Dragon's Child (33 page)

Botha nodded, just once, and Uther felt a momentary pang of grief as if he had broken a good sword over his knee.

‘Take only trusted men, use whomever you must, but don’t fail me. And ensure that no one lives to gossip that Uther has killed innocents. Disguise yourself as you see fit.’

Botha nodded, and Uther could see the shame leaking from the eyes of the old warrior.

‘Go, Botha, and order my confessor to attend me at once,’ Uther whispered.

Such business shouldn’t be spoken aloud in the halls of the High King and, even now, Uther felt his heart stutter in his chest as if a huge fist clutched it and squeezed.

‘My lord is ill,’ Botha protested. ‘Permit me to send for Morgan.’

‘Bring me my confessor, Botha. Then carry out your orders,’ Uther commanded, turning his face away from the one man he trusted. In truth, he couldn’t face Botha’s wounded eyes.

As the sound of Botha’s boots faded into silent darkness, Uther slowed his breathing with an effort and contemplated the action he’d set in motion. Many men and women had died for the west, and many more would bleed to hold such a small island kingdom within their hands.

The light from an oil lamp slanted across the bedcovers and lit the King’s profile with what he knew to be the cruel truth. He was as he had always been, a raptor in a cage of pigeons, with little thought for the weaker souls who lived and died at his command.

‘So why do I feel so cold and alone?’ Uther demanded of the silent air. ‘Send me my confessor!’

His feeble wail was like the thin cry of crows seeking carrion.

As his confessor shuffled through the doorway on unwilling feet, Uther saw Morgan, like a storm crow herself, standing directly behind his priest. The lamplight caught the delicate bones of her face so that, for a moment, a skull stared back at him with the fire of the wick burning in empty sockets.

Uther blinked. Morgan was herself again, beautiful and cold as carved alabaster.

She clutched an amulet round her throat and locked her eyes with his. And she smiled.

 

Artorex would have preferred to be alone. The inevitable plummet of his spirit after the heat of battle had left him feeling lonely and confused. A bare week ago, he had been happy and at peace with his lot in life. Now the rabble called his name, but he dare not set foot outside his room, and his life could be forfeit to the High King of the Britons, for no particular reason apart from Uther’s spitefulness.

Luka returned to the inn a little before midnight. Llanwith had fallen asleep on Artorex’s pallet and the small room shook with his stentorian snores. Artorex was seated cross-legged on the floor, wrapped in his cloak and obstinately cleaning his weapons, while Targo was asleep in an untidy mound of clothes and sinewy muscle across the entrance to the room. Characteristically, Myrddion had vanished some hours earlier.

Luka’s entrance was noisy and embarrassing.

He had spent the evening drinking rough Gallic wine with his informants among the High King’s retinue. As he entered the dimly lit room, Luka tripped over the inert body of Targo and crashed to the floor, waking a startled Llanwith in the process.

The Ordovice was on his feet, sword drawn, in an instant.

Artorex continued to hone his dagger.

Like a magician, Myrddion appeared in the doorway and helped the sprawled Luka to his feet. With a muffled hiccup and a slurred apology, the warrior fished around in his cloak and, with a drunken flourish, drew out a crumpled scroll. He giggled.

‘Our orders have arrived from the High King, Myrddion. Uther has decided that we should raise a small troop and attack the Saxon fort at Anderida.’

He executed a drunken bow and would have fallen flat on his face had Llanwith not jerked him upright by his leather jerkin.

‘Anderida?’ Myrddion was actually shocked by Luka’s news. ‘That marsh-infested hellhole? It’s almost directly across the straits of the Litus Saxonicum. Has Uther gone utterly mad?’

Llanwith pen Bryn began to laugh. It came out as a long, raucous guffaw that seemed to start at his toes and rose slowly and ever more loudly until his mirth made the icy shutters appear to quiver.

‘What causes your amusement, Llanwith?’ Myrddion asked with exquisite, dangerous courtesy. ‘That flea pit has been in Saxon hands for twenty years. Gods, it was one of the first towns to fall to the barbarian kings, and you can spit across the straits of the Saxon Sea from there.’

‘I know, Myrddion,’ Llanwith hiccuped through a succession of suppressed giggles. ‘Uther’s outmanoeuvred us! We’re off to Anderida, and precious few of us will return if the High King and the Saxons have their way.’

‘Precisely!’ Luka said with owlish seriousness.

Myrddion snatched the crumpled scroll and read its contents quickly.

‘Uther suggests that if we are so eager to stop the Saxon menace, then we should push them back into the ocean. We are permitted to raise a troop, if any sensible warrior chooses to commit suicide with us. And he insists that Artorex must lead the attack personally, for he is now Uther’s champion of the west.’

‘He’s outplayed us, Myrddion. Damn me, but he must have been a great tactician when he was young!’

Llanwith appeared to be genuinely impressed by Uther’s acumen. Myrddion saw no humour in the situation and scowled at both of his friends and reminded Llanwith that his uncle had been a victim of the same ploy. The Ordovice king sobered instantly.

‘He’s trapped your queen, Myrddion,’ Luka agreed, as he collapsed on to Artorex’s bed with Llanwith. ‘And we didn’t even know we were playing a chess game.’

Myrddion glared at Luka and then viciously kicked at the wall, his teeth bared in furious irritation.

‘One other matter has come to my attention. The old devil’s body servant told me that Uther has only a month or two to live. Mind you, the idiot has been saying the same thing for years.’

Myrddion paced back and forth, while Luka fell asleep and Targo mumbled something incomprehensible about an old soldier needing his rest. He stumbled off to Llanwith’s room to use a vacant bed.

‘I’ll join you,’ Artorex snapped, his patience well worn by the events of the day. ‘If I’m going to die then it’s best I be well-rested when I do.’

Artorex fell asleep on a flea-infested pallet in a dirty attic somewhere in the back streets of Venta Belgarum and dreamed that he lay with his Gallia. Elsewhere, on a bed richly covered with fine wool and smooth linen in the palace of the High King, Uther Pendragon struggled to stay wakeful lest his sleep be troubled by a persistent nightmare of a huge sword that had once belonged to him. Now, no matter how hard he tried, his wasted muscles couldn’t lift the vast blade.

Of the two, father and son, Artorex slept more easily, although he sensed that he could soon go to the shadows - and before his allotted time. As he lay in his wife’s warm arms in the web of his dreams, he heard a voice call out of the darkness so loudly that the whole world seemed to shudder from the sound. ‘Fortune smiles at last! Behold her wheel turns to raise you high. Beware, Artorex, Fortuna’s fool.’

But Artorex smiled in his sleep as his dream wife kissed him. For who can fear a goddess when love holds tight to the heart?

CHAPTER XII

 

Ignorant of Uther’s unholy intentions for the Villa Poppinidii, Myrddion faced a day of strenuous mental and physical effort. The call to arms was being shouted from the High King’s forecourt and some fools would answer out of a simple desire for excitement and adventure.

Word ran through the narrow streets of the city. Through alehouses, meeting houses and crossroads, the call to arms moved swiftly and set the imaginations of the citizens afire. But the young bloods that sought glory must be convinced to remain in safety in Venta Belgarum, for novices had no place in the storming of a fortress such as Anderida where they would be a hindrance rather than an advantage. In this deadly game that was being played to spite the scheming of Uther Pendragon, numbers didn’t count. Skill and cunning were far more important.

To add to his woes, Myrddion must convince the most talented of his supporters to throw their lives away in the first skirmish of a series of battles that would lead, hopefully, to their country’s salvation. They would die as pawns in the affairs of greater men and Myrddion’s conscience had yet to find the exact words to persuade them.

‘A grey day,’ he sighed broodingly. ‘But we’re not dead yet, as Targo is so fond of repeating.’

Nor did Myrddion wish to die himself.

It was plain to him that Uther was prepared to sacrifice his chief counsellor and two stalwart and loyal kings because he envied the potential strength of his own son. Llanwith, Luka and Myrddion weren’t expected to return, but the real target was Artorex.

Myrddion brooded.

‘Uther Pendragon will destroy the stability of the west to protect a crown that he believes is his forever. At least two tribes hang in the balance, great and loyal tribes, but Uther would tear the fabric of his pact with the kings to ribbons to retain - what? Is it the hunger of a diseased mind? Is it the savagery that grows in the head when the arm grows weak? I’ll never understand what drives the man!’

Grey, sullen skies outside the inn mirrored Myrddion’s mood, while scudding cloud came from the sea and was torn to shreds by winds that the human eye couldn’t see.

Rooks called and sleet threatened.

‘We agree that Uther must be stopped, yet we must still win Anderida for him. But how can we achieve this impossible task?’

Targo was engaged in the process of preparing Artorex to face the stares and curiosity of the townsfolk by cleaning his charge’s leathers and brushing the mud from the wolfskin cloak. He served his pupil willingly, for he realized that Artorex was reaping the rewards of many years of practice and training, and was developing the mien of a commander. It was a role taken up by the young man unwillingly, perhaps, but Targo couldn’t fail to recognize the burgeoning signs of authority demonstrated by his protégé.

Targo had never knowingly sired a son of his own, so he had never felt a sense of loss at the lack of children at his hearth. Artorex was his child of choice, because Targo had moulded the warrior streak in the young man and had watched his pupil prove his worth in combat with mixed feelings of fear and pride. For Targo, a soldier never lessened his stature by serving of his free will and only became a slave when he surrendered to his enemies.

Artorex woke to a grim day of dripping eaves and drizzling, half-frozen rain, with the familiar sound of Targo’s tuneless whistling in his ears. If the boy in Artorex was confused, the man in him was optimistic. A mere day earlier, he had awoken to the knowledge of his impending death, but he still lived and breathed. Today, the muster for a suicidal raid on an entrenched enemy would begin, but Anderida was far away and Lady Fortuna alone would choose the time when Artorex would meet his destiny.

‘It is a good day, Targo,’ he greeted the older man. ‘You need not clean my kit - we are friends and fellow soldiers. That is, if you are not offended that I speak of myself as your equal.’

‘You talk nonsense at times, boy,’ Targo retorted gruffly, but with affection. ‘And who, in days to come, will remember old Targo? No, I’ll answer for you - no one! But I’ve a feeling in my water that they’ll remember you.’

‘I’d rather be at home with Gallia, my friend,’ Artorex replied sadly, as he stretched his long legs.

‘You should tell that children’s tale to someone who believes you, Artorex. I
know
that a part of you enjoys the scent of the coming battle.’

‘Where is everyone?’ Artorex changed the subject, knowing that he was no match for Targo’s sharp eyes.

‘They’ve eaten, dressed and gone,’ Targo responded economically.

‘Oh.’

Targo could tell that Artorex was disappointed, so he took pity on the younger man.

‘Get up, get yourself dressed and we’ll convince some of these sheep to die with the great Artorex. Myrddion has estimated a force of no more than one hundred good warriors is needed but, in my opinion, even that number is excessive. It’d be better to have forty seasoned warriors than three hundred young boys.’

Artorex swung his long legs out from under a cover of moth-eaten fur.

‘I don’t even know where Anderida is,’ he stated in all honesty.

‘I’ve never heard of it myself but it must be situated on the south-east coast somewhere,’ Targo replied. ‘And I can guarantee it won’t be pleasant or Uther wouldn’t have chosen it for your death, my young hero.’

Artorex threw an empty wooden cup at the older man. Targo caught it neatly and spun it in his hand.

‘You’re reading my mind, boy. It’s time for a drink.’

After a hurried bowl of porridge and several rather withered apples, Targo and Artorex faced the miserable weather outside the inn. Under the shelter of the wolf cape, Artorex managed to avoid most of the rain, but a dozen steps had him spattered with mud.

‘This rain is the soldier’s friend,’ Targo explained drily, eyeing his ruined handiwork on Artorex’s kit with the patience of long experience. ‘The commanders stick to their tents when rain comes to the battlefield, so mud takes the edge from everyone.’

‘The only detail about Anderida that Myrddion bothered to share with us was that it’s near a swamp. I predict that mud won’t be our friend.’

‘Hell, boy! You know how to make an old man feel better.’ Targo laughed boyishly.

‘But even mud can be an edge, especially if our enemy believes we’d never flounder through it to achieve our objective.’

Targo stared hard at Artorex. His eyes were narrowed, and very bright.

‘You may have an idea there, boy. You could be right.’

Artorex’s fame had spread quickly, and well-wishers slowed their passage through the narrow streets. An hour of damp wandering through the town finally led the pair to Myrddion and Llanwith in a very disreputable drinking house outside the gates of Venta Belgarum, where they were selecting warriors for what Llanwith was calling a ‘little hunting expedition’.