Medraut

by David Pilling

  Panic stabbed through Medraut. Artorius was ageing fast. He lived a hard and relentless life. What if his heart gave out one day and he died in bed or at meat, leaving his capable son Llacheu to follow him? The transition of power was all arranged. Llacheu would be the next High King, supported by his brother Cadwy as Bishop of Llandaff. Twin pillars, crown and church, to support the existence of free Britannia into the next generation.

  This was the plan and the will of Artorius. Medraut, the third brother, would eke out his life as a mere officer in the Companions – cheated of power, cheated of his vengeance.

  The thought made him break into a sweat. As a child, Medraut had been raised for one purpose; to kill his father in revenge for the death of his mother, Ganhumara. The witch Morgana, who called herself the Seer of Britannia, had snatched Medraut and dinned this one idea into his head. It was her way of avenging herself on Artorius, whom she viewed as a traitor for abandoning the old gods in favour of Christ.

  Yet Medraut was nobody’s puppet. Even as a boy he had realised how Morgana meant to use him. In the end, he abandoned her to follow his own path. This took him to the distant East, where he found brief contentment serving in the armies of the Roman Emperor. He might have stayed in the East forever, carved out a name for himself as an officer and leader of men. Ended his days on some forgotten dusty battlefield against the Empire’s numerous enemies, or as a rich nobleman in Constantinople, with slaves and vineyards on the shores of the Bosphorus.

  Fate drew him back. Some of the northern mercenaries who served in the imperial army believed that a man’s fate was inescapable; the thread woven before he was born. He had no option but to follow it. Medraut, who had enjoyed little control over much of his own life, thought this logical. Yet at some point a man had to break loose and make his own luck.

  His father was looking at him.

  “You did well in the fight yesterday,” said Artorius, “though your company went forward a little too quickly. I wanted you and Bedwyr to hit their flanks at the same time, not one after the other. Against a better-drilled enemy, the attack might have failed for want of discipline.”

  Medraut shrugged.

  “Bedwyr was slow. He grows old. Perhaps he should resign his command and enter a monastery. The men resent following a cripple into battle.”

  This was a mistake. Medraut realised it as soon as the words tumbled from his mouth. His father’s heavy brows knitted together. Anger sparked in the High King’s eyes.

  “You lie,” Artorius snapped. “I have never heard any man complain of Bedwyr’s leadership. He is the most able captain in my service. He may be your twice your age, my son, but even with one hand he could carve you like a pie. Don’t let me hear you call him a cripple again.”

  Medraut bit back a fierce retort. Once again, as so often since he came home, he buried his pride and assumed a mask of humility.

  “I apologise,” he said, almost choking on the words. “Forgive me.”

  Artorius glowered, his big hands knotted into fists. For a brief moment Medraut entertained mad thoughts. What if he drew his knife, now, and sprang at his father? He pictured driving the blade into the old man’s throat, laughing as hot royal blood spurted over the floor, the powerful body spread-eagled on the floor, a rotten oak felled at last.

  He pushed away the image, delightful though it was. If he slew Artorius in his tent, the guards outside would rush in and hack him to pieces. Medraut had a destiny to fulfil. The death of his father was only the start, not the end.

  Another time, he promised himself. The reckoning will come.

  He was relieved to see his father’s expression soften a little.

  “You are still young,” said Artorius, “and ambitious. I understand. I was the same at your age. Ambrosius had no other sons, so he chose me as his successor. You have two elder brothers. One will be High King after me, the other Bishop of Llandaff. That leaves you nowhere. A spare prince.”

  Artorius grinned, exposing the gaps in his teeth.

  “Don’t look so surprised, Medraut. I am your father. I can divine your thoughts. And don’t think I hold you in such low regard.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “I have watched you closely these past six years. You are a born warrior. An excellent officer and leader of men in the field. A little rash at times, perhaps, and impatient of others. The arrogance of youth. It passes.”

  Medraut shifted impatiently. What was the purpose of this lecture? What was the old turd driving at? His father did nothing without good reason.

  “Llacheu is brave enough,” Artorius went on, “and a steady soldier when he has to be. But he takes no delight in war. To him bloodshed is something to be avoided unless all other options are exhausted. This is good. The next High King must be a strong man, yet ultimately a man of peace.

  “A peace-loving king must have good fighting men behind him to enforce his rule. I have it in mind to resurrect my father’s old title. Magister Militum. The man who held this office would be field commander of all the armies of Britannia, under the authority of the High King.”

  He stabbed his finger at Medraut.

  “Bedwyr is too old to be Magister Militum. It must go to a young man. A man I trust, bound in blood to his king. You, Medraut, will be Magister Militum.”

  Medraut had the sense to look pleased, though his mind spun with doubts and resentment.

  Magister Militum! An empty title stolen from the Romans. A mere sop, meant to placate me and bind my loyalty. Does he really think I lack the wit to see that?

  “Thank you, father,” he said with contrived gratitude. “This is a great honour. I shall strive to be worthy of it.”

  Artorius nodded.

  “I expect nothing less. As yet nobody else is aware of this arrangement. I’ll discuss it with your brothers when I return to Caerleon. You will fulfil your errand at Caer Gai and come back to me with all speed. There is much work to be done.”

  “Yes, father,” said Medraut, and despised himself for a coward.

  Within an hour Medraut was riding north for Caer Gai at the head of twenty picked men. Six were Companions, young recruits with little experience of war. They had been among those men who ignored the High King’s orders during the battle against Maelgwn, and chased enemy warriors into the woods. For this breach of discipline Artorius had them flogged. Five stripes per man as a reminder of their duty and obedience.

  The youths were in sullen mood. Riding caused them great pain, for the rod-scars were still raw on their backs. Medraut knew better than to force conversation, and the horsemen were silent as they followed the path to Caer Gai, guided by a local scout who knew the shortest route.

  After a time, they reached the shores of a broad lake, overlooked by a range of high hills beyond the northern banks. Medraut’s spirits were lifted by the beauty of the landscape, and for a short while at least he was able to put aside dark thoughts of power and vengeance. The guide took them around the southern edge of the lake. Soon the rugged timber ramparts of Caer Gai could be seen, perched on high ground to the west. The slope of the hill was bare, but the base of the hill was shrouded by thick forest. Medraut had no intention of walking into an ambush. He approached the fort with caution, and sent the scout on with two men to check it was deserted. They soon returned.

  “The gates lie open, lord,” the scout informed him, “and there is nothing more dangerous than foxes in the woods. Caer Gai lies empty.”

  Encouraged, Medraut took his men forward into the trees. They followed a straight yet overgrown path to a track leading up the western slope of the hill. Medraut smiled when he spotted the grisly trophy, impaled on a spear above the rampart over the gate.

  “The head of Cei,” he said. Would that it was my father’s head, he added silently.

  Sword in hand, he walked through the gateway. Inside was a rectangular yard enclosed by timber walls. An apology for a mead-hall took up the northern side of the enclosure, scarcely big enough to house a
dozen men. Two small grain stores lay next to it. A strangely oppressive atmosphere hung over the deserted fort. Man, nature and God had abandoned this place. While his men searched for anything of value, Medraut climbed the steps of the gatehouse. He looked up at Cei’s rotting head. The spear had been driven through the stump of his neck through the top of his skull. His mouth hung open, and carrion birds had plucked out his eyes.

  “Well met, Cei the Tall,” said Medraut.

  He had never known Cei, who went into self-imposed exile shortly before Medraut arrived in Caerleon. Tales of the man were plentiful. They spoke of a brutal warrior too large for the world to contain. His awesome battle-fever, immense bodily strength, terrifying rages. Some even claimed he had magical powers: capable of holding his breath underwater for days; swelling to the size of a tree in his wrath, projecting heat and light from his hands; felling an ox with a single blow of his fist.

  A great man. Yet he is dead. So is Gwalchmai, and Llwch, and many more of my father’s old friends. Thus he clings to Bedwyr. There is no one else left from his youth.

  Medraut cut the ropes that bound the spear to the parapet. Grimacing, he lowered the spear and wrenched the head free. The stench of putrid flesh almost made him gag. He seized the ghastly thing by the hair and hurried back down the steps to the inner yard, where some of his men waited.

  “There’s nothing here worth taking, lord,” said one, “just some sacks of rotten grain and empty casks. Gwyddawg’s band must have looted the place after they slew Cei.”

  The speaker was Duach, one of the young Companions. Tall, fair-haired and handsome, he was the picture of a brave young warrior. He was also proud and short-tempered, with a tendency to pick fights he couldn’t win.

  The flogging must have hurt his pride as much as his back. He will never forgive Artorius. Good.

  Medraut knew the man as a troublemaker. Now he regarded him as a potential ally.

  “Here is Cei,” he announced, raising the grisly head, “the former steward of Britannia. One of the Three Chief Warriors of the Island of the Mighty. He fell foul of his king and ended his days in shameful exile, butchered like a pig by lesser men, his body chewed by wolves of the forest, his head stuck on a spear and pecked by ravens.”

  He paused to let the message sink in. This could be the fate of anyone who angered his father.

  “We should pity Cei,” he added, “and honour his memory. At least we can give this sorry remnant a decent burial at Caerleon.”

  Medraut stuffed the head inside a leather bag, which dangled from his saddle. Then he and his men left the empty shell of Caer Gai and went south-east. A journey of several days lay ahead, through southern Gwynedd and the Kingdom of Powys.

  Medraut rode hard for the Gwynedd border. He feared that King Maelgwn, so recently humiliated by Artorius, might decide to take his revenge on the High King’s son. With only twenty riders at his back, Medraut could easily be attacked and overwhelmed.

  Is this why Artorius sent me to Caer Gai? he wondered. So he could withdraw south, and leave me to face the wrath of Maelgwn?

  He quelled his suspicions. Artorius was not so subtle. If he wanted a man dead, he did it face-to-face or put him on trial. Much as he loathed his father, Medraut had to admit he wasn’t the sort to deal in conspiracies or knives in the dark. They passed safely into Powys and made for the fortress-town of Viroconium, where Artorius kept a permanent garrison of eighty Companions. These men acted as a reserve to patrol the northern frontier of free Britannia. They also served to remind the local chieftains of his power.

  Medraut thought it best to rest awhile at Viroconium, where fresh rations and horses could be obtained. He also wanted to show his face to the garrison and make himself popular with their officers. A few miles north of the town, Medraut and his horsemen passed a village, a collection of rude thatched huts tucked inside the outskirts of a forest near the old Roman road. Beside the village was a broad stretch of meadow, next to the banks of a fast-flowing stream. Medraut would have rode on by without a second thought, until he spied the crowd of people on the meadow. They were gathered around a man tied to a stake, just above the stream. Some hurled stones and rotten vegetables at the man, or danced around him, shrieking curses and all manner of abuse. Intrigued, Medraut signalled his men to halt. He sat his horse in silence for a while and watched the entertainment.

  The helpless prisoner was an old man, his back crooked, long white hair and beard flowing to his waist. He wore filthy rags and nothing on his gnarled feet. The villagers had attached him to the stake via a length of knotted rope fastened to his ankle.

  “What in God’s name are they doing to that poor wretch?” cried Duach.

  Medraut shrugged.

  “Perhaps he is a thief. It is none of our affair.”

  “This is British soil,” replied Duach. “The High King’s law runs in Powys. If a man is accused of any crime, even a dirty old beggar, then he should have a proper trial.”

  Medraut swallowed a retort. Duach, pompous fool though he might be, was right. The High King’s law did run here. If he had pretensions to his father’s crown, Medraut had to be seen to enforce that law.

  “Very well,” he said, giving his reins a shake, “let us do some justice.”

  He trotted forward onto the meadow, followed by his men. The peasants saw them coming and knelt as one on the grass, heads bowed. One greybeard came forward to greet Medraut, nervously twisting a greasy woollen cap in his hands.

  “Welcome, lord,” this man said, his face pale. “I am the headman of this village. We have little food or ale for you, I’m sorry to say. The winter was hard and left us with barely enough to sustain ourselves.”

  Medraut smiled down at him.

  “Old liar,” he said good-naturedly. “I have no interest in your stale bread and rancid ale. Why are you tormenting this poor halfwit?”

  The headman’s features darkened, and his eyes lost something of their cowed look.

  “He is a false seer, lord. Two days ago, he came to our village. We caught him stealing food from our grain store. Our men caught him in the act, and he prophesied that five of our children would die come the next winter.”

  His fists bunched. “We are only giving a thief and a liar what he deserves, lord. To predict the death of children! We are Christians here, and have no time for such nonsense.”

  Medraut wasn’t listening. His blood had run cold when the headman called the prisoner a false seer. He had been raised by Morgana, the last Seer of Britannia, though there were rumours of another seer come to replace her. Fragments of stories and tall tales passed about among the peasantry, many of whom still clung to the ancient pagan beliefs of their ancestors. Medraut, who paid lip-service to Christ, secretly paid heed to the tales, and wondered.

  “What is this man’s name?” he asked with careful indifference.

  “He calls himself Myrddin Wyllt, lord,” answered the headman. “He had a little black pig with him named Mab. The fool said that Mab could talk to him. We slaughtered the pig. Meat is scarce these days.”

  As are your wits, Medraut thought angrily.

  In the ancient days of Britannia, wandering prophets like Myrddin were regarded as messengers from the gods. Now they were beaten and abused, forced to steal to live and endure the mockery of Christians.

  “Move off,” he ordered, “tell your rabble to go to their homes and stay there.”

  At first the headman hesitated, but Medraut was well-armed and horsed, and his men could cut the villagers to pieces if they chose.

  “Follow me,” the old peasant barked at his people. “No arguments.”

  The crowd of men, women and children got up and shambled off the meadow back to their huts. Some cast hostile looks at the troop of horse-warriors who had interrupted their sport. Medraut gave them back stare for stare and rested his hand meaningfully on the pommel of his sword.

  “Take the men out of earshot,” Medraut said to Duach when the villagers were at a safe d
istance. “I wish to speak to this man alone.”

  Duach looked surprised, but did as he was told. Medraut urged his horse forward a little towards the prisoner, who gaped up at him.

  Medraut raised a hand to his face. The man’s stink was even worse than the reek of Cei’s rotting head. Once, he had been remarkably tall, but now bowed by a twisted spine. He was dangerously thin, and his face mostly hidden under an overgrown thicket of hair and beard. Deep-set grey eyes peered out from under heavy lids and bony brows, divided by a great hook of a nose. The man’s eyes glimmered with furtive intelligence. His mouth dropped open, exposing few and blackish teeth.

  “Myrddin Wyllt,” said Medraut, “is that truly your name?”

  The old head replied with a nod and lopsided grin.

  “You claim to be a seer,” Medraut added. Another mute nod.

  “Very well. Let me hear your wisdom. Predict my future, Myrddin Wyllt. What lies in store for me?”

  A look of cunning entered Myrddin’s eyes. He blinked and drew himself up to his full impressive height. Medraut could have laughed at his deceit: the old man’s spine wasn’t crooked at all. He deliberately feigned as a cripple, perhaps to avoid being noticed.

  “Prince Medraut,” Myrddin cried in a surprisingly deep voice. “Medraut Wolf’s-Tail. Long have I searched for you. I left my den in the Summer Country and journeyed into Powys, this land of foreigners and fools, in search for you. I starved on the road, for you. I humbled myself before peasants, deluded worshippers of the nailed god, for you. I lost my Mab, my friend, my joy, my everything, all for you. Son of Artorius, son of Morgana.”

  “Searched for me?” Medraut demanded, a little shaken by the thought of being hunted through the land by this sinister giant. “What for?”

  “Not on my own account,” came the reply. “Everything I do is driven by the gods. They have a message for you. A prophecy. Will you heed it?”

  Medraut folded his arms. “I will listen,” he said. “Heeding is another matter.”

  Myrddin grinned again and flung his long arms wide.