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

by M. K. Hume

  After that, the road leading to Arden was long and exhausting. Even with their spare mounts and the good food they purchased as they travelled, the party was ragged and tired when Arthur finally saw the river and the road to his home branching away to the right.

  ‘See, Blaise,’ he said, pointing at a green smudge of trees beyond the water meadows. Although she rarely spoke to him directly, the girl had taken to staying very close to him as if his presence ensured her safety. ‘Those trees mark the boundary of Arden, my home, and they are the only barrier that protects us from the Saxons.’

  On the surface, little had changed in Arden Forest in the months Arthur had been absent. The route into the heart of the forest was as tortuous as ever, but now a well-placed arrow whizzed across a clearing ahead of the party to bury itself quivering in the trunk of an old alder tree not far from where Arthur sat astride his horse. Then, from the treeline, a voice demanded to know who he was, and the nature of his business in Arden Forest.

  ‘I am Arthur, first son of Bedwyr, the Arden Knife, and Lady Elayne. I am accompanied by a party of Dumnonii warriors led by Eamonn pen Bors, third son of King Bors, the Hammer of Cornwall. The party includes Lady Blaise, the daughter of King Bors, and her serving woman. I beg shelter and hospitality from my father for these Dumnonii nobles. Are we now so lacking in trust that we turn guests away?’

  A head appeared high in a venerable oak tree, where the bowman was comfortably ensconced, while another voice boomed out of the thickest part of the forest edge beside the narrow trail. Arthur noticed that Blaise’s fingers trembled as she held her horse’s reins.

  ‘We did not expect to see you for some time yet, Lord Arthur. Your noble father has been worried about you. He has alerted all the scouts to watch and listen for any word of you.’

  ‘May we pass?’ Arthur shouted. ‘I wish to join my family in Arden by tomorrow. Please send word on ahead, good sir.’

  A muffled shout indicated that the party could move forward without threat. Arthur explained to Eamonn that this type of security was most unusual and probably meant that Arden had experienced some breaches in security, probably from the east, where it guarded the two Roman roads that protected the north.

  ‘Will this problem affect the route we take towards Hadrian’s Wall? I had thought we would travel along the Roman road that runs through Venonae,’ Eamonn said. His voice and expression indicated his concern, for the most dangerous part of their journey would begin as they skirted the Saxon kingdom of Mercia, hugging the mountain chain to avoid old Eburacum, now call Eoferwic, which had been held by the Angles and Jutes for twenty years. The High King had crushed the Saxons at Eburacum and the British had experienced a period of relief, but as the Dragon King had aged the eastern coast had become too difficult to control, until even Artor, in all his stubborn pride, had known that the city would ultimately fall to his enemy. Eamonn knew as much of the history of the north as any well-educated son of the nobility, so he was alarmed to hear that Arden might no longer control the roads which were the arteries of Britain.

  ‘Don’t fear, Eamonn. Father will know all the details of any Saxon incursions into the lands to our north. If need be, we’ll divert towards the west coast, but let’s not worry too much about our route until we know what we face.’ A feeling of gloom washed over Arthur as he began to think ahead. Yes, he could take a western detour, but it would lengthen the journey by weeks, perhaps months, and autumn would catch them unprepared and far from safety.

  For the first time in their travels, Blaise showed some interest. Having grown up on the coast and been lulled to sleep by the sound of waves for all her short life, she missed the constant rhythm of the sea. But here, deep in primal forest, the wind soughed through the trees with a sound that mimicked the waves with a little extra added – the smell of life, of rotting vegetation, of deep leaf mould, lichen, tree bark and aromatic leaves. Somehow, the combination stimulated Blaise’s senses and reminded her of home, so she knew she would be able to sleep.

  The girl had skin of an unnatural whiteness, even when compared with the pallor of the women of Cymru. Perhaps to take her mind off the long and difficult journey, Blaise had begun to show a belated interest in cleanliness, causing Arthur to notice that her black hair and eyes were in dramatic contrast to her pale skin. Sun, dust and wind burned it and made travel a misery, with the result that she sweltered under layers of clothing to protect herself from the traitorous sun. To make matters worse, hours in the saddle chafed her childish flesh. No wonder the child was so miserable, Arthur said to himself. But deep in the forest, where the sun’s rays were filtered, she cast off the cowl of her cloak with a crow of pleasure and raised her face to the muted green light.

  For the first time, Arthur began to admire the early signs of beauty in her. His heart softened automatically, and he slowed his horse to ride beside her. ‘This forest is my home, Mistress Blaise. When I was younger than you I knew all the great trees in these woods. I even used one forest giant as a special place where I could go when I was troubled.’

  She looked up at him then, and the urchin who threw mud and turds at her brother was eclipsed. Her lashes were abnormally long and thick, like those of a fawn or fallow deer whose eyes reproached him when the time for butchering had come. Her hairline was straight and true, and her brows were finely feathered and turned up at the outer edges. Arthur decided she was a perfect miniature of the best of the tribal traits of womanhood, although her eye colour spoke of earlier, more ancient peoples who predated his own race.

  It’s strange, he thought. I only remember Valda as a woman who has borne eight living children and is long past the age of physical beauty, but this child reminds me of her. But Valda had charm and glamour aplenty, and she spoke of the sensitivity of her people with conscious pride. Does this daughter of hers have voices that speak to her inside her head? Does she fear the unknown, being the most like her mother of all the siblings? I should watch her closely.

  Something squirmed in his head, scolding him for thinking of Blaise in such an analytical fashion, as if she were an interesting sword or a fine horse. He shook his head in amazement at the realisation that this girl, who had been so monumentally rude to him since their first meeting, had captured his attention, and he sighed in exasperation.

  ‘I know the hollows around Tintagel in the same way as you know Arden. I’ve watched the sea birds my whole life, so I know which ones nest on the cliffs and which ones live nearby at Saint Brigit’s Well. How can I live in a place where I don’t know the birds?’

  Arthur thought quickly, because the child needed reassurance. He’d not expected that she would love hunting birds, a strange preoccupation for a young lady.

  ‘Perhaps Gilchrist will give you merlins of your own. I’ve been told that some northerners love to train birds of prey to hunt for them.’

  Arthur had intended comfort, but the child’s eyes grew wide with horror.

  ‘I would never choose to possess a bird. It makes me sick to think of it. I’d be forced to free it so that I could pretend that I was flying with it, high above the earth and all its troubles.’ Then Arthur recalled a long-buried memory of Ector’s young wife, who had been in Arden when Maeve was born. She had dreamed of flying like a bird and escaping to far lands where she was free of the demands of her sex and her position in life. He had always liked Gwyllan, who had been the daughter of King Gawayne.

  ‘Is being a wife and mother so grim a future, little one? My mother is very happy and she is the cleverest woman I know.’

  ‘I’d rather travel and hold a sword. I’d like to learn to write and not be forced to spin and weave all day. I have no wish to be married to anyone,’ Blaise whispered, and her passion could be read in those jet-black eyes. Had Arthur ever known his aunt, he would have recognised something of Morgan in Blaise’s vehement denial of the female role that was laid out inexorably before her. After all, Morgan le Fey and Blaise were kin, although much removed.

  Unfortun
ately, Eamonn picked this moment to join them. Blaise’s enthusiasm died and her eyes became flat and expressionless when her brother guided his horse to ride alongside her. From long practice, she masked her feelings under a sullen expression.

  The troop rode on, resting that night under the trees. In the morning they would reach the palisades, and Arthur hoped that his companions would be rested and look their very best when they paid their respects to his parents.

  In the weak light of a new day, Arthur combed and plaited his hair with Gareth’s assistance. Like all warriors, Arthur assisted Gareth with the same homely task, and he wondered, as always, how hair could vary so widely from man to man. His wild corkscrew curls crackled with energy while Gareth’s long straight locks were smooth and straight, like rare cloth or fine thread.

  During the night, they had polished their heavy leather travelling tunics, reinforced with metal plates of iron, until the metal shone brightly. When the sun came over the horizon, the two young men quickly packed their saddle bags and assisted Blaise and her servant to mount their horses. Bors’s troop of warriors had also seen to their toilettes, realising that they would be meeting the famed Arden Knife, a man of legend who had seen the Bloody Cup with his own eyes. Bedwyr was especially venerated among the common soldiery, for he had served on the front line at Moridunum and had helped to bring down the fortress of Caer Fyrddin. The old man had ridden in the footsteps of the Dragon King, and the warriors dreamed of meeting this great man, of hearing his voice and recapturing those days of glory.

  An excited, disciplined band set forth after a hurried meal of cold porridge and a handful of nuts. A spirit of fervour and anticipation hummed through the ranks as the men mounted and the party greeted the day as something new and special.

  Arthur was glad they had eaten the meagre breakfast, for their journey was slowed by regular guard checks, although the Cornovii warriors never broke their cover in the fringes of the trees. ‘The Saxons and Jutes must have been on the prowl recently if our identities are being checked so often when they know we are coming,’ Eamonn muttered after they had been stopped for the fourth time in less than an hour.

  ‘Father speaks the Saxon language fluently, as I do, but he has pointed out that if he could pretend to be a Saxon, then they could learn our language and pretend to be tribal warriors,’ Arthur replied. ‘My father is a very cautious man, so he thinks ahead and trusts few people other than family and close friends.’

  But all journeys come to an end. A little after noon, Arthur saw the crown of his own oak tree through a gap in the forest and knew that the palisades were near. So suddenly that the newcomers were left blinking, the forest released them from its heart into the open meadows around his home. The fallow fields were thick with grass and wild flowers, and grazing cows watched with incurious eyes as the troop passed.

  ‘There they are! The palisades of Arden,’ Arthur shouted, and pointed. Bedwyr’s hall lay at the centre of the cleared meadows, most of which were under cultivation: another indication of Saxon raids in the area of Arden, since it must mean that trade was much reduced. The gates were open and there was Bedwyr, grizzled and bent, but grinning through his beard like a crazy man. Arthur could also see Elayne, her face streaming tears and a new streak of white in her red-gold hair. His siblings were waving madly, their faces glowing with health and the boys capering like acrobats at a fair.

  ‘They’ve grown so tall!’ Arthur marvelled in a whisper. Then he realised he had been gone rather longer than he had intended, and his brothers and sisters were almost fully grown.

  One small form stood separate from the others. Maeve, the youngest daughter, stood off to one side. Even from this distance Arthur could see that, at eleven, she was tall for her age and her hair was crimson-red, a strange colour that flamed in the afternoon sun.

  ‘You have returned, Arthur,’ Bedwyr said softly, his eyes moist with tears. ‘I am so very proud of you. Look at you! You are a man by any measurement. Come, introduce me to your friends and then you can join your mother. She has longed for your return, my boy, fearful that some disaster might have caused you lasting harm.’

  Eamonn dismounted. ‘Go to your mother, Arthur. I can introduce our party to Lord Bedwyr with pride, for he is the greatest living man in Britain.’

  Arthur nodded, and hurried through the gates to where Elayne waited with her heart in her eyes.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d see you before the onset of winter, if then.’ There was not the faintest trace of self-pity or complaint in her voice. Instead, Arthur saw a great relief and joy that he had come, no matter how brief the visit. As he picked her up in his strong, manly arms until her feet dangled and she wound her arms round his neck, Arthur was amazed at how small and light she had become, as if a breath of wind could blow her away like thistledown. His heart beat faster when he saw the greyness in her hair, and he suddenly realised that his mother had grown old.

  ‘All things eventually come to an end, my son. I’m just so happy that you’ve returned home, even if it’s only for a short visit.’ Tears formed in her eyes, and it was as well he had no way of knowing what her true feelings had been when she had seen him striding towards her with the sun behind him.

  My Artor has come again, she had thought tremulously, her heart in her mouth. Oh, my beloved, it has been so long since we spoke together.

  Then she looked at him again with her sun-dazzled eyes and realised it was her son who was holding her, her son who was kissing her soft wrinkled throat, and the spell was broken.

  ‘You’ve grown, Lasair,’ Arthur said cheerfully as he turned to the seventeen-year-old boy who hovered at his mother’s shoulder. The lad stood as tall as Bedwyr and his shock of brown hair showed a corona of red from the sun. The young man flushed and gripped his brother’s hand until Arthur put his mother down, laughed, and ruffled Lasair’s hair from his superior height. He began to regret the many months he had been absent, for time had transformed them from children into young men and women hovering on the brink of adulthood.

  Only Maeve remained apart from the group. Like Blaise, she was only eleven years old, and she waited patiently to speak to her oldest brother in private. When the group walked towards the hall across the roughly flagged courtyard, she followed like a pale wraith, her eyes enormous in her small, triangular face.

  As they crossed the threshold, followed by Bedwyr at the head of his guests, the Dumnonii guards were escorted to the Cornovii barracks where ale and good food waited, along with the opportunity for boasting about the Saxons they had slain. Maeve’s was the only serious face among the laughing, milling throng, and as Arthur tried to make his excuses to go to her he saw Blaise stop beside her. The two girls spoke quickly to each other, dark head close to red one, until Maeve nodded and took Blaise’s hand to lead her away to the children’s quarters.

  ‘Blaise has found a friend,’ Eamonn said as he approached Arthur from behind. ‘How very unusual!’

  ‘Yes. That’s Maeve, my youngest sister,’ Arthur replied thoughtfully as the young girls disappeared from view. ‘She’s a strange little thing. She’s very clever, but she’s so shy that you hardly notice she’s with you most of the time.’

  Then Arthur forgot his sister and his Dumnonii responsibilities as his family demanded to hear everything about the marvels he had seen in the south. The boys were particularly eager to hear his news, for they longed to know the gruesome details of the battle for Calleva Atrebatum. The afternoon flew away on winged feet and Arthur experienced that most comforting of all supports, the closeness of a loving family.

  And so night came.

  ‘Is it wise to travel to the wall at this time of year? The hive around old Eburacum will be stirring with Angles and Saxons aplenty. This Blaise is only a young girl, but she’s very clever and she’s already quite thick with Maeve.’ Elayne looked fondly at her son, who was sitting cross-legged on the plank floor and watching, engrossed, while she coaxed the washed wool onto her spindle. The sight of t
he spinning wool and the wooden wheel was entrancing as she pulled the wool upward while twisting and lengthening the fibres into a strong, slightly nobbled thread.

  ‘Oh, damn!’ she swore mildly with exasperation. ‘Nuala already outstrips me. Her thread is even and perfect, while mine . . . Still, your father says he likes my knitting and weaving precisely because it has imperfections. He says he knows it is my hands that have worked the cloth and the flaws that come with it.’ She smiled as she thought of her husband. ‘He’s a dear, isn’t he?’ she murmured, and Arthur nodded. ‘But the dear man’s very old now. He’s even older than the High King was when he died, and he’s outlived every man he loved during his long life. The bone swelling is crippling him now, although he tries not to limp.’ Elayne’s face was sad, and yet beneath her worry and sorrow she was inured to the idea that her beloved husband would soon be lost to her.

  ‘Many who served my dear Artor have now lived far beyond the normal life span. I don’t know why this law of nature has been suspended in Bedwyr’s case. Perhaps the Dragon King imparted to him some of his own zest for living, and he’s certainly needed, just as the High King was, to lead our people through these troubled times of the Saxon invasions. Perhaps the good and quiet living that he enjoyed here in Arden has blessed him. But I do know that he is trying to send the children and me to his new settlement outside Deva. He’s been preparing for our move for years now, knowing that Arden will eventually be infiltrated and that our people will be forced to retreat to the west. The forest on the borders of the Deceangli and Ordovice lands is similar to our home here. Bedwyr says the change would be seamless, and although we’d still be guarding a frontier it would be some time before the Saxons penetrated so far west.’

  Artor nodded, unable to speak for the lump in his throat.

  ‘But I’m going to stay here. He needs me, Arthur. I have no fear of death, because I’ll simply leave one room, pass through a door, and enter another. I should have died in the snowstorm when you were conceived, so I owe my life to God and that debt must eventually be paid.’ She brushed away a tear. ‘I have tried to use the years God has given me to help others and I plan to ensure that our people are kept safe here in the dangerous years that will soon be upon us. But they will need guidance and a strong right hand to protect them, and Lasair will have little time to gain the experience he needs to accept the responsibilities that will be placed on him as his father fails. Perhaps the younger children can be moved to safety, which will give Bedwyr some relief. But I’ll not leave him, and will support him always.’