King Arthur: Warrior of the West: Book Two

by M. K. Hume

  During the following afternoon, the Celtic forces ambushed five Saxon warriors and dispatched them quickly. Artor ordered their bodies to be stripped and their rough clothing cleaned of all traces of blood.

  ‘Did you ever hear of the Trojan horse, Bedwyr?’ Artor asked at the campfire that night.

  ‘No, my lord,’ Bedwyr replied, confused as usual by the leaps that Artor’s agile mind made with such ease.

  ‘It was a trick used at a place called Troy in a battle that occurred many, many years ago,’ Llanwith told him. ‘Long before Rome was even a collection of mud huts, Troy was the greatest fortress in the known world.’

  Bedwyr looked nonplussed.

  ‘Many years ago,’ Artor explained, ‘a man called Homer wrote that the ancient Greeks once attacked the city of Troy in a war that was fought over a woman, of all things. Homer’s army carried out a siege that lasted many years and employed an enormous army of warriors, but the city proved to be impregnable, and the siege couldn’t force the Trojans to surrender. Eventually, a clever warrior in the Greek army called Odysseus built a huge wooden horse, an animal that was sacred to Poseidon, the god of Troy. They left the wooden horse outside the gates of the city.’ He smiled at his assembled warriors. ‘Then the Greeks sailed away over the horizon.’

  Lot frowned. ‘So did the Greeks simply give up?’

  ‘Not quite, Lot. Odysseus had left twenty men inside the horse.

  The Trojans dragged their gift into the city, and celebrated what they believed to be their defeat of the Greeks who had retreated in their ships. Odysseus and his men waited until the Trojans had drunk themselves into a stupor and then crept out of their hiding places. Some of the Greeks opened the gates to the city to allow their returning comrades to enter, while the rest began to slaughter the population.’ Artor made a throat-cutting action with one hand. ‘There is an old saying that still warns us to beware of Greeks bearing gifts.’

  ‘So Bedwyr and I are to be your Trojan horse,’ Gruffydd said.

  ‘In a nutshell. And three more Saxon-speaking warriors should join you, for we captured sufficient clothing to disguise five warriors.’ Artor looked at Bedwyr. ‘Obviously your red hair will have to go. If we can’t dye it, we’ll have to shave it, eyebrows included. And no beard, of course. You will also wear a long coil of rope wrapped round your waist under your clothing. The extra padding will make you look portly, which will help to disguise you. Once you negotiate the sewers and find your way to the opening in the cliff, you will lower one end of the rope down to our warriors who will be positioned below.’

  He paused, and Bedwyr nodded his understanding.

  ‘My warriors will then attach it to a rope ladder which you will pull up to the opening in the cliff. You must attach it to a secure object inside the sewer entrance. When the rope ladder is in position, it will be a simple matter for my warriors to enter Caer Fyrddin through the sewers. Glamdring will have no means of knowing we are entering under his feet.’

  ‘It’s an excellent plan,’ Llanwith said. ‘The perfect Trojan horse strategy, but do you have a rope ladder that’s long enough to use?’

  ‘I don’t climb well,’ Lot complained, patting his large paunch as he spoke.

  ‘Would you climb the ladder for the memory of Gaheris?’

  Lot nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat.

  ‘Farryll, Camwy and Lucan all speak Saxon fluently,’ Gruffydd remarked. ‘So that makes five of us.’

  Artor smiled. ‘Then it’s time for you to have a very close haircut, Bedwyr. Glamdring has never really looked closely at you, has he?’

  ‘No. To Glamdring, I was only Dog. But he will recognize the mark of the slave collar.’

  ‘Only if he sees it.’ Artor carefully considered the outward appearance of the young Cornovii. ‘I’m certain we can make you look like a different man if we disguise your clothes and your hair. And, of course, your scars.’

  ‘Of course,’ Bedwyr echoed faintly.

  He realized he was going into Caer Fyrddin regardless of his misgivings, so he acquiesced glumly. As he had said earlier, entering the fortress in disguise was far preferable to climbing a rope ladder over a yawning chasm.

  When Caer Fyrddin was within easy riding distance, Odin shaved Bedwyr’s head with a razor-sharp blade. His growing beard was removed as well, and Odin rubbed a little coal dye into Bedwyr’s russet eyebrows. Bedwyr felt distinctly odd. From somewhere, Artor had produced yards and yards of sturdy woven rope that, once wrapped round Bedwyr’s waist, gave him a very plump appearance and completely changed his body shape.

  He was a new man.

  Once the five spies had donned their Saxon dress and armour, picked up their circular shields and donned the distinctive Saxon helmets, even Bedwyr had to admit that they were unrecognizable as Celts.

  Artor smiled down at his young charge. ‘Your task is to enter the citadel and report to Glamdring that our force is two hours away from Caer Fyrddin. While you’re carrying out this errand, we will position a small number of warriors close to the cliff below the sewer outlet. Once you have lowered your ropes to them and the rope ladder is secured, the need for subterfuge will be over. Can you master your hatred of Glamdring until then?’

  ‘Aye. I can pretend to fawn at his feet if I can cut his throat at the end,’ Bedwyr replied sardonically.

  ‘Good.’

  The following morning, five disguised Celtic warriors found themselves loping up the long track that led to the fortress at Caer Fyrddin. They were seen long before they reached the walls, and when they reached the shadow of the watchtower, they were acutely aware that longbows were trained on them.

  ‘Glamdring appears to have learned a valuable lesson about the effectiveness of his bowmen,’ Bedwyr hissed.

  ‘I’ll do the talking, and you remain silent,’ Gruffydd whispered. ‘It’s possible that Glamdring might remember the sound of your voice.’

  ‘I am Cerdan Shapechanger, and this man is Modrod of Forden,’ Gruffydd called out to the Saxons on the ramparts. ‘And these three oafs are our servants. We have eluded Artor’s outriders and we bring news from Castell Collen. Let us in! Artor’s cavalry are not far behind us, and his main force is only a few hours’ ride from Caer Fyrddin.’

  In spite of the Saxon appearance of the five warriors below them, the men on the watchtower were taking no chances.

  ‘Wait. We will call for the master.’

  ‘Better and better,’ Gruffydd mumbled sarcastically in Saxon.

  While Gruffydd and his companions cooled their heels outside the fortress, Bedwyr noticed that the village huts had been hurriedly abandoned. Obviously, Glamdring had ordered every living soul into the fortress to swell the ranks of the defenders.

  Above the gates, heads stared down at him with empty eye sockets. With a wrench, Bedwyr recognized face after face, the Celtic slaves of Caer Fyrddin, beheaded and rotting on poles. He pointed upward with one dirty finger.

  Gruffydd laughed uproariously, and muttered at Bedwyr through his mirth. ‘Laugh, you idiot! Someone will be watching on the wall for our reactions.’

  Bedwyr managed a weak grin. ‘They were my fellow captives, every one of them, and they’ve been slain down to the last child.’

  ‘So laugh, Bedwyr!’ Gruffydd insisted. ‘Glamdring will answer for his sins the sooner, and no one has been left alive to betray you by accident.’

  Bedwyr made a great play of nudging another of the disguised men, and pointed out the youngest head, a child of fourteen.

  ‘He’ll pay for little Gannett,’ he said under his laughter.

  Llanwith had briefed Gruffydd on the fall of Castell Collen, so when Glamdring appeared on the wall, Gruffydd was able to give an accurate account of the rout. As Glamdring nodded on several occasions, it seemed likely that the thane already knew the details of the sacking of the northern fortress. Bedwyr was grateful that Artor had left little to chance.

  ‘Repeat your names.’ Glamdring shouted from above.
‘Who are you, and what do you want of me?’

  ‘We are Cerdan Shapechanger and Modrod of Forden. These other men are my servants.’ Gruffydd paused to ensure that anyone within earshot heard his voice. ‘We’ve been avoiding Artor’s cavalry for days, but they’re now only a few hours’ riding from Caer Fyrddin. My family lived near Castell Collen, but my kin are now dead and we came to take our revenge when the battle commences here. All the west knows that only Glamdring Ironfist still resists Artor of the south.’

  Glamdring swelled a little at Gruffydd’s flattery. He pointed a horny finger at Bedwyr. ‘And what of you, Modrod of Forden, wherever that is? Why have you come to me? You seem well enough fed.’

  ‘My wife and children are dead, my fields have been burned, and Artor’s men have put my slaves to the sword.’ Bedwyr made his voice as high-pitched as he could. ‘I may be plump, but my arm is strong, and I pledge it to the service of Glamdring Ironfist.’

  Some worm of doubt must have wriggled in Ironfist’s memory.

  ‘Take off your helmet, Modrod.’

  Glamdring inspected Bedwyr carefully from his position atop the watchtower.

  Bedwyr was now grateful for his recognition of the heads of his fellow servants. Anger helped him to stare into Glamdring’s eyes without fear. Determination squared his shoulders and raised his chin in defiance, which Glamdring mistook as a desire to revenge himself on the Celts. After all, Dog would never have looked his master in the eye.

  ‘You’re hairless for a Saxon,’ Glamdring stated bluntly. ‘That’s unusual for our people. How did you get your bald head?’

  ‘Illness, great thane. Hairless I may be, but my heart is Saxon! If you don’t need our swords, we will go to a place of safety. We’ll have done our duty, for we have warned you of the arrival of the bastard Celts.’

  ‘Don’t be hasty, Modrod. In time of war, strange faces and circumstances breed distrust. The caer welcomes your extra swords, so you may enter as welcome guests.’

  One problem negotiated, Bedwyr thought silently to himself, and limped through the gates into Caer Fyrddin, a place that was little changed from the night when he had fled its slavery.

  ‘You may eat with us after you have rested,’ Glamdring called from his position on the ramparts, his eyes never leaving the new arrivals as they passed into the confines of the fortress.

  The meal that evening was almost Bedwyr’s undoing.

  The hall was so filthy that Gruffydd feared food poisoning. The fire pit pumped thick smoke up to the soot-stained ceiling rafters, and the walls were greasy and stained where men had leaned against the wooden planks.

  Long food-crusted tables and benches ran the length of the hall, while Glamdring and his chief officers sat at a shorter table that spanned its breadth at the head of the hall. Gruffydd and the other Celts sat as far as possible from the high table. They ate quickly, and drank little.

  Warriors stabbed at the greasy swill of meat with their knives, careless of the gravy that stained their beards, and the whole room stank of spilled ale. The Saxons amused themselves by casting their bones over their shoulders and occasionally giving meaty treats to the hounds. It was one of the hounds, the young grey mastiff called Wind, that almost betrayed Bedwyr. The dog remembered him, and made a great fuss of him by licking his hands and leaping up to place his huge paws on Bedwyr’s shoulders.

  ‘You have a rare talent with dogs, friend Modrod. Do they always offer you their friendship?’ Glamdring was joking, but a trace of suspicion lurked in his muddy blue eyes.

  ‘I’ve bred animals since I was a lad, my lord. I swear I can train the most recalcitrant pup into a useful fighting dog.’

  Glamdring whistled, and the grizzled head of his deerhound rose over the end of the table.

  ‘Let us see what you can do with old Grodd here,’ Glamdring challenged. ‘He allows no one but me to feed him.’

  Liar, thought Bedwyr. Grodd had been fed regularly by most of the servants whenever Glamdring tired of caring for his dogs, although Bedwyr doubted that the thane had even noticed.

  Holding up a succulent bone, still dripping with fat, Bedwyr called the dog by name. At first, Grodd looked at him with hostility, and growled at the strange human before him. Glamdring began to laugh. But the bone was tempting and Grodd warily approached Bedwyr. When it was close enough to pick up Bedwyr’s scent, the dog remembered shared scraps and it allowed Bedwyr to scratch its ears before it snapped up the bone. The Celt feigned the near loss of a finger in the process.

  ‘A fine beast, thane. I can see why you take pride in him.’

  Glamdring was mollified. ‘It seems you are indeed talented with animals, Modrod. Let’s hope that you’re as capable with Celts.’

  The ale flowed and Bedwyr conspired to spill as much as he drank, knowing he would need a clear head for the task before him.

  Another difficult moment was narrowly avoided when a serving woman almost dropped her ale jug when she recognized the hazel eyes of Bedwyr. She had managed to avoid death because she was half-Saxon and had been forced to share Glamdring’s bed since she was eleven. No one had considered that she was Demetae and might resent her servile place in the caer. Bedwyr saw her look of consternation and recognition, and pulled her towards him and on to his lap before she could utter a word. Gripping one large breast in his hand, he forced her to kiss him and then began to nuzzle her ear.

  ‘Smile, woman! Do not betray me if you value your life.’

  She smiled nervously as Bedwyr ripped open her tattered gown and fondled her breasts while Glamdring, ever observant, laughed crudely with his captains. When Bedwyr bent to kiss her nipples, he whispered again.

  ‘Lock yourself in the kitchen tonight and, with luck, you and your children may survive the night’s events.’

  ‘Leave her, Modrod!’ Glamdring ordered from his elevated table. ‘She’s just a serving wench and not worth much, except that she’s carrying good ale. If you want a real woman, there are Saxon widows here who’ll share a riding with you like you’ve never known.’

  Glamdring held his horn cup out for the girl to fill, her breasts still bare in the firelight. The thane twisted one nipple cruelly with his left hand, and she gasped with pain. Then, as she hurried away to refill her jug, she gave Bedwyr a brief, enigmatic smile.

  ‘My thanks, lord thane, but I’ve always had a taste for servile woman flesh. There’s something about fear that gives a man . . . that extra spice.’

  Glamdring laughed and agreed, and the evening passed on.

  Eventually, feigning drunkenness, the five Celts made nests for themselves in the straw by the doors of the hall, while those Saxon warriors still able to walk returned to their barracks.

  Gruffydd marvelled at the confidence displayed by Glamdring. In spite of the warning that danger was on his doorstep, life within the fortress continued on as if the Saxons were at peace.

  Our task is made easy, Gruffydd thought sardonically. Defeat at Mori Saxonicus has taught Glamdring nothing. He is prepared to risk his remaining warriors against Artor’s vengeance without so much as an extra guard at the gate. The man is a fool!

  As Bedwyr pretended to sleep in the verminous straw with the pungent-smelling Wind pressed hard against his side, he marvelled at how quickly his circumstances had changed. He had laid out this same pile of straw only a week earlier, and now he was here again, planning to bring Caer Fyrddin down around Glamdring’s head.

  ‘It’s time to go,’ Gruffydd hissed.

  Five men and a huge mastiff rose to their feet.

  ‘Must we take the beast?’ Gruffydd pointed his knife. ‘It could get in our way.’>

  Bedwyr was appalled. ‘Wind is my dog, and I’ll keep him for myself. I raised him from a pup, so I’ll vouch for his temper. If possible, I’d prefer that all the animals should be kept alive. The Saxons usually treat them far better than they treat humans.’

  ‘Oh, sod it then! Just don’t let that great lump get in the way. Lead on, Bedwyr.’
>
  The great hall was still, except for snorers and the shifting mounds of dogs. Bedwyr had only to whisper a command and the beasts returned to their sleep.

  At the head of the group of five men, Bedwyr led the way, holding a small, flaming torch. Gruffydd brought up the rear, lighting the darkness with another small torch. The men edged their way through the narrow, muddy passages between kitchens and sleeping quarters until they reached a sloping compound and a dark doorway with worn steps leading downward into Stygian blackness.

  ‘These are the granaries,’ Bedwyr whispered and began to descend.

  Through the wicker baskets, and the leather and wooden storage bins, Bedwyr picked his way until, behind a heavy wooden box filled with miscellaneous pieces of ironmongery, he revealed a low stone opening, curved at the top. It was barely three feet high.

  ‘From here on, the passage tends to get smaller and smaller as we move along.’

  Wind balked at entering the dark hole at first, but soon scrambled after Bedwyr when he realized that his master might well abandon him. At the rear, Gruffydd swore pungently as he crawled through after the other men.

  The stone passage widened after a hundred yards so they could walk, albeit bent over. The walls were covered with decades of encrusted filth and old, dried slime, and Gruffydd tried hard not to imagine the waste from latrines that had fed into this channel over the years.

  At least we can be grateful that the sewers are no longer in use, he thought grumpily.

  Down and down the sewer went, narrowing sometimes until Bedwyr was forced to remove the rope so he could wriggle through the restricted space. The oppressive feeling of tons of earth and stone above them made the Celts feel like men long buried, and their bodies were fouled by decades of waste.

  They spent an unpleasant hour crawling.