by M. K. Hume
Bors began to pace and the wind lifted his black hair to expose small, almost womanish ears. One lobe had been pierced to hold a golden ring with a cabochon stone set into a small basketwork setting. The simple decoration caught the light and the red in the stone’s heart glowed like a single drop of blood.
‘I’m aware of your parentage. No man who knew the Dragon King in his middle years could fail to recognise his offspring. I was only a boy at the time, but I remember those days of blood and glory with some regret.’
‘I am the foster-son of Bedwyr, the Arden Knife, who has all my love and loyalty. I want nothing more, regardless of my birth father,’ Arthur replied, careful of every word he uttered.
‘There’s no need to tell falsehoods to me in this house, boy, for I will recognise any fabrication. I wish to ask you some impertinent questions, and you would be within your rights to consign me to the devil. But consider your answers with care, if you do comply. It is important that I know whom my son calls friend, although he will not inherit Tintagel unless the Lord Jesus sees fit to take his two older brothers from us. Will you answer me fairly, Arthur of Arden?’
‘Willingly, my lord.’
‘Then, my first question is whether King Bran knows of your true relationship to him?’ Bors was frank, and this question struck deeply into the tangled politics of the remaining kingdoms of the Britons. Arthur understood his concerns and was as truthful as possible.
‘Yes, my lord, he does. He has known since I was seven years old and King Gawayne, my cousin, was still alive. My sister Anna and my kinsmen Bran and Ector are all well aware of my birth and have accepted my oaths of fealty. I would die before I betray my kinfolk, Lord Bors. So, before you ask, I will state that I have no desire to be aught but what I am, the foster-son of Bedwyr of Arden. Such distinction should be enough for any man.’
Arthur’s jaw jutted out with his passion, and Bors could see the shark eyes of his old master clearly enough to know that this younger man spoke the truth as far as he knew it. His eyes fell to Arthur’s sword belt and he saw the Dragon Knife.
Arthur’s eyes caught that quick glance and he knew, without being told, what the king was thinking.
‘Before King Artor died after the Battle of the Ford, Artor gave this knife to Father Bedwyr to pass on to my mother and, eventually, to me. He owned it before he became king of the Britons, so it was truly his own to do with as he wished. This relic is all I need of the past, Lord King. I am the son of two fathers, and I make my own way in this world, not lust after the possessions of my kinsmen. I was raised by Elayne, my mother, and her husband Bedwyr, the Arden Knife, two of the wisest people in Britannia. With them, Taliesin has watched over me all my life. I speak the truth, Lord Bors, although you have only my word for it.’
‘Give me your hand then, young man, and I’ll know what is within your heart by the clasp of your palm in mine,’ Bors said equably. Arthur complied without hesitation.
‘I’m satisfied,’ the king said softly. ‘A man’s hand is the only oath worth giving. I see nothing false in you, and Valda swears you’re true. She comes from the hill people who are . . . sensitive in the ways of the spirit. I also like to think that Eamonn is a good judge of character.’
The silence drew out between them as Bors seemed to consider some matter that required a decision on his part. Then, brusquely, he walked towards the parapet that hung over the dizzying black drop to the shore below.
‘Would you be prepared to commit to a service for me that is very important? Would you be willing to journey to the Vallum Hadriani at the head of a small band of warriors to deliver a very special package?’
Arthur thought quickly. He had never travelled to the north. Nor had he seen Hadrian’s Wall, which was built to hold back the savage Picts. Between the wall and Arden, Saxons had built settlements that would need to be avoided, not to mention the new kingdom of Mercia. Only narrow strips of country on the east and west coasts allowed for safe passage, but tribesmen could still travel if they were careful, although only God knew how long that state of affairs would continue.
But it was an adventure – a real quest! What better thing could a young man profitably do with his time?
‘Aye, Lord Bors. I would be willing to do as you ask, as long as I can make two detours along the path to the north.’
The king’s eyes gleamed with curiosity, although he nodded calmly enough. ‘Where would you wish to go, Arthur? It’s none of my business, but I’m curious.’
‘I’d like to visit Glastonbury to see King Artor’s grave. My mother was told by Nimue, Enid and Anna that they took his body to Glastonbury, where the bishop agreed to bury it in the grounds of the church. I know the site of his grave is unmarked and is supposed to be secret, but I’m almost certain that the bishop will oblige me.’
‘That’s a natural curiosity. And the other?’
‘I would like to travel via Arden Forest. My father is a very old man, despite riding off to serve in the siege of Calleva Atrebatum with King Bran. That hideous encounter was probably his last battle, so I wish to pay my respects to the one man alive whom I truly love.’
Bors shot a penetrating glance at Arthur. ‘You have no desire to visit Bran, who is your kinsman and liege lord?’
‘No, Lord Bors. King Bran and I have always treated each other with courtesy and dignity, but there’s little liking on either side. That makes no difference to my loyalty, but truth is truth.’
‘You avoided mention of respect, Arthur,’ Bors observed, with another penetrating glance.
Arthur sighed. ‘I have never faced the pressures and frustrations that Bran is experiencing, so I have no right to pass judgement on him, or to criticise his decisions. I don’t have to walk in his shoes.’
‘But . . . ?’
‘I don’t understand how he could have used Marine Fire in the battle, knowing what it did. Nor can I have any respect for rulers who don’t lead their men from the front. Artor led from the front . . . and that’s why he died. Please, my lord. Ask no more of me, for I might compromise my honour with unwise words.’
‘I watched you at the forefront of the battle lines at Calleva, Arthur. I rode with Bedwyr and Ector on that day because, as you say, I couldn’t allow good warriors to fight without their leaders. But King Bran had to try to stay alive or, once again, we would have been faced with the vacuum that followed the death of Artor. He is, to all intents and purposes, the last of the dragon kings.’
Bors stared at the stars with a sudden surge of insight.
‘But you’re the last dragon, Arthur, aren’t you? Although most men may not know it, you are the last remnant of a bitter time in our history. Poor Bran! When he looks at you and sees his grandfather born again, he must be cut to the quick. To have seen you in battle, as the Dragon King born anew, must have cast him into the throes of jealousy and despair, especially when he was forced to stay out of it in a position that was relatively safe from attack.’
Arthur’s lips moved as his mind digested the words of wisdom spoken by the Dumnonii king. ‘His feelings must be worse than wounds or death, for he has suffered the loss of all that was good in his world,’ Bors went on inexorably. ‘And such suffering is worthy of your respect, Arthur. You’ll not grow into the man your father was unless you begin to think beyond your own concerns.’
‘I believe I see, my lord. Perhaps I should respect Bran more and try to understand him better. It’s time I stopped being childish.’
‘Good. I can only ask you to try, and to thank you for your promise to take my package to the wall. Come, then. It’s time for us to return to the hall. We’ll talk about your journey after we’ve eaten.’
Bors seemed satisfied, so Arthur heaved a sigh of relief and followed his host back into the hall where they rejoined the family and began to eat with gusto. The meal seemed more elaborate than the usual fare served in the fortress, and Arthur deduced that a family celebration was in progress. Bors confirmed this impression when he ros
e to his feet and addressed his five sons and three daughters, a large family by any standards, for happy was the mother who could care for so many living children.
‘My dear wife! My honoured guests! And my children, who are the dearest possessions that any man could have! I would happily die for any one of you. Bleddyn, my heir and my pride, Pedr, Eamonn, Owain and Nudd, my youngest baby – you are the sons who fill me with pride as I watch you grow. What man could be more blessed than Bors of Tintagel? And my daughters, fair and good to the core. Mair, who is visiting Tintagel with her little one, is now the mistress of her own broad acres to the south. Blaise and Ineda, who carry the blood of my heart, are dutiful and good girls. This day has come too soon, but for safety’s sake I must forgo the company of my darling Blaise, who is betrothed to Gilchrist, heir of the Otadini tribe, who lives to the north of Hadrian’s Wall. Blaise will grow to maturity far from the love of her parents and siblings, but she will grow safe and happy in the bosom of her new family, who will soon love her as much as we do.’
Bors turned and gazed directly at his daughter. ‘Although your mother and I will weep to lose you, you must depart for Onnum, where King Geraint will meet you. He will guard you for the remainder of the journey to Bremenium, where you will live safely with his people. Circumstances decree that you must leave in two days, so let us all drink to the great good fortune of our lovely Blaise.’
As the diners stood and raised their cups in a toast to the young girl, Arthur examined her face. A smear of mud had escaped her toilette and her hair was dragged back into a horse’s tail and tied with a thong. Arthur wagered that if he could see her feet under the table they wouldn’t be very clean. When these indicators of carelessness were added to her sullen expression, the young girl’s appearance was anything but regal.
‘I don’t want to go, Father,’ Blaise responded with angry eyes. ‘Why must I go there?’
‘Remember that we have guests, Blaise, and mind your manners.’ Queen Valda’s tone was scolding, but Blaise ignored the order.
‘But I don’t want to go to the lands of the Picts,’ Blaise snapped, working herself up into a tantrum. ‘I don’t want to marry anyone, so why can’t I stay here?’
‘In two days you will set forth on the long journey to the north in company with your servant girl, your bride’s chest and your dowry. Your brother, Eamonn, will accompany you and Arthur ap Bedwyr has agreed to lead five of my warriors as your personal guard. Don’t bother to cry or to sulk, Blaise, because you’re going, regardless of what you wish. I’m your father and your king, so you will begin to pack as soon as our meal is consumed.’
Rather than argue, for even she recognised the determination in her father’s voice, Blaise leapt to her feet, sending her stool flying, and stomped out of the room.
‘My apologies, Arthur, but Blaise has always been a handful. She will be Geraint’s problem soon, and meanwhile I’m grateful that you’ve accepted my offer to deliver this little package. We never spoke of payment for the task, but when you have lugged my recalcitrant daughter to the border you will have earned a reward.’
Arthur flushed hotly. Two spots of high colour formed on his cheeks, while the skin around his mouth whitened with anger.
‘You insult me, my lord. When I agreed to help you I did so without any expectation of payment. No, I do this for my friend Eamonn, and for you as his father. I also do it for young Blaise, who may need our guidance during the journey before her.’
Queen Valda could tell that their guest’s feelings had been hurt at the mention of payment, so she laid a small, short-fingered hand on his arm to console him. ‘Then accept our thanks and love as your reward, Arthur. They have no monetary value, but they do have much worth.’
Despite himself, Arthur smiled and raised the queen’s hand to his lips.
‘You are the wisest woman in the land, my lady, save only for my mother, Elayne of Arden. I accept your reward with gratitude.’
The party was beginning to tire after five days of travel along the roads leading from Tintagel to Glastonbury. Blaise had used every strategy she could think of to delay their journey and make it unpleasant. With a child’s viciousness, she had turned Tintagel into a small hell with her tantrums, her rages, her demands and her rudeness. Bors and Valda were embarrassed by her behaviour and Bors eventually threatened to bind and gag her over the saddle for the entire journey to the wall. Blaise finally submitted.
After some minor difficulties, a long, green valley finally stretched out before the riders, bounded by rows of hills on either side. Arthur could imagine this swath of land as an inland sea, for it was criss-crossed with waterways and every shade of green blended with the glistening streams to give the illusion of a huge platter, glazed with shiny emerald glass and decorated with a web of silver. Only two huge, natural features stood out on the fair landscape – the earthworks surrounding Great Cadbury to the south, which the riders had avoided, and the massive tor at Glastonbury with its single tower that pointed upward like an impudent finger. Arthur admitted to himself that he was looking forward to a clean straw pallet and some relief from Blaise’s endless complaints.
Valda had been true to her promise, and had resisted the impulse to shower Arthur with gifts. However, even in the two short days available to her, she had found two items to show her appreciation. The first was a cloak, for she had noticed that Arthur’s red woollen cape and hood were worn at the edges and unravelling at the seams. The cloak she handed to him was woad-blue and scarlet woven plaid, which mirrored the colours worn by her husband’s warriors, but its hood was lined with part of the pelt of a winter wolf that Bors had slain. Its white fur provided protection and warmth for Arthur’s head, although he protested that the spring weather didn’t really warrant such a garment.
‘It’s for the north, dear Arthur. The weather there is always cool, even when the rest of the country is looking forward to summer. I’d not have your mother believing we’d allow you to travel without warm clothing.’
She blushed when Arthur kissed her palm in gratitude after trying on the vivid cloak and preening like any young man judging the effect of attractive clothing. ‘I’m touched by your generosity, my lady, but there was no need to give me such a valuable gift. Still, I will happily accept it and will wear it with pride because the mistress of Tintagel made it with her own hands.’
It was the queen’s turn to blush with embarrassment as she reached upward to hang a small pendant round his neck. Among her jewels, she had found a small iron dragon which she had looped through a thong for him to wear over his heart.
‘This trinket is to bring you good luck, young Arthur. The dragon is the sigil of your house and will protect you in times of danger.’ Arthur was too touched to argue with her and found himself on the verge of tears. He realised that his time among the kind people of Cornwall had been as happy as any in his short life, and he accepted the largely valueless emblem in the generous and loving spirit in which it had been offered.
The gift that Bors gave him later that day was much harder to accept. The king had produced a gold and ruby earring from a package and then, with his own hands, had driven its spike through Arthur’s ear lobe. The king was so quick and deft in his actions that Arthur didn’t even have time to yelp in pain. ‘I can’t accept this gem,’ Arthur protested, while the king cleaned away a few errant drops of blood from the hole in Arthur’s ear. ‘It’s far too valuable.’
‘You have refused payment for the task I have foisted on you, my boy, but you’ve been honest with me and my family, and for that I thank you. I’m also aware of the sigil that my wife has already given you to mark your position as the last of your bloodline. I should be kneeling at your feet and offering you the homage that is your due. But your father sired you at the end of his life and I understand why he chose to protect you from the ugliness of high office. He gave you a great gift, you know, and what you win in this life will be earned rather than granted by an accident of birth. Like the Dragon
King himself, you will carve out your own future. Remember that when you turn this ring in your ear. Remember too that you are free to make your own future, and are not bound like Bran to fight a desperate struggle that I fear will inevitably become a lost cause. Take my daughter to safety and then make your own way in the world. Like Bran, I’m not free to help you or to acknowledge who you are, but I sincerely wish you luck in the life that awaits you. I also ask that you take care of my Eamonn. He’s not my heir, nor even second in line, but I’ve a fondness for the boy. He’s true, if you understand me, like a well-crafted arrow. Send him back to me alive, and my house will be forever indebted to yours.’
So Arthur gave the king his word and his hand as the party left Tintagel. If Eamonn wondered at his father’s ring in Arthur’s ear, he made no mention of it, although the same could not be said of his sister. On the second night on the road, in dreary spring rain which turned their campsite to mud, she vented her spite in the only way she could.
‘I see my father’s paid you to sell me to the Otadini. I hope you received plenty of gold from him, because I intend to make sure you earn every grain of it.’
‘Do shut up, Blaise, there’s a good girl. You might impress some people with your tantrums, but to me you’re only a dirty little waif with a vile temper, a horrid attitude to everyone who comes in contact with you and an undisciplined, foul-mouthed tongue.’
‘How dare you! I’m a princess and you’re just a dirty upstart from God knows where. I intend to say and do what I like.’
Arthur grinned like a wolf and, for the first time, Blaise felt a frisson of uncertainty.
‘You will obey me, Blaise, or I will personally gag you – and keep you gagged! My agreement with your father doesn’t require me to tolerate boring behaviour that is better suited to a whore than a princess. If you continue to bleat, you may expect a worse response.’
