King Arthur: Warrior of the West: Book Two

by M. K. Hume

  ‘Ave, Cessus!’ Targo murmured, in approval of the warrior’s prudence in preparing for all eventualities.

  ‘And Lord Gaheris continued to goad Ironfist. He said repeatedly that the Saxons would not win because they wouldn’t change their ways. He ridiculed Ironfist, and it was almost as if he welcomed death as a consequence of his actions. He swore that you would take vengeance, and predicted Ironfist’s death.’

  ‘Thank you, good Ulf. ’ Artor smiled. ‘You may return to your comrades now.’

  Still puzzled, and visibly upset, Ulf left the tent.

  ‘Ironfist cannot control his temper,’ Artor stated quietly, as Ulf was swallowed by the night and Gruffydd entered the tent. ‘It’s likely that he can be goaded into taking precipitate action.’

  Targo nodded, amused, as he watched the wheels turning within Artor’s mind. ‘Now, that would be an edge . . . if we could play on it. We could manoeuvre him into a foolish mistake before he realizes that we have tricked him.’ Targo snickered wickedly.

  ‘Ironfist reaches very high when he claims the crown of Vortigern who was, when all is said and done, a Celt,’ Myrddion added. ‘Ironfist’s pride will work against him if we exert pressure on him. Perhaps we can lure him out of his fortress and cut his forces up piecemeal.’

  Gruffydd stirred. He grinned at his king with the familiarity of a man who knows his master’s mind, for Gruffydd had stood at the king’s right hand for twelve years, bearing the sword of kingship.

  ‘You need my services in Ironfist’s fortress, my lord,’ he said. ‘And I was just getting comfortable, too. Nothing beats a good stew cooked by a warm wife.’ He spoke seriously, although his brown eyes danced with humour.

  ‘Tell me all that you’ve learned of the western Saxons during your travels,’ Artor said without the usual courtesies.

  Gruffydd’s eyes immediately shadowed. ‘The Saxons of the east are an interesting people, as are the Jutlanders. I respect their tenacity as they carve out a life far from their own frozen homelands. But don’t ask me to speak well of the bastard Saxons of the southern mountains. They butchered my parents, and they made me a slave. I will bear their brand on my chest for the rest of my days.’ Gruffydd bared one freckled and heavily muscled shoulder and there, upon his right breast, was the outline of a spearhead that had burned deeply into the skin. The wounded flesh was white and puckered at the edges.

  Myrddion winced visibly. The men in the tent were silent. Gruffydd drew a single, rather ragged breath, and answered as his king commanded.

  ‘The western Saxons have held parts of Cymru for a long, long time, certainly longer than I have lived. Vortigern welcomed them to these shores, and they have proved to be as stubborn as grass ticks, and near as impossible to dislodge.’

  ‘Are they true Saxons, like Katigern Oakheart?’ Luka asked. ‘Now there was a man to respect.’

  ‘No!’ Gruffydd snorted his scorn. ‘Even the bloodlines of Hengist’s brood were purer than the breeding of these barbarians. These Saxons have taken Celt women and interbred for several generations. In all that time, they have laid waste to everything that the tribes praised as good, burning the Sacred Groves to cook their meat, destroying the Roman forts that offered protection. They steal what they cannot grow, and kill what they cannot use.’

  ‘Charming.’ Myrddion expressed his contempt with a slight curl of his well-shaped lips.

  ‘Yet the very intermarriages that should have tied them to the land and made us stepbrothers elevated their pride in their ancestry to such arrogant proportions that they reject every concept that is not Saxon in origin. They are backward and ignorant, my lord. Prince Gaheris was accurate when he said that they will never learn.’

  With a wry grimace, Gruffydd stroked his slave cicatrice through his woollen tunic. With the cadences of the natural storyteller in his voice, nuances that made even horrors into songs, Gruffydd continued to describe the western Saxons.

  ‘I was treated far worse than any dog. On many evenings, as a joke, I would be forced to fight the dogs for scraps of food from my master’s table, and I was barely nine years old. I learned how to hate as I cowered in the filthy straw at their feet, and at their whipping blocks. I have the scars, my lords, to remind me that life is precious and should be lived with joy.’

  Gruffydd glanced at Artor, and those strange shark-like eyes bored into him. Artor wasn’t easily seduced by soporific imagery and phrases. He was searching for an edge.

  ‘They sing the ancient songs in their draughty halls, with only a hole in the roof to release the smoke, so grease covers every surface. All the nobility has been bred out of them, but not the hunger for blood, women and glory. Their ravenous desire for personal honour drives them to take stupid risks, while they consider all other peoples in the land barely human.

  ‘But only a fool would underestimate the western Saxons. Despite their appetite for violence and their casual wallowing in filth, they are consummate warriors. They hold to the old ways, the old gods, and the habits of another time and another land, no matter how senseless they might appear to our eyes. They will embrace a suicidal charge against their enemy for the sake of personal glory, and in the gory business of hand-to-hand combat their skills are exceptional.’

  ‘So we will be facing eight or nine hundred warriors who fight as a rabble, and not with a single fighting mind?’ Artor asked, his eyes very sharp in his weathered face. ‘I wonder, if personal honour is so important to Ironfist and his ilk, would they act rashly if they saw a chance to strike us in one single, killing blow?’

  ‘I have no knowledge of this Ironfist, Lord Artor, but the Saxons of the west simply turn on each other when they have no other enemies to fight. Any slight is paid for in blood.’ Gruffydd shrugged expressively. ‘Although they half starve in the long winters, they scorn agriculture and live for battle. After all, those warriors who were fools or inept are already long dead. Katigern Oakheart would applaud Ironfist’s fighting skills, yet deplore the primitive remnants of the past that the man represents.’

  The silence fell heavily, and only the sound of the rain tapping on taut leather broke the eerie stillness.

  ‘My thanks, Gruffydd. You may go back to your warm bed and warmer wife with my good wishes. We should enjoy this brief period of rest, for we must be gone from Venta Silurum within seven days.’

  Gruffydd bowed and disappeared into the night, whistling between his teeth.

  ‘How lovely. A race of killers that are full of piss and shite,’ Targo stated. He had a disconcerting habit of stabbing to the very heart of any problem. ‘Stupid men are just as difficult to defeat as clever ones, especially when they outnumber us and are prepared to fight to the last man. If necessary, they may even be able to starve us into failure. And Ironfist appears more intelligent, or at least better counselled, than the usual outlander.’

  Discussion and planning for the operation then moved on to matters such as arms, food for the baggage train, fodder for the horses, and the order of march to Caer Fyrddin. Artor was confident that Caius could winkle a snail out of its shell, so provisioning the army was safe in his capable hands. Meanwhile, Myrddion’s spies were busy, watching the roads and blending into the Saxon villages. Llanwith was the supreme commander of the cavalry, second only to Artor.

  And Targo? Well, Targo was in charge of sound common sense.

  ‘To bed, Artor,’ Targo advised with a wink. ‘There’s no sense in worrying yourself all night, trying to outguess a fool. You’ll find the edge - you always do.’

  Once alone, Artor slept fitfully in his sleeping furs and, as predicted by Targo, his mind chased strategies round and round in a never-ending spiral. When he eventually dropped into the deep well of nothingness that he welcomed, he was attacked by strange visions of swords and crowns hanging in space, or spinning wildly until they became disembodied heads that smiled and spoke gibberish at him. But far worse for the shrunken inner self that was truly Artor was the shade of Gallia, striding out of the da
rkness, carrying a naked infant that stretched out its immature arms towards him. Artor’s shivering, inner self saw the dragon tattoo on the infant’s ankle and, as his gaze lifted, he recognized that the child was a boy.

  He awoke in a lather of sweat, with a pounding heart and ragged breathing.

  CHAPTER IV

  MORGAUSE

  In the heavy darkness that precedes the dawn, Artor decided that any attempt to return to sleep would be fruitless. His rest had been disturbed and his flesh felt hot and swollen within his skin. Around him, his leather tent felt like a dark carapace and he was a sweating, helpless moth, struggling to be born.

  Just before first light, he rose, dressed and prepared his horse for an inspection of the bivouac. Behind him, Venta Silurum lay quiet and lightless, except for the occasional servant about his master’s business. Sentries bowed as he passed their positions, before resuming their solitary watches. The warriors were alarmed that the High King was abroad alone, but Artor paid them no mind.

  Initially, Artor simply wished to breathe clean, empty air, free from the distractions of rule, but as he rode aimlessly, he heard gulls calling from the coast and, in his fancy, it was his name that was carried on the light, early-morning sea breeze.

  A meandering path in the green carpet of grass led the High King across the fertile strip of earth that formed the transition between mountains and sea. Cowbells tinkled as unseen cattle grazed on the higher slopes, adding to the eerie translucence of the earth and the sea in the early morning light. A beach of smooth, water-bleached pebbles and pale sand marked the very edge of the land where grey wavelets, scalloped with lacy rimes of white foam, delicately tasted the beach and then crunched the gravel in their teeth.

  Artor dismounted, and Coal wandered off to seek out sweet grass.

  Sea, sky and wheeling gulls were painted in shades of grey that were set against a strip of viridian so green that it hurt the eyes. Behind the grass slopes, the land rose gradually until it was punctuated by more grey rock, now smoky and dark. And above these uplands were the mountains, basalt grey and black, beetling, towering and spinning in Artor’s lowland eyes until his whole vision was filled with rising fortresses of grey stone.

  The sea looked cold, and Artor’s warm breath steamed in the early light, so why he should choose to strip off his clothing until he was naked was a mystery, even to him. Targo had taught the boy Artor to swim decades earlier, and now the adult enjoyed the feel of smooth pebbles under the soles of his naked feet and the scent of salt and seaweed borne to him on the light wind. His skin rose in a rash of cold, and the curls of his bright hair seemed to tighten. The cry of seabirds reminded him of the small noises that Gallia had made in the night as he explored the fields of her body. Half-erect with memory, Artor plunged into the icy sea.

  You need a wife, you fool, his inner voice told him as the water struck him a hard, frigid blow, and then his pores, his capillaries and even his hair roots were flooded with a warm rush of heat as he began to swim. For a suspended, thoughtless time, he pitted his muscles against the thrust of the sea. Then, pleasantly weary from his exertions, the High King of the Britons lay on the bosom of the sea and stared at the warming sky.

  Finally, chilled and hungry, he walked out of the waves, throwing his darkened mane of hair back from his eyes with a swift toss of his head.

  ‘Ah, lad. But you’re a dead man.’

  Targo sat negligently on a good roan stallion above him, one knee hooked casually across the neck of the beast. His white hair was a nimbus of light as Artor looked up at him, into the low morning sun. He shaded his salt-stung eyes with his hand. For one brief moment, Targo looked like a man of black slate, his eyes and the old planes of his face flinty in the prevailing light.

  ‘Targo?’

  Artor’s tunic slapped hard against his bare chest. He scarcely had time to clutch the rough woollen garment before his leather leggings were thrown at him as well.

  ‘You’d best hide your nakedness, boy. It’s not likely to impress me, but it might add a little something to Queen Morgause’s day.’

  Artor gaped wordlessly, while Targo used a long spear to lift another garment from the sand and throw it at his bemused friend and master. Targo was dourly angry.

  ‘Morgause? What are you babbling about, Targo? What would Queen Morgause be doing here? It takes a week of hard riding to reach Venta Silurum from King Lot’s kingdom.’

  ‘Shite, boy, don’t ask me! Who cares what I think? But King Lot, his wife and a sizeable troop of cavalry and spearmen are almost at your bivouac. Pinhead saw them coming and rode like the wind to warn us of their approach. He seemed to think that another small army on our heels might make us nervous.’

  ‘Pelles?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve just said so! Damnation, boy! I’ll never get used to calling that old whoreson by the name of Pelles. To me, he’s always been Pinhead, and he’ll be that forever, regardless of his finery. He’s the very last of the Scum of Anderida still alive - besides us, that is. I’d never have believed that one-eyed thief would last half as long as he’s managed to do.’

  ‘Pelles is a survivor from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. But don’t change the subject, Targo.’

  ‘Get dressed . . . master.’ Targo’s response was laden with irony and hurt.

  Wordlessly, Artor obeyed his old friend, and dressed swiftly and with economy.

  Targo’s voice was sullen and his usual dry wit was wholly absent. Phlegmatically, the king quashed the questions that leapt to his lips and continued with his dressing. He could feel the vibrations of Targo’s disapproval tremble between them, but Artor pushed his personal concerns aside. As Targo was so fond of saying, ‘First things first.’

  Sand and small pebbles crunched under his shod feet as he hurried up the green, shelving slope. He whistled, and Coal came instantly, ever vigilant and obedient to his master’s wishes. The horse skittered playfully as his master caught the reins. Before Artor leapt on to the back of his horse, he scooped up a handful of stones and thrust them into the leather pouch that always hung from his belt.

  Targo watched this performance with mounting irritation. His king was wasting time with misplaced sentiment.

  Artor leapt agilely into the saddle and engaged Targo’s mulish eyes.

  ‘Now, begin your news,’ Artor ordered.

  Targo drew an audible, exasperated breath.

  ‘Pinhead has ridden hard from Deva in the north down the old Roman road. The old reprobate turns up in camp on a half-dead horse and almost too tired to ride any further, even if he wanted to. He reports that King Lot is heading in this direction with armed horsemen at his back.’

  ‘And my sister is with him?’

  Targo grunted irritably. ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘When will they arrive?’

  Targo shrugged, and turned his craggy face away from his king. ‘Mithras knows.’ The old Roman paused for a few seconds before continuing, anger roughening his already gruff voice.

  ‘In passing, I must tell you that Odin is very cross with you. He very nearly spoke out loud and swore this morning when he awoke to find you missing from the camp. He takes his duties as the your guardian very seriously and, if you wander off again when he’s at rest, I’m certain he’ll start sleeping with only one eye closed - if he sleeps at all.’

  Artor frowned with a mixture of irritation and something akin to shame. ‘I’ll speak to Odin about my bad habits, but for now, we’ll ride back to the bivouac.’

  Targo swung his horse and urged it into a canter with such unnecessary force that the beast whinnied in protest and pain.

  ‘Targo?’ Artor shouted after the retreating back of his most loyal servant. ‘Are you angry with me on Odin’s account?’

  Targo didn’t deign to reply, but sat even more stiffly on the back of his roan. His every movement screamed disapproval.

  Artor kneed Coal in the ribs and set off in pursuit.

  ‘Spit it out, Targo! You’re an
gry about something.’

  Targo pulled his mount to a bone-jarring halt, and swung towards his master.

  ‘By all the gods of Hades, Artor! Pinhead came post-haste to warn us of an important matter, and you were nowhere to be found. You gave the watch the slip as well . . .’ Targo’s voice drifted into sullen silence.

  ‘I wanted some time to think. It’s near impossible in camp because I’m hardly ever alone.’ Artor knew his own voice was petulant, but he was feeling a surge of resentment towards the two men who loved him best. Surely he was entitled to some time free of human company.

  ‘I seem to remember another servant of a High King whose feelings were ignored. But I’ll say no more on it.’ The old soldier stared fiercely at his king for a long heartbeat. Then, abruptly, he wheeled his nervous horse and rode away at a reckless gallop.

  ‘Who? What?’ Artor shouted after his old friend. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Targo refused to turn back.

  Artor sat motionless on Coal’s back as he chewed over Targo’s words.

  He plundered his memory in a search for servants who had been abused by their master. Was it Frith? Cletus? No and no. Targo himself ? Gruffydd? Botha?

  ‘Ah, Botha!’ Artor whispered softly, remembering a tall, proud man long past his middle years who had served Uther Pendragon as the captain of the High King’s guard. Botha had loved Uther in his golden youth, and had remained true to his vows of loyalty, although his heart had been broken in the process.

  Yes, Targo had been speaking of Botha.

  Then, like a bolt of lightning from a storm cloud, Artor realized Targo’s meaning. He kneed Coal into a swift gallop, and caught Targo within moments.

  ‘I’m truly sorry, old friend.’ He spoke earnestly at Targo’s stiff back. ‘All I can say in apology is that I understand your meaning.’

  Targo slowed his horse, and then halted. His bony shoulders heaved, but he refused to turn his close-cropped head.

  ‘I’ll apologize to Odin as well, my oldest teacher,’ Artor added. ‘I acted without thought, and I regret my lack of consideration for you. All I can say in my defence is that I sometimes forget that my responsibilities lie with others as well as myself. ’