Shadow Lands Trilogy

by Simon Lister

  ‘Arthur! You must not speak of the king like that!’ TiGywna said.

  ‘Be careful at the council Arthur, he has had no love for you ever since you challenged Saltran for the leadership of the war band and if you speak to him that way at the council-’

  ‘Saltran was a cur and died like one.’

  ‘Nonetheless, he was friend to the king.’

  ‘Then the king should choose his friends more carefully,’ Arthur replied.

  ‘It seems to me that we need peace amongst ourselves more than ever. Both you and the king will need to put your hostilities aside, Arthur,’ Fianna said.

  The conflict between the king and Arthur had started long before he had become the Wessex Warlord and killed Saltran. It had begun almost forty years ago when Maldred had been crowned king about the same time as Merdynn had found Arthur as a young boy. As Merdynn was the King’s Counsellor, Maldred believed that he had exclusive access to the old man’s advice and he had expected his continual presence. He had grown to resent the time Merdynn spent with the boy from Wessex.

  He had been a young king, only twenty years old, and he had felt uncertain and insecure when Merdynn was away for long periods and he had turned more and more to ambitious, cruel men like Saltran for guidance. Maldred had thrown his support behind Saltran when he had positioned himself to become the Wessex Warlord and had been delighted by his success.

  Maldred’s line was from Mercia and so it followed that the Mercian war band acted as his own guard and warriors, and when his ally, Saltran, became Warlord of Wessex Maldred effectively controlled two thirds of the warriors from the southern tribes. With that kind of military strength he no longer felt the need for the counsel of the absent Merdynn and he happily turned a blind eye to the havoc the ill-led warriors wrought throughout the country.

  Arthur couldn’t do likewise and as the atrocities continued Arthur realised something had to be done. Maldred had been delighted to hear that Arthur had challenged Saltran for the leadership of the Wessex war band. While Arthur had gained renown as a young warrior, Maldred was confident he would be no threat to the seasoned and murderous Saltran. The king’s resentment had curdled to hatred when the news had reached him that the youth had slain Saltran.

  Merdynn had continued to spend more time with Arthur than he did with the king and Maldred’s hatred of Arthur hardened over the years and he grew to fear the power of the warlord and his growing reputation. Arthur had reformed the Wessex war band and forced the Mercians and Anglians to do likewise and he led them in battle as the king never could. Maldred feared the warriors owed more allegiance to Arthur than they did to him and in an effort to regain some of the authority he had lost, Maldred had brought the warriors from the Green Isle across the sea to help fight the Uathach - with nearly disastrous consequences. If anything, his ill-judged strategy had only strengthened Arthur’s position in the land.

  Maldred had considered throwing his Mercians against Arthur’s war band in what would effectively be a civil war but he couldn’t be sure that Gereint would lead his warriors against Arthur and he realised that even if he did then Arthur would more than likely win and he would have then lost everything so he contented himself with more petulant acts; he slighted Arthur at every opportunity hoping to goad him into a rash attack where he could be justifiably killed and sought to disrupt whatever plans he attempted to implement, no matter how innocuous or beneficial they might have been, in an effort to undermine his increasing authority.

  Every one of the Wessex counsellors knew the turbulent history between the king and Arthur and none of them wanted to exacerbate the situation any further.

  Arthur put both hands on the table preparing to stand, ‘So be it then, I’ll keep my peace with Maldred but the time is coming when the king will need to prove his judgement.’

  ‘The council is set for tomorrow before the feast,’ Kenwyn said.

  ‘Then I’ll see you there,’ Arthur replied.

  ‘Come. I’ll show you where we are quartered,’ Fianna said and led the way from the room. Behind them the others looked at each other worried by both the news Arthur brought and his words about the king.

  Fianna led Arthur across the busy courtyard to a long row of low buildings. These were the living quarters, built especially for the Gathering times when the town’s population increased tenfold. They had small windows, widely spaced apart to keep the rooms dark and cool in summer and to lessen the harsh elements of the long, cold winter.

  Fianna stopped at the doorway to the first building and turned to Arthur, ‘You can rest here - I’ll send someone to tell you when the council is ready to start.’

  Arthur opened the door but Fianna stopped him, saying, ‘Arthur, what’s wrong? I’ve never heard you talk openly like that about the king before. For all your differences do you actually doubt the king has the land’s best interests at heart?’

  ‘No, but no king in living memory has had to face what we are about to face.’

  ‘He may well rise to that, you can’t judge him, not yet – he is the king after all.’

  Arthur looked away then back again directly into Fianna’s eyes, ‘And if he cannot face it, if he fails, are all my people to be butchered too?’

  Fianna tried to read Arthur’s face but he turned and stooping down, entered the building. Fianna stood uncertainly by the doorway before making her way back to the other counsellors. Ceinwen watched her from across the courtyard until she was out of sight then she too made her way to the living quarters and ducked inside. She hesitated by Arthur’s door, her hand raised to knock softly then she turned and walked quickly on down the corridor.

  *

  Arthur awoke some hours later as the door to his small room clicked closed. By his bed was a tray of food and a hot drink. He ate as he dressed then headed out into the courtyard.

  Mar’h was leaning against a wall watching the busy activity in general and a group of chatting girls in particular. One of the young women kept casting glances across at him. In her estimation any warrior was worth looking at and this one with his dusky skin, long black hair and pale brown eyes was certainly no exception. It was not the large, hooked nose or his lean, wiry frame that made her quickly lose interest but, on closer inspection, he was not as young as she had at first hoped. She guessed, quite accurately, that he must be in his mid-thirties and probably married. She had made that mistake before and was not about to repeat it again. Not yet anyway. Had she known that he had already fathered children then she would have quickly put her reservations to one side in the hope that they too might produce children. A warrior and a potential father would have been a fine catch but she didn’t know about his children, so she looked away from Mar’h and rejoined the conversation with her friends. Mar’h sighed and rubbed the hard stubble on his chin, knowing that Morgund wouldn’t have accepted the dismissal so easily – he’d have strolled right across to them and no doubt he would have invited them to join him at the festival in the Great Hall; it galled him that they would have accepted Morgund’s invitation too – they always did.

  Arthur had seen the brief exchange of looks between Mar’h and the girls before his attention was averted by a swirl of swifts as they darted overhead, changed direction with a flick and then wheeled away in the late autumn skies like a pall of smoke snatched by conflicting winds. Arthur watched them for a while, surprised they had not yet left for the West. He followed their twisting, unpredictable flight until they were lost to his sight over the stream to the South where they swooped for food in the drifting mists that rose from the river like gentle steam.

  He walked across to Mar’h, ‘How are Della and the children?’

  Mar’h straightened up and turned around looking surprised and guilty, ‘They’re fine Arthur, bit worried like. We thought it’d be best if they took the journey west this year.’

  Normally the families of the warriors stayed at Whitehorse Hill or in Caer Sulis. Arthur just nodded, understanding.

  ‘Fine l
ook out I make, I was supposed to watch for you and take you to the council.’

  ‘There’s less distractions on most watches,’ Arthur replied and Mar’h laughed and looked across at the small group of girls still chatting in the corner of the courtyard.

  ‘If I were ten years younger.’

  ‘Ten?’

  ‘Twenty then.’

  ‘And not with Della.’

  ‘And not with Della.’

  ‘Or have any children.’

  ‘All right, Arthur, all right. I was just imagining I was a young man again.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with your imagination then.’

  Mar’h laughed, ‘You don’t have to take it out on me just because you can’t stand to speak to the king.’

  ‘Lead on then. Is Merdynn there yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Mar’h led the way to the council. It was not being held in the Great Hall as Arthur had thought but in one of the king’s houses down by the river. The royal houses were set off by themselves, away from the other dwellings that stretched along the riverbank. The cluster of two-storey buildings and low stables had all been painted some years ago but the red dyes and pigments had washed out to leave no more than a thin wash of pink over the daubed walls. They backed onto the river and the mist edged its way between the houses, hugging the ground as it crept its way over the fields towards the town. On the far bank Arthur could hear the murderous clamour of squabbling crows, their coarse screeches piercing the autumn mists as they fought over the last of the easy pickings before winter set in.

  Ceinwen was waiting for Arthur outside the main house with Leah. Normally the war band’s second-in-command would attend the council with the warlord but as both Ruadan and Hengest were at the Causeway, Ceinwen and Leah would attend in their place.

  ‘If the king steps out of line, just set Leah on him,’ Mar’h said under his voice and turned to go.

  Arthur stopped him and said quietly, ‘I’ve told Ceinwen to stand-in for Ruadan because I want you to get the warriors together Mar’h, we may be heading for the Causeway a few days earlier than we planned.’

  Mar’h nodded and strode off. As Arthur approached the king’s house the twenty guards from the king’s war band stood straighter and faced him.

  Arthur greeted Ceinwen and Leah, ‘Everyone inside already?’

  ‘Everyone but Merdynn,’ Ceinwen answered.

  ‘He’ll come.’

  They walked up the steps and one of the guards spoke, ‘Only the king’s warriors can bear weapons in the king’s house.’

  ‘That’s a new law isn’t it?’ Leah asked.

  Arthur stopped and stared at the man who quickly lowered his eyes.

  ‘Is he not my king then?’ Arthur asked.

  The guards stirred uneasily. ‘He is king to us all,’ one of them ventured warily.

  ‘And am I not a warrior?’

  The guards became more uncomfortable and remained silent.

  ‘Then I too must be a king’s warrior.’

  The guards looked at each other for support and Arthur walked into the king’s house unopposed. As Leah went through the doorway she puckered her lips at the guard as if blowing him a kiss and patted the sword at her hip. Ceinwen hurried her through. They were led to a large, high-ceilinged room dominated by a heavy wooden table ringed by chairs with a carved throne at one end. Two large fires burned brightly in grates against opposite walls, throwing their heat across the room. Most of the smoke was drawn up iron flues built into the walls but enough of it escaped to rise up to the high ceiling where it clouded the soot-stained rafters. The strong scent of wood smoke filled the room overpowering the smell of the roasted meat that was laid out on the table for all the chieftains and counsellors of the three tribes to feast on.

  The room was full with people standing in small groups and talking. The king and two of his counsellors stood apart. He wore a narrow gold crown set with jewels and a long, blood red cloak. He had been king for decades but neither his age nor his responsibilities had bowed him. He stood straight and though he was not tall he had the habit of tilting his head back as if looking down on whomever he was talking to. His neatly cropped beard was silver as was his long, well-groomed full head of hair.

  He saw Arthur enter with the two women and he strode to his throne with a sour expression on his face. The room went quiet and the counsellors and chieftains from the three tribes went to their places around the table, many of them greeting Arthur as they did so. Arthur looked around the gathering and nodded to Gereint who looked no less harassed than when he had seen him organising the influx of villagers. Cei caught Arthur’s eye and gestured towards the king, grimacing. Clearly the king had been waiting for Arthur to arrive and he hadn’t been waiting patiently. He had tried to start the council without him but too many had pointed out that Arthur’s news was more important than the usual fare they dealt with and that it would probably be best to wait for Arthur’s arrival before they began. Maldred’s mood had only gotten worse and many around the table cursed Arthur for putting them in this position.

  King Maldred looked across at Arthur, ‘Unavoidably detained were you, Arthur of Wessex?’ he asked, looking pointedly to either side of Arthur at Ceinwen and Leah with an unconcealed sneer. Those near the king laughed softly, others looked at the table.

  ‘I meant no delay, but are we not waiting for Merdynn?’ Arthur replied, ignoring the insinuating leer.

  Maldred cast a glance at the empty chair beside his own. ‘Do you suggest we await his pleasure as we have yours, Arthur of Wessex? Kings have grown old waiting for Merdynn to appear.’

  Ceinwen turned her head to Arthur and muttered so only he could hear, ‘Older but rarely wiser.’

  Arthur didn’t bother to suppress his smile and replied, ‘As you wish, but he does have news that concerns us here.’

  ‘I don’t wait on anyone,’ Maldred said in an effort to dispel the impression that he had indeed already waited for Arthur. A servant immediately filled his goblet with wine while the counsellors unhooked their cloaks and took their seats. As Arthur laid his cloak on the back of his chair the king shot to his feet, sending his wine spilling across the grained oak as he planted both fists on the table.

  ‘And were you not instructed to leave your weapons outside the Royal House?’

  Once again the room fell silent. Ceinwen noticed none of the others bore their swords. Even Cei across the table had left his outside not seeing it as important one way or the other. He shrugged as Ceinwen glared at him. All eyes turned to the sword hanging at Arthur’s side and gasps and exclamations rippled around the table. None had seen it before and all marvelled at the workmanship that could be seen on the hilt and scabbard.

  ‘It was said that the king’s warriors could bear their arms.’

  ‘And it’s such a fine sword too, Arthur of Wessex, fit, indeed, for a king. Do you bear it as a gift?’

  ‘It is a gift - it was given to me. But I can’t offer it on – the receiver would be insulting the giver if a gift were to be passed on.’

  Maldred’s face reddened and a vein stood out on his neck as he said, ‘You would rather insult me than whoever gave you this gift? Do you seek to belittle me, Warlord of Wessex?’

  ‘Not I, Lord.’ Arthur replied with a smile that implied Maldred was doing that himself without any need of Arthur’s help. Half the room stood, some to pacify the situation, others taking offence from one side or the other.

  One strident voice cut through the room, ‘Silence! Is this any way to act before an honoured guest from the Veiled City?’

  Merdynn stood just inside the doorway to the room glaring at the silenced counsellors. Cei marvelled at how Merdynn could give the impression of being a jovial old man one day and then the next be the commandingly powerful figure who now stood staring at them with fury in his eyes. By his side stood a tall, slender figure robed and cowled in a winter cloak. Those in the room not already standing got to their feet and stared at the
tall figure. None in the room save Arthur had ever seen anyone from the Veiled City; many had thought the city only existed in fables. The Cithol Lord slowly reached up and lifted back the cowl covering his head. The skin on his hands and face was a translucent, pale white that contrasted sharply with his black robe.

  The gathered counsellors, the wisest of the southern tribes and representatives of their peoples all started in horror and alarm. Gasps of shock and oaths to ward off evil sounded louder in the suddenly small room than had their previous shouting and arguing. The initial shock of seeing a child’s tale manifest itself before their very eyes quickly gave way to a deep unease brought on by something unknown and beyond their experience. Many of those around the table were paralysed with uncertainty believing they were faced by a long dismissed childhood ghost.

  Arthur studied the Cithol Lord in the complete silence that followed. His hair was very fine and completely white and the pale skin seemed stretched over his high cheek-boned face. His eyes were entirely black with no visible iris or pupil. The Cithol Lord took a step forward and those around the table backed away feeling for weapons that were not there. He gradually looked around the room, studying each face in turn before finally settling on the one person who had not recoiled from him.

  ‘You I know,’ his voice was surprisingly deep and sonorous coming from such a slender frame.

  Arthur stepped forward and inclined his head, ‘Welcome to Caer Sulis, Lord Venning. Welcome to the King’s Council.’ Arthur gestured towards the king, ‘King Maldred of Britain.’

  The king, desperate not to lose face or to appear less composed than Arthur gathered his wits and stepped forward and looked from Merdynn to the Cithol Lord, ‘Greetings from the peoples of Britain, Lord Venning,’ he managed to say in a normal voice. In his mind he was shouting to himself that he was the king, that all the civilised land of Britain obeyed his rules, that this was just some conjuring trick of that old fool Merdynn. He continued aloud in a stronger voice, ‘We had not expected your arrival,’ and he looked poisonously at Merdynn. ‘What brings the Cithol Lord to the King’s Council?’