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‘
Aye well, there are many things they do
differently from us.’

‘
Many things they do the same.’ He was
stroking the flesh along the inside of her thigh, his fingers inching
intimately
higher. ‘For one thing, they make
love the same way.’ He
twisted
suddenly, brought her around beneath him, their
mutual wanting making
them both eager.

‘Blood
of the Bull!’ she panted after, as they lay sweating in the aftermath. ‘Are you
likely to have many a sleepless night during this Council gathering?’ He
grinned. ‘You complain?’ Na. Just preparing myself!’

§ XV

Weak autumn sunlight filtered through the cracked and
broken glass of the high basilica windows; distorted shadows lengthen
ing as the
sun descended towards early evening. The most
important
and influential men of Britain were assembled in this
room, a few
sitting relaxed and half amused; the majority mistrustful and suspicious of the
King’s intentions. Men like
Emrys — southern
landowners, and the hierarchy of the
Christian
Church, headed by Archbishop Patricius.
Governors, Elders; influential
and wealthy merchants and
tradesmen — men
who relied on the patronage of those
landowners
and the Church. Most of them disliked the
Pendragon. There was no denying that he was a good
commander, but
he was too blunt and intransigent, he trod on
too
many toes and threatened too many positions of power.
Plain
bloody-minded. Arthur was an army-created king who
rode roughshod over civil matters, often ignored the judge
ments
of Council and in his blatant pagan following of the
soldier’s god, Mithras, disregarded the holy sanctity of the true,
Christian
God. The people loved him well enough, farmers, peasants and common tradesmen.
What did uneducated commoners know of the intricacies of government? Britain, meaning wealthy, Southern Britain, these powerful assembled men declared, was heading like
a bolting horse into anarchy. Lawlessness and corruption were slithering along
the
crumbling streets, winding through
unharvested fields and
taking root in
the very heart of the land. Disorder, they
announced, was causing chaos and confusion. And the
Pendragon, they added for good measure, far from
setting seal to
just and legal
government was opening the gates of destruction
wider.

A few men gave
Arthur their support. Men from his own
Dumnonia
and the Summer Land; Enniaun from Gwynedd, and
some other Northern
lords. The old tribal areas welcomed his
strong,
military authority, for their lands ranged across the rugged
and poorer acres of Britain, encompassing the
rough grazing of the
moorlands, the marshes, the hills and the hostile
borders of the
dark and fearful forests.
Many of them were taking up the title of
king, for the tribes had never quite forgotten or abandoned their
Old Ways. Four hundred years of Roman dominance had not
entirely
despatched their traditions and beliefs — subtly altered
them and
intertwined them within Roman law and custom
perhaps,
the one shape changing into the other, but never totally
taking over.
The British had long memories, and steadfast ambition. Especially where
personal gain was concerned.

Outside
this handful of allied lords, there were a few whom Arthur fiercely, and
impotently, opposed. Dissident men, one
time
heel-hounds to the king Vortigern, now several years cold in
his grave,
but with an irritatingly enduring influence. Men like Amlawdd. Vortigern had
granted him land and a title. He had
rejected
any association with the Council of All Britain and was
an agitating thorn in Arthur’s flesh. A
troublemaker, waiting for a
future cauldron of dissent to come to the
boil. But he was not
strong enough to go
openly against Arthur nor yet had he enough
courage —or foolishness — to give the Pendragon the excuse he
needed
to give open challenge and make a fight of it.

Arthur
was seated apart from Council, his chair raised on a stepped dais. Several
things he would change, intended to
change,
when opportunity presented itself. This ridiculous
seating arrangement
for instance. A typical formation in the
Roman
style, columns of stools set facing each other across the
long, narrow
council chamber. Men needed to swivel or stand to see others along the rows, no
chance to study expression or
manner, a
hindrance to close-watching a man’s eye and
thought. Arthur would prefer
to sit in the tribal way, gathered circular, where each could clearly see the
other around the central hearth-fire. Equal met, equal spoken, equal heard.

el
But it could not come yet, these un-Roman ideas of his.
Arthur sighed, shifted his backside against the hardness of his seat. He draped
a leg over the arm, sitting askew, undignified, noted the frowns of disapproval
at his informality.

A discussion had been in progress this half hour
concerning a raising of the tithe on goose fat. Arthur stifled a yawn. As a boy
he had been attacked by a gander, a hideously vicious brute that
had proved
as tough in the pot as in life. He had never much liked geese after that.

Nor did he have much of a liking for these pompous little
men talking so passionately about this trivial thing as if it were a
life-or-death
crisis. Self-important bureaucrats, seeing themselves as the protectors of the
Roman Province of Britain, standing nobly firm until Rome came again to sort
the chaos and restore peace and prosperity. How easily men forget!
Rome
had bled
Britain almost dry of gold, tin, corn and
young men. With trade
collapsing into ruins and the country sinking to its knees, Rome had demanded
higher and higher taxes — then callously abandoned the people, leaving Britain
floundering. Were it not for the still rippling repercussions of
Rome
’s greed,
Arthur would have no difficulty raising and
paying a hundred times the men and horses he needed to
sweep the
Saex from these shores, could send them scurrying back whence they came in one,
well-planned campaign. Yet these myopic hypocrites seated here in this
crumbling bastion
of Roman influence refused
to see through their own created
fog
of misremembered delusion. The golden age of Rome? Rot!
Tarnished
centuries of corruption and greed more like!
Decision
at last reached and the vote taken. The consents
had it. Arthur hid a
wry smile behind his shielding hand. He
must
remember to inform Gwenhwyfar about the increase of
her goose-fat
entitlement. She would be delighted! Archbishop Patricius stood, adjusted the
fall of his robe, waited for a hush among the scuffle of shifting positions and
coughing that had erupted at the conclusion
of voting. He had a
look about him that raised Arthur’s interest. This
was it then, the serious business.

Being deliberately
provoking, Arthur laid his left leg across the first. Sitting sideways in his
chair, he hooked an elbow to
the chair-back
and waited for the Voice of the Church to speak.

Patricius
looked directly at the King, his intense blue eyes
unwavering, stance determined. ‘Land is being casually
parcelled
out to the heathen Saex. Our land, our sacred British
land. Where the Lord Jesu himself once walked as a child, now
barbarian
savages seep the soil with the blood of our fellow countrymen.’ Nodding heads,
a tapping of agreeing hands on knees and thighs. Patricius took a pace nearer
to Arthur, with a flourish, produced a thin scroll of parchment from the folds
of
his robe. ‘I have a list of the land lost
to us. A shameful,
despicable, sad, sorry list.’ He unrolled it, dangled
the lines of
neat handwriting before his
captivated audience a moment
before
turning it to read aloud. ‘Cantii. Given to that foul
butcher Hengest, as his own Saxon kingdom. British
land in
the region of Londinium has
become the dark and God-rejected
East Saex and Middle Saex ...’
Arthur noisily cleared his throat, interrupted. ‘Those
last
two areas were settled under Rome’s Governorship.’ He spread
his hand. ‘They are third- even fourth-generation
settled,
peaceful English.’ He smiled at the Archbishop. ‘Take up the
giving of that land with Rome; as you well know,
it’s nothing to
do with me.’ For Patricius, that small detail was
immaterial. He read on. To the south of here the marshes, Anglia, are given to
Icel,’ he pronounced the English names as if they had a putrid taste, his nose
and mouth wrinkling. ‘And I hear from Lindum’s good. Governor that the area you
gave these poxed Humbrenses has been named Mercia, Land Of The Border!’ He slapped the parchment, disgusted, with the back of his fingers, the harsh
sound echoing against the damp stone walls. ‘Why
a Saex title?
Why do we not insist on Latin or British?’ His sneer
deepened.

Muttered
agreement, even from a few tribal lords loyal to Arthur.

Patricius
was a gifted speaker, a man respected, if not liked. He rolled his small piece
of parchment, stowed it again within
the
folds of his robe, then pausing for effect, lifted his hands in
prayer
to intone, ‘Oh Lord our God, they have burned with fireyour sanctuary on the
ground, they have polluted the dwelling place of your name!’ He turned suddenly
and strode towards Arthur, hand outstretched, bejewelled finger pointing. ‘It
must stop, this wanton giving away of British land.
You
must be stopped.’
Arthur’s eyebrow lifted a little higher. He
shifted position
but made no answer as the Archbishop swept forward to
stand two strides before him. One or two councillors were on their feet,
echoing his last words.

‘
We will have no more of it!’ The Archbishop’s cry
clawed up
into the vaulted roof, rattled among the worn, stone supports.
‘Too late now to save land that has been given to the wicked demons who have
raped and tortured, too late to save those British souls condemned into slavery
and a life without God’s light. Too late to—’
Unable
to sit quiet any longer, Arthur protested, ‘Your
precious southern land
is not under threat.’ He swung his legs down, leant forward. ‘On the contrary,
these agreed borders ensure the protection of your massed wealth, of your holy
churches and rich estates.’ Arthur smiled, a wry smile that held
no warmth or amusement. ‘While I am King you are
well
enough protected. Although I cannot guarantee the lasting of these
treaties after my death or,’ he paused, looked along the
rows of glowering men, ‘departure.’ He gazed a
long moment at the Archbishop, then came slowly to his feet, unfolding himself
from
the hard, cramped chair.

The
Pendragon wore cavalry dress of leather and light mail
over a white linen tunic. Across his shoulders, a scarlet-red
cloak
fastened by a silver and ruby cloak pin, its crafted head, the size of a man’s
clenched fist. White and red, the colours
significant
of the Artoriani. Resting at his throat the royal
torque. It had been his father’s once, this gold,
jewel-eyed,
coiled dragon. The tyrant
king Vortigern had personally lifted
it
from the bloodied, hacked neck of Uthr’s severed head. Some
small,
pleasurable revenge had come to Arthur the day he retrieved the thing from
Vortigern’s treasury.

He was a tall man, Arthur, his body muscular and lithe;
with
his
prominent nose and keen, penetrating eyes, he gave the impression of a stalking
lion. Determination mixed with
stubbornness.
He pushed past the Archbishop, walked the
length of the long, narrow council chamber, surveying each
man
with his unnerving gaze. At the far end, he turned, leant against the wall and
folded his arms.

‘I
have given away nothing. I permit the English to live on our land for harsh and
exacting payment. Taxes, I might add, that balance the amount I would need ask
from you were I not
collecting it elsewhere.
Nor have I abandoned anyone into
Saex slavery. All had equal chance to
leave when the treaties
were agreed. The
farmers elected to stay — as freeborn beneath
the Saex. Farmers, I have found, take small heed to who are
their
overlords, they tend to stay loyal to their orchards, flocks and herds.’ His
wry smile appeared again. The Church fled
Durovernum,
as I recall, hitched their cassocks and ran,
bleating and mewling for
safety.’ He laughed, pushed himself from the wall and strode back up the aisle.
‘So much for faith
and trust in the Lord?’
He reached the Archbishop. ‘So much
for
spreading the word of God to those who have not yet
embraced Him.’ Patricius
blustered a moment before blurting out, ‘Are you suggesting we should soil our
robes by preaching the Blessed Word to those, those ...’
Arthur finished for him, ‘Pagans?’ As he brushed
past,
heading for his seat, he
paused, said wickedly in Patricius’s ear,
‘Yet you try often enough with
me, Archbishop.’ He leapt up the two steps, sat, added, ‘But then, you are not
overkeen on
soiling your hands on me either,
are you?’ Several men,
Arthur’s supporters, laughed. Others growled and
grumbled.