by M. K. Hume
The logical part of Artorex’s brain had known for weeks that he must seek out the relics in person. For even as one hand flinched from the symbols of power, the other itched to hold them closely to his breast.
I am my father’s son, he thought sadly, while an inner voice whispered in his ear that power was the ultimate means of doing good.
Those words are lies. Gallia would have known that this argument belongs to the Dark Ones, and that power, taken and desired for good reasons, can eventually twist the soul.
But what choice do you have? his other self answered quickly.
None! he replied silently for, above all things, Artorex had trained himself to be a realist. Only Gallia had seen the passion and the poetry within him - but that idyll was long dead.
‘Very well. I’m ready to claim these trappings of rule and will accept your demands,’ Artorex finally agreed aloud. ‘But first I intend to organize a captain to take my place during my absence. The Saxons are beginning to stir now that spring has arrived.’ He sighed deeply and ran his hands through his tousled hair.
‘No. That’s not wise, Artorex,’ Myrddion argued. ‘You’ll give an advantage to your enemies if you bring anyone outside this circle into your confidence.’ Myrddion was uncharacteristically abrupt but Artorex was ready to defy the older man’s strength of will. The air within the stuffy room crackled with the first clash of conflicting purposes.
‘I’d be prepared to act as your captain during your absence,’ Llanwith volunteered. ‘I hate to miss the fun, but Luka generally gets the shite work, so it’s my turn to remain and face the music. Be assured that I’ll do my best to ensure that Venonae remains safe during your absence.’
Both Myrddion and Artorex sighed inwardly, for this offer allowed them to step across a mental chasm that had been opening at their feet.
‘That is generous of you,’ Luka quipped. ‘I’m usually left out - just because I’ve gained a little weight.’
As Luka was still reed-thin, except for a small paunch around the waist, this sally was an old joke. Myrddion didn’t bother to smile.
‘We waste time, Artorex, for we should leave within the hour. And we should attempt to make our journey inconspicuous, if that is possible.’
‘He’s bossy tonight, isn’t he?’ Artorex asked of no one in particular.
‘Gruffydd, my loyal servant, I’m afraid that I must also ask you to join us on this journey,’ Myrddion added. ‘I know that you’ve been in the saddle for near to two weeks now, but someone may trip you up if you remain here, and you could inadvertently reveal our destination.’
‘Lord . . .’ Gruffydd’s voice trailed off. He was thoroughly offended at the suggestion.
‘Or they could put you, or your family, to the torture. Few men can survive physical agony silently. You know that.’
Gruffydd felt ill at the thought of Morgan questioning him. Those eyes! The woman had watched, uncaring, as a young girl had been crucified at Uther’s window. What would she care for him if he fell under her power?
‘Aye, you’re right, my lord.’
Myrddion gazed around the assembled group. ‘Then we depart in one hour. We’d best leave this room separately and meet outside the gates.’
And so Artorex, in company with Myrddion, Gruffydd and Luka, was forced to sneak silently out of his own stronghold.
A sleepy stable boy saw Myrddion and a cloaked man leave late that night, and the next morning, the child noticed that Coal was gone. Inevitably, the whole garrison soon knew that Artorex was wandering with Myrddion while Llanwith had assumed command of the garrison.
Morgan ground her teeth in rage, but there was still hope. She knew that Gawayne was vigilant, and even Artorex couldn’t hide forever.
Myrddion drove his already exhausted companions with the urgency of a man who knows that wolves are hot on his trail.
As they were.
Gawayne, master of the High King’s city of Venta Belgarum and the eldest son of King Lot, was sent word of Artorex’s departure by a horseman who near killed his beast in his frantic haste to deliver his message. Morgan left nothing to chance.
Caught up in a family curse that he had never exactly understood, Gawayne reacted like a well-trained hound. His warriors were soon searching for Artorex and his three attendants.
Unlike Artorex and Myrddion, Gawayne paid scant attention to the health and welfare of the horses used by his warriors. He appreciated the urgency of his mission and spurred his troop on to greater efforts.
Gawayne guessed that Coal would be the weakness in Artorex’s efforts to avoid detection. The stallion was a showy animal and left a clear trail of villager attention, so Gawayne simply followed the horse’s spoor through villages along a route that eventually pointed directly to the Isle of Apples and Glastonbury.
Artorex’s party arrived at the monastery a mere hour ahead of Gawayne.
‘Hail, Artorex!’ Lucius greeted the Dux Bellorum and his companions with his usual courtesy and calm countenance. ‘You have grown tall - you resemble your father.’
The Dux Bellorum repressed a shudder of disgust at the comparison. ‘Spare me such a fate, good Lucius. Were it not for the peril to the west, I would never seek any object that came from Uther’s tainted legacy.’
Lucius pressed the young man on the shoulder with his gnarled old hands.
‘Your face and your hair are his, Artorex, as is your stature. But your soul is your own, to mould as you choose. The sword you seek is only a weapon and you have the power to shape it, and to use it, as you choose. A crown? What is a crown but precious metal and gems? Who remembers that the evil Vortigern wore it in days gone by, and that he welcomed the first Saxons who arrived on our shores as his friends? You may follow your own destiny but you must display the courage and the strength to mould it as your heart dictates.’
‘Are you now prepared to help us, Lucius?’ Myrddion demanded. ‘For other claimants pursue our little band.’
‘I will tell Artorex what I will tell all other claimants. God, and God alone, will determine who is to become the High King of the Britons. However, I am pleased to say that you are the first to seek the relics.’
Lucius smiled kindly and proceeded to describe the hiding places of sword and crown in rather bad verse.
I am sheathed in stone, but my blade is ever stout.
No hand but a rightful king’s will draw me out.
Air and darkness are my hidden shroud.
Look for me where the spires touch the dreaming cloud.
‘There. I have now revealed the resting place of the sword to you.’ Lucius seemed pleased at his obscure doggerel.
‘My thanks, Lucius,’ Myrddion responded with thinly veiled sarcasm. ‘Could you please repeat the rhyme? Your skills as a priest far surpass those you have just displayed as a poet.’
Lucius shrugged amicably. Smiling, he repeated the rhyme once more, while Myrddion committed it to his formidable memory.
‘And the crown?’ Luka asked.
Uther’s crown is what it seems.
It does not hide its golden gleams.
Seek where Uther made it so,
For its hiding place a king will know.
‘Ugh!’ Luka growled. ‘That rhyme is even worse than the first. It says nothing! How can we find something that has been so successfully hidden for so long when the clues you give are laughable?’
‘Do you say that I am a cheat?’ Lucius eyed Luka directly, his Roman gaze stern and unamused. The sudden chill in the old man’s voice, coupled with his authoritative air, ensured that Luka’s eyes were the first to fall.
‘No, I don’t think that you cheat, my lord,’ Luka muttered softly. ‘But you could give us just a hint of a chance.’
‘And then I would need to reward those warriors who are galloping towards us, even as we speak, with the same clues.’ Lucius pointed towards a flicker of light reflecting from shields and body armour as the approaching warriors moved out of the eastern woods int
o the sunlight.
‘We’d best be at it then, Myrddion,’ Artorex decided. ‘At least Lot’s boy is a cloth wit - and we should be grateful that he’s the one who leads our pursuers.’
Myrddion found a stray piece of raw chalk in his tunic pocket and scrawled the doggerel on the wall of a rough wooden stable.
All four men stood back and stared fixedly at the words, as if they could be forced to give up their secrets by determination alone.
‘The sword is sheathed in stone,’ Myrddion murmured. ‘And the use of the word spires suggests that it could be in the chapel.’
He turned to Luka.
‘You’d best check the church tower - and do it before Gawayne is close enough to see what you’re doing,’ he ordered.
‘Don’t forget that the sword has no hilt or guard,’ Gruffydd reminded Myrddion. ‘So we’re looking for a small piece of metal tang.’
Luka trotted off as Myrddion nodded his thanks to Gruffydd.
‘As for the crown, I cannot make head nor tail of the priest’s meaning,’ Myrddion muttered, pacing nervously as he considered the problem.
‘It’s hidden where it can’t be seen, yet it’s in plain view. Lucius hasn’t suggested that it might be buried so that rules out a hiding place inside the walls,’ Gruffydd offered, thumping the sod walls with his fist.
‘And the floors must also be excluded. That’ll save us a good deal of search time,’ Artorex exclaimed. ‘The key line is where Uther made it so. What did Uther do to affect the crown? As far as I’m concerned, he made the crown a symbol of murder. He stained it with blood.’
‘Of course! The Bleeding Pool of Glastonbury,’ Myrddion muttered. Artorex looked at him, the excitement of the hunt obvious in the eyes of his old friend.
‘The Bleeding Pool?’ Artorex asked, and both men ran to find it. Gruffydd brought up the rear.
Neither Artorex nor Myrddion knew exactly where they were going, but the ever-practical Gruffydd simply asked one of the priests for directions.
Behind them, Lucius was already bidding a courteous welcome to Gawayne and his exhausted escort.
The Bleeding Pool was a natural underground reservoir, a result of the marshes and limestone formations that surrounded this cup of earth, crossed and recrossed as it was by ditches and streams in the mysterious ways of nature. Once Myrddion, Artorex and Gruffydd had negotiated the set of roughly-cut steps leading down into a series of tunnels, they were plunged into darkness.
In the entrance, Gruffydd discovered a torch that was already soaked in pitch waiting on one wall. He immediately struck fire from his flint box and the cavern erupted into a ruddy sea of light.
The pool was small and still, except where the stalactites hanging from the roof above dripped gore-hued droplets into the waters below. Ripples shivered the surface, disguising the depth.
The Bleeding Pool was well named, for the waters gleamed with a viscous hue that was reminiscent of old, thick blood.
Artorex was essentially a man of action. Once committed to a task, he set his sights firmly on his goal.
Fearlessly, he waded out into the shallows.
Oddly, he initially expected that the water would have the consistency and warmth of blood. But it was icy cold and, when he cupped it in his hands, he found it was clear and clean.
Artorex was fascinated by this optical illusion for, in the light of the flaming torch, he could swear that he was bathing in gore.
‘Take your time, Artorex,’ Myrddion advised. ‘You must start at the edge and feel for the crown with your hands and feet as you go.’
‘Shouldn’t we help him?’ Gruffydd asked his master.
‘Artorex must find Uther’s relics for himself. That is the task that has been set by Lucius, and we must abide by it. In that way he will never need to speak false to any warrior, villager or noble. You are our witness, for these are great events that transpire around us.’
Gruffydd paled.
Meanwhile, Artorex was patiently sifting his way through the impenetrable waters. The natural amphitheatre was silent, except for the murmur of water from the roof. The cold was beginning to numb his fingers when Artorex suddenly felt an underwater obstruction with one foot.
Despite his natural loathing for the waters in which he now waded, Artorex was excited by the boyish hunt for hidden treasure. He negotiated his way blindly over the smooth stones until his fingers eventually found a hard object wrapped in coarse fabric.
Exultantly, he heaved its unexpected weight to the surface.
As he waded out of the pool, Artorex ripped the sodden, stained homespun wool away from the concealed circlet. For a moment, the massive band of red gold seemed a part of the Bleeding Pool itself, especially as huge garnets were set at regular intervals around the rim of the embossed gold. The stones winked at him like the little red eyes of a dragonlet.
‘Guard this trinket for me, Myrddion, for our task is but half finished.’
Myrddion slung the heavy crown over one arm at the elbow, covered it with his cloak and gave his other hand to Artorex, helping him out of the chill waters.
‘I can hear raised voices,’ Myrddion announced cheerfully. ‘One of them belongs to Luka, our argumentative friend. Perhaps we should rescue him from Gawayne’s temper, which is none too stable at best.’
Neither Artorex, nor even the sharp-eared Gruffydd had heard a sound.
By the time they climbed back to the surface and reached the light, Luka was visible in the distance as he attempted to bar Gawayne’s entrance into the small stone chapel. The younger man was already flushed with anger and, remembering Gawayne’s maddened rages, Artorex roared out to Luka to allow the troop from Venta Belgarum to pass unhindered.
Luka smiled at Gawayne with deceptive sweetness, stepped aside and whispered softly, ‘Later, my young princeling. We - you and I - will speak again when this business is finished.’
Then he joined his friends.
‘What of the church spire?’ Artorex asked quickly.
‘If Lucius hid it in the church, it’s too well concealed for my eyes. Besides, there’s no spire, and I’ve got an ache in my neck from staring at all the ceilings. Most are made of wood, anyway.’ Luka was a little out of breath. ‘I think I’m growing old.’
‘Then hold what breath you can, and don’t babble,’ Myrddion replied drily. ‘The only other stone building is on the tor.’
‘Oh, shite! And it’s uphill all the way.’
Artorex and his companions had a head start on Gawayne, who was somewhere within the chapel, but the tor was distant and its keep was at the very top of the conical hill.
‘Do we ride?’ Gruffydd asked pragmatically. ‘Or do we run?’
‘We run,’ Artorex ordered. ‘By the time we return for the horses, Gawayne will have discovered that the sword must be on the tor. He may beat us to the keep anyway.’
Artorex’s assessment was correct. The four men had only climbed half the distance to the summit of the tor when a commotion broke out behind them. Gruffydd snatched a quick glance to their rear as his companions toiled onwards. He noted that Gawayne and three of his warriors had jostled their way out of the stone chapel and were now mounting their horses. With the best will in the world, the companions couldn’t outrun Gawayne in the race to reach the tower.
Artorex and Myrddion, breathing heavily from their exertions, were struggling up the last few yards of the hill when Gawayne swept past them with a whoop of boyish glee.
It’s all a game to him, Myrddion thought as his booted foot struggled to find purchase on the steep grassy slope. ‘So we shall be beaten - right at the end.’
Gawayne dismounted from his horse and entered the tower at a run, while his warriors drew their swords and blocked the narrow entrance.
Their orders had been given, and their faces were set and grim.
Breathing heavily, Artorex reached the summit with Myrddion only a few steps behind.
The tower was a simple finger of cyclopean ston
es, set without mortar, in the very centre of a perfectly conical hill. Looking down the smooth slopes, Myrddion doubted that nature had cast up the regular shape of the embankments.
The maiden, he thought irrelevantly. We stand on her breast and the tower is her nipple.
A church may have stood below the tor, with all the trappings of Christianity that surrounded it, but something older waited here - and Myrddion embraced its patient silence.
The game was now in the lap of the gods, but Artorex did not intend to appear foolish in front of mere cavalry soldiers. He stood before the entrance, fighting to regain his breath, until his companions finally joined him.
‘Step aside!’ Artorex ordered the three warriors as he stood before them. ‘I am the son of Uther Pendragon, and I am the Dux Bellorum. As your supreme commander, I give you a direct order on pain of death if you don’t obey me. Your naked blades insult the sanctity of this holy place.’
‘You’re too late, Lord Artorex. Our master will have the sword by now,’ one burly Celt gloated.
‘Early or late, I’ve ordered you to step aside.’ Artorex’s voice was calm, untroubled and implacable. His grey eyes were utterly flat.
Luka moved his sword in its sheath with an audible hiss of metal, for he knew that Artorex’s features had set into a deadly warning of impending force.
Gawayne’s bodyguard shifted nervously.
Then, as if his path was unobstructed, Artorex strode directly towards the low entrance to the keep of the tor.
As one, the warriors stood aside.
‘You! Gruffydd! You are my witness. Come!’
Why me? Gruffydd thought to himself, as he followed Artorex into the half-light of the tall stone finger of the keep.
Then he looked upwards.
‘Ye gods! Those stairs! I’ll never make it up there!’
But Artorex was bounding up the makeshift wooden steps with a boy’s enthusiasm. Gruffydd had no choice but to follow his lord, although his lungs were on fire and his calf muscles were already jelly within his skin.
Up and up they rose, higher and higher, and Gruffydd feared to look down; no rail would protect him from a plunge to the stone floor that lay in wait, far below, if he should fall.
