by M. K. Hume
Artorex decided that the stone in his glade in the Old Wood was a brother to these rough-hewn, grey pillars, not tall in the winter light, but thick and mossy - and dreadful.
‘What do you think of the Carol, Artorex?’ Myrddion asked. ‘My people believe that the Sun God spirited these stones across the Sea of Hibernicus from the Blessed Isles, and laid them out here, exactly as you see them now, to claim this land for his children forever.’
‘It’s a pretty tale, but do you believe it, my lord?’ Artorex countered.
The older man laughed, openly and without guile. ‘No, Artorex, I don’t believe in magical stones that fly. Men built the Carol - and surely not Myrddion, the Lord of Light.’
‘You were named for the Sun God, my lord?’
‘Aye.’ Then Myrddion sighed. ‘I was given my name many years ago, and the words spoken over me froze me into the man you see before you, with neither living wife nor children. It is destined that only the exercise of power and influence will be my lot.’
Artorex’s last view of the stone circles was of a brooding, grey landscape as they passed. Hamlets sent up plumes of smoke from holes in sod roofs, but the riders avoided all civilization. Even Sorviodunum was bypassed, although Artorex saw the palisades of its walls in the distance and wondered why wood was used to repel any threat of attack.
Fire burns and consumes wood, so why don’t they use stone? he asked himself as he remembered his own house with its walls constructed of field rock and mud brick.
The end of their long journey was now approaching. The roads they travelled were well maintained and carried a heavy traffic of traders, bands of warriors and priests. Without exception, fellow itinerants gave Myrddion’s party a wide berth, not only because they were recognized as men of power but also because the four men had a grim, purposeful mien.
‘It seems that the world journeys to Venta Belgarum,’ Luka said derisively. ‘They call Uther Pendragon a failed and dying man but, when he calls, they come.’
‘Who else is there to rule in such desperate times other than the High King?’ Artorex asked, but his question was ignored.
Artorex was unshaven and dirty when they reached the low stone and wooden walls of Venta Belgarum. He was embarrassed by his wolf cloak and by the stubble on his face, for Venta Belgarum was the largest and most extraordinary city that Artorex had ever seen.
In reality, the thatched and sod-roofed cottages that clustered outside its walls had sprung up around a small Roman administrative centre that controlled the protected ports to the south that welcomed trade from Gaul and elsewhere in the Roman world. Inside the walls, the buildings were of wood construction and were plastered and decorated in the Roman style. The only exception was a small stone building perched on a rise at the centre of the city.
‘What is that place, Myrddion?’ Artorex asked, pointing to the strange, unwieldy structure.
‘That’s a temple dedicated to the Christian god and presided over by Branicus, the bishop. Uther Pendragon professes to be a Christian, especially since many highly born Romans have embraced the Jewish faith, so he keeps court at Venta Belgarum when he can, in order to be near his confessor.’
Artorex scratched reflectively at the stubble on his chin.
‘Does the king rely on his gods or on his strong right arm?’ he asked Luka, who stood beside him. ‘And where does he reside if the strongest of these houses is used by his priest?’
‘You ask many questions, Artorex,’ Luka answered gravely. ‘I know that Uther pays homage to the Christian god and to his confessor, for he believes his sins will be washed away by the Christ. And if you had waded in as much blood as Uther, you would also need spiritual comfort when Death peers over your shoulder.’
Artorex snorted in disbelief, for as far as he was concerned, praying was a sign of weakness if a man depended on it overmuch. Targo had taught him, as a boy and as a man, to trust firstly in himself.
‘There is the hall where the High King resides.’ Llanwith pointed towards a courtyard and a long building with shallow steps that elevated it above the mud of the roadway. The basic construction was of timber, and artisans had carved every exposed beam and wall, so that dragons, serpents and creatures of legend writhed upon every surface. The carving had been gilded and painted with such skill that the strange animals almost seemed to move and breathe. But Artorex grimaced as he looked beneath the splendour and recognized the decay in the fine structure, in its fading, rain-washed paintwork and its splitting decoration. The rot was barely noticeable as yet, but it was there, visible in the blackened beams in the forecourt where great braziers had been permitted to lick their flames and dark smoke into the ceilings.
Uther’s Great Hall was splendid, gorgeous and dying.
The hour was late, and the party didn’t have the luxury of time to bathe, so the small and rather odorous group handed their horses to stable workers and joined a growing crowd of supplicants in the forecourt. Artorex brushed at his clothing in a vain attempt to remove the worst of the mud and wondered at the perfumed sycophants who talked vivaciously in corners while beautiful women clustered with their menfolk like brightly painted butterflies. One woman’s face, partly hidden by a heavy black cowl that covered her hair, seemed oddly familiar to the young man, but she passed Artorex without acknowledging him.
A servant hurried to Myrddion’s shoulder and bowed low. He whispered hastily in Myrddion’s ear and nodded towards huge, wooden doors that were decorated with winged serpents and birds with the faces of women - all covered with beaten metal.
‘Uther summons us,’ the scholar stated bluntly, turning to his friends. ‘Now you will learn, Artorex, on what shoulders the fate of our world rests.’
Servants bowed and opened the brazen doors, permitting the five members of the party to pass through unhindered. Inside, huge Celtic warriors with long bound hair and torcs of various metals and decorations, as befitted their stations, formed a guard at the door. More men were standing behind the dais at the far end of the draughty hall. Even a roaring fire in a central stone pit couldn’t heat the chill air, and Artorex was glad of his wolf pelt, for all that it made him seem to be first cousin to a barbarian. Fortunately, the ceiling was high; the thick grey smoke formed an overhead blanket that stained and obscured the painted serpents in the rafters.
Artorex looked up and spied a round hole cut into the ceiling to allow the smoke to escape, which it dismally failed to do.
This hall is primitive, he thought in amazement, remembering Ector’s villa and its warm floors and cosy rooms.
Two shallow steps led to a dais above the level of the many warriors, Druids, priests and tribal aristocrats who huddled by the many smaller braziers inside the large, chilly room. On the dais sat a shrunken figure shrouded entirely in an over-robe of thick, luxuriant bear fur. The man’s face was old, its sallow skin stretched thinly over massive bones. His mouth was cruel and the corners were turned up in a parody of a smile, even when his lips were at rest. The eyes in that vicious face were buried in heavy pouches, but Artorex could see the glint of steel-blue irises gazing at him, as inflexible as bluestone from the western mountains. This skeletal mask was the face of a man who still held the reins of power in his huge wasted hands that clutched the arms of his chair. The malice that ruled him was evident in the puckered full mouth and its empty, meaningless smile.
‘Hail, Uther, High King of the Britons!’ Myrddion paid homage to the man in a voice so ringing that it carried to the furthest corners of the Great Hall. Then he sank to his knees. ‘I have come, Lord Uther, as you ordered.’
‘Hail, Uther, High King and Liege Lord,’ Luka and Llanwith repeated, also sinking to their knees.
Rather awkwardly, Artorex and Targo dropped to the hard, stone-flagged floor, unsure of their purpose in such exalted company.
Three women sat on silken cushions on the dais. Artorex observed them closely from under his lowered head and eyelashes, while Uther Pendragon called for a wine cup, arr
ogantly leaving his guests to kneel at his feet.
The oldest woman had long passed her fiftieth year, a very respectable age for a female, but her ruined beauty was a sad contrast to the complexions of the younger women who attended to her needs. She was dressed in various shades of blue and grey wools, including a finely woven shawl that half concealed the faded hair that had once been rich and nut-brown. Half hidden by drooping eyelids, her eyes were a clear, clean grey. The jewels at her throat, great cabochon sapphires and misshapen pearls, and the golden rings on every finger, even her thumbs, proclaimed her status.
For the first time, Artorex looked on the face of the fabled Ygerne, wife of Uther Pendragon and widow of Gorlois, the Boar of Cornwall.
The two women who sat beside her, one on her left and one on the right, had a strong physical resemblance to Ygerne but lacked the Otherworld beauty that legend swore had driven Uther mad with desire in the days of his vigorous middle age. The older of the two females lowered her black cowl and Artorex was stunned to recognize the odd face of Morgan, itinerant fortune teller and beggar, now decked in gold chains over her sable robes. The woman on Ygerne’s left was younger and softer than Morgan, and she seemed petulant at being forced to sit in the chill hall for hours. Like Ygerne, her hair was covered, signifying her wedded state, but she disdained her sister’s black raiment. She wore an ermine-edged cloak of dusky crimson and her under-robe was a rich, clear yellow.
‘Rise, my guests, rise!’ Uther ordered as he sipped wine warmed with honey. ‘Well, Myrddion, my sharpest eye in the east. What havoc do the Saxons bring to discomfort me now?’
‘They bring fire and death, burned cities and ruined temples and churches.’ Myrddion spoke slowly and with ponderous gravity, as if he could stir the High King to action by the power of his words alone. ‘By spring, when the next wave comes, their foothold on our lands will be complete. I fear that we shall never drive them out, sire, if you do not choose to strike before they are within their own fortified walls.’
Uther ignored Myrddion and turned his reptilian eyes on the two kings who accompanied him.
‘Welcome, friend Luka, King of the Brigante, and pen Bryn, King of the Ordovice. I bid you rest in my city, and know that I mourn with you for the deaths of your fathers. Yet, as I’m sure you agree, it’s sometimes a good thing that old men eventually die - especially fathers!’
Myrddion had flushed when Uther ignored his words utterly, but now it was the turn of Luka and Llanwith to clench their fists and redden across their cheekbones at Uther’s calculated insult.
‘Never, my lord, for those who love their kin,’ Llanwith answered, his body strung tight with repressed rage.
‘And who are your other companions? They’re a pretty duo of oddities - obviously the long and the short of it all.’
The courtiers in the hall responded to their king’s rasping laughter with polite titters of their own, although Artorex’s great size and Targo’s small but tangible sense of menace were not the natural subjects of jokes. Artorex noticed that no guards smiled, for their wary eyes had scanned the pair as soon as they walked through the brazen doors and had immediately deemed them to be fellow warriors.
Myrddion beckoned Artorex and Targo forward. His dark eyes begged the young man to exercise caution.
‘I have brought Artorex, foster-son of Lord Ector of the Villa Poppinidii at Aquae Sulis, a warrior. His companion is Targo, a Roman veteran and Artorex’s personal guard.’
Uther’s lips curled as he chewed upon a new jest at Artorex’s expense. Artorex composed his features so that his grey eyes and chiselled face showed nothing of the thoughts passing through his brain.
‘Remove that covering from your head and come closer. I wish to look at you.’
‘Aye, my King,’ Artorex replied and swept off the wolf-pelt cloak. He passed it carefully to Targo without permitting his flat eyes to leave Uther’s face.
Artorex’s extraordinary hair, plaited at the side but free to tumble and curl down his back, caught the reflection of the fires in a blaze of ruddy gold and blood-red. His great height allowed him to look directly into Uther’s eyes.
As old blue irises met impenetrable grey, the air crackled and hissed with tension.
‘Who was your father, boy? Or don’t you know?’ Uther grinned mirthlessly, with a sneer of contempt. ‘What would I care for Aquae Sulis, or Ector of the Old Forest? Provincial Romans, lad! Provincial nobodies!’
No one laughed.
‘I don’t know my lineage, my King, but Lucius of Glastonbury must hold the secret of my birth. On his orders, I was sent to Master Ector as a babe and he has continued to pay red gold for my tutelage these twenty-three years.’
A small cry escaped from Ygerne’s lips. Instantly, she covered her mouth with her hand while her faded eyes devoured Artorex’s face and form.
Morgan smiled enigmatically at Uther Pendragon. She seemed oblivious of her mother’s distress, while she fed off Uther’s sudden gasp of consternation.
Uther was no dissembler. He sat rigidly, his beringed fingers gripping the wood of his chair arms with whitened knuckles.
‘Where did you get that dagger, boy?’ Uther pointed to the dragon knife on Artorex’s left hip. His forefinger trembled, ever so slightly. ‘I want to see it! Bring it to me - someone - anyone!’ His voice rose to an old man’s quaver.
Artorex drew out the long blade from its scabbard and handed it, hilt first, to a grey-haired warrior who approached from the King’s right hand.
Once Uther had the knife in his grip, his fingers traced the iron dragon on its hilt, following the creature’s spine along the tail and back to its wicked mouth.
‘Who gave you leave to use my dragon?’ Uther snapped, his eyes burning, malicious and vindictive within their pouches of wrinkled flesh.
Artorex was perplexed and for the first time he permitted his face to show his confusion.
‘That isn’t your dragon, my lord. A blacksmith from a village near to my home forged the knife for me. He believed he owed me a debt, and he copied its features from the Dracos Legion standard.’
Myrddion moved forward, his body taut with apprehension.
‘Aquae Sulis remains very Roman, my king. The Dracos Legion left its mark upon the towns closest to Llanwith’s lands, where the Romans built their forts. This dragon is Dracos of Rome, with some refinements. No insult was ever intended, my lord.’
A thin sheen of sweat covered Myrddion’s face. Artorex had never seen him alarmed or disconcerted, and he felt his nerves twitch. Why was Myrddion so frightened? And why did this mad old tyrant play cruel games with his guests?
‘Hmmff !’ Uther grunted. Plainly, he wasn’t mollified. He returned the knife to his guard who, in turn, placed it in Artorex’s hands.
The old warrior chosen for the task examined every line of Artorex’s face during this process. Then he honoured the younger man with the slightest hint of a bowed head.
‘It’s a fine weapon, young sir,’ the guard said quietly.
Uther turned to Myrddion.
‘Are you playing with me?’ he snapped, while Artorex thought irreverently that the mouth of his king was like a pike’s maw, filled with wicked teeth and rapacity. ‘Why did you bring this lad to me, Myrddion? What are you plotting?’
‘Sire, Lord Ector is a friend of the west, and he’s a stalwart supporter of your Highness in all that you do. His ties to Aquae Sulis are strong and, where he leads, many of the common people will follow. Within his own small sphere, Artorex has performed many heroic deeds. At great personal risk, he destroyed a group of depraved child killers, and he is, arguably, the ablest warrior in the north-west. I brought him to Venta Belgarum to pay homage to you, and to offer his strong arm and cold logic to you for use against the Saxons.’ He dropped to his knees and bowed his head in supplication. ‘I wouldn’t plot against the High King of Britain, sire. Ever! I have been your loyal servant for longer than I care to remember, and so I will always remain!’
>
‘Enough, Myrddion, I can only tolerate so many compliments in one day.’
The old man gnawed on one yellowed nail and then smiled with malicious delight. As he formulated his plans, he almost gloated as he stared at Artorex’s aureole of amber hair.
‘We shall soon see whether your boast is true,’ he giggled. His attention remained fixed on Artorex. ‘Artorex? That is your name?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Are you willing to undertake a small sporting contest against the best of my warriors? Or don’t you trust your arm?’
‘I’ll do whatever you desire, my king, if it gives you pleasure,’ Artorex replied evenly.
Uther heard Morgan laugh softly at his words. The sound was delicate and mocking, like the tinkling of silver bells.
‘My suggestion amuses you, Morgan? Well! If that is so, perhaps you, your sister and your mother will watch the contest with me and be entertained.’ The High King did not even trouble to glance at the women.
‘I’ll welcome it, my dearest stepfather,’ Morgan replied, her face as reptilian as the mask of her king. ‘Anything to break the tedium of endless speech.’
Uther made a dismissive motion with his hand and Myrddion gripped Artorex’s elbow and pulled him backward bodily.
‘Bow, boy!’ he hissed and the five warriors backed away from the uncertain temper of their king.
As Uther turned his attention to some new petition, Ygerne swept away, almost at a run, her blue skirts swirling about her and loose tendrils of bound hair flying about her anguished face. Her daughters followed her at a more sedate pace while, behind them, a low hum of muffled conversation drew attention to her odd retreat.
The five men backed swiftly and silently out through the brazen doors and into the forecourt. Once those doors had closed on fresh meat for Uther’s pleasure and malice, Artorex turned to the three travellers - as they would always remain in his mind.
