by M. K. Hume
The warriors nodded, for all men knew that Myrddion Merlinus was the son of a demon who mated with a virginal Cymru princess.
Now that Myrddion needed their compliance, he was playing ruthlessly upon their prejudices.
‘Instead I will recount to you the tale of how Vortigern’s tower at Dinas Emrys tumbled down again and again while it was being constructed, and how his sorcerers convinced the king that only the blood of a devil’s child could cement the foundation stones together.’ Myrddion paused for effect.
Although they might have argued that Myrddion’s story had no bearing on the current problem, his audience listened, gape-mouthed. The smallest child in the land knew that Myrddion had spirited himself out of Dinas Emrys through the use of sorcery.
‘I did not intend to be sacrificed in order to mortar the stones of a Saxon fortress.’
The members of his audience nodded wisely, and Artor grinned appreciatively from behind his hand. Even Targo stared at Myrddion with an odd mixture of reverence and recognition, and Artor marvelled anew at how the strongest and shrewdest of men prized the glamour of magic in a world that was bloody and prosaic.
‘Any fool could see that the foundation stones were wet with underground water that had soaked upward through the soil. I was barely eleven years of age, but I had two good eyes and I told the sorcerers and their unholy master, Vortigern, to dig into the foundations at a certain spot where they would find a pool of water.’
Myrddion’s listeners were captivated. Their eyes shone in the flare of the torches at the thought of a boy issuing orders to a High King, especially a lord who was so lost to reason that he had welcomed the Saxons into the lands of the Celts. They remembered that the first Saxons to settle in Dyfed had come at Vortigern’s invitation.
‘Vortigern accepted your advice, I take it,’ Targo stated flatly. ‘Or else you’d not be here.’
‘Aye, Targo. They dug through the foundations and they found the pool, exactly as I had predicted.’
Myrddion’s eyes clouded and Artor could swear that those same eyes rolled back into his head. The warriors’ breathing hissed between their teeth, and the air seemed colder and thicker.
‘Within the pool, two dragons coiled and struggled. I could see them quite clearly, although other, wiser men present swore that they could not. One dragon was as white as hoar frost and its breath was gelid with cold. Its claws were curved blades of ice and its tail lashed the pool into a storm of sleet and snow.’
The audience leaned forward, mesmerized by Myrddion’s fair and compelling voice.
‘The other dragon was red, and the plates of mail that covered its body were hot and steaming. Fire poured from its nostrils, and its claws made the pond water boil at a single touch.’
He paused, dramatically.
‘The dragons leapt at each other and fire met ice. The struggle was terrible as the breath of the white dragon turned the flames of the red dragon to steam. But where the red dragon clutched with its great claws, and where its plated tail wrapped round the body of its enemy, the white dragon shrank and melted. Terrible was the struggle, but at last the red dragon was triumphant and only whitened, glacial bones lay at the bottom of the pond to testify that the ice dragon had ever existed. Then the red dragon of the Celts spread its wings over the land, rose and hovered on the breast of the wind. The white dragon of the Saxons was defeated, and Vortigern was doomed to lose his crown and die.’
The warriors sighed, but one princeling wasn’t satisfied. He broke the rapt silence.
‘Did Vortigern see this battle? Did the sorcerers not try to aid the white dragon?’
‘They couldn’t see the battle, they only witnessed the roiling and bubbling of the water. I fell into a faint, and many of those who were there swore that I prophesied - but I can’t speak for the accuracy of their recollections. One thing is certain. I’ve carried the weight of this prophecy for forty years, and I know it is true. The red dragon of the tribes will destroy the white dragon of the Saxons, and we’ll strike Glamdring Ironfist like fire on ice. I cannot promise that we will always defeat the dragon of the north, but we will be triumphant while the Red Dragon of Artor rides high. We will strive until we turn this troubled land into a haven of peace. This I do swear, as long as Celtic hearts remain faithful and as long as the High King dares to stand against murder and brutality. We will prevail and we will defeat the western Saxons of Dyfed, King Vortigern’s poisoned legacy to the Celtic people.’
All eyes swivelled towards Artor, who stood stiffly, his hands on the hilt of his sword and his head bowed as if in prayer. Slowly, so slowly, he raised his eyes, and even those doughty warriors, his allies, quailed before his angry, flaming face. His eyes were not veiled as was his usual custom, and the nobles swore later that they saw fire burning deep in their grey depths, as if the dragons of ice and flame still struggled within them.
As, perhaps, they did.
‘This High King will not brook the murder of his ambassadors under a flag of truce. Artor will not be content until every Saxon west of the great mountain chain is dead, or else herded back into the sea whence they came. Choose, men of the west, for now is the time for the testing of our hearts and of our courage. Until now, the Saxons have come to us, battering at our defences and seeking our weaknesses, but we have always managed to drive them back.’
Loud were the cries of assent in the hall.
‘Now we must risk all that we hold dear to our hearts. We must do battle with a man who is thane of a country so barren and so cruel that his forces have withstood all the efforts of Llanwith pen Bryn, and Llanwith’s father before him.’
The room became silent, and Artor could feel doubt in many of the downcast eyes and the covert glances that slid back and forth between the assembled kings.
‘Ulf, what did Gaheris say to Glamdring Ironfist when he faced certain death?’
Ulf faced Artor squarely. ‘He told him that the Saxons never learn - and they never change. Then Ironfist struck off his head.’
Artor turned again to his audience. ‘Is this not true? Did the noble young prince perceive the Saxon weaknesses clearly? Aye! They do not learn, and they do not change their barbaric practices. They destroy Roman-built garrisons to build their own wooden palisades. They smash stone towers into rubble. They kill horses and use them only for food. And they don’t change!’
Each word was spoken with measured, bell-clear emphasis, so that each man in the great hall was forced to consider the weight of the message delivered by Gaheris.
Eventually, murmurs of assent became more audible. The spoken words weren’t loud in Artor’s keen ears, but a level of agreement was growing inexorably within the assembly.
Caius, Artor’s foster-brother and steward of Artor’s household on Cadbury Tor, rose smoothly as the council wavered uneasily in the face of the High King’s determination. A snap of his slender fingers summoned servants who refilled wine cups and removed used platters. His clever, black eyes gauged his brother’s determination.
We go to war! Good! Caius thought excitedly, although no trace of his eager anticipation reached his controlled face. Caius was tired of peace and weary of counting hams, the weapons in Artor’s armoury or overseeing the collection of the High King’s taxes. Men such as Caius are only ever comfortable and at peace in the midst of war, when the violence they crave is readily on offer.
‘All races are born with the same measure of courage,’ Artor insisted. ‘And courage is a resource that can be used or wasted. Never forget that the Saxons are just as brave as we are.’
The audience stirred nervously.
‘Many of the western Saxons have been born in these isles, as were our forefathers. Ironfist is as much a Briton as my foster-brother, Caius, who stands here with you. And Caius, for all his Roman bloodline, is still a proud and noble Briton.’
Snickers of amusement ran through the gathering. For, while Caius enjoyed considerable respect as Artor’s steward, his pride and arrogance w
on him few friends, and most of the kings present were aware that the relationship between Artor and Caius was strained.
Respect among fighting men is a strange and hard-won reward. Caius had proved his courage again and again, just as he had proved his prowess as a fighting man and as a leader. But few men really liked him, for there was something about Caius that was mildly repulsive. His mouth was a little too full and too red; his eyes glittered a little too brightly, and his manner was just a fraction too obsequious to be pleasing. Prince Gawayne had been heard to say that men such as Caius were either at your knees or at your throat, and most of Artor’s captains would have agreed with this view if pressed for an opinion.
Two hot coins of colour appeared on Caius’s cheekbones. He was well aware how his peers thought of him. He realized that he wasn’t trusted, even though he had served the High King with conspicuous gallantry for twelve years.
Caius willed the colour to fade from his face. He hated these smug Celtic lordlings with their crude and simplistic view of the world.
As if he could read his foster-brother’s mind, Artor smiled encouragingly.
‘No, Ironfist and his warriors are no different from our Celtic ancestors,’ he continued. ‘They are no different, except for their refusal to learn from their mistakes. As their fathers lived and built, so do the Saxons of today. As their grandfathers fought and died, so do the Saxons of today. But, in time, the Saxons will be forced to accept new ideas from other races, just as we Celts were forced to accept changes in our outlooks and in our lives. We took Roman knowledge, and we used it to our advantage. And now we maintain their roads and we recognize the strength of their fortresses. And we’ve learned to use the horse to maintain our military might. At this moment - this rare, fleeting moment - we still have an edge over our enemies. May the gods help us if we cast our advantage aside out of timidity and ineptitude.’
Targo flushed with pride, for Artor had used the voice of authority to force his message upon the great ones. All the wiser heads in council now nodded in agreement.
‘When Ironfist falls, the Saxons in the east will be forced to halt their advance. They will settle in the east, and they will bury their roots in our soil. They will marry Celtic women and their lives will change until the day eventually comes when all the races who inhabit these lands may be prepared to call themselves brothers. But that day has not yet come. Nor will it happen in our time.’ Artor gazed into the attentive faces of his nobles. ‘Do we let Glamdring’s aggression remain unchallenged? Do we hide in our fortresses until Ironfist and King Lot surge out of the wilderness to lay waste to our fields and rape our women? Are we in our dotage that we must accept their uncouth insults?’
‘No! No! No!’ roared the war council.
You fools! Caius thought contemptuously. Artor can manipulate you at will.
‘Even if all of you should vote for peace, it is my intention to ride against Ironfist, even if I must go alone. Make your choices, and make them quickly, for I leave within the week, even though death may take me.’
Then Artor strode from the hall, and the assembled nobles and warriors bowed before him. The High King’s eyes veered neither to right nor left, but were focused on the north.
And the eyes of the shark were pitiless.
Caius wiped his suddenly sweaty hands dry on the sides of his tunic before striding out boldly behind his foster-brother. His red lips were curved into a gentle smile of satisfaction.
Slowly, stalwart men followed, both nobles and vassals, and the word raced through Cadbury and the villages like Greek fire.
‘We go to war.’
CHAPTER II
THE LOST CHILD
One day, the old Roman road would be called Fosse Way, a pedestrian and comforting name for something made for bloodletting. Built to facilitate the movement of men at war, the road stretched out ahead of Artor’s cavalry, straight and wide, over the gorse-covered slopes leading towards Aquae Sulis. Winter still clutched at the land, although the snow had gone, promising that the spring thaw was coming and the winds would soon blow warmer. A few shivering and naked aspens raised skeletal branches over the bare earth, while domestic animals turned their backs to the wind and grazed in places where the grasses of last autumn waved brown, withered fronds on the lee side of slow-rolling hills.
In disciplined ranks, the cavalry had ridden out of Cadbury Tor towards the north, and then camped at the highest point of the Roman road where the signal fires were lit. As the warriors hobbled their horses and erected simple hide tents, the lights of small fires were visible over the land like fireflies clustered around a larger, glowing blaze. The silvery sound of tinkling bells sounded through the twilight as the horses wandered to find what sweet grass might be found under the trees. Throughout the night, drawn by the signal fire, riders joined the main force in small groups.
Two days later, when Artor led his army out of bivouac astride the ancient Coal, his favourite horse, he did so with grim deliberation. Except for the dragon symbol on his shield and breastplate, he dressed carefully in the deepest sable. Peasants stared hard at the king and his similarly clad warriors as the army passed, and searched each face for a funereal sadness. They sought in vain. Rather than mourning, the army’s sombre clothing was the dress of inevitable death, so that under their dyed cowls and helmets, the warrior’s faces appeared to be leprous and skeletal in their whiteness. Even the afternoon sun was bone pale, as if it sensed that only the blood of many men would renew its vitality before the warmer months were done.
The baggage train was small for a force of several hundred men, excluding the horse handlers who moved a herd of spare mounts in the wake of the dark-robed cavalry. Later, a growing contingent of foot soldiers and archers from Ratae and Venonae swelled the force that pushed ever northwards, without making any attempt to disguise their movements.
‘I want Ironfist to be warned that I am coming for him,’ Artor told his captains. ‘And if human blood runs through his veins, he will begin to sweat under all his bravado. We will let him wait, with his nerves stretched taut, until we make camp on his soil. He made our emissaries suffer, so we will do the same to him. Imagination plays tricks on the bravest man, and when I am on his soil, Ironfist will know that I intend to exact my revenge. When we enter the Saxon lands, we will paint our faces in the old Pictish ways. Each man will wear the mark of a skull under his visor when we eventually meet up with Ironfist and his warriors. I want him to understand, irrevocably, that he is facing an army of the dead.’
Some of Artor’s captains were nonplussed by his plan that they should wear blue woad and white clay on their faces. ‘Does Artor admit to the possibility of failure before we strike even a single blow?’ some of the warriors whispered over their flickering campfires.
But Myrddion walked from fireside to fireside, explaining that their Saxon opponents were deeply superstitious men. They should suffer before they faced just retribution for their crimes.
‘Your king wants our warriors to mimic the wights of those men that Ironfist murdered,’ he said. ‘And he hopes that the Saxons will believe that those defenceless victims have returned and are multiplied a hundredfold. It is better that Ironfist is afraid, not us, for we are the death-bringers, and the harvesters of fear.’
Whenever he spoke, Myrddion gave heart to the most superstitious of men, so that the veterans came to think of the disguise as a great joke and a fitting tribute to the dead ambassadors.
When the growing army reached the outskirts of old Aquae Sulis, the population met them with exuberant joy. Broad, open fields on the banks of the river offered water and feed for the mounts and the baggage animals. Artor and his captains rode onward, through ever-broadening streets, until they reached the original Roman walls that encircled the administrative heart of the city. There, the chief magistrate and the city councillors awaited them.
The High King was greeted with due pomp and ceremony, for neither Artor nor the city dignitaries would countenance any
lack in common courtesy. In fact, the chief magistrate, who had been woken from an afternoon nap by news of the king’s arrival, appreciated the honour that Artor offered by paying his respects to the city fathers before he made camp. Such small details, Artor knew, were crucial elements that firmly cemented his alliances with his subjects.
‘I welcome you, my lord,’ the magistrate, Drusus, intoned solemnly. ‘The city is yours to do with as you choose.’ His obeisance was low, but not subservient.
‘As always, it is a pleasure to rest at Aquae Sulis, for it reminds me of the joys of my youth,’ Artor responded as he warmly embraced the Romano-Celt. ‘My brother, Caius, will beg your assistance in the provisioning of my combined forces.’
‘Of course, Your Majesty.’ Drusus smiled, knowing that Artor’s war chests were always deep and that the king would never quibble over details of payment. ‘I will order our scribes to hold themselves ready to receive instructions from Lord Caius.’
‘My commissary will be hard at work long before dark,’ Caius said courteously with a low bow. ‘My thanks to the citizens of Aquae Sulis for the assistance that is always given to Lord Artor’s servants so willingly.’
The magistrate flushed at Caius’s fair words and Artor smiled with a certain element of sardonic humour that Caius was finally learning the value of flattery. His foster-brother’s smiles were far more effective than his tantrums, and he was a superb steward.
After all the courtesies had been completed, Artor and his captains rode back through the darkening, cobbled streets to rejoin their troops. Women bowed low over their baskets, while small children and young boys ran parallel with the horsemen, whooping and shouting excitedly like savages, but the welcome wasn’t as warm as in the Celtic towns. The king understood. The people of Aquae Sulis were Roman in their thinking and, although Artor had been raised in the ancient traditions, his amber hair and his great height marked him forever as a sympathetic stranger. And so he cherished the bowed heads of the citizens, for such respect held more worth for him than the wild homage of the more volatile tribes. Artor knew that Roman Britain would never fail him.
