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

by M. K. Hume

  With relief, the workers downed tools and climbed wearily out of the growing trench. Fresh diggers were taking their places right along the line, and Bran’s work continued apace.

  As Arthur and Germanus walked away, Cadwy gripped his foster-son’s arm. ‘Ask him now, boy, for I have to know,’ he hissed. ‘By the gods, if Artor came again in the body of a true son, we could drive these Saxon lice back to whatever shithole they come from.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong to make this offer, Father. Your intentions could be misunderstood and you could be dead wrong . . . so many things could come back to bite you. Please . . .’

  ‘Idris, I love you as a son, which is why I trust you to grant me this favour. I’d go myself, but too many people know me and would wonder why I sought out Bedwyr’s lad. I need this task done properly, Idris, and you are the only man who can do it.’

  Unhappy, Idris trudged away after the rest of the diggers, the line of his shoulders indicating his discontent.

  ‘I need to clean myself of this muck, Germanus,’ Arthur muttered. ‘Isn’t it odd that ditches seem to have dominated our lives for the past few years? Judging from our experiences at the Warriors’ Dyke, this ditch is likely to fill with water in a day or two, so we need to get the stakes in quickly while we can still see the bottom of the trench.’

  Hesitantly, Idris ap Cadwy joined them. His dark good looks and whipcord-thin physique were the perfect foil for Arthur’s golden height and strength. ‘May I join you, gentlemen, while you wash? I would like to speak to you on a matter of some importance.’

  Arthur brushed his spiralled curls, rendered even wilder by mud and dirt, out of his eyes and examined Idris carefully. No warning itch or noise disturbed his mind. ‘Of course, Master Idris. I would be honoured.’

  By this time they had reached one of the wells situated deep within the British camp. Germanus and Arthur stripped to their loincloths and used buckets to sluice themselves from head to toe, the water running down their bodies in rust-coloured runnels. Germanus finished before Arthur, for his long, thinning hair was quickly cleaned, whereas Arthur’s mane alone required half a dozen dowsings to remove the accumulated grime and muck that seemed to have been ground into his scalp.

  ‘Damn this digging. I don’t think I’ll ever be clean again,’ Arthur said to no one in particular, enjoying the feeling of his freshly washed toes on the rough stone edging to the old farm well. He bent to pick up his filthy clothes and scrubbed them in a bucket of water as well. Once he was satisfied that his tunic and trews were as clean as possible, he returned the bucket to its place, picked up his sodden clothing and began to walk towards the tent he shared with his three companions.

  ‘You’re welcome to break bread with us, Idris. Lorcan, my tutor, is our nominal cook, but I must say his ability is limited at best. The last time I saw him, my companion Gareth was guarding the picket lines, but he’ll appear, ghost-like, just when we least expect him. And this large gentleman here is my arms master, Germanus. He’s my teacher – and my friend.’

  Idris was impressed by Arthur’s easy introductions. The young man was indicating clearly that these men, whom other aristocrats would dismiss as servants, had roles far more important than mere service, and he’d not permit them to be insulted or embarrassed. He offered his hand to Germanus, who took it easily. The three men wandered through the tent town to a small hide structure just large enough for four pallets stuffed with fresh grass. Outside, over a rudimentary fire-pit made of river stones, several bars of old metal had been purloined by Father Lorcan to serve as a fireplace. A large iron pot held a stew of rabbit, turnips, parsnips, carrots and, miracle of miracles, strips of fresh cabbage.

  Idris was struck dumb with amazement. Around him, groups of warriors were trying to turn dried meat into something remotely edible, using any greens they had foraged on the journey to Calleva. The bounty available to Arthur and his friends was a very pleasant surprise. He felt his mouth begin to water.

  Arthur grinned at the expression on his face. ‘We received news of the war while on a visit to the Villa Poppinidii, outside Aquae Sulis. Gareth has lived there all his life, so our hostess loaded us down with as much fresh food as we could carry, including a haunch of venison. We devoured that at Cunetio.’

  ‘Arthur learned to kill rabbits with a slingshot almost as soon as he could walk. Living off the land is routine in the Forest of Arden,’ Germanus added laconically as Lorcan entered the tent. ‘Hey, Lorcan, I need a favour. My hair is thinning and I’m beginning to look like an old man. When hair isn’t useful, it becomes dangerous. It’s too easy to obtain a handhold, and I’ve a mind to look young and beautiful for the Saxons.’

  ‘If I have the time! Where’s young Gareth got to? If we give him a foot, he’ll take your whole leg. Where are the bowls? The wooden ones, Arthur. I’m taking the stew off the fire now, so we can heat it again in the morning.’

  Then, using the point of his knife, he scraped away the coals to reveal a blackened tin. Lorcan prised off the lid with his blade and exposed a browned something that he tipped onto a wooden platter, where it steamed enthusiastically.

  ‘What’s that?’ Arthur asked.

  ‘It’s a form of bread made from flour, water and salt. It hasn’t much taste, but it will sop up the stew and put some meat on your bones. Now let’s get inside and we’ll eat like kings.’

  ‘I have quite enough meat on my bones, thank you,’ Arthur replied tartly, until Lorcan broke the rough circlet of dough into five equal portions that smelled warm, homely and delicious. ‘Of course, I can change my mind, being the master around here.’

  The four men each took a hunk of bread and a bowl of stew and went into the tent to hunker down on the pallets. Lorcan brought the remaining stew into the tent and lidded the pot. ‘I draw the line at feeding the camp dogs and any other scavengers,’ he explained. ‘Fortunately, it’s winter so nothing goes bad.’

  Arthur snorted. ‘Excuses! It’s a poor cook who blames the weather for the quality of his meals.’

  Lorcan clipped Arthur’s ear and Idris was touched by the family atmosphere that underscored the relationship between the three men. But he barely had time to register their affection before a handsome youth in partial armour entered the tent and picked up the bowl of stew and the slab of camp bread that Lorcan had put out for him. He raised one eyebrow in Idris’s direction, and the look of distrust in his arctic blue eyes was startling for a lad who could only be fourteen at most. Idris hastily looked away, addressing Father Lorcan.

  ‘Ignore this cub, Father Lorcan. I’ll wager your stew is the finest to be had this afternoon in either the British or the Saxon camp, and it’s a privilege to be here. I’d venture to say no cook in Calleva could rival it either, given the primitive conditions in which you’re forced to work your magic. You’ve missed your calling.’

  Lorcan laughed and ruffled Idris’s hair, an action that should have been a mortal insult, but somehow seemed sincere and affectionate rather than patronising. ‘You’re a liar, Master Idris, but I’ll accept the compliment with pleasure.’

  When the meal was finished, Gareth carried off the empty platters to the well to scour them clean with a handful of the sand that Lorcan kept in a hide container. Lorcan would have preferred to boil them, but time was never flexible enough for the chores that needed to be completed in any day’s chaos. If they stayed in bivouac for any length of time, he would make other arrangements for hygiene.

  With only a few regrets, Germanus was preparing to have all his remaining hair cut away to protect himself during the coming battle, despite the natural reluctance of a warrior to be parted from his plaits. As the tent quietened, Idris asked if he could speak to Arthur in private.

  The two men moved out of the tent and strolled through the camp. Winter reduced the hours of daylight so the nights were long and bitterly cold, although no snow threatened.

  ‘Thank you for the hospitality, Arthur. In fact, I have rarely eaten a meal that I enj
oyed more. Your generosity is far greater than this stranger deserves.’ By the light of a nearby fire, Arthur could see a fine network of lines around Idris’s eyes. The foster-son of Cadwy Scarface was far older than his slender physique and well-shaped features suggested. ‘I should explain that when I was about your age I was present at the judgement of King Mark of the Deceangli tribe. That memorable meeting took place at King Artor’s hall at Deva, although it was a burned-out shell after Modred was through with it. It must be fourteen years ago now.’

  So Idris ap Cadwy was about twenty-nine years old, Arthur thought; a man sliding towards middle age, although he seemed little older than Arthur.

  ‘I was less than a year old at that time and Gareth was yet to be born.’

  ‘Time passes quickly,’ Idris said softly.

  ‘Gareth will join us soon, I’m afraid. He’s bound by some kind of archaic oath to guard me and he takes his self-appointed task very seriously.’

  ‘Hmn,’ Idris replied. ‘I’d prefer we were alone.’

  ‘I assure you that Gareth would die before betraying me. You can speak freely. Of course, if you say anything that Gareth considers to be a threat towards me, he might try to cut your throat.’ Arthur smiled as he noted the expression on the face of his guest. ‘No, I’m only jesting – don’t look so alarmed.’

  With a long, indrawn breath, Idris began his prepared speech in a rush, before he could lose his courage. ‘My foster-father, Cadwy called Scarface, fought under the Dragon King when he was a young man. He has a very long memory and now he is greatly troubled.’

  Oh, dear, Arthur thought. This is exactly what Anna feared most all those years ago. My sister may believe she has nothing of the family gift of sight, but she’s altogether too clever. There are still some people alive who knew Artor when he was a young man, so it seems I may have to create a plausible story.

  ‘Father swears to me that you must be the son of the last High King. He knew King Artor when he still wore his hair in warrior’s plaits and he described your curls very accurately, Master Arthur. He also believes your size and bearing are unmistakable, although he thinks the High King was perhaps an inch taller. But, as he says, you are far larger than most Roman or tribal warriors. He assures me that your face is the image of the young King Artor, although your eyes have more green in them.’

  Arthur cleared his throat. ‘Why didn’t Cadwy come to me with these crazy suspicions? Does he think to hide behind his foster-son?’

  ‘He has been shamed, my lord, for he truly believes he betrayed your kinsman at the ford. He cannot meet your eyes.’

  Arthur was impatient and a little frightened by the obsessive expression in Idris’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re speaking nonsense, Idris. King Bran has issued an order that the civil war is to be forgotten, and I obey my king. Please don’t call me master or lord, for I’m half your age and have had none of your experience. I’m not even a warrior yet.’

  ‘Cadwy asked me to press you to make your claim to the title of High King of the Britons. The tribes need you. We need a figurehead who will give heart to the ordinary warriors who can be expected to die on this plain. We all need you!’

  Arthur’s skin was paper-white, his eyes flat and deadly like pale holes burned into his skull. Behind him, Gareth readied himself for trouble and Idris heard the boy slide his sword up and down in its scabbard to check that it wouldn’t jam. Only the greatest exercise of will prevented him from drawing his own weapon in response, an action which would have precipitated disaster for them all.

  ‘I’ll not raise my hand against King Bran and Lord Ector, who have given their youth and their lives to protect the tribes. Nor would I usurp the position of the rightful rulers of this land even if your deductions were true. I’ll not be King Bran’s Modred! Do you hear me, Idris? I should separate your head from your torso for even suggesting that I could be a traitor.’

  Idris examined Arthur’s face and decided that the young man spoke in deadly earnest. He knew he must repair the damage Cadwy had wrought out of love for the British people, but how could he convince this fierce young man that his foster-father harboured no traitorous intent? He fell to his knees and bared his neck in supplication.

  ‘You may kill me if you believe I suggested treason, master. Cadwy wished with his whole heart to find a tool that would assist King Bran to defeat the Saxons. He is no traitor, although I can understand how it must have sounded to a stranger. You don’t know Cadwy, but he worshipped your father, and would die happy if he could see you lead the Britons. Please try to imagine how he feels. He stood with Modred and so was partially responsible for the death of the High King and a thousand tribal warriors who cannot be replaced in this time of need. He looks at the ever-expanding gains made by the Saxons and his guilt is more than he can bear.’

  Arthur paced, his muscles tensed and pumped for action in this trial by fire. More easily than he had expected, he resisted the temptation to strike and waited for Idris to go on.

  ‘My foster-father is not a wise man, but he is good,’ Idris continued. ‘I tried to explain to him how his petition would sound, but he couldn’t understand what I meant. He has no treason in his heart, only a longing for a chance to redeem the errors committed in his past.’

  Gradually, Arthur’s breathing and his frenetic pacing began to slow. Germanus came to the tent flap to check on the commotion, but Arthur waved him away. The fewer men who knew about Cadwy’s foolish offer the better, even men he trusted as implicitly as his tutors.

  ‘We’ll speak no more of this matter, Idris. Get on your feet, man, for I’m unlikely to behead you after you’ve eaten at my table. You can tell your foster-father that I bear him no ill-will for his lack of understanding of my character. I am Bran’s man and Ector’s man until my death. Even if I were Artor’s natural son, he could not have wished me to be High King. You must understand, Idris ap Cadwy, that I’ll not be used by anyone, even men who have given their lives to the cause of the Britons. Finally, I beg that you never discuss this matter with anyone, else great harm might come to innocent men and women.’

  ‘Thank you for your understanding, Lord Arthur. I’ll persuade my foster-father to be prudent, but don’t be surprised if he wishes to offer his fealty and his apologies in person.’

  ‘If Cadwy Scarface approaches me, I’ll not spurn him or make him feel any guilt. But leave him in no doubt where my loyalty lies.’

  So Arthur passed an unexpected and disconcerting test of honour. Cadwy Scarface sought Arthur out on the morrow and embarrassed the young man by lying before him face down and full length in the mud with his arms outstretched in a cruciform position. Passing warriors stared at the odd tableau and the tall young Cornovii gained an extra gloss of reputation because of it.

  ‘I’ll remain your man until my death, Arthur,’ the old man murmured. ‘If the gods take pity on me, I will win the opportunity to die well in this campaign. Forgive me, Arthur, for I should have guessed that you would be a man of unimpeachable honour, one fit to be the son of the greatest man I have ever known.’

  The old man was broken, and tears streamed down his scarred face in such profusion that Arthur took pity on him. ‘All is forgiven, Cadwy, and I will pray that you join your master soon. Now stand on your feet like the true man you are, knowing that all is forgiven.’

  But Arthur could not forget his test of integrity as he drifted off to sleep for the second night in the bivouac.

  And, although the Britons were not hiding, the Saxons still did not come.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE LAST MAN STANDING

  Man, false man, smiling, destructive man.

  Nathaniel Lee, Theodosius, Act 3, Scene 2

  Three days passed while nothing in particular actually happened. Inside Calleva Atrebatum, the citizens looked down at the Saxon hordes, busily digging at the base of the eastern gate, and dropped hot pitch and boiling water on them. The activity was much the same on the main western wall, but there the bes
ieged townsfolk could see the Britons in the relieving force as they worked like ants along their own trench, now clearly in two sections divided by a narrow causeway leading to a gap in the wall behind it. The spirits of the townsfolk were cheered by the energy of their allies. A few embittered persons complained that both Saxon and British forces seemed to be settling in for the winter but, largely, a celebratory mood fuelled optimism in the population of old Calleva.

  For those with eyes to see, the Saxons showed less efficiency than the Britons in the complicated logistics of a protracted siege. Latrines were rudimentary, and should the months stretch out for too long, then disease would kill more Saxons than Bran’s warriors. Saxons disliked sieges because they demanded patience rather than the glorious red work of hand to hand combat. There was little glory in starving an enemy to death.

  In the abandoned amphitheatre outside the city walls, Havar was in the midst of a Jute tantrum, an awesome sight when the warrior in question was immensely tall, broad and prone to shouting to win any conversational disagreement.

  ‘We should have scoured out those little black rats two days ago,’ he roared, one arm pointing at Calleva and the British camp beyond it. ‘Fighting men do not sit on their thumbs waiting for the gods to give them the victory.’

  ‘What would you have me do, Havar?’ Cerdic responded in a dangerously quiet voice, while his personal guard stood straighter with malignant red glints in their eyes.

  ‘We outnumber the bastards and they know it. Attack them and they’ll run like rats. Calleva will then be forced to surrender.’

  Cynric smiled from behind one hand while his father stared blandly into Havar’s congested face. ‘And what strategy would you pursue, Havar? You should remember that this Bran, the king of the Ordovice tribe, is a kinsman of the Red Dragon who used Roman tactics against us for thirty-odd years. We never defeated him in all that time, regardless of how much we outnumbered his forces.’