by M. K. Hume
‘That madman is Uther Pendragon?’ Artorex asked Luka, his face at last permitted to register his disgust.
‘He’s not a lunatic, Artorex. Our task would be far easier if he were. Uther was always a predator, so perhaps the cruelty in his nature was the quality that permitted him to assume the mantle of High King. But his internal fires have burned low. He’s lost the will to take risks, so he vents his bloodlust and frustration on those nearest to him, including those who are faithful unto death.’
Luka explained the situation calmly and quietly, but Artorex saw that his hands twitched and clenched.
‘He must die!’ Llanwith hissed and the faces of his old friends blanched at his treasonous words.
‘Don’t say or think such treachery,’ Myrddion ordered the western king. ‘Not when we are so close to success. We walk between knife points here, but we have delivered a message to Uther. Perhaps the sorry impasse between the west and the Saxons will finally be broken if the High King is forced to march against our enemies.’
‘You dream, old friend,’ Llanwith grumbled as they strode out into the cold night. ‘Uther will only act when Artorex’s head is delivered to him on a platter. And then he’ll dance a jig rather than go to war. We’re taking enormous risks, Myrddion.’
Perplexed, Artorex looked directly at Myrddion.
‘Why do you continue to speak in riddles?’ he protested. ‘I don’t understand. Why would Uther want me dead? And why does Llanwith hate our king with such passion?’
‘With Llanwith’s permission, and without going into detail as even the night wind has ears in Venta Belgarum, perhaps I can explain,’ Myrddion began.
‘I’ve no objection,’ Llanwith rumbled testily.
‘Uther didn’t turn into a monster overnight,’ Myrddion said softly to avoid any chance of being overheard. ‘He was ever a difficult, capricious man, as his . . . punishment of Gorlois of Cornwall indicates.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Artorex complained.
Myrddion sighed irritably. ‘The older woman on the dais, Queen Ygerne, was once married to Gorlois, the Boar of Cornwall. Uther gazed on her face but once, and he lusted after her. He seduced her by trickery and when Gorlois objected, Uther sent him into a battle where the Boar was killed treacherously. Later, Ygerne quickened with child, so Uther took her as his wife. Those who knew Uther’s secret believe that the child died in childbirth, leaving Uther without a legitimate heir. The other women sitting with Ygerne on the dais are Morgan and Morgause, the daughters of Gorlois.’
‘I’ve met Morgan, although she was pretending to be a poor fortune teller at the time,’ Artorex murmured. ‘How does she feel about Uther?’
‘Can’t you tell?’ Luka interrupted. ‘She loathes him to the point of obsession so she conspires to stay as close to him as she can. Morgan is a beautiful woman, but I’d be afraid to be alone in the same room with her. She’d castrate a man as soon as look at him, and then expect him to be grateful for her gift.’
‘Your language is colourful, Luka, but it doesn’t explain why Llanwith and his king are at odds,’ Myrddion retorted testily. ‘The other vain bitch is Queen Morgause. She’s married to Lot, the King of the Otadini, who rules the low lands north of the Wall. Lot may be fat, but he’s a formidable fighter and an important ally of the west. With his marriage connections, he considers himself to be a claimant to Uther’s throne. The children of Gorlois are dangerous women, so be warned, my young friend. You may be assured that I’ll be expecting an explanation of how you became acquainted with Morgan.’
Myrddion paused.
‘At the time of which we speak, Llanwith’s late father was king of the Ordovice tribe. Like many good Celts, he disapproved of the fate that befell any Dumnonii warriors who refused to accept Uther’s version of the death of King Gorlois. Uther created a credible lie, but many prominent men found it hard to believe that Gorlois was a traitor and deserved his sticky end. Consequently, Uther was angry with the Ordovice and his spite resulted in the death of Llanwith’s uncle. Uther sent him to Camulodunum with a troop of hand-picked warriors. They were slaughtered by the Saxons.’
Artorex raised an eyebrow as he absorbed this information. How could Uther be at fault if Llanwith’s kin had died in battle?
‘I can tell that you don’t understand the ruthless subtlety of your High King, Artorex,’ Llanwith said in a voice that was quiet and calm. ‘My uncle and his troop were all men who had angered Uther in some way and, somehow, the Saxons were warned of the foray. My father didn’t believe in coincidences - and neither do I.’
Artorex was unable to find anything to say in either sympathy or understanding. He stood and watched as the three travellers made their way out of the forecourt.
‘I wish someone - anyone - would tell me what is going on,’ Artorex exclaimed to the cold air and then stirred his long legs to join Myrddion, Llanwith and Luka, who were striding off into the afternoon darkness.
‘I can’t tell what the king requires of you,’ Targo answered his pupil drily. ‘But I do know that the old bugger doesn’t like you overmuch. I thought we’d be put to the sword when he saw that knife of yours. One of the first things I learned in the legions was that a common soldier should stay as far as possible from them that gives the orders. It stands to reason that leaders such as Uther Pendragon have far deeper games to play than to care for the pawns who exist within their world.’
The deepening gloom was pervasive, but the snow clouds had fled at last. The stars appeared like white holes burned into the sable cloth of the skies and Artorex ached to think that Gallia and Licia could see those same stars from their snug villa. Around him, the stillness of silent walkways smelled of danger, so that he set his feet on the cobbles carefully and lightly, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
Mud and filth collected in the corners of the city, as if a high tide had washed a detritus of rubbish through the alleyways when the citizens were asleep. The corpse of a dog, stiff-legged in rigor, lay frozen near a stone doorstep, and Artorex smelled the rank odour of raw sewerage that overlaid the even more nauseatingly sweet stink of death.
Artorex had come to Venta Belgarum and had discovered that it was further from home than he could ever have imagined.
CHAPTER XI
TRIAL OF STRENGTH
As the five men settled their weary bones in their rooms in the Wild Boar Inn, the apartments of Queen Ygerne were in unaccustomed disarray.
Ygerne had torn her sleeping room apart, tossing cushions, coverlets and boxes of perfumed wood into a great pile on the rush-matted floor. Her hair had come undone as she smashed and ripped her own treasures in an excess of anger and fear. Now she lay, curled up protectively on her wool-stuffed pallet, and wept bitter, scalding tears.
Morgan entered quietly, followed by a timid maidservant who began to clean up the mess.
‘Is he trying to drive me mad?’ Ygerne raised her tear-ravaged face to her daughter and gripped Morgan’s hands tightly. ‘What does he want of me?’
‘Who, Mother?’
‘Uther! God save my soul, does the man hate me so much that he finds suitable young men to taunt me? It would be easier to kill myself and be done with this farce.’
‘No, Mother. Uther has no part in this particular game. He’s as shocked as you are - and he’s frightened, too. Myrddion Merlinus is the puppet-master this time and he bears you no grudge. He aims his barbs squarely at my so-dear stepfather, the High King.’
Morgan lifted Ygerne to her feet and held the weeping woman protectively in her arms. As much as she was able, Morgan softened her stern, handsome face and rocked her mother as if she were a child.
As Ygerne’s sobs slowly died away, Morgan ordered the servant girl to straighten her mistress’s sumptuous bed and then leave the room.
‘I’d not be tempted to gossip about the queen’s tears,’ she added. ‘Do you understand me, woman? If you should speak, then I’ll be forced to silence your voic
e permanently.’
The maid fearfully opened and closed her mouth several times, but no sound came forth. Wide-eyed and almost tripping in her terror, she curtseyed awkwardly and backed out of the room.
‘We can’t be overheard now. Lie down, Mother, for you’re overwrought and exhausted. You need to regain your strength.’
Morgan gently eased her mother out of her outer robes and coaxed her on to her carved sleeping couch. Ygerne clutched her daughter’s hand in sudden panic and Morgan could feel the delicate bones that were as fragile as sticks of ivory, yet strong with desperation.
‘What does Myrddion want of me?’
‘Nothing, Mother. Now be still. That young man, Artorex, has no idea who you are. Nor will anyone else make the connection - unless you tell them.’
‘But he can’t be my son,’ Ygerne wailed. ‘Lucius swore to me that the babe died shortly after birth.’
How this sad woman wished that she had never set eyes on that cold, young face in the king’s hall and yet, if he was her son, she wanted to soothe her fears by seeing him again - and yet again.
‘He is your son, Mother. I know. I bade him cast the bones years ago and his birth was written in the patterns. He’ll become King of the Britons - if the bones tell the truth.’
‘But is he the seed of Uther or is he from Gorlois, my husband? I couldn’t bear it if that monster had spawned himself in my body.’
‘He’s Uther’s son! Could you not see, Mother? I didn’t need the bones to tell me so. Did you not see his hair?’
Ygerne sighed, and a world of bitter regret and self-knowledge was in that sound.
‘I lay with my husband and Uther spent his seed in my body. Either could have fathered the child, or so I told myself, when I quickened. But Uther’s son will hate me for my desertion of him. Uther’s son will require a reckoning. What will become of us?’
‘Artorex isn’t Uther. Uther always burns with heat until he consumes everyone and everything around him - even you, Mother. But Artorex is cold, like ice or iron. His mind is his sovereign, not his passions, and we may yet be glad for that mercy.’ Morgan’s voice was quite flat and toneless, as if the trials of the Great Hall had happened long before she was born.
‘Then Uther will kill him,’ Ygerne wailed. ‘The King is much like Cronos, the Greek god who devoured his children. I can see the blood lust in his eyes.’
‘He may try, Mother, but I tell you now that Artorex will not die easily. I know that Myrddion is playing a dangerous game - one that may bring salvation for the west.’
Morgan drew a fur coverlet over her mother’s shoulders and stroked her faded hair, almost as if their roles had been reversed - as perhaps they were.
‘Sleep, Mother. Tomorrow will bring troubles enough, but you must be careful to show no partiality for this young man or, truly, he’ll be killed without cause by the High King.’
‘Do you also hate Artorex, Morgan? If he is Uther’s son, then he is the poisoned fruit that was born out of your father’s murder.’
Morgan stood upright, and her eyes saw beyond the room, perhaps beyond time and the imperishable stars themselves.
‘I will always detest him, Mother, but it is not my place to lift my hand against him. The fates have already decided that another will bring him to ruin - a woman with yellow hair.’
Ygerne sighed again and Morgan stroked her hand as the chill wind moaned outside and keened through the corridors of Venta Belgarum like a pack of foraging wolves.
In the Wild Boar Inn, Artorex washed and scraped at the stubble on his chin with a sharp blade and longed for the calidarium and his battered strigil. Hunger made his stomach growl, yet the thought of food revolted him. Tonight, he decided, he would wring answers out of Myrddion, or he would leave this ugly, freezing place that was ruled by a mad, blood-soaked king.
At supper in a private room, Artorex seated himself on a bench in the Celtic fashion and presented his ultimatum to the three lords.
‘Either someone explains what is going on or I’ll ride for home at first light. I know that I owe you a great deal, including my education and my safe childhood at the Villa Poppinidii, but I’m heartily sick of being treated like a child.’
‘But you won’t be permitted to leave, Artorex,’ Luka exclaimed impatiently. ‘You’ve sworn to battle one of Uther’s best warriors on the morrow.’
‘I can do as I please, Luka. How many times must I tell you that I am no man’s tool?’
‘Very well, Artorex. Very well. I will explain what I can,’ Myrddion said calmly, although Artorex could see that his narrow hands trembled slightly. Myrddion took a deep breath and spoke quietly, for the walls in Venta Belgarum had ears.
‘Uther wasn’t always the shell you saw today. He was once a fighting man of greater skill than any of us here and, perhaps, possessed even more talent than you, my young friend. I became his servant during my youth when he was still in his prime, and he used my intelligence and my knowledge of languages the way you use your knife. I rose high in the courts of the King, but now, in his old age, he trusts nothing and nobody, not even me.’
Artorex coughed awkwardly, because he could feel the hot regret behind the calculating eyes of his friend.
‘Morgan, his stepdaughter, is a seer and a Druid priestess, and she’s risen as high in that order as any woman can reach. Even as a child, she hated her stepfather and foretold that a child with russet hair would eclipse him. Uther was angry beyond reason and no well-born child with fair colouring was safe from his murderous retribution.’
Myrddion paused, and then continued.
‘You are highly born, Artorex, as your name implies, but I cannot reveal your father’s name to you; not even if you leave us and bring all our long years of work to nothing. You must accept that your father handed you to Lucius and eventual safety, for Lucius sent you far from Uther’s court to keep you free from harm. We’ve watched over you for much of our lives, young man, and even though we fear and despise what Uther has become, we never planned to use you as a weapon against him. The High King has but little time to live, as you have seen.’
The wind shook the shutters of the room and slid its way along the cracks to wind its cold fingers through Artorex’s hair.
‘I know. He smells like carrion already.’
‘You must be seen as a worthy warrior by the tribes and gain a name that reflects the skills that Targo has taught you, so that you can serve the people when the old king dies.’
‘Perhaps you might even become High King yourself, ’ Llanwith rumbled.
‘Don’t jest, Llanwith. I lack the authority to become High King.’
‘But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t use your hard-won skills to help Uther, if he resumes his war against the Saxons. If he doesn’t go to war, or if he dies, you can fight to assist his successor. Most citizens have heard the prophecy of the russet-haired warrior so, should you succeed against Uther’s champion, people will believe that a new hero has come and will ask the High King to renew the defence of our lands. How could such actions harm you? Or hurt your family?’
‘It can’t hurt my family but I’ll be risking . . .’ Artorex’s words petered away.
‘You’ve promised Uther that you will fight tomorrow. It may have been in a fit of pique but you made a vow to the High King,’ Llanwith stated. ‘He’ll want to know how highly you value your word.’
‘That’s a low blow, Llanwith!’ Artorex turned to face the Ordovice king. ‘I’ve been manoeuvred into some kind of contest for reasons that aren’t very sound.’
‘Uther obviously has no liking for you,’ Luka said. ‘But a smart man would have been meek and compliant, regardless of how rude his sovereign was.’
‘So now it’s my fault that I’ve been coerced into armed combat. Please, Luka, I’ll need a better reason than that to face Uther’s man.’
‘Uther’s court is Celtic in its nature; but you’ve been raised with one foot on the Roman way and the other in tribal
cultures,’ Myrddion continued, his dark eyes full of fervour. ‘But we now have need of the old Roman virtues.’
Luka took up the argument. ‘We Celts are too passionate. Left to ourselves, we’d squabble and fight with each other, just as we did for untold generations before the Romans came. How else could the Romans have defeated us? Their strategy of divide and conquer worked perfectly.’
‘The great Caesar picked us off, one by one,’ Llanwith cut in roughly, in his usual curt fashion. ‘The Saxons will do the same to the west if we don’t have a strong hand to unite and guide us. But you may leave if such is your wish, Artorex. After all, like all Celts, you resent being told what to do. I, for one, won’t stop you.’
‘Very well,’ Artorex growled in irritation. ‘I won’t leave. But Uther will order me to be killed tomorrow, in combat and before the people, if he truly wants me dead.’
‘Are you strong, boy?’ Luka asked grimly.
‘Aye, lord. Strong enough,’ Artorex replied.
‘But are you fast, boy?’ Llanwith continued.
‘Aye, lord. Fast enough.’
‘And do you know how to cheat, lad?’ Targo added, his grin wide and mischievous.
‘Yes, I know how to cheat, and to think, and to fight on ground of my own choosing, using either hand,’ Artorex replied with an ironic grin.
‘Then you won’t die tomorrow,’ Myrddion responded. ‘You’ll survive.’
Artorex smiled sardonically and began to eat a light meal under the watchful eyes of his elders. He drank fresh water instead of mead or ale and took care not to overfill his stomach, for he would need his body to be strong and faultless on the coming day. When he finished, the four men who had been his guardians for most of his life rose to their feet and ordered him to bed.
Targo was the only man to offer practical advice.
