by M. K. Hume
“And so my granduncle and grandfather, Ambrosius Imperator and Uther Pendragon, wasted their youth and their hearts’ blood in a vain attempt to save the British people. My own father, King Artor, lived through sixty years of sacrifice while fighting for British survival. I have been used as a weapon against the invaders from the north for my entire life. In so doing, I was robbed of a father! How ironic it is that you should finish the task of my destruction by taking me into captivity.”
Maeve and Blaise had been listening quietly to Stormbringer’s story, which they scarcely understood. But something of the tragedy of invasions must have become clear to them because they began to weep. Stormbringer looked from one child to the other and, like Arthur, he marveled that one culture rose and became strong while another dwindled and was destroyed.
“Don’t ask me to apologize for the deeds of my people, Dragonsen, for neither you nor I had any part in the decision making that has laid waste to your lands. I am glad that the Dene tribes have thrived, although I regret that your people have been brought down into the mud.
“I once saw a boy throwing stones at a small dyke that lay beside one of the swiftly moving streams near my home. This dyke protected us from floods when the rains came in the spring.”
Arthur’s attention was captured despite his despair.
“The boy eventually succeeded in dislodging a small rock halfway down the dyke wall. The rock was very small and, at first, only a small trickle of water breached the dam. Unbeknown to the boy, the water ate away other rocks alongside the first. Then another small rock fell, and the water turned from a trickle into a jetting flood and the pressure tore away a large section of the dyke. The boy’s house was directly in the path of the resulting flood that roared down on his family, so a wall of water washed them all away. He and his kinfolk were drowned, because he had unwisely played a foolish game.”
At that moment, one of the crew asked a question of Stormbringer.
“The storm has blown us off course, but not so far that we’ll be too late for Hrolf Kraki’s audience,” Stormbringer answered. “Fortunately, I know where we are, and we can make up some of the lost time, if we row for part of each day.”
One of the sailors groaned at the prospect of rowing, but Stormbringer and his other companions fixed him with irritated eyes and the offender melted back into the crowd.
“The Skagerrak is nigh. We should enter the worst of the perilous waters that lie to the north of the Dene lands in three days at the most. If the breezes and currents are kind, we should reach harbor two days after that. My apologies, Arthur, but I must leave you now to consult with my helmsman.”
“So we’re a week from harbor, wherever that is,” Blaise observed. Her eyes were almost black with fear. “I’m concerned that we might be separated, and I might never see any of you again.”
Quietly, Blaise began to weep again at the thought of being enslaved in a land where she was ignorant of the language. Even Maeve, usually a placid girl, closed her eyes as if to hide from horrible thoughts.
“Don’t be afraid, Blaise,” Arthur said. “I intend to do everything that is necessary to keep you together. As God is my witness, I will find some way to save us. Fate seems to have chosen a decent man to take us into captivity. I really believe that we are on this ship, just as we were saved from the gale, for a special purpose. Everything will be well if we trust to God’s mercy.”
Blaise dried her eyes with one grimy sleeve. “So you believe that there’s still hope?”
“Aye, my little sister! I also believe that Arthur is right,” Eamonn answered seriously. “But I wouldn’t plan on marrying Gilchrist of the Otadini at any time in the immediate future.”
Maeve was the first to giggle, struck by the ridiculousness of Eamonn’s irony. Blaise had fought tooth and nail to avoid the arranged marriage, but had received her heart’s desire in a most unexpected fashion. Then Eamonn began to laugh from the depths of his belly, great booming peals of mirth that caused the Dene warriors to turn their heads and acknowledge the madness of the captives. But as men who had seen the worst and the best of nature and human beings, the crew shrugged and quickly lost interest.
Finally, Arthur and Blaise joined in, until Arthur noticed a small, charcoal-colored smudge on the horizon, partially visible in the gathering afternoon darkness.
“Land!” The Briton pointed. “Stormbringer was right. Whatever comes, we’ll know our fate soon enough. But I agree, Eamonn, Blaise won’t be marrying Gilchrist—if he’s still alive!”
In the hours that followed, Arthur searched for the itch at the back of his skull that had plagued him all his life. It had always warned him of approaching danger, but it had been silent since his capture.
How odd! Arthur thought. Even the onset of the gale didn’t cause it to surface. Surely my gift can’t have vanished.
But his inner voice stayed stubbornly silent, so Arthur suddenly felt bereft, as if a part of his essence had been torn away.
And, as the captives slept in their wet blankets, Loki’s Eye sped northwards, parallel to those tempting glimpses of land.
Gareth’s Path Through Central Britain
Chapter III
A BITTER SOLSTICE
A man is to be envied who has been fortunate in his children and has avoided dire calamity.
—EURIPIDES, Orestes, 1
The solitary horseman rested in the saddle and gazed down the ill-kept Roman road towards the forest that loomed on the skyline. The trees hovered between the raw umber earth and an ashen sky. On the road that ran past Arden, there was no place to hide before the frowning, shivering trees, but nor did the empty road promise any greater safety. As the old year perished, winter gripped the forest in a frozen fist, so that the last patches of dried grasses beside an almost invisible pathway into Arden’s depths snapped at the lightest touch. Even the poorest hunter could see the spoor of a stranger, for although many of the forest giants were wholly bare of leaves and their skeletal branches groaned ominously in the solstice winds, the forest was thick, still, and primal. Unlike the flat farmland to the east, very little light filtered down to the frost-rimed floor of the ancient woods, even when the chilly sun stood directly overhead in the December sky. Now, at midnight, the pallid moon failed to reveal the narrow entry that led into the heart of Arden Forest.
Only a desperate man would ride at this time of night in such inclement weather. Sleet-sharp rain was falling, and even the hardiest of creatures would be seeking a burrow, a cave, or an inn which could provide safety from the black ice and the Wild Hunt. The rider was too pragmatic to be superstitious, but the thought of Cernunnos, huge, menacing, and red-eyed, as he strode through the cloud-riven sky with the massive hounds and huntsmen of the gods reaping the souls of the unwary, was so grotesque that the young man shot a quick glance at the torn sky. Arden Forest was dangerous, because every tree might hide an archer, while desperate Cornovii tribesmen guarded the margins of the Wild Woods. These embattled and encircled warriors were prone to killing anyone who ventured into one of the last strongholds of Britain. In addition to the obvious dangers for unwary travelers, every knowledgeable man knew that the Riders of the Hunt and other, more dreadful creatures stalked through the storm-torn nights before the solstice, eager to reap the souls of mortals for their warm blood during the dying weeks of an old year. Once the old king was dead and the boy king began to rule in the joy and laughter of the New Year, humankind would rediscover the pleasures of food, drink, and warm, strong arms that promised ecstasy. So the gods had always decreed and even the Christian God could not quite stifle the lusts of the past.
• • •
WITHOUT ANY APPARENT fear, the solitary horseman had come out of the north and entered Arden Forest from Fosse Way. He had journeyed by the fastest possible route to reach the safety of the woods, so he ventured from the road only to bypass Saxon strongholds at Cataractoni
um, Eburacum, Calcaria, and Lindum, sleeping during the day and riding during the hours of darkness. During his brief and guarded interludes with other travelers, the young warrior had managed to avoid questions and capture because his Jute features and sea-blue eyes suggested barbarian ancestry.
The weather had turned nasty a week earlier, so the hunched rider was wrapped in furs over his breastplate in order to protect and disguise the well-oiled Roman armor from rust and curiosity. He huddled within the shaggy pelts as the wind drove the rain under the hides. A steady stream of icy water ran down the back of his neck and pooled in the leather and wool that protected the flesh under his cuirass at the base of his spine. Cold within and frozen without, the fur-clad figure allowed his beast to trudge its own way down the barely visible path that led to the thick blackness of the forest, while he slouched in the saddle and hugged his chilled arms to his body, permitting the horse to walk unguided.
The armed stranger, Gareth Minor, managed to penetrate the borders of Arden without incident, although his body was racked with hunger and weary to the point of collapse. During his trek into the south, he had been forced to steal provisions from richer travelers as he traversed the dangerous roads and avoided outlaws and hunting parties. Something in his nature forbade any theft that left poor families hungry, but traders who grew fat and wealthy from traitorous dealings with the Saxons were fair game in Gareth’s personal code of conduct.
Although he had been careful to avoid the eastern settlements for the entire journey, Gareth was aware that the invaders had grown bolder over recent years. While the threat of ambush was ever present, militant Saxon activity had mostly been confined to the warmer months of spring and summer during King Artor’s reign. But the trickle of migrants across the Litus Saxonicum from the Cimbric Peninsula and Friesia had now become a flood, for these Jute and Angle settlers arrived daily in search of arable land. The pressure to extend their influence beyond Mercia and the eastern coastal lands sent armed families foraging farther and farther into Celtic-defended country, and Gareth had noticed that Saxon stockades had been built to control the roads leading towards Arden. With a pang of memory, he recalled his father’s gravelly voice as he recited one of King Artor’s maxims. He who holds the Roman roads controls Britain! How painfully accurate the long-dead High King had been. Now, Saxon farms lipped the edges of Arden Forest, and the women laboring around their crofts were well armed and watchful. The invaders from the north were here to stay. In fact, some parts of these isles had been populated by three generations of northerners who now considered this their homeland. They had fought to win a place here and had buried their kin in British soil, so they wouldn’t be easily dislodged or rooted out.
The hordes of dispossessed migrants from the inhospitable northern wastes were now in control of at least half of the old British tribal territories and the Britons were retreating farther and farther into Western Cymru with every month that passed. The new Saxon kingdom of Mercia straddled the mountain spine, and their warriors controlled much of the old kingdom where the Brigante tribe once reigned supreme. How Gareth’s father would have mourned the loss of fair Melandra, now fallen into ruin. For their various treasons, as the old witch woman had foretold, the mighty Brigante tribe had been reduced to an irrelevancy since the death of Modred the Matricide. Sadly, those Brigante who had not fled north across the Wall or traveled south into Cymru were clinging to the western coastline with little hope for a safe future as they faced the victorious Anglo-Saxons.
And so, in the many weary miles since leaving Hadrian’s Wall, Gareth had had time to think carefully about the greater meaning of his misfortunes, as well as what he could do to salvage some honor from his defeats.
Arthur, who was his friend, his master, and his companion of the road, had been taken prisoner by mercenaries and was now a captive of the northern seafarers. Dobunni treachery and the spite of that filthy creature, Mareddyd, had caused his friends to be spirited away in a strange ship, the like of which he had never seen. Maeve, Eamonn, and Blaise, as well as his master, had disappeared from Britain; Gareth’s dreams and expectations had vanished over the horizon with them.
As he rode under the dripping trees, Gareth’s mind wandered back to the beginning of his journey when he had carried out a brief search for Mareddyd, the Dobunni prince. He suspected Mareddyd of treachery and would have happily killed the craven cur if he had been able to find him. But the treacherous young man had vanished from his lodgings. The innkeeper, Ossian, blandly professed to have no idea where the Dobunni heir had fled.
Gareth saw that the face of Ossian’s daughter, Myfanwy, bore the marks of fists and that she carried broken bones which caused her to move with great care. Nor did she meet Gareth’s eyes directly, although Ossian was bluffly and guilelessly open. The young warrior was certain that every word that father and daughter uttered was a lie, but how could he prove they had some part in Mareddyd’s disappearance?
Gareth’s breast ached with the same hollow sickness that had almost crippled him when his ancient, half-crazed father had relinquished his hold on life with such relief. The only certainty in Gareth’s rootless life was the need to travel to the northeast to rescue his friend, but no one had ever returned from those lost and barbarous places to tell of their adventures. Even the Romans had feared to face the northern barbarians, because their warriors stopped the inexorable Roman advances into the north at the Rhenus River. How much more terrible must be the lands that lay to the north of the Albus? How fearful were seas reported to freeze in winter or become studded with great mountains of ice that could smash a ceol into kindling?
Gareth felt a sense of relief once the bare frosty trees of Arden cocooned him as the intensity of the wind increased. He became one with the voices of the winter forest; trees creaked and groaned on the wind and the dry rattle of branches provided a warning refrain as he moved steadily towards his goal. Skeletal twigs clutched at Gareth’s exposed hair and caught at his furs as if to prevent the young warrior from completing his mission. Every creak, every scream from an invisible hunting owl, warned Gareth that Arden wished to protect its old master from the dire news this young man was carrying.
“Only Bedwyr will know what I should do. The Master of Arden must be told,” Gareth whispered aloud to fill the aching melancholy of the winter forest. Under his fur hood, his face twisted as if he was on the brink of tears, for he had no idea where to go. Before he met Arthur, he had never left the fields that lay beyond Aquae Sulis.
Out of the heavy darkness ahead, a single lamp gleamed. “It must be one of the lights from the fortress of Arden,” the young man said to himself. As a sentry called out a warning into the gloom, Gareth drew his exhausted steed and his packhorse to a halt. The spent beasts dropped their heads in resignation while they waited for the warm stable and sweet hay that might lie ahead in the darkness.
“May the Lord of Hosts make the decision for me, for I cannot decide where I must go,” Gareth whispered to the memory of his lost master and his God. “Even if I don’t know how, Arthur, I’ll do my best to find you if you should still be alive. I can accept that task easily enough, but how do I tell your mother that you’re lost, and that you have taken her youngest child with you? How can I bear to dash all Master Bedwyr’s hopes of a future for the people of Arden? There will be no salvation for the Britons without you. Our people will disappear into the darkness like the Picts of old, and our children will be left with only vague memories of a lost way of life. We need you, just as we need the Lord High God to protect us from the heathen Saxon invaders.”
Suddenly, another voice broke through the darkness.
“State your name, stranger, and tell us why you trespass over Arden’s borders in such vile weather. Stay where we can see you or you’ll be dead before you move a single inch.” The rasping voice was flat and bland, so Gareth stayed perfectly still and ensured that neither hand strayed near his weapons.
“My name is Gareth ap Gareth of Aquae Sulis and I am the body servant and sworn guard of Lord Arthur of Arden. I bear news of his capture by a raiding party of barbarians to the north of Eburacum. Let me pass, for I must speak with Lord Bedwyr as soon as possible.”
An anatomically impossible curse was spat out, and a lean, dark-clad man appeared as if by magic from a small cluster of bushes near the hooves of Gareth’s horse. The sentry carried a longbow which had obviously been drawn and trained on Gareth until such time as the interloper made his presence known and explained himself.
“You bring dire news to our master,” the dour warrior replied without surprise. Gareth’s bad news was only one more indicator of life in a society under siege. “You’re a storm crow, Master Gareth of Aquae Sulis, and you’ll pardon me if I wish you’d never set foot inside our borders.”
“I have other news that will distress your master even more deeply, so I must speak with Lord Bedwyr and Lady Elayne urgently—before I lose my nerve.” In his distress, Gareth’s voice was more brusque than he had intended, so the warrior took offense at once, clenching fists that itched to strike this stranger down and quieten his meddling tongue.
“Take me to your master at once!” Gareth insisted. He repeated the request again in a voice beginning to fray with frustrated impatience. “I know the hour is late, but I have no time to waste on pointless gibble-gabble with servants.”
In affronted silence, other men appeared out of the woods to hem Gareth in before directing him along the dim track to a massive gate made from tree trunks. Soundlessly, as if in response to a mute instruction, the gate swung open so that the horseman, his packhorse, and the sentries were able to enter the muddy forecourt just as the first flurries of a new snowfall began.
