Dragon's Child (35 page)

Targo looked down at his fallen master, and shook his bruised fingers where they had been trapped around the knife hilt that had stunned Artorex.

‘You great ones amaze me. You talk and you talk! This boy would have left here and returned all that distance to his family, while you were still thinking up noble phrases to keep him from harm. So old Targo has to knock the boy senseless to stop him from throwing his life away. I love that boy, and I’ll probably die for him, but I’m damned if I can see why Uther hates him so much.’

Luka and Llanwith lifted Artorex gently and moved his flaccid body to a pile of furs in the corner of the room. Luka checked his breathing and Llanwith covered him with another heavy fur. Meanwhile, Myrddion gripped Targo’s arm and forced the old warrior to listen to him.

‘I know you’re angry, Targo,’ Myrddion whispered to the soldier. ‘I can understand that you might think we’ve failed Artorex in some way, but it’s time that you learned the whole story of the boy.’ He paused to control his thoughts.

‘Artorex is Uther’s first and only living son, born of Ygerne’s body after a hasty marriage. Following the birth, Uther issued orders that the babe was to be taken to Bishop Lucius of Glastonbury, who was to arrange for the child to be exposed to the elements and allowed to die. Lucius lacked the stomach or the immorality to kill infants, even on Uther’s orders, so he sent the child as far from Uther’s influence as he could, to Lord Ector and a Roman way of life. The good priest then spent many hundreds of hours on his knees, as he prayed to his god for guidance after defying the wishes of his king.’

‘But you assured Artorex that he was no kin to Uther,’ Targo protested.

‘I didn’t lie to the boy. I told the boy that he wasn’t a
bastard
son for, beyond all argument, he’s Uther’s
legitimate
son. How could I warn the boy of the perils of his bloodline? He’d have revealed that knowledge to Uther - by a look, a gesture, or even a careless word. And then that madman would have killed him out of hand.’ Myrddion stared at his hands. His face was downcast with shame. ‘I had no choice. It is the land and the common people who matter.’

Targo made a sharp exclamation of disgust. ‘Does Ector know what manner of child he has fostered for Lucius? Did he realize the danger that his kin would face when he allowed the child to enter his house?’

‘No. It was nearly twelve years before Lucius confessed the details of his involvement in Uther’s evil scheme to me. And the bishop didn’t know if Artorex had Gorlois for a sire or Uther Pendragon. Nor did we, until we first saw him. Gods, I almost bowed to him when he was twelve and had scabs on his knees. Since then, our sole aim has been to keep the boy safe, for Artorex is our only hope if we are to oppose the inexorable advance by the Saxon hordes. Our intention must be to unite the tribes under Artorex’s banner so they’ll fight as one body.’

‘No wonder you objected to Artorex’s marriage,’ Targo muttered. ‘The Celtic kings wouldn’t welcome a queen with a Roman lineage.’

‘Poor Gallia,’ said Luka. ‘But I swear I had no inkling that Eilyn was kin to Botha when I was bedding her.’

Three pairs of eyes swivelled towards Luka with dawning horror.

‘Did you tell that bitch that Artorex was married - and that he was a father?’ Myrddion asked, amazed by Luka’s stupidity.

‘Yes, I did,’ Luka confessed, his eyes downcast. ‘She spoke of Artorex and described him as a handsome man. Without thinking, I told her that he was already taken by another woman. We were each making use of the other, and I’d drunk far too much wine trying to gain what information was to be had,’ Luka pleaded. ‘I only learned of Botha’s movements because of Eilyn. How could I predict that a drunken slip of the tongue would lead to Uther gaining such dangerous knowledge of the Villa Poppinidii?’

‘I can’t believe that you were so thoughtless and stupid, Luka!’

Myrddion’s gaze was hard, and Luka quailed under his friend’s accusing stare. When he chose, the gentle Myrddion could be as terrifying as Uther Pendragon.

‘Hades take all tyrants!’ Myrddion cursed, and kicked at Artorex’s pack. ‘My apologies, Luka. You couldn’t expect to know they were kin but I wish you’d been more circumspect.’

‘Aye. The fault is mine. And also the shame, if any harm should befall little Gallia.’

Luka looked so downcast that even Targo lacked the heart to belabour him further.

‘So, what can we do now?’ Llanwith asked pugnaciously. He pointed at Artorex’s unconscious form. ‘The lad won’t trust us again - and I don’t blame him.’

‘We can’t do anything. We must let chance rule, for all our decisions have been made and we are committed to them,’ Myrddion answered sadly.

‘I hope you realize that the boy might never forgive us for what we’ve done tonight?’ Targo whispered, his eyes sad and stark.

‘I know, Targo. I understand the implications of what has occurred,’ Myrddion replied distantly. ‘But the fate of the west is greater than any single man or group of men. And little Gallia must now take her chances - as we do.’

When Artorex eventually awoke, he had a blinding headache, a heaving stomach and couldn’t remember at first where he was. Then his memory of the events of the night, and the possibility that Botha meant to harm his family, returned to terrify him. He sat up abruptly and fumbled for his weapons.

Targo sat with his back to the door with a drawn sword over his knees.

‘It’s too late now, boy. Whatever may happen at the Villa Poppinidii - if that is Botha’s destination - will have been set in motion many hours past. You are now far too late, so dress yourself, for today we ride to Anderida.’

Targo looked at his erstwhile pupil with a face pained by the unblinking, hating eyes that glared back at him.

‘Why have you done this evil to me, Targo? Is Villa Poppinidii not your home also?’

‘Don’t taunt me, boy. I’d knock you senseless again if it would save you from stupidity.’

‘Then don’t speak to me at all,’ Artorex snarled, as cold fury rose in his pale eyes. ‘Leave my presence! Immediately!’

‘No, boy. You may hate me if you want but I’ll not leave you.’ Targo chose his words carefully. ‘You will ride to Anderida with your scum, for they’ll never be held loyal if you can’t master yourself. Your foster-father has vowed to keep Gallia safe, as did Frith, and they’ll not break their oaths to you lightly. You may kill me if you wish, or even order me to kill myself, I’ll obey your commands. But your destiny is to become a great leader of the Britons, and your fate won’t permit you to cast aside the future of the west for a hundred wives or a thousand children. Decisions made for self are the flawed actions of a petty Uther Pendragon.’

‘Why, Targo? Why does he hate me so much?’

‘Uther can’t bear the thought that
anyone
could be a great warrior or a gifted leader to rival him. He’s maniacal, and so set on preserving his reputation that he’s prepared to cut off his nose to spite his face.’

‘He may fear me but I’m no threat to him. May the vile old monster die in agony if he harms my family for no reason.’

‘If need be, I’ll personally see that he screams in extremity,’ Targo promised. ‘But, for now, you must wash your face, dress yourself and present yourself to your command. Many of your men will die for you in the days ahead.’

And so Artorex was forced to reconcile himself to his first great sacrifice. Against all his finer instincts, his love for his family and his wish to protect his home, cold reason washed over his passions through a quiet, inner voice that assured him that Targo’s words were true.

Yet, as he accepted his fate, something in Artorex’s soul withered. He realized that, even if Gallia and little Licia were safe and well and even if the villa remained undamaged, he’d made a conscious, personal choice - one that he could never forget, least of all forgive.

 

Anderida wasn’t particularly far from Venta Belgarum as the crow flies, but the attacking force had no obvious and convenient route to their destination.

According to Myrddion’s maps and local knowledge of the terrain gained from his spies, Artorex had four possible choices of approach to reach his destination. Unfortunately, his choices narrowed if he hoped to achieve any element of surprise in the campaign they were about to undertake.

The first of these choices was to take the easy coastal route, but Artorex soon concluded that the lack of cover from vegetation, the flatness of the land and the chalky cliffs that edged the sea made discovery of the attacking force a certainty. The Saxons would be warned of the approach of Artorex’s force long before they’d come within sight of Anderida. The small force would be caught between the mountains and the sea, and would be crushed by the Saxons.

The second and third routes were equally impractical. They would take the force through thickly forested chains of hill country that led to secure areas overlooking their destination. Unfortunately, each of these routes ended in stout gates leading to the fortress.

The fourth, and final, choice was to ride through a sodden, lightly forested valley that led to deep marshes. This treacherous and treeless waste protected the western approaches to the garrison.

Artorex understood that the easiest route was suicidal, and this option must be rejected out of hand. Further, passage through the high ground would be extremely difficult, except for accomplished horsemen such as those led by Ban and Llanwith. Similarly, the marshes could only be traversed on foot and then only by warriors with limited supplies and arms to slow them down.

To further complicate their choices, Luka explained that Saxon raiding parties regularly foraged out from the fortress of Anderida, for it was strategically situated on the edge of the narrow coastal plain that led to Noviomagus, Portus Adurni and thence to Uther’s winter capital, Venta Belgarum. The Britons had long described the Saxons as wolves. They struck fast and viciously in small packs, and killed every living thing that stood against them. Then they retired to Anderida where they lived in complete safely, with the sea at their backs and treacherous swamps protecting their northern flanks.

As Artorex’s force rode out of Venta Belgarum, a silent crowd gathered to watch the volunteers as they passed, for rumours had sped through the streets of their impending departure. Even the multiple-storeyed, wooden buildings seemed to lean inward out of curiosity as the troop rode towards the main gate that led out of the city.

Artorex was still impressed by the size of Venta Belgarum, so even the fears he held for the safety of his family and his sullen rage couldn’t entirely override his awe at the size of the crowds clustered on every vantage point to watch them pass.

Targo’s men had already fashioned an impudent banner, a crude strip of old white cloth on which one of their number had daubed a red dragon rampant. This rag had been mounted on a pole, probably stolen, and was now gripped in Pinhead’s gloved paw.

Ban’s men rode under an embroidered banner of an iron fist clutching a burning branch. Their body leather shone with bronze discs and their faces displayed the competent demeanour of professional soldiery. The crowd cheered and Ban raised his clenched fist in both an acknowledgement and a salute.

There was little difference between the men of Ban’s troop and those of Llanwith’s cavalry, except that pen Bryn’s standard bore a green crouching dragon with its wings spread in attack. Llanwith chose to ignore the crowds who threw flowers for the cavalry to ride over. Women ran forward to thrust small gifts at the warriors and Artorex was embarrassed when an old woman pressed a narrow length of ribbon into his hands. He would have returned the gift, but she vanished into the crowd.

‘Why are the people so interested in our expedition?’ Artorex asked Targo.

‘Anderida and its Saxon hordes scare the people of the south so badly that anyone who tries to relieve them of this menace has their gratitude. Wear the old woman’s ribbon and remember how much our attack means to ordinary people.’

‘I feel like a fraud,’ Artorex replied, but he tied the short length of scarlet ribbon round his wrist. ‘I’m not certain that I want to be here - and I’m far more interested in my family than I am in the common people.’

‘Then try to pretend,’ Targo snapped, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

During the first night, the men were ordered to keep fires to the barest minimum and muffle the hooves of their hobbled horses with strips of cloth. Saxons could be behind any tree and Luka remained their only advance warning of any impending ambush.

The Brigante king rejoined the troop in the grey light of a watery dawn.

‘The terrain ahead is nasty, friends. The coast route offers damn all cover, but the mountain routes appear to be slow and hard going for men and horses alike.’

‘What of the valley route?’ Artorex asked.

‘There’s some cover, but not much.’ Luka smiled thinly. ‘The marshes, though, provide an effective bar to our passage.’

‘But the marshes aren’t totally impassable, are they?’ Artorex persisted.

‘No. But the wooden palisade of the fortress overlooks some of the marshland. And there are acres of water, reeds and the sucking mud. There’s no way out if you get caught in the mud without assistance.’

‘Do they guard the marsh approaches?’ Artorex hammered away, to the irritation of both Luka and Ban.

Myrddion’s eyes gleamed. ‘There isn’t even a gate on that side, Artorex. Why would there be? Who’s going to crawl out of a swamp and scale their walls?’

‘I will, and so will the scum! It’s the most direct route, although it seems painfully slow. The Saxons don’t expect an attack from that direction and their defences will be concentrated on the entrances to their fortress.’

‘True,’ Llanwith agreed cautiously. ‘But the cost to our numbers as we try to climb the ramparts will be wicked if our men are on foot - or if they are detected before we are ready to launch our attack.’