M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon

by M. K. Hume

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Gareth,’ Lorcan said smoothly, grateful for Myrddion’s scrolls which had helped him to sort out the tangled skeins of familial relationships that the High King of the Britons had left in his wake.

  Gareth’s tanned, boyish face lit up as Arthur joined them, his blue eyes so wide with surprise and pleasure that Arthur was amazed that they didn’t pop out of the boy’s skull. ‘My father was right, Mistress Luned,’ he said. ‘My day has come, just as Father said it would.’

  ‘We can discuss your father’s predictions later.’ Luned sounded a little irritated by the interruption. ‘What has brought you to us in such haste?’

  ‘A courier from Aquae Sulis has just arrived, my lady. He is rousing the countryside and calling on the levees to assemble.’

  ‘The levees?’ Luned’s face suddenly became ashen with concern.

  ‘Lord Ector and King Bran have called all good Britons to assemble at Cunetio in the hills. The Saxons have invaded Calleva Atrebatum and the city is besieged. Our ancient enemy has attacked in force, and in winter, which is against all their usual practices. Massed warriors from Mercia have also been intercepted heading into the south. Our intelligence tells us that the true prize is Venta Belgarum, which they intend to take after Calleva Atrebatum falls. The Saxon kings have decided to strike deep into the heart of Britannia in an attempt to drive us into the sea.’

  He panted out the last words. ‘All men are urged to come to Cunetio. The Britons go to war.’

  CHAPTER XII

  THE CHURCH AT SPINIS

  What I say is that “just” or “right” means nothing but what is in the interest of the stronger party.

  Plato, The Republic, Book 1

  In Roman times Cunetio had been a small, fortified town in the hills not far from the headwaters of the Tamesis river, but the long skeins of civilisation had worn very thin in the century since the legions had left Britain’s shores, and now the ramshackle township had reverted to the tribal village it had once been. The meadows outside its low walls had been appropriated by foot soldiers and cavalry from as far away as the lands of the Selgovae, north of the Vallum Hadriani. Gawayne had finally succumbed to old age and death, and the new king of the Otadini was still feeling his way in his role, but he too had sent a small cohort of warriors as a reminder that all Britons should stand together against the Saxon interlopers.

  Their banners flew in the winter wind, a little bedraggled by sleet and frost. On their stiff, frozen surfaces, representations of lions, leopards, griffins, serpents, sea-monsters and mailed fists rioted with other images and threatened the dark air. The largely illiterate foot soldiers and archers found their allocated areas by dint of these pictorial devices, while many other leveed troops wore their tribal devices on their ox-hide breastplates to identify them without the need for words. Although the encampment lacked the ordered efficiency of a Roman camp in that empire’s heyday, the Britons indicated their unity of purpose and the serious nature of the coming battle by the absence of tribal arguments over old, unforgiven resentments.

  At first, the Brigante and the Deceangli had expected to be ostracised for their part in the rebellion against King Artor in the civil war, although they were among the first to answer Bran’s call to arms. However, the ever-diplomatic Ector gave express orders that the two tribes were to be treated as if no enmity had ever existed, and for the most part he was obeyed.

  ‘We’re done with petty squabbles over right or wrong. Ancient Calleva is like to be destroyed by the Saxon invaders, so the past is the past, and any man who raises his hand against any member of these tribes will answer to me.’

  Excited, but rather frightened, Arthur and his tutors had left the Villa Poppinidii to travel directly to Cunetio, judging the call to arms too urgent to detour via Arden. They would have ridden that evening, but Mistress Luned had insisted that they rest so their mounts would be fresh for the journey. When she produced a rough map that showed the Roman roads leading directly to their destination via the village of Verlucio, Lorcan was amazed.

  ‘Ector Major, who was the patriarch of the family and King Artor’s foster-father, developed a passion for maps when he studied with Myrddion Merlinus. When Artor fought his twelve great wars, Ector recorded the details for posterity. Mother said that Ector used to show her and Licia the places where the king had fought. We all gained an understanding of the world and how we fitted into its wonders through Ector’s maps and charts. As you can see, Father Lorcan, the track from Aquae Sulis runs directly to Cunetio. You couldn’t be better placed to arrive swiftly at your destination.’

  Later, she led Arthur to a small, sparsely furnished room not far from the scriptorium and explained that this monastic cell had been King Artor’s room when he was a boy.

  ‘Such a wonder. The room seems unchanged,’ Arthur murmured, amazed that a man of such greatness had spent his boyhood days in such basic surroundings.

  ‘We have other accommodation for guests, but I thought you might like to sleep where Artorex spent his nights,’ Luned said. Arthur was touched.

  ‘That would be wonderful, mistress. Thank you for your kindness.’

  ‘Our hypocaust is still in use, so you may bathe if you wish. We have a ready supply of fresh water so you needn’t fear to leave us wanting,’ Luned added. ‘Perhaps I can find a wide-toothed comb to handle your mop of hair. I think there’s one in Lady Livinia’s box that belonged to Artor when he was just a nameless boy with untamed hair. I’ll see if I can find it.’

  As Arthur tied to express his gratitude for so much unexpected hospitality, Luned brushed aside his words and glided away down the colonnade on silent feet.

  Arthur availed himself of the baths, taking time for a thorough soak and to wash his wild hair until it was squeaky clean. He enjoyed the entire solitary process, and jumped when the lad called Gareth entered the dressing room carrying a coarsely carved wooden comb and began to untangle the mat of his amber curls.

  ‘I’m old enough and ugly enough to service my own needs, Gareth, but I appreciate your efforts on my behalf,’ he said, punctuating his words with a smile for the benefit of the young lad.

  ‘My great-grandmother Frith used to untangle Artorex’s hair just so, my lord. She bound our whole family to Artorex long before anyone now living in this villa was even born, but the oath still stands to this day.’

  Being a sensible young man, Arthur admitted to himself that Gareth’s deft ministrations were far more effective than his own usual efforts. The wide tines of the comb seemed to be made for his hair, so easily did it glide through the tousled mane.

  ‘Yes, lord, Frith carved this comb with her own hands when Artorex was barely six years old. I would have known you anywhere, master, for your hair and your height are legends within my family. We are hand-fasted to you and yours for as long as the sun shines and the rain falls.’

  ‘But that’s hardly fair. No one has the right to own another person, least of all children who are yet unborn,’ Arthur replied. He was genuinely surprised by Gareth’s air of pride and purpose at the closeness of their respective kin.

  ‘I belong to you, master. My father prophesied that you would come to the villa one day and that I would have a great man to serve, as he had, until death came to take me. I admit that there have been times when I doubted that such a person even existed. Even if you were alive and well, I could not see how you would ever find me in the backwaters of Aquae Sulis. But you are here now, and my father’s promise was true.’

  The boy was so proud and so clean in face and body that Arthur was ashamed. How could such a strong and intelligent youth desire, above all else, to serve him and his heirs for a lifetime? Arthur was no fool, for all that he was only sixteen years old. He was aware that the duties of high birth could be onerous for a young man, but never more so than when other people were happy to enslave themselves because of an accident of birth or the nature of his dead sire.

  ‘When do we leave, master? Gareth
asked.

  ‘Do you plan to leave here with me?’ Arthur yelped, aghast. He had only recently come to the full realisation that he already had two men in his service, Germanus and Father Lorcan, two men who were tied to him by bonds of respect and friendship. To have another servant was a terrifying prospect. ‘I can’t ask you to do that. We are off to war, and we could be travelling to our deaths.’

  ‘I have been raised to serve and guard you, master. What else am I to do with my life? My father saw that I was trained with all weapons so that I could stand at your back. He sold his jewels to purchase the best armour available for me, and he ensured that I could read and speak sufficient Latin to be a credit to you. I have no other purpose than to serve you, and if you reject me I will have failed the ancient vows of my blood.’

  Something obsessive in Gareth’s eyes suggested to Arthur that the boy might do something desperate if he was refused. He considered his options. ‘But you can’t just leave Mistress Luned. You’re her servant first, rather than mine. Besides, I don’t have servants. I don’t even believe in owning other people’s labour.’

  ‘I’m paid for any work that I do in the villa. My father amassed great wealth in gold and gems during a lifetime as King Artor’s bodyguard, he spent little during a long lifetime of service. I am my own man and can go or stay where I choose. I must follow after you regardless of your wishes, so you might as well surrender.’

  Such arrogance would normally have infuriated Arthur, for he hated being manoeuvred into decisions he disliked. But Gareth smiled so widely and with such evanescent joy as he offered his ultimatum that Arthur was helpless. From Gareth’s point of view, he had found his purpose in life, one promised to him by his father from his earliest days. Arthur found that he envied the boy who was so close to him in age, yet so much more certain of his place in the world.

  ‘You’ll follow me, even if I refuse to allow it?’

  ‘Yes, Arthur. My task is to protect you from harm and to serve you for the rest of my life, whether you like it or not.’

  Arthur snorted with disgust. ‘Why did your great-grandmother saddle you with such a curse?’

  Quickly, Gareth outlined the family history. Frith had been Livinia Major’s nurse, and when the infant Artorex had come to the villa she had looked after him, although she was already an elderly woman. She had loved Artorex with her whole being and had cared for his wife Gallia and their daughter, Licia, with great pride. She had given her own grandson, Gareth, to young King Artor as his protector, swearing that her house would serve King Artor and his heirs for ever. With a sinking heart, Arthur realised that his real opponent was a wizened, white-haired old woman who had been dead for nearly sixty years.

  ‘If you wish to come, then I suppose I can’t stop you,’ he responded at the end of the tale. ‘But you’re not permitted to call me master, or lord, or any other servile form of address. I won’t tolerate it. Hear me, Gareth? You will call me Arthur. And you will respect Father Lorcan and Germanus, for they are my friends as well as my tutors. I have known them for half my life and I love them like kin. Do you understand my terms?’

  ‘Yes, master . . . Arthur.’ Gareth smiled. ‘I’ll keep Frith’s comb, although I suppose you’ll object if I attempt to tidy your hair.’

  ‘Exactly so!’ Arthur said with a grin of his own. ‘However, you can help me to plait this mess as I’m going to have to purchase armour that fits – and a discreet helmet.’

  ‘Wait one moment, lord . . . Arthur. I think I can solve some of your problems.’

  Gareth strode away on long legs that obviously wanted to run, but were held in check by the lad’s natural dignity, and returned within five minutes, lugging a heavy wicker chest over one shoulder. With a flourish, he swept open the lid and drew out a helmet. ‘This was my father’s armour. He was wearing it on the day the great king died.’

  The plain helmet was shaped like a centurion’s helm with a corresponding crest of stiff, red-dyed horsehair. The nose plate and cheek guards were smooth and undecorated to give no purchase to any attacker’s descending blade. The neck protection flanged outward to deflect blades in the same way, but on the back of the head an artisan had enamelled a huge red dragon to spread its wings protectively across the back of the neck.

  ‘This helm is beautiful, Gareth, and you’ve kept it in excellent condition. But I can’t accept this armour. Your father intended it to be used by you.’

  ‘I have my own armour, Arthur, designed specifically for me by a master metalsmith. This chest contains the armour that was presented to my father by the High King. As far as I can see, it originated with your father and is rightfully being returned to his son.’

  ‘A master smith made these too,’ Arthur murmured as he examined the mail gloves, as flexible as superfine hide and lined with fine lambskin. The helmet was cushioned with the same fine leather. A breast and back plate, buckled at the shoulders and the sides, was made of smooth, beautifully crafted metal, undecorated except for the red dragon rampant across the chest, and the shirt of mail worn under it was so light, flexible and strong that Arthur was sure that, in all the land of the Britons, only Rhys ap Myrddion had the skill to produce armour of a like calibre.

  A short knife, a shield, dragon cloak pins, greaves, a codpiece and an odd short spear that was used for stabbing rather than throwing completed the items in the wicker chest. ‘They’re all yours, Arthur, by my father’s express bequest. He always knew you’d come, and that my life would have purpose. He left me his sword, for he knew you would wish to find your own. I also have a series of gifts that the High King showered on him over nearly forty years of service. They are mine to give, so if you should want any or all of them, you only have to ask.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Gareth. I’ll become cross if you so much as hint that you should give me your birthright. I’ll accept the armour with thanks, because I’m sure you’ll be difficult if I don’t – and I’ll need it in the battles ahead. But I won’t touch what your father gave to you under any circumstances.’

  Gareth bowed his head. ‘Yes, Arthur.’

  ‘Well then, we shall be leaving shortly after dawn in the morning, so you’d best make all your goodbyes before you go to bed. It would be impolite to wake the house early on our behalf.’

  ‘We keep farm hours here, Arthur, so I don’t believe there’ll be any problem with leaving at any time suitable to you.’

  When Gareth had gone, Arthur lay staring at the same whitewashed ceiling that Artorex had gazed at sixty years earlier. He smelled the same scents of wood smoke and stew on the ovens as Artorex had. The rough wood slats, the leather straps on the bed that creaked whenever he moved, the sliver of light that shone through the primitive latch from the colonnade were all the same, as if the room had waited for its master to return and was now happy that it once again had a purpose.

  Lulled by the past and the strength of his fertile imagination, Arthur fell asleep.

  At Cunetio, Arthur quickly settled into the old pattern of life that had shaped him in Arden and honed his skills at the Warriors’ Dyke. Tired and stooped with arthritis, Bedwyr was a grey-muzzled old wolf, but only a fool would look into his hooded eyes and assume that great age had finished him. The Arden contingent was large, but Bedwyr had left his borders adequately guarded during his absence. He was fully aware that any competent strategist would attack at just this time and cleave their way into the centre of Britannia like a hot, sharp knife through new cheese.

  Not since the last call by King Artor to crush Modred and his conspirators in the civil war had so many tribesmen gathered in one place. And only a matter of the greatest urgency could have prompted the tribes who lived far away in relative safety behind the Walls to risk their best warriors in a major battle.

  Calleva had been an important city for many generations before Caesar had brought the Romans to Britannia. The Atrebates had ruled all of southern Britain from it because of its plentiful water, the excellent defences of the hill on
which it was situated, the forests that surrounded it and the mild and healthy climate.

  The Romans came and judged that the Atrebate kings had been clever in their choice of capital. Plentiful firewood fired industry, the city had a formidable wall which the Romans built even higher with an accompanying ditch and, when they built their road network, the site was perfect as a natural crossroads that was easily defended. One road headed north-west to Corinium, another south-west to Durnovaria near the coast; another road headed east to Londinium while, to the south, a fourth road headed straight and true to Venta Belgarum and, from there, to the port of Magnus Portus.

  But Calleva Atrebatum, as it had been called during Roman times, was in a gradual decline, slow but inexorable. Venta Belgarum had eclipsed it as a British centre during the reigns of Ambrosius and Uther Pendragon, perhaps because the brothers had a nervous need to have an escape route at their backs following their terrifying childhood experiences. However, the political situation had changed in recent times, and with it Calleva Atrebatum had regained much of its lost prestige: so much so that it was now under siege, in winter, by a determined Saxon force.

  Cissa, the king of the Suth Seaxe, had finally died, leaving no offspring to take his place. In the power struggle that ensued, the more ambitious thanes began to consolidate their hold on the broad, rich lands of the south between Londinium and Noviomagus that had been in Saxon hands since King Artor had been a boy. The power vacuum which should have been a blessing to the British actually marked the beginning of a slow and terrible slide into irrelevancy for the old tribes of what was increasingly being called Angleland. The thanes of old Verulamium and Camulodunum, on the other hand, the Western Saxons, backed by the lords of Mercia, welcomed it. The invaders knew that many rich acres of land covered with black-faced sheep were there for the taking. The wealth of the old Roman cities lay open for strong arms to take, and so, lest the tribes organise in the wake of Cissa’s death and use a civil war within the Suth Seaxe to strengthen their hold on the south and the west, the thanes struck boldly. Had the climate not been so mild, the advent of winter would have crushed their plans, but that year had brought no snow before the solstice, and the Saxons’ gods promised them a great victory over their enemies. Pontes, west of Londinium, had long been a town where Britons and Saxons had co-existed amicably for the sake of trade, but now the thanes ordered the tribal citizens of Pontes to be put to the sword, the churches burned and the town placed under the banner of the White Dragon of the East.