blood welled from the slight wound.

He sank his heels into the ribs of his stallion and the beast resumed its mile-devouring gallop. Other arrows fell around them, but they had been fired from an extreme distance and were spent. Other than one that grazed Bedwyr’s cheek in passing, the shafts fell harmlessly away.

Even at full gallop, the two horsemen could see warriors on the fringes of Artor’s camp stir like disturbed ants as they prepared to repel enemy riders.

‘We are friends!’ Alun screamed, and waved his free arm. ‘Friends from Gawayne! Make way! Make way! Gawayne! Gawayne!’

Several warriors planted their long rectangular shields in the mud, but Bedwyr and Alun paid them no mind, and continued to urge their mounts towards the obstruction. Up rose the beasts, lifting their deceptively delicate forelegs to leap the line of shields. And then they were inside the camp, where grim men ran to surround them in a ring of cold iron.

Bedwyr dragged his horse to a shuddering halt, followed by a pale-faced Alun. Bedwyr stroked the bleeding neck of his faltering beast, threw the reins to a waiting warrior, and lithely leapt to the ground. The guards could see the bloodstained rags that bound his feet and the scars that covered his body.

‘Have one of your men see to my horse’s wound, for he’s served me well and I’d not wish harm to him. And escort me to an audience with the High King.’ He smiled at the warrior with unconscious charm. ‘I bear tidings for King Artor from Glamdring Ironfist.’

Artor had observed the mad gallop of the two horsemen as they approached the encampment. He recognized the second of the riders as one of Gawayne’s Otadini warriors, and he had also observed the hail of arrows that had sped after them, reaching almost to the defensive wall of Mori Saxonicus itself. Myrddion stood beside the High King, counting the bowshots and estimating their number, for this skirmish was the first time that Artor’s encampment had been under any attack, even one as feeble as this.

‘There are at least six archers in the trees. They’re probably in the branches, as the arrows are aimed downward,’ Myrddion stated. ‘I’ll let Gruffydd know. He’ll soon have them winkled out.’

Artor nodded economically. ‘Who’s the scarecrow on the leading horse?’ he asked. ‘He rides like a man possessed. Bring him to me. We may need Gruffydd to translate if he’s a Saxon, although why a Saxon would wish to enter my encampment beggars the imagination.’

When Myrddion approached the strange-looking man, he was being shouted at by an enraged Luka, to whom he had thrown the reins of his horse.

‘I’m not your stable boy, you impertinent scrag! And nobody speaks to the High King until I decide they’ll be no threat to his person.’

In his fury, Luka was even more obstinate than usual, and his eyes were mere slits in his dark, scowling face. The new arrival was going nowhere without his approval. On the other hand, the ragged warrior stood pugnaciously with his feet slightly apart and his hands planted belligerently on his hips. His jaw was thrust forward in an obvious challenge to the older man’s authority.

‘I’ve travelled on foot and by horseback from Caer Fyrddin. At some cost, I’ve escaped from the Saxon hive, and I can assure you that the High King will not thank you if you keep me from him.’ Twin spots of colour burned on the stranger’s sunburned cheeks and his eyes, more hazel than brown, threatened imminent bloodletting.

‘Please, Bedwyr!’ Alun pleaded vainly, and tried to pull him away from an increasingly angry Luka, who had half drawn his knife from its scabbard. ‘You don’t know who you offend with your insults.’

Bedwyr used his superior muscle to throw off the clutching hand of the taller warrior. ‘If he isn’t King Artor, I don’t care who he is. My message must not wait while dullards decide if I am fit to enter the presence of the great man. Yes, I’m ragged. And I’m dirty too, no doubt. And Prince Gawayne told me I smell, and I believe him. But Artor alone will know how to use the information I bring.’

Luka pulled out his dagger with a venomous little hiss. ‘Whoever you are, I stand first in line and I claim the right to add a second mouth to your throat. You insult Luka, King of the Brigante, and a member of the High Council of King Artor. No doubt you are hell-bent on offending anyone who gets in your way, but on this occasion you chose the wrong man to treat like a slave.’

Luka dropped the reins with disdain and Bedwyr flushed a little under his tan. Myrddion approached the young stranger on silent feet and made a small gesture to one of the warriors, who bent to retrieve the reins.

The horses were led away.

A little shame-faced, Bedwyr made a rather belated, indifferent bow to Luka.

‘I offer my apologies, my lord, but my horse is wounded and my message has still not been relayed to the High King. I am impatient after years of inaction. Courtesy must wait on necessity as I must see the High King immediately. When King Artor has learned what I have to tell him, you may kill me any way you choose - if you can!’

‘Sir, you are an impudent son of—’

Luka was robbed of any chance to instruct Bedwyr on his mother’s chosen occupation by Myrddion, who cut into the discussion, raising his voice to drown out the shouts of the two men. Bedwyr was alarmed that Myrddion had approached so near to him unnoticed.

‘Shut up, Luka! And you too, young man, whoever you are! You will keep a civil tongue in your head or Luka will cut you into ribbons. I am Myrddion Merlinus, and I come from the High King himself.’

Bedwyr continued to struggle against Alun’s restraining arms. In his anger, he scarcely heard the last part of Myrddion’s message.

‘He can try! Even if he
is
a king, he’ll have to work hard to kill me off. And my mother was a decent woman, wife to a Cornovii chieftain. I’ll not have her slighted.’

‘Enough!’ Myrddion roared, using that particular gift of tone and volume that demanded instant obedience. ‘If ever a young man warranted my turning him into a toad or a snake, it’s you, you dolt! Have done! Now!’ He turned to Luka. ‘It’s obvious that this cub had no idea who you are, Luka, so it’s pointless to take offence. And shouting is unseemly for a king.’

Luka looked chastened and sheathed his knife.

‘You!’ Myrddion pointed at Bedwyr. ‘Follow me!’

‘I’m coming too,’ Luka insisted. ‘This bundle of rags is not to be trusted.’ He was spoiling for a fight; the whole camp had been on edge for days.

‘Whatever you wish, Luka. But I suggest you leave your bad temper here before you see Artor. He’s not in the mood. Try and behave like adults, both of you.’

Myrddion strode off, disapproval evident in every line of his body.

‘That’s told us.’ Bedwyr grinned, and Luka found himself smiling as well.

‘He takes the role of king’s adviser and sorcerer very seriously,’ Luka explained. ‘You weren’t very civil to him.’

‘Oh.’ Out of long habit, Bedwyr crossed himself in the Roman manner, although his faith was fractured. Luka’s doubts about the young man’s motives fell away, for Saxons didn’t pretend to be Christian - ever.

Artor had seen the fracas from the knoll, and he was irritated. No word had come from Glamdring Ironfist, and the High King had begun to fear that his strategy was flawed. His temper was strained to breaking point, and his gaze was particularly cold.

Bedwyr had only to see Artor’s remarkable hair and the king’s great height to believe that all the rumours concerning his liege were true. He fell to his knees in the trampled grass and pressed his forehead into the dirt. His heart beat so quickly that he feared it would escape from his chest.

‘My lord king,’ he murmured as he attempted to kiss Artor’s foot.

‘Rise, man,’ Artor responded gruffly and impatiently, clearly embarrassed by Bedwyr’s homage. ‘Who are you? Clearly, you’re not a Celt!’

Bedwyr drew himself to his full height of five foot seven inches, a respectable height for a Briton, although his king dwarfed him. His whole body bridled with insult.

‘Sire, I am of the Cornovii tribe, and I was born near the forests of Arden in the north. My name is Bedwyr, son of Bedwyr, Chieftain of Letocetum on the Roman road to Viroconium. My family have been the guardians of Arden for time beyond time, and our stewardship of the forest is our greatest honour.’

‘My apologies, young man, if I have insulted you. But you must admit that you appear the veriest savage. Still, I was hasty and foolish, for Saxons don’t ride near as well as you.’ Artor grinned suddenly and even his grey eyes warmed. ‘One day you may tell your children that you caught the great Artor in a fundamental error of logic.’

Suddenly, as he basked in the warmth of the High King’s charm, Bedwyr was robbed of his fluency. Confusion furrowed his brow, and devotion, and he would have abased himself again had Artor not physically restrained him.

‘There will be no more bowing and scraping, for I hate all that fuss. Now, how did the Saxons capture you? From your look, I assume you were forced into slavery.’

Bedwyr sighed and began the story of his captivity all over again. As he spoke, his eyes kept returning to the edge of the forest.

‘I begged my father to send me to Viroconium, and from there, under King Llanwith’s orders, to the border at Castell Collen. Saxons ambushed my companions, but I’d been hunting, and I managed to evade the terrible deaths suffered by my friends. I won’t speak of what I saw the Saxons do to the Ordovice warriors, for I would rather hold those hideous memories in my heart until someone dies for it.’

‘Go on,’ Myrddion ordered.

‘I was taken alive and was presented to Glamdring Ironfist as a gift. To reach his fortress, I was forced to run all the way to Caer Fyrddin without faltering. I succeeded, and became Glamdring’s slave, his dog.’

Myrddion mentally reviewed the distance between Castell Collen and Caer Fyrddin, and granted Bedwyr considerable unspoken respect.

Gruffydd was not so easily deceived by the cheapness of words. He walked round the younger man, his sharp eyes examining the scars, bruises and scrapes that could be seen.

‘Forgive me, Bedwyr, but the king must know of your wounds.’ And without warning, Gruffydd tore the young man’s tunic from neck to hem so that it fell and pooled at his feet.

Of those present, Artor alone gazed dispassionately at the marks of violence on Bedwyr’s body, overlaid by new scars and bruises. The mark of the slave collar was clear, and the scar tissue would never fade. The spear scar, twin to Gruffydd’s own, was also very obvious on Bedwyr’s chest. Then, the young man turned, so Artor and his advisers could see his back.

‘Bring the boy something to cover himself, Gruffydd,’ Artor ordered impassively. ‘I can see that you were a slave, Bedwyr, and one of many years’ standing. I’m surprised that you are alive.’

Bedwyr frowned. ‘How could I die while Glamdring Ironfist still lived?’

When no one answered, Bedwyr lurched back into speech, no longer careful of his words and nearly weeping with anger.

‘I am four and twenty, my king, and no longer a boy. I’ve seen too much, and heard things that shouldn’t be heard. I am here to tell you of the words and deeds of Glamdring Ironfist so that you may grind him into his own filth. I know Caer Fyrddin intimately, for slaves are aware of everything that takes place within their prison, if they wish to remain alive. You may ask of me what you will.’

‘Then speak, Bedwyr, for I am listening.’

Gruffydd returned and Artor spread the rich woollen cloak his sword bearer had brought across Bedwyr’s shoulders with his own hands, a signal mark of honour that Bedwyr ignored in his passion and obsession.

‘Glamdring has been waiting for more than a week, with his blood boiling. He longs to kill you in battle, but Wyrr, his sorcerer, counselled patience. Up until yesterday, that is. But Wyrr has been killed, and Glamdring will be upon you within hours. Wyrr was a dangerous man, for he calmed Glamdring’s excesses of temper and guided the battle plans of the Saxon thane.’

Artor raised one amber eyebrow.

‘I killed Wyrr at the gates of Caer Fyrddin. I hadn’t planned to murder him, so I can’t take any credit for this lucky chance. He was an evil, stunted thing, but he was very clever and he exerted great influence over Glamdring, who is a brute at heart. He was almost supernatural in his cleverness, and I suppose he had to hone his mind because his body was so weak and fragile. Without Wyrr’s moderating influence, Glamdring Ironfist will come raging out of his hills and attempt to batter you into submission. The thane has no subtlety, just wild courage and fury.’

‘He can try. ’ Artor grinned. He looked around him. ‘We’ll teach the Saxons that we used the shield wall before we learned its true usefulness from our Roman enemies. We’ll take Glamdring’s primitive strategy and ram it down his throat.’

A short while later, Artor seated himself on his campaign chair which was so similar to the curule throne used by Caesar many centuries earlier. He began to issue his instructions, and servants and councillors alike scurried to do his bidding.

‘Luka, you will review our defensive plans for this encampment. Obviously, we cannot rely on Glamdring attacking only by day so make preparations for repelling a night attack. Targo has drilled the men daily in implementing the shield wall, which will be our prime tactical manoeuvre once Glamdring commits himself to battle. Hopefully, we will give our Saxon friends a lesson in battle craft.’

Then Artor turned to a scar-faced, one-eyed man who was dressed incongruously in puce wool under a gilded breastplate.

‘Pelles, the archers are yours to command. You will hold them in readiness behind the main line of our warriors, for they’ll harvest the Saxons before a single blow is struck. The baggage wagons will provide the height they’ll need to comply with my wishes.

‘Gruffydd, take seven men into the hills immediately after darkness falls and clean out that pocket of archers who are just beyond the boundaries of our encampment.