by M. K. Hume
‘Remember, friends,’ Arthur explained one evening as he wrapped his abused palms with clean bandaging, ‘the warriors and the peasants take their attitude to the dyke from us. If we are lazy, or if we complain about the difficulty of the work for no reason, they will follow our lead and also complain. This task is important, and we should be proud to play our part in it. I’m committed to what we’re building, even if I know that peasants can do the digging faster and better than I do. When I’m an old man, I will look back at the Warriors’ Dyke and say that I helped to build it and keep my people safe from harm. What are a few blisters compared with a goal like that?’
The nights passed in spirals of wheeling stars that seemed so close that Arthur could reach out his spread fingers and capture their chilly beauty in his hands. Although his muscles ached from the endless toil of digging, no mental screams of warning came to disturb his sleep and no threats of danger whispered from the back of his skull. Only the night breeze soughed through the fields of long grasses and sang melodies of ancient beauty in the leafy branches of young trees. Time stood still during those long, dreamy nights as the breezes brought the scents of spring and growing things to Arthur’s senses, and he prayed that this stage of his life would never end. The peace of ordinary men and women came hand in hand with the cleansing honesty of toil that soothed the mind with a promise of long, warm days and sweet, refreshing nights.
So summer came to the flatlands leading to the heart of the west. The ditch was now almost three miles long and the peasants were filling its long, straight channel with sharpened stakes that pointed menacingly towards the east. Ahead lay the river, Taliesin’s greatest challenge so far, although the waters were narrow here where the stream flowed down from high in the hills where it began its journey. Arthur waited for the day when Taliesin would explain how the ditch would intertwine with the singing, living water at the point where Taliesin had chosen to make his crossing.
Breathless, the world also waited in a hush of summer nights.
CHAPTER X
A DANGEROUS ENEMY
The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.
Jeremiah 17:9
With a new stoicism, Arthur stared down at the dancing, gurgling waters of the river that could bring a year’s labour to nothing. Not particularly wide nor overly deep, it still posed problems for the workers because marshland on both banks brought stinging insects and green clouds of gnats to feast on any exposed flesh.
‘What’s to stop the Saxons from loading rafts with their wagons and possessions and using the river to slip through into the west once we’ve gone? That’s what I’d do if I were in their boots,’ Arthur exclaimed to Taliesin when he saw the marshy banks.
Taliesin observed Arthur’s serious expression with approval. He had been concerned by the younger man’s enjoyment of company and his sense of humour, traits that Taliesin’s earnest nature rejected as unnecessary. Arthur seemed to like everyone, and such fair, unprejudiced tolerance was not an ideal characteristic for a man who was born to rule.
‘As always, Arthur, your questions are pertinent, but I would never waste months of my time building a dyke that could be easily bypassed. I have already solved the problem of how the ditch should cross the river.’ Taliesin raised his hand and used his forefinger to emphasise the points he wanted to make by stabbing the empty air. ‘First, we need to be aware of the Saxons’ intentions in plenty of time to take action against them if they try to load their wagons onto rafts. A small troop of warriors will be based in this area and regular patrols will be carried out to monitor their movements. But in any case, the land is marshy upstream from the ditch and it would be almost impossible to load and launch any rafts from there.’
Arthur nodded. So far, Taliesin’s reasoning seemed sound.
‘Second, I plan to build a further obstacle to hold back the Saxons once our ditch has been completed. The small troop of Celts who will be left to guard this section of the wall will easily be able to handle the set of chains I intend to place across the river. The chains will be invisible under the water until such time as they are raised into position to block the channel.’
‘Chains?’
‘Yes, Arthur, chains. My father saw the great ropes of iron that seal off the harbour of the Golden Horn at Constantinople with his own eyes. As a boy, I tried to imagine the vast blue harbour shining in the sunlight and the network of chains that lay under the water. In times of danger, slaves would use huge pulleys to raise the chains up to bar the way of warships and prevent them from entering. Can you imagine the scale of it all? They used hundreds of yards of chain mesh, which is incredible when compared with our paltry thirty feet. Our small net is tiny by comparison, but it will be quite sufficient to achieve our purpose.’
Taliesin’s eyes glowed with enthusiasm and his chill features were flushed with colour for the first time in Arthur’s memory. Suddenly, Arthur wondered what he would have been like had he not been blighted by the last bitter days of Artor when he was little more than a boy. He was beginning to suspect that the harpist was determined to see the High King reborn and raised to his natural prominence in British life, whether the successor wanted such power or not. And he had a shrewd idea whom Taliesin wanted that successor to be.
Taliesin strode effortlessly along the marshy banks of the stream, his long black hair whipping in the strong breeze. ‘Imagine, Arthur. The structure at Constantinople comprised a vast net of iron chains as thick as a man’s upper arm that could block the harbour entrance. Father’s account of it set me to thinking of what we could do here at our little river. A simple system of chains could immobilise any rafts or troops of horsemen that attempted to come downstream and block the easiest route into the west country. We would only need two men with a pulley system to raise and lower the chains. I’ve already drawn up the plans, and my brother Rhys has come to oversee the construction of the system.’
Arthur stared at the scrap of vellum on which the harper had sketched out the mechanical details of the chain gate. ‘I’m awed by how easily you calculate the answers to difficult problems. By the grace of the gods, you have an enquiring mind that leaves other men stumbling through the darkness of ignorance.’
‘The gods? Your mother is Christian, so I assumed that you shared her belief,’ Taliesin said softly, with a blank expression that showed only polite interest. Under his bland demeanour, however, he was pleased that Arthur had no religious affiliations, for such neutrality reduced the chances of manipulative priests gaining ascendancy over his mind.
‘I don’t know what gods are out there.’ Arthur gestured aimlessly with his hand at the sky and the distant hills. ‘I don’t know if the Christian God made everything, in which case he’s to blame for much misery and ugliness as well as great joy and beauty. I can’t guess which religion is correct, so I leave questions of faith to heads that are more clever and incisive than mine.’ Taliesin shook his head and Arthur saw him wipe away the merest trace of a tear with trembling fingers. ‘I’m sorry, Taliesin. I’ve upset you in some way that I don’t understand. I’d take my words back if I knew what I’d said to hurt you.’
‘You’re very much like your sire, Arthur. At times like this it’s easy to forget that Artor is long dead, because you look and think so much as he did. Many years ago, he once answered me exactly so to a similar theological question. He believed in purity of heart and goodness of action rather than the rhetoric and rituals of different faiths.’
‘Then I’m glad that my lack of belief gives you pleasure as well as pain. It worries my mother sick, as if the afterlife would be barred to me if I were to die a heathen. I told her that any true god wouldn’t care about the details if a man had lived a good life, but she’s not convinced.’
‘There’s no need to fret about my feelings, Arthur. A man who feels no pain may as well be dead. As your father said, leave matters of religion to the priests. He lived his life by a very precise set of rules which he wouldn’t br
eak for any reason. Perhaps you’d not agree with all the commandments that he chose to keep over a long life, but they explain much about him and the ethics he admired. I believe our personal code of conduct explains us to any deity more truly than our choice of religion. I’ve never understood how a man can claim to be pure in the eyes of his god and yet kill the children of his enemies, as some priests suggest should be done. Children are not lice to be killed on sight. In fact, any religion that implies that some people have more right to live than others cannot be sanctioned by any god that I’d care to worship.’
Taliesin’s voice was soft and almost seductive, and for the first time Arthur appreciated the potential for danger that lay beneath the harper’s fair face. He was finally beginning to perceive the cause of the itch that Germanus felt whenever Taliesin was present. The Cymru poet did not possess the Sight, like his father before him, nor had he inherited Nimue’s gift for reading others; but he sensed the skeins of power that ran intertwined through any group of persons, rich or poor, gifted or talentless, aristocrat or peasant. Taliesin saw potential in bands of colour, good and evil according to their relationship with others, and the ribbon of light coiling round Arthur was the red of hearts’ blood, shading out to imperial purple.
Ignorant of what Taliesin saw so clearly when he looked at him, Arthur shook his head, showing his perplexity regarding the whole tangled question of the supernatural. Visibly confused, he put it aside to concentrate on more immediate matters.
‘Who’s coming this year, master? I’m looking forward to seeing Eamonn pen Bors again when he arrives. We had a wager when he left last autumn. He insisted that he wouldn’t grow in the intervening months, so I laid my sling down in the hope that he’d be wrong. I think I have the better of the wager, for his big feet are one sign he’s due for a growth spurt.’
‘Yes, Eamonn is coming, and he’s bringing his younger brother with him. Anyway, you young giant, who are you to speak about a growth spurt? How tall are you now?’
‘By the Roman measurements, six feet and four inches,’ Arthur replied with a grin. ‘But I haven’t grown for ages and my feet have stayed the same size for six months now. Mother is relieved, because my brothers already have a basket full of cast-off sandals that I’ve outgrown.’ Arthur stared down at his long and slender feet. ‘I’ll be glad to stop growing. I’m sick of being treated like some kind of freak.’
‘You’re not a freak, Arthur, just a superb specimen of manhood. Don’t be melodramatic! Your friends will be here soon and the skies are clear of rain clouds, which is surprising for the start of spring. Everything in our world is lovely, so you must learn to search for beauty. I remember well how your sire would pause on his horse to watch a dragonfly skip across a few inches of filthy water. He told me that the glories of the world almost stopped his heart sometimes, but it was the little things in nature that he loved most passionately.’ Taliesin shook his head to dispel a cherished memory. ‘You’d best set up your tent before the other lads arrive.’
As Taliesin turned brusquely away, Arthur felt as if he had been dismissed. The few minutes of shared intimacy seemed to have embarrassed the older man, and now he followed his show of affection by donning a cold, curt mask. What could Arthur do but obey this strange, other-worldly man who seemed to desire something of him, but steadfastly refused to tell him what it was.
As usual when he was puzzled or upset, Arthur went to his tutors for advice. Germanus and Lorcan were setting up their plain but comfortable tent on the margins of the meadow in company with the other mentors and servants of the princes who were already appearing at the encampment, wide with smiles and laughing over-loudly with the enthusiasm of young children on holiday.
Arthur thrust his head and shoulders into the opening of the tent and apologised for interrupting their work. Both men turned away from their unpacking, each with the same look of patient affection.
‘What’s worrying you, young Arthur? You’ve been looking forward to spring for months, and you’ve near to driven Arden crazy with your longing to be gone.’ Germanus carefully stored his armour in its fleece bag on a peg attached to the main tent pole, although Arthur couldn’t imagine any situation where the warrior would need full battle gear in this place. ‘I like to be prepared,’ Germanus answered his unspoken question. ‘Now, what’s stung you on the arse, boy? Out with it!’
‘Else we’ll never be unpacked,’ Lorcan added. Germanus scowled at the interruption, for Lorcan always liked to have the last word, and the two teachers had argued over this on many occasions, rather like a pair of old lovers. However, both men would have been mortally insulted if they were made aware of the appearance of their affectionate squabbling.
‘I’ve been speaking to Taliesin, and there are times when I don’t understand him at all. On occasion I seem to make him . . . well, angry . . . that’s the only description that feels right. He becomes so impatient with me that I can tell he wants to shake me. I’m almost certain that he has some sort of purpose planned for me, but when I indicate that I don’t know what it is he becomes even angrier. I think he intends me to follow in the steps of my father, although I’m younger and stronger than Artor was when Taliesin knew him. Am I right?’
‘Yes, but don’t be misled by his motives, for there’s nothing sexual in it,’ Lorcan replied casually, and bit into a huge apple with obvious pleasure. Germanus glared at his friend, and Lorcan turned on him. ‘What are you looking at, Germanus? You’ve gone all Saxon and stiff necked on me!’
‘You need to mind your tongue, Lorcan, especially when you’re talking about the actions of your betters. The High King never dishonoured Taliesin or vice versa, from what I’ve ever heard. And we would have heard it, because soldiers have bugger all to do but talk about their masters. Not that the High King found anything distasteful in the love that some men feel for others of their own sex. Master Bedwyr told me that King Artor regretted how little love existed in the world and how important it was to cherish true devotion wherever it was found. You’re confusing Arthur, you clod.’
‘I’m confusing him? You’re turning a simple sentence into a dissertation on human sexuality.’ Lorcan tossed the apple core at Germanus, who caught it easily because the Hibernian used little force and no anger in the throwing of it.
‘Father Lorcan, Germanus . . . I’m confused and you’re not helping. Are you saying that Taliesin was physically in love with King Artor? He’s certainly never made any advances of that nature to me. I’m not such a baby that I’d misunderstand him. It’s as if he becomes angry when I speak or act in ways that don’t conform to his idealisation of the High King.’
‘He loves the romance of what you are, Arthur,’ Lorcan answered carefully. ‘He was very young when he met his father’s friend, and the High King was already a living legend. He was entranced by the tragedy of Artor’s life and was full of hope for the future when he discovered that you’d been born. Even so, in the aftermath of the Battle of the Ford, he thought everything was lost. He was heartbroken when Artor died, for he loved him for his sense of duty and his courage. If you want to understand Taliesin’s soul, all you have to do is listen to him when he sings of the death of the king. Taliesin worships no god, for Artor represented everything that Taliesin judges to be fine in the human spirit. When you deviate from Taliesin’s view of his hero, he sees you as a traitor to the memory of Artor, so he’s angry. He can’t help it, so don’t be irritated with him. He’s a man who has lived with legends and has become one himself. His life has no meaning unless he can contribute to the formation of further legends, and he intends you to become the ultimate saviour of the west.’
‘He doesn’t want much, does he? Besides, I don’t think the west can be saved,’ Germanus added drily.
‘Are you suggesting the harper is a little mad?’ Arthur asked, his grey eyes wide. Taliesin was one of the great heroes of the age, a man who crossed borders at will and perpetuated the legends that had grown around the name of his famous mas
ter, Artor.
‘Most great men are a touch crazy, because they have wide-ranging dreams and see the future far more clearly than do ordinary men.’ Lorcan began to munch reflectively on another apple. ‘You shouldn’t blame Taliesin for his dreams concerning you. He cares about you deeply, and he knows you might be the key to the future of your people. He’d like you to live his way to achieve his aims, rather than your own. It’s wrong-headed thinking, I know . . . but you must try to understand his motivation.’
‘I get sick of being the one who has to understand,’ Arthur snapped sulkily. Germanus could tell from his tone of voice that Arthur really was tired of being used by powerful men, and the arms master’s sympathies went out to a boy who was yet to become a man, one whom everyone expected to act with calm reasoning and sensitivity to the needs of others when he was still only a stripling. There are special burdens placed on the tall and the strong, Germanus thought with a pang of memory for his own childhood experiences. He has needs too, and he only has fifteen years behind him. To break the mood, Germanus tossed an apple in Arthur’s direction, and then peered through the tent flap.
‘Eamonn has just arrived with a large retinue.’ Germanus’s eyes gleamed with impish humour. ‘And I do believe that the young man has gained a little height. Oh, and before I forget it, the Dobunni heir is here as well, although without his followers: apparently his train was so large it fell behind and won’t be here for a day or two yet.’ The arms master tossed another apple in Arthur’s direction. ‘That’s a prize for winning your wager. Now, get you gone, Arthur, and leave us old men to set our tent in order.’
Within days, the friendships and pleasures of life under canvas had re-established themselves as the young aristocrats of the southern tribes recommenced their backbreaking work on the Warriors’ Dyke. The toil was rendered more interesting by the building of two small circular stone huts to conceal the pulley system that would raise and lower the network that would block off the channel. Taliesin’s brother Rhys, a gifted blacksmith, was spending every daylight hour creating a series of graduated, interlocking chains that would complete the complicated structure. Arthur found a passion for the forge growing in him, and he took any opportunity to spend his free time running errands for Rhys and learning the rudiments of the blacksmith’s trade from the hands of a master.
