“There came a Dragon with a goat’s beard,” he boomed, “speaking with both mercy and mania. He cast his shadow upon Britannia, and kept the land from cold and heat: his one foot set upon Mount Badon, the other upon Caerleon. He knew victory twelve times, and opened his mouth towards the Saxons, and the trembling of the terror of his mouth stretched towards many habitations and countries. His breath is full sweet in strange lands. In his time, the fields ran with blood and with brains, and he made walls in his land that will do much harm to his seed after his time.
“There shall come during his reign a people out of the west who shall be led by a Wolf. The Wolf shall covet the crown of the Dragon, and in that time the sun shall be red as blood, and the land covered in a yellow mist. That will betoken great pestilence, and the death of the people through sickness and the clash of the spear. The people shall go fatherless after the Dragon dies through a Wolf who will wage war against him in the end of his life, a war that shall not end in his time.
“This Dragon shall be held in his time the best body of all the world; and he will die beside the border of a strange land. The land will go on fatherless, without a good governor, and men shall weep for his death in every part of his kingdom. ‘Alas!’ shall be the common song of the fatherless folk who will remain in the destroyed land.”
Myrddin lowered his arms.
“Such is my message, lord prince,” he finished in a quieter tone.
Medraut pondered for a moment. As a child, Morgana had taught him the value and study of prophecy. The meaning of the first part of this one was simple enough. The Dragon was Artorius, who rode under a dragon banner, had defeated the Saxons at Mount Badon – how many times had Medraut heard that story! – and dwelled at Caerleon.
The Wolf shall covet the crown of the Dragon…
He looked sharply at Myrddin. The old seer knew his nickname, Medraut Wolf’s-Tail, after the tail of a grey wolf he wore on his helmet. That was common knowledge, but how did Myrddin knew he coveted his father’s crown? Medraut never revealed his innermost thoughts to anyone. Not even Morgana, with all her skill and insight, had been able to penetrate the depths of his mind. In short, Myrddin was dangerous.
“You are no false seer, Myrddin Wyllt,” said Medraut. “The villagers were wrong to doubt you.”
Myrddin smiled at the compliment and pointed at the rope on his ankle. “Release me, lord prince,” he begged.
Medraut drew his long cavalry sword. “I will.”
He spurred forward, raised the sword and unleashed a savage cut at Myrddin’s head. The honed cutting edge split the old man’s skull like a ripe apple and cleaved down to his chin. His eyes widened in shock, even as blood soaked through his grey beard and dripped onto the grass.
Without a sound, Myrddin’s body crumpled. He twitched violently in his death-throes, limbs thrashing, long fingers scrabbling at the earth. Medraut watched sadly as he cleaned the filth from his blade with a cloth.
You knew much, old man. Far too much.
Duach rode to his side and gazed with horror at the shuddering, blood-sodden heap on the meadow.
“Did the wretch insult you, lord?” he asked.
“He said the wrong thing,” Medraut replied curtly, ramming his sword back into its sheath. “Now let’s go home.”
5.
Cei’s funeral was held in the military cemetery next to the field-hospital outside Caerleon, founded by Artorius to care for his wounded and crippled soldiers. The cemetery was a large square of flat ground, protected by a drystone wall. Many of the High King’s old comrades were laid to rest here, their graves marked by stones carved with their names. In his quieter moments Artorius often came here to wallow in memories and the company of old friends. They were still with him in spirit, all those brave men who had followed him to war and died in his service. He remembered all the old names, could picture the face and character of every man, as vividly as though they stood before him.
The Companions were turned out in force for Cei. Cadwy read out the liturgy, clad in his splendid bishop’s robes of white and gold, while Artorius personally laid the stone at the head of Cei’s grave. Two ranks of twenty veteran Companions, decked out in full kit of red cloaks, crested helms and shining ring-mail, stood in a circle around the grave-pit. The younger recruits were arranged in companies outside the cemetery, where they stood in respectful silence.
Bedwyr and Llacheu carried a jewelled casket containing Cei’s head. Both were dressed in sombre black, and Bedwyr’s eyes were red from weeping. As always, the younger man cut a dignified figure in public, tall and commanding, his curly dark hair cropped ruthlessly short. His black tunic and cloak, pinned by a golden brooch, set off well his pale, aquiline features. It was easy to picture Llacheu as one of the ancient Caesars, or a Roman general returning victorious from some distant campaign.
Artorius’ pride in Llacheu somewhat tempered his grief for Cei.
He looks far more a High King than I ever did. And he shapes up well as a man and a ruler. At least I have raised my sons well. Most of them.
The king’s gaze flickered towards another man, standing among the first rank of Companions. This one was no less imposing than Llacheu, but lumpen and crudely made where the other was tall and elegant. He had a shock of bright red hair, slicked back from a high slanted brow with layers of grease, massive shoulders and a deep barrel chest. His arms were too long for his body and hung, ape-like, down past his knees. They ended in big, blue-veined, clutching hands, strong enough to twist a man’s neck.
Amhar. The son who is my not my son. My secret shame.
His thoughts turned to Gwenhwyfar. The queen should have been present, but had confined herself to quarters in the palace. Weeks had passed since she laid hands on the victims of the Yellow Plague (as it was known) outside Caerleon, yet she insisted on staying out of the public eye. Artorius was impressed by her discretion, if not by her folly in touching diseased peasants. So far, thank Christ, she displayed no signs of infection.
Our shameful secret, Artorius corrected himself.
He suspected Gwenhwyfar had more than concern for the public health in mind. She had no wish to see or even acknowledge Amhar, her bastard son by the pirate Diwrnach. Amhar’s bastardy was a secret, even to him. The rape of Gwenhwyfar, when she was briefly Diwrnach’s captive, had been hushed up for the sake of her honour.
And mine.
Amhar glared belligerently at Llacheu as the latter walked past. His blue eyes bulged from their sockets, bloodshot and brimful of envy and hatred. Gwenhwyfar’s son had inherited not a shred of his mother’s natural grace. His face resembled that of an ape, and a remarkably stupid and ugly ape at that. The heavy jaw was clenched with barely pent-up anger, nostrils flared, hands twitching by his sides.
Artorius watched him carefully. He knew Amhar’s explosive rages, and deliberately posted two reliable Companions either side of him. At the first sign of trouble, they had orders to knock him out cold. Cei’s funeral would not be marred by one man’s anger.
For a miracle, Amhar managed to restrain himself. The ceremony went smoothly and the mortal remains of Cei the Tall safely deposited in the earth. When the final spadeful of earth was laid over the grave, Artorius felt less vital somehow. Less alive, as though part of him had been wrenched away and buried with his old friend.
When all was done, Artorius returned to the palace. As a mark grief he went on foot, trudging the cobbled streets with his Companions in double file behind him, the streets packed with citizens. Many wore black and wept for Cei, who had been popular in the city. Savagely flawed though he was, rude and sarcastic and short-tempered, Cei possessed the common touch. He had also made the people feel secure.
One less pillar, Artorius thought grimly as he strode past the crowds of weeping mourners. One less support to hold this fragile country upright. A straw house in the wind, with storms on the horizon.
Artorius did not want to be alone. He went immediately to the queen’s chambers i
n the palace where Gwenhwyfar lived in seclusion, attended by just one servant. She had given orders for no one else to enter, but the guards on the door stepped smartly aside for the High King.
Artorius passed through the antechamber and into the bedroom. It was dark and empty inside. A gauze was thrown over the arched double window, the air heavy with the burning of scented candles. Artorius opened the side-door leading to the small private chapel, and found Gwenhwyfar and her servant at prayer. They broke off their devotions and turned to greet him.
Artorius was dismayed by his wife’s appearance. She had lost weight in recent weeks looked older and sadder. Pale light slanting through the single narrow window fell across her face. It highlighted shallow creases on her brow, puckered eyes, thin yet discernible frown lines round her mouth, grey strands in her buttery yellow hair. In her plain grey robe, belted at the waist, she had the appearance of an underfed nun.
Where has my lovely girl gone? What have we done to her? Artorius gestured at the female servant, who curtseyed and hurried outside.
“Gwenhwyfar,” he said awkwardly when he and the queen were alone. “Why do you shut yourself up in the dark? It is not right. The Queen should be seen by the people. They like to see you.”
“Lord king,” she replied humbly. “If you think I should emerge from seclusion, then I will.”
He sighed. Gwenhwyfar in submissive mood was almost impossible to deal with. Artorius preferred his wife in a high temper, when he could match wits instead of imposing his will on her.
“Any danger of sickness must have passed by now,” he said. “Whatever ails you, it is not the Yellow Plague, thank Christ.”
Gwenhwyfar glanced at the plain iron cross on the altar.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Thank Christ.”
The next day, at a meeting of the Round Table, Gwenhwyfar made her first public appearance for weeks. She took her customary place at the right hand of her husband, while the seats of the Round Table were filled by the Companions. Llacheu sat to his father’s left, having given up the office of regent as soon as Artorius returned from Gwynedd.
The High King looked proudly over his assembled warriors. There were old friends gathered here, men he knew well, had campaigned and fought alongside on many an occasion. There were younger men present also, officers he had raised to fill the seats left by those who now lay in the cemetery. Chief among them was Medraut. The other junior officers admired the High King’s youngest and most famous son, especially now he was Magister Militum, and competed for the right to sit beside him.
Bishop Cadwy sat on the stone step below the main doorway to the hall. There was no place at the Round Table for priests, yet the most important churchman in the land had the right to be present in council. He relished the chill and discomfort of the stone, staff of office balanced across his knees.
Artorius waited for the murmur of voices to settle.
“I summoned you here to discuss a grave matter,” he said. “Fresh news reaches Caerleon every day. News of the Yellow Plague.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his high chair. Every man at the Round Table looked solemn, with the exception of Medraut. He toyed with the ring on his little finger, apparently lost in thought.
“So far as can be gathered,” Artorius went on, “the plague first appeared near Londinium some two months ago. It rages in Frankia, and was probably carried across the sea by Frankish merchants.”
“Or Saxon pirates,” growled Tathal, a one-eyed warrior with streaks of vivid red clinging to his long grey beard. His remark was echoed by a murmur of agreement from other veteran Companions.
Artorius raised his hand for silence.
“However the pestilence came to our shores,” he said, “it is here, and must be dealt with like any other invader. Cerdic’s folk suffer terrible losses. Those who have fled the plague speak of villages and forts abandoned in the east. The Saxons abandon their strongholds and flee into the countryside, leaving their dead unburied.
“This could be our opportunity to reclaim the Debated Land,” he went on, “though the Yellow Plague is no respecter of borders. It sweeps west into British territory. I have received messages from Viroconium and Gwynedd. Up and down the frontier, our people are also dying in great numbers. The plague can kill within hours. Slay entire families before nightfall.”
He spread his hands. “How long, my friends, before the plague reaches Caerleon? This is the largest settlement in Britannia. Trading ships frequently dock here. We receive a constant stream of farmers, merchants, envoys, people of all kinds. All my doing. I wanted Caerleon to be a new capital for Britannia. A beacon and a fortress. This filthy disease could turn our city into a mass grave.”
Bedwyr pushed back his chair and stood up. “I say we evacuate the city,” he cried, “until the worst of the sickness has passed. There is no other way to safeguard our people.”
Others voiced their support for this idea. Artorius nodded in reluctant agreement.
“Very well. It must be done sooner rather than later. The Yellow Plague could be knocking at our gates within days.”
Artorius gathered breath again to issue orders for the evacuation. Before he could speak, Bishop Cadwy slowly rose to his feet. The knocking of his staff against the steps caused every head to turn towards him.
“Lord king,” said Cadwy in his bullhorn of a voice, “and beloved father. When I was a child, you told me that an enemy must always be confronted. To retreat without a fight is the act of a coward. Such was your lesson to us, your sons. Do you remember, Llacheu?”
Surprised by the question, Llacheu was briefly lost for words. “I…ah…possibly recall something of the sort,” he stuttered, with an anxious glance at his father.
The High King looked hard at Cadwy. What was the bishop up to? How had he managed to father such a subtle creature?
“Speak your mind, Cadwy,” he rasped. “We have no time for riddles.”
The bishop gave a polite bow. “As you please, lord king. This pestilence must be avoided, yet also fought. We have the weapons to defeat it. Drive it back into the sea, just as you drove the Saxons at Mount Badon.”
Artorius ignored the flattery. “What weapons, bishop? If you mean the power of prayer, you are free to beseech the Almighty on our behalf. Let us hope He listens.”
“We must all turn to prayer,” replied Cadwy. He had the voice of a born preacher, and it carried to the furthest reaches of the hall.
“There,” he added, pointing his staff directly at Gwenhwyfar. “There is our weapon. We all know how the Queen laid hands on victims of the plague. Yet there she sits, untainted. How did the Queen’s grace avoid succumbing to the disease?
“I shall tell you. She was protected by the love and power of Christ. I was there. I heard the Queen invoke the name of Christ even as she touched the sick. She appealed to the Lord, and the Lord responded.”
Artorius exchanged glances with his wife. He still failed to see what the bishop was driving at. The Companions, most of them practical, hard-headed men, looked baffled. Cadwy was now in full flow – eyes blazing, staff raised in both hands like a weapon, poised to strike.
“The Yellow Plague is a test,” he declared, “sent by the Lord to judge us, the Children of this new Israel, and gauge the depth of our love for Him. Just as the Saxons were a test. They too were a plague, and swept with fire and sword across our land. For too long have we dwelled in peace. Men who are untested grow soft, just as an unused blade turns to rust and loses its edge. We are soldiers of Christ and must once again go to war on His behalf.”
“The plague is not an army, bishop,” said Artorius. “We cannot march out and engage it in battle.”
“Yes, lord king,” his son replied forcefully, “yes we can. The Queen has shown the way. Only the power of Christ can repel the Yellow Plague. He has given us a sign. We must ride out and seek that most holy relic, the Fragment of the True Cross, brought to these shores by a priest who attended the Crucifixion.”
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Artorius tensed. He knew the tale Cadwy referred to. According to legend, a holy man named Joseph had been present at the nailing of Christ to the cross. Afterwards, when the body had been taken down and all was quiet, Joseph plucked a splinter of wood from the cross and carried it away. Persecuted by the Romans for worshipping Christ, he fled the Holy Land and eventually arrived in Britannia. He was said to have brought various holy relics with him, including the piece of the cross. Joseph’s fate was unknown, though the legend claimed he hid the relics before he died to keep them from the Romans.
Cadwy curled one hand into a fist and beat it against his chest.
“If we found the Fragment,” he cried, “our people would be redeemed in the eyes of Christ. Only then would the Yellow Plague be lifted from the land. Think of the power and the glory that would be ours! The favour of Heaven!”
Artorius noted with unease the enthusiasm on the faces of some of his Companions, especially the younger men. His son was a master at whipping up a crowd, and had been known to lift his congregation to the heights of spiritual fervour, or cow them with terror. Cadwy could play men like puppets, dancing on his strings.
Perhaps he should be the next High King, Artorius thought with a wry smile. Yet he was a man of faith himself, and Cadwy’s oratory lit a flame in his soul. The recovery of the Fragment, stained with Christ’s blood, was a glorious prospect. It might unite the people of Britannia as never before, as well as drive out the shadow of the plague.
Such a find would also raise the power and authority of our church to new heights. News of the discovery would travel to Rome, bring Cadwy to the attention of the Holy See. Does my son have his eyes set upon a papal crown one day? At a stroke he means to serve the kingdom and himself.
Artorius could have laughed. Cadwy was indeed his son in every respect.
“What do you say, lord king?” cried the bishop. “Will you permit this holy mission to go forth?”
All eyes turned to the lonely figure in the high seat. Artorius thought quickly. He could see his young men were keen, and it was risky to disappoint them. Many already perceived him as the hero of yesterday, victor of battles fought before most of them were even born. They needed war, danger, some exercise for their restless youth and military skills. An enemy to fight or a quest to achieve. Otherwise their energies would turn inwards. The dreadful spectre of rebellion and civil war loomed large in the High King’s mind. It was never very far away.
Medraut Page 5
