The Hallowed Isle Book Four

by Diana L. Paxson

  “It looks . . . defensible . . .” said Gwyhir, whose turn it was to ride beside the king.

  Artor laughed. The firth of the Clutha lay before them, its waters a shifting sheet of silver beneath the high clouds. Low hills ran along the peninsula behind it, featureless as if carved from shadow. The great rock of Altaclutha rose from those opalescent waters like an island, its sheer sides carved by the gods into a fortress that needed little help from man to be secure. From this distance, he could scarcely distinguish the stone walls and slate roofs from the native stone, and the causeway that connected it to the land was hidden from view.

  “Dun Breatann is the fortress of the Britons indeed. Since my father’s time the Rock has guarded the west of Alba. But Ridarchus is old now, and I do not know his heir.”

  “It is Morcant Bulc, is it not?” Gwyhir answered him. “Ridarchus’ grandson. They came once to Dun Eidyn when I was a child.”

  Artor nodded. He did not want to think about inheritance, but he supposed it was his duty. Unbidden, the face of Medraut came to mind. He had hoped to learn more of the boy on this long journey up from the south, and to some extent he had done so. But Medraut’s smooth surface repelled intimacy. How he could have come from the same nest as his brothers was cause for amazement. Gualchmai could not conceal a thought if he tried. Aggarban’s sullen silences were easily read, and the eyes of Gwyhir and Goriat were deep pools into which one had only to gaze to see their souls.

  Medraut was clearly doing his best to please, thought the king. He was observant, and did not make the same mistake twice, but he reminded the king of a man struggling to learn a new language, learning by rote the turns of phrase for which he had no natural ear. It was not because he had been brought up in Alba—his brothers had been accepted by Artor’s household immediately. But their actions, even their mistakes, came from the heart. One sensed that Medraut’s were the result of calculation.

  In the next moment Artor shook his head, blaming his distrust on his own fears. Most likely the boy was simply shy.

  The high king glanced back along the line. Men who had been slumped in the saddle reined in straying mounts and straightened to military alertness when they felt his eye upon them. Artor turned back, gesturing to Gwyhir to blow his horn. The sound echoed across the pewter waters, and in a few moments he heard an answer from the dun, faint and sweet with distance, like an echo of faerie horns.

  The night after their arrival a storm rolled in from the sea, dense clouds wrapping close about the Rock, blanketing the ever-changing tides. For five days they huddled beneath the slate roofs of the fortress, the only thing solid in a dissolving world. But the ale-vats of Dun Breatann were deep, and if it was wet outside, the drink flowed just as freely within.

  “I gather that your journey here was not altogether peaceful—” said Ridarchus, indicating the bits of bandage that still adorned some of Artor’s men.

  Unlike his brother-in-law, Merlin, who still towered like a tree, Ridarchus had shrunk with the years, flesh and bone fined down to a twisted, sinewy frame. Only his nose still jutted fiercely. Sitting there with his black mantle and glinting dark eyes he reminded Artor of a raven. And like the bird, Ridarchus had grown wise with years.

  “It’s true, and makes your hospitality all the more welcome. But you will find the roads to the south safer, for awhile.”

  “You should have found them safe already, once you entered my lands,” rasped Ridarchus. “I must thank you for ridding me of young Cuil and his band. But his death has won you few friends here, I warn you. He was popular with the common folk, with whom he used to share his booty.”

  “Do they not understand that without safe roads there will be no trade, and no long-term prosperity?”

  “In their children’s time, perhaps,” said the prince, “but Cuil gave them gifts they could hold in their hands.”

  “I suppose so, and I am sorry he was killed in the fighting,” said Artor, “for he was the brother of a man who captained the queen’s guard when we campaigned in Demetia, and after I had drawn his teeth I would have spared him.” He blinked as a change in the wind outside rippled through the hangings that were supposed to keep out draughts and sent smoke billowing sideways from the central fire.

  “Maybe now news will reach us as well,” said Ridarchus. “We hear little of what is happening in the world outside this isle.”

  Artor shook his head. “The Empire of the West is beseiged on every side. Theoderic rules in Italia, and has just married his daughter Amalafrida to Thraseric of the Vandals in the north of Africa. In Gallia, Chlodovechus is expanding his borders in all directions. Three years ago he captured Burdigala. They say that the Romans in the Gothic lands fought for Alaric, their Gothic ruler, but the Franks were still too strong for them. Alaric made peace and paid Chlodovechus tribute last year.”

  “Will the Visigoths become a subject kingdom then?”

  Artor shrugged. “They have a foothold in Iberia already— they have moved so many times, perhaps they will all pass over the Pyrenaei montes and abandon the south of Gallia to the Franks entirely.”

  The men who sat around the fire were singing, first the warriors from the dun, and then, as they caught the chorus, Artor’s men as well. The king did not see Medraut among them and wondered where he had gone.

  “I perceive that this matters to you,” Ridarchus said after a moment had passed. “But we have our own troubles here in Britannia. Why do you care what happens across the sea?”

  “No doubt Cassivellaunus might have said the same, before Caesar came,” Artor observed dryly. “The Franks have proved themselves a warlike people. If they are not controlled now, your son’s sons may see them at your gates. And there are men of our blood in Gallia who will certainly be overrun.”

  “I have heard a rumor that you mean to cross the sea yourself.” Ridarchus cocked his head, bright eyes fixing the king.

  “Riothamus has appealed to me. But before I go I must make Britannia secure.”

  “Hence this journey—” Ridarchus said slowly.

  The high king nodded. “Until the Saxons came, the wild tribes of the North were always the greatest danger, and after them, the men of Eriu. When I have done what I can for you, I will move on to Dun Eidyn and seek a treaty with the Pictish king.”

  Ridarchus signaled to one of the serving girls to bring them more ale. He drank, then set his beaker down with an appreciative sigh.

  “You can make a treaty for me, too, if you will—” he said then. “You know that for many years there have been men of Eriu on the peninsula of Cendtire, the old Epidii lands. Far from increasing the danger from their kinfolk across the water, I think they have protected us. They have been good neighbors, and we have fought side by side when the Picts got too strong. But perhaps too many of them have left Dal Riada, for in Eriu, Feragussos their king can no longer hold against the Ui Niall.

  “Do you see those two men in the saffron tunics, there by the door?” He paused to drink once more and Artor followed the direction of his gaze. “They arrived a little before you did. They are men of Cendtire, ambassadors. Feragussos wishes to move himself and his court and the rest of his clan here from Dal Riada, and offers friendship. I could tolerate their presence unofficially, but I would not enter into such an alliance without your good will.”

  Particularly, thought Artor, when I am sitting in your hall. But he smiled. “I agree. I shall prepare a letter of invitation to Feragussos and welcome him as an ally.”

  Medraut moved away from the shelter of the inner wall, leaning against the wind. For the moment it had ceased to rain, but there was still enough moisture in the air to sting. He picked his way across the uneven rock to the breast-high wall that edged the clifftop and clung to it, gulping deep breaths of the brisk wind.

  To the south and west stretched the silver dimpled waters of the Clutha. Beneath banks of low cloud he could just make out the darker masses of the far shore. He looked up as a gull screamed overhead, flung acr
oss the sky by the wind.

  Free— he thought, what would it feel like to be that free? Even through the thick folds of his woolen mantle he was beginning to feel the chill, but after the odorous warmth of the hall it was welcome. He turned, his gaze moving from the watchtower on the highest point of the Rock to the great hall set into the niche halfway down one side.

  He wondered why he felt so constricted—he could find no fault with Ridarchus’ hospitality . . . and then, as the gull called again, he remembered the seabirds wheeling above the Bodotria, and realized it was the scent of northern fires, and the sound of northern voices, that had disturbed him. They reminded him of Dun Eidyn.

  I can’t go back there, he thought, and still less did he desire to revisit Pictland, where he would remember Kea every time he turned around. But where could he run to? Certainly not to his mother. He had proved that he could manage on his own, but then he had been traveling with a goal, a place at the court of the high king. It was no part of his life-plan to become a nameless wanderer upon the roads. He wondered if Gualchmai and his new wife would take him in.

  The sky was darkening. He felt one cold drop strike his hand and then a spattering of others as the heavens began to open once more. He sucked in a last breath of the cold, salttanged air and started back towards the inner wall. The squall was coming quickly now; he pulled his mantle over his head and hunched against the rain.

  After the wall, one gained the next level by a steep flight of steps cut into the rock. Fighting the buffeting of the wind, Medraut had nearly gained the top when he sensed something dark rise up before him, recoiled, and slipped on the rain-slick stone. He flailed wildly, but there was nothing to hold onto. His falling body hit one outcrop and then another, and slid to the base of the wall.

  When he came to himself, it was full dark. He hurt all over, and he was cold. Head throbbing, he tried to remember what had happened. If someone had pushed him, why had they not taken advantage of his unconsciousness to toss him into the sea? And if not, why was he still lying here? But if no one had seen him fall, surely someone should be wondering where he had gone. . . .

  At least he could feel all his limbs. Very carefully, he tried to move. Everything ached, but it was only in his right leg that he felt real pain. Still, it was only going to get colder. He had to get up somehow.

  Medraut had made it to the steps when he heard voices from above. Torches flared wildly as the wind caught them. Someone was calling his name.

  “Look, there at the foot of the stair,” someone cried.

  “Here—” He let his dark mantle fall back so that the paler tunic could be seen. “I’m here. . . .”

  He tensed as someone hurried towards him, torch held too high for features to be seen. Then the man was kneeling, and Medraut looked up into the anxious eyes of Artor the king.

  The storm had passed, but the high king of Britannia remained at Dun Breatann. The boy, Medraut, had broken his leg, and was not yet fit to ride. That Artor should stay for the sake of a nephew was a matter of wonder, but presently men began to speak of a greater wonder, that the nephew was also a son. Artor knew they said it, though he did not know from whom the rumor first had come. It was inevitable, he thought, that the truth would eventually be known. That did not disturb him so much as the whisper he had heard as he lifted his son in his arms.

  “Still living? A pity—if the bastard broke his neck it would be better for the king and for us all!”

  Artor had not recognized the voice, and the situation could only be made worse by questioning, but in the dark hours of the night he lay wakeful, remembering the moment of thought, instantly suppressed, in which he had hoped it might be true.

  He was still there a week later, when horns proclaimed the arrival of another party and the Saxon lords rode in. When Artor had spoken with them he went to the terrace where Medraut, his leg splinted and bound, sat looking out at the sea.

  “Who has come?” asked the boy, looking up at him.

  Artor continued to gaze at the bright glitter of sun on water. “The brother of Cynric, who rules the south Saxons now,” he said without turning. “I had sent to them before we left Londinium, requesting his son as hostage, to guarantee the peace while I am in Gallia.”

  “And he has refused?”

  Artor shook his head, turning to face his son. “They have brought me the boy. Ceawlin is his name.”

  “Then why are you troubled? And why are you telling this to me?” Medraut swung his splinted leg down from the bench and sat up, the sunlight sparking on his hair in glints of fire.

  Artor stared at him, striving to see past the coloring and the fine bones that reminded him so painfully of Morgause. Who are you really, boy? What is going on behind those eyes?

  “He desires me to send a man of my own kindreds in exchange—‘to increase understanding between our peoples. . . .’”

  “And Goriat doesn’t want to go, so you are thinking of sending me?” Medraut asked mockingly, and Artor felt his face grow red.

  “Were you pushed down those stairs?” He held the boy’s gaze and saw a glimmer of some emotion, swiftly shut away.

  Artor had been king since he was the same age as this boy and he thought he knew how to judge men, but Medraut’s personality offered no point of attachment on which to build a relationship.

  Is that really true? he asked himself suddenly. Or is it that you have been afraid to try? He had kept the boy with him for almost a year, but how much time together had they really had?

  After a moment, Medraut looked down.

  “It was dark and raining . . . I thought there was someone, but I could not really see. I will tell you this, though. The arrow that wounded me in the south came from behind.”

  “You did not tell me!” Artor took a step forward, frowning, but Medraut’s eyes were limpid as the sea.

  “I had no proof, my lord, nor do I now. . . .”

  Artor stood over him, fists clenching. What are you hiding? he thought, and then, What am I? He felt a vast weariness as his anger drained away.

  “I will send you to the Saxons. Here, I cannot guarantee your safety, but Cynric will guard you like a she-wolf her last cub.” Against his own people, and mine, his thought went on, and perhaps against me. . . .

  “If you wish it, I will obey,” answered Medraut, looking away.

  Artor eyed at him narrowly, hearing in the boy’s voice something almost like satisfaction, and wondered why.

  III

  IN THE PLACE OF STONES

  A.D. 503

  TO TRAVEL ACROSS THE NECK OF ALBA IN HIGH SUMMER, NEITHER pursued nor pursuing, was pure pleasure. The Roman forts that had once defended the Antonine Wall were now no more than dimpled mounds, but the road that connected them was still passable. To the north rose the outriders of the highlands, blue with distance, the nearer slopes cloaked like an emperor in heather. Alba was all purple and gold beneath a pale northern sky, and the air had the same sweet tang as the peat-brown waters that rippled down from the hills.

  Artor breathed deeply and sat straighter, as cares he had not known he carried fell away. Even the weather held fair, as if to welcome him.

  “It won’t last,” said Goriat. “A week, or two, and we’ll see fog and rain so thick you’d think it was winter in the southern lands.”

  “All the more reason to enjoy it now!” Artor grinned back at him, and Raven, sensing his rider’s mood, pranced and pulled at the rein. “By the time the weather changes, we’ll be safe at Fodreu.”

  Cai, who was riding on his other side, made a sound halfway between a grunt and a growl. “If we can trust them—I still say you’re a fool to put yourself in their power!”

  Goriat opened his eyes at the language, but Artor only smiled. There were times when Cai forgot the king was not still the little foster-brother who had followed him about when they were young. But the blood Cai had shed in his service since then, thought Artor, entitled him to a few blunt words. He was only four years older than the
king, but he looked ten, the dark hair grizzled, and his face weathered and lined.

  “Maybe so,” Artor answered mildly, “but if they can’t be trusted, better to find out now than have them break the border while I’m in Gallia!”

  “Hmph!” Cai replied. “Or else you just enjoy the risk. I remember how it was when we were boys . . .”

  Goriat kicked his horse in the ribs and drew level, brows quirked enquiringly.

  “Whenever things got too quiet, Artor would find some fool thing to do. . . .” Cai exchanged rueful smiles with the king.

  “Was I that bad?” asked Artor.

  “Remember the miller’s donkey?”

  Artor’s grin grew broader.

  “What did he do?” asked Goriat in an awed voice.

  “Tied the donkey to a threshing flail—”

  “It could have worked,” protested the king. “We use oxen to grind the corn, after all.”

  “What happened?” Goriat persisted, obviously delighted to be let in on this secret history.

  “The donkey ate the grain and both Artor and I got a beating. They said I should have stopped him, but I knew even then the futility of trying to change Artor’s mind when he gets that look in his eye,” Cai answered resignedly.

  “I learned something, though . . .” Artor continued after a moment had passed. “Beasts, or men, must be led in the direction their nature compels them. It is my judgment that the Picts are ready for peace. I would hate to think that I have grown so accustomed to fighting that I crave it as a drunkard his wine! Still, just in case, Cai has the right of it: there is one whom I have no right to lead into danger—” He glanced back down the line, seeking the gleam of Ceawlin’s ruddy hair.

  “Goriat, go back down the line and bring Cynric’s cub up here to ride with me.”