Mordred, Bastard Son

by Douglas Clegg

  Mordred, Bastard Son

  Book One of The Chronicles of Mordred

  Douglas Clegg

  Contents

  Praise

  Newsletter

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Part 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part 2

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part 3

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Contact Douglas Clegg

  About the Author

  Also by Douglas Clegg

  Praise For New York Times Bestselling Author Douglas Clegg And Mordred, Bastard Son

  “Riveting…Clegg puts an inspired wrinkle in the hoary tale of Arthur and the grail by casting Arthur’s kindred enemy, Mordred, as a gay man. An injured stranger in a cloak and odd, paganish mask, is captured and held in a monastery, igniting wild speculation among the locals, who believe him a notorious traitor.…How excellent.”

  —Booklist, Starred Review

  “Clegg (The Priest of Blood) maintains a nice balance between the human and mythic dimensions of his characters, portraying the familiar elements of their story from refreshingly original angles.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Clegg beautifully skewers the Arthurian legends, weaving a compelling story, single-handedly reinventing Mordred’s sexuality. He is no longer the betrayer of Arthur, the knight Lancelot, and Guinevere, Queen of the Britons; he is now the seductive and passionate hero, a lover of men given the almost insurmountable task of finding the cauldron of rebirth…”

  —Curled Up with a Good Book

  “…A refreshing return to the myth and magic of the legends…Clegg’s approach recalls Sir Thomas Mallory, Chrétien de Troyes, and even Edmund Spenser at times; his setting is never made temporally explicit but rather melds Celtic, Roman, Anglo-Saxon, and high medieval British elements.”

  —Strange Horizons

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  To Raul

  Foreword

  This book is a bit of an unusual spin on the Arthurian legends. I consider its genre alternate historical fantasy, if anything can be called such, since I fully imagine mythical beasts and ancient sorceries existing alongside such people as Mordred, Morgan le Fay and Merlin.

  So, prepare yourself, you historical purists. With all the research done on the idea of a historical Arthur and Mordred, and the understanding in the 21st century of the Dark Ages in which this story takes place, it might’ve been fashionable and proper to stick with the wood forts and the unmythical kingdom of the Britons.

  But I love a legend. And I exist in a world of mythology.

  I’m returning to the romances of Brittany and Cornwall and Wales, to the high chivalry and magick, and to Marie de France and Chretien de Troyes and Thomas Malory and Tennyson with “many-tow'red Camelot.” And within this, I’m turning the screws to the legend itself.

  Mordred’s life allowed for room to invent and imagine my twist in the tale.

  I also play with anachronism here and there. Yes, tunics were worn, but I’m allowing for the idea of a version of a trouser here and there because, well, this is fantasy.

  I think I owe the legends at least this much—to find them again, within the myth itself, and to tell a new tale of the Arthurian legend. The legends of Arthur and Mordred vary, but in the earliest ones, Mordred was not the villain, but a hero. As with all things, I think the truth lies in the middle. The addition of Mordred being a gay man is my own.

  Mordred, Bastard Son is the opening tale of Mordred’s life, his confessions, and his quest. I wrote it for those who have felt left out of the legends but who—I believe—exist there to tell the other side of the story.

  —Douglas Clegg

  Chapter One

  1

  The long wooden boat, its sails lowered, glided along marshy shoals at an inlet from the mist-shrouded sea.

  Standing at the boat’s prow, a cloaked figure guided the boatman between the rocks toward the strand, as if he knew the place by heart.

  2

  These were the days after the fall of the kingdoms of Arthur, King of the Britons, whose sovereignty ran from Cornwall to Wales to England to the west of Gaul called by some Armorica, by others, Britannia. Romans threatened battle to the east. Saxons and the men of the North launched boats upon the southerly kingdoms.

  It was rumored that an attack on the coast was imminent.

  The omens of the last days emerged through a mist of smoke and ash that touched the stone-gray sea. Great dark fish of the deep flung themselves onto the sand, as if the water itself had been poisoned.

  In the air, flocks of ravens flew swift along the twisting roads at the edge of the marshy strand that led to the great rock island, the Dragon’s Mount, which jutted out from a strand of the southern Armorica coast called Cornouaille by the Celtic tribes.

  Local priests called out for the heathen to be hunted down, for they had brought ruin to crops and kept the land unholy, allowing enemies to destroy the recently built holy sites.

  But those who remembered the Days of the Kings and Druid Priests, and felt the scars of the Roman captivity, called out for the Merlin in the old tongue, hoping the ancient mage might save them from devastation.

  Atop the peak of the Dragon’s Mount, where flat rock altars remained unbroken, soldiers stood vigil lest those who had lost faith during the fortnight might risk the quicksand marshes and ascend a rocky stair to such an ancient and devilish place of pagan worship.

  The year of war and fire lay dying and the Cauldron of Rebirth, called by some the Grail, had been lost.

  The isles of Avalon in the brackish summer sea turned to haze and even the finest boatmen could not locate them by celestial means.

  Those who worshipped the heathen gods went underground. Those of Christendom sought sanctuary in the ruins of abbeys, monasteries and nunneries; or among the crumbling Roman villas, which had become property of either church or warlord. The battles and skirmishes continued, even after the great castles of Arthur, pen-Dragon, had fallen and lay in ruin.

  All of it could be laid at the feet of one man, whose infamy had spread throughout the world and whose name had quickly come to mean, simply, “traitor.”

  Mordred.

  “Mordred,” curved upon the lips of those who sought the source for the unraveling of the world—as if this name were an eel that wriggled and slithered along the tongue.

  The possessor of the name was known to be unnatural, born to the people of dragons and devils. The folk who worshipped the horns of goats and summoned spirits of the dead from roiling cauldrons over crackling fire. The heathens who spoke with crows and ravens and huddled in caves of bones to worship the mother of nightmare.

  This Mordred must be some demon of malevolence rising from the miasma. Some believed him to be a creature of the night, drinking blood from youths. Others remembered his wicked and seductive mother and how she had turned to darkness to raise her progeny in the shadow of a deep and dangerous forest of thorns.

  A great price of gold and silver had been set upon the head of this bastard heathen, as well as a bounty for the return of the sword he’d stolen from the greatest of Kings of the Britons.


  And yet, few could recognize the face of this man.

  By legend, he was a hideous, deformed creature, with the horns of the Bull-god upon his forehead, and the stench of the grave about him. The villagers expected a phantom in the form of a man.

  It was to this craggy shore that a stranger arrived, cloaked and masked.

  3

  He paid his fee to the boatman with a sack of gold. None questioned him, though rumors spread as fast as fire across a field of drying hay.

  A soldier under Bedevere’s command, standing with his comrades along the Roman wall, found the boatman soon after his landing. Threatening him with death, the boatman confessed that the masked stranger had first come to him with blood on his hands and on his gold, and had only washed in the sea when the stranger noticed the boatman’s glare.

  “He wears a mask of gold and silver, as I have seen the heathens wear for their infernal celebrations,” the boatman said.

  The soldier struck the old man hard. “You are heathen yourself. I see the markings upon your wrist old man. You brought this murderer to our land to escape his fate among Arthur’s knights.”

  Then, soldier took the gold from the boatman. Passing it to his companions, the soldier told them to arrest the boatman until a confession was had as to the whereabouts of “that bastard Mordred who shall not live to see another dawn.”

  4

  And yet, for one long day and night, the stranger traveled inland unharmed. He traveled the narrow byways off coastal roads, avoiding more trammeled trade routes and the endless parade of soldiers on the hunt.

  The nameless days of December passed, the days without sun following the solstice. The hours passed into a lingering darkness since the song of swords had last been sung; nights stretched into clouded days since the last cry had been heard on the battlefields, beyond the gentle slope of land. The fires had come and then the silence. The dead remained unburied where they had fallen; the living had retreated from the sea to the forest and the inland villages. Smoke plumed at a great distance, from the still-burning towers along the sea wall.

  The sky, at twilight’s ledge, ran a strange crimson hue through thatched gray clouds. The local folk living along marshlands and fields beyond the ruined castle of the dead warlord, Hoel, felt this was a sign that Arthur had begun his journey to the Otherworld, through the isles of Avalon.

  The forest by the roadside grew darkest even at noon. Omens and auguries were read by the priests of old in secret places. Predictions of the coming year mingled with prophecies of the immortal king. Whispers rode the wind across a wolf-scavenged battlefield at the plain beyond the trees.

  At the far end of the torn castle wall, near the abbey and the old Roman road, it was whispered that all that had been found was lost, and all that had been dreamed, disturbed.

  Into this approaching dusk, came that dark-hued stranger, a man of shadows, like the spirit of one long dead, now resurrected to complete a task.

  That phantom, masked and shrouded, carrying a staff that looked as if it had once been a spear of war.

  5

  He wore a heavy, ragged cloak, as a beggar might, and some folk grew afraid that he brought a plague with him as he skulked beneath the fallen towers, still blackened and smoldering.

  His face, covered by that jeweled mask placed as if hiding a war-scar.

  He grasped his staff, trudging up the dirt road with its tall pikes adorned with the heads of traitors upon them.

  In a time of plenty, he might be judged a wanderer, but in these dangerous times fear spread across the land. Strangers brought with them dread. The kindest among the folk in the village whispered in doorways that this might be a holy hermit come again to the forests, having retreated from the world of men in order to fight demons of temptation. Those of the old beliefs—those who still kept the antler headdress hidden beneath their straw mats, called the Saints by the old dragon names, or went to beg the Lady of the Wood for herbs and salves—felt that he might be one of their long-lost priests, perhaps even the sacred Merlin, disguised as a wanderer.

  Those who held to fearful beliefs thought it might be one of the undead of the battlegrounds, called the Wandering Ones. These spirits had not been invited into the Otherworld because of crimes committed and debts owed.

  As twilight drew near, this cloaked man stopped along the rotting wood and crumbling stone of an old Roman villa that had but one standing wall left to it.

  Here, he slept, curled nearly into a ball, against the cold stone.

  6

  He awoke shivering.

  From above, a boy of no more than eleven years pointed down at him.

  Just behind the boy, two monks watched the stranger as he sat up.

  “Soldiers came. Three nights past,” the boy said. “Sir Bedevere’s men. Looking for a stranger, they told me. Promised great reward should any find him. Gold, says my brother.”

  “That warlord’s army might have more pressing things to do than raid these villages and search for one man,” the elder monk said, resting his hand upon the boy’s shoulder briefly as if for comfort. “And if gold is to be had, you shall have it, I’m certain.” His voice carried with it a wheeze and a cough.

  The young monk moved closer to the stranger, raising his robe slightly as he got down on one knee beside him.

  “Is it the devil?” the boy asked. “They say he has jaws like a wolf.”

  The monk lifted the stranger’s hood so that he could better see his face.

  The monk reached up to the mask that covered the stranger’s eyes, and drew it from him. He recognized the mask as one used many years before in the heathen ceremonies, and it was the face of Cernunnos, Lord of the Forest.

  A pagan god’s face, etched into the gold and silver mask. Around the eyes, amber and garnet stone.

  The hunter and the hunted one.

  Beneath the mask, a face sharply handsome, yet worn as if all his energies had been spent.

  The stranger’s eyes opened and closed as if still in a dream.

  When the stranger opened them again, the elder monk said, “He’s hurt. I dread what will become of him. We must take him. If not us, the soldiers. Or the wolves.”

  The stranger’s eyes were warm and a brown-green shade.

  Then, the young monk turned back to the boy and his companion.

  “This may be the one who has been sought these many days,” he said.

  7

  The stranger did not resist the monks as they took him at the elbows and prodded him along.

  The man, despite his youthful appearance, a man in his late twenties perhaps, showed infirmity of limb and fell once or twice before reaching the monastery gate.

  The little boy trotted after the monks alongside the dirt road, now and then reminding the elder monk that his father would want the gold “if the good Sir Bedevere keeps his promises.”

  Watching the monks from a distance, some of the villagers came to the edge of the winter fields to ask after this prisoner.

  The boy’s father came, too, and drew his young son back “for the plague may be with him, and demons upon his robe.” And then, his father shouted after the monks, “I will not forget what is owed me from this! What my boy is owed!”

  The elder monk glanced back at the shouting man, and shook his head when he saw the folk who had gathered to watch them. He said to the young monk, “they will want blood. It is all anyone wants, these days. More so than gold.”

  The other monk remained silent, while the stranger leaned against him for support.

  At the north gate into the monastery, which led first to the gardens, the elder monk said to the younger, “Bedevere will come soon enough for this man. We must keep him here overnight before the soldiers force their way in. I do not want an innocent man murdered in a time like this. Too much murder has gone on. Too much greed. You will find what he seeks. Why he’s here. If he’s the traitor, we shall pass him to the knight’s men. But if he is not, we shall give him sanctuary.�
��

  8

  Inside, they took the stranger to a room of straw and dirt, and after awhile, in the dark, he slept again.

  The heavy-gated door, closed and locked. Though it was a prison cell, the place held a bit of warmth in the earth and when the stranger awoke briefly, before falling back to the deepest sleep of his life, he found a bowl of fresh water nearby as well as a trencher of bread soaked with milk.

  Sometime in the night, the young monk entered his cell, a slow-burning lamp in his hand.

  9

  The stranger sat up in the straw, stretching his arms over his head as he woke.

  “Thank you for the hospitality,” he said.

  “You have great need of sleep.”

  “I have need of that sleep from which one does not wake,” the man said. Then, when he tried to move again, he groaned slightly, reaching down to touch his side. When he noticed the monk’s eyes upon his hand, he said, “Do not trouble yourself with my pain.”

  “You’re wounded?”

  “Who isn’t?” the man said.

  “I want to see your wounds,” the monk insisted. “They may need tending.”

  The captive lay back on clumps of straw and drew back the fabric of his cloak in inch or so. He smiled all the while watching the monk’s face.

  He reached to the stays along his cloak and undid them one by one, up to his throat, and drew out the curved silver pin that held it in place.

  When it opened at his neck, the monk noticed the torc that encircled his throat. He had seen torcs in his childhood, but the church had outlawed them as symbols of the heathens. It was a twist of beautiful gold, a collar band that did not seem too tight against the muscled cords of the man’s throat.