Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (37 page)

With pride, Arthur ran
his gaze over the mounted men
awaiting his order to
move off. They were taking a terrible risk splitting their force like this, but
then, what was battle if not a risk? He raised his hand, about to signal, but
someone ducked
through the crush of men and
horses to stand panting at Onager’s shoulder. The horse snorted, flattened his
ears
further.

Arthur hastily checked
the stallion and regarded the little
man, a Christian
priest. He had appeared out of the mist one autumn afternoon, striding alone
across the moors, with no possessions save the clothes he wore, a staff he
carried, and a small leather-bound volume of the Holy Gospels. That he was
sent to them by God himself, no one doubted –
including
Arthur – for this gentle, quietly spoken man, dedicated to
spreading the word of the Christ, had arrived two
mornings
after their previous Holy Father had died of dysentery.

‘
I thank
you for the blessing you gave my men, Father,’
Arthur said, shielding his irritation at the man’s reckless
approach so close to the horse. ‘I trust your
prayers will be heard
and answered by your Christian God.’

‘
He always
answers, my Lord King,’ Cethrwm answered with
a teasing smile. ‘It is
just that some of us do not listen.’ Arthur returned the smile, adding a slight
chuckle. He liked
this priest, an honest,
pleasant man, who did not push the
Word of God, ramming it day after day
down your throat, until you wanted to vomit it out. Na, Cethrwm told the
stories of Christ, of his time on this earth, of his healing and courage.
Arthur could stomach that, and had, to his own
great
amusement, found himself listening once or twice.

The priest
fumbled with something he held in his hand. He licked dry lips, seemed nervous,
embarrassed.

Arthur had to say,
impatiently, for they must begin this
thing,
‘Father, the men of Gwynedd and half my Artoriani are fighting for their lives
and for those in this entire fortress up there on the battlements, and I am
waiting to give the order to open the gates for the rest of us to do what we
can. If you have something to say, then please say it quickly.’

‘You are not a believer in the Christ, are
you my King?’ Arthur rolled his eyes skyward, biting his temper. ‘Na, I am
not.’ Onager crashed a hindleg towards the horse
behind.
Arthur cursed. ‘I am sorry, this is not the time nor place to be
discussing my lack of religion.’
Cethrwm
extended his hand, holding out something that
was in it, his eyes
meeting with Arthur’s pleading for him to listen, to take the thing. ‘My Lord,
wear this on your shoulder.
It is a portrait
of the Virgin, Our Mother of Christ. I believe it to
be most ancient,
coming from the very time that Christ walked
our
earth. It is the only possession of value that I own, save my
Bible.’ He was talking hurriedly, his voice rising
in his
agitation. ‘It is a thing which means a lot to me. I am reluctant
to part with it – none has seen it before now, 1 keep it hidden
beneath my robe.’ He licked his dry lips. ‘For
many years I have
been guilty of sin by keeping this thing to myself.
The Holy
Lady came to me in a dream last
night, she said I was to give her
portrait
to you, for you to carry into battle, so that through Her,
you may realise the Truth of Her Son.’ The words
came in a rush
as Cethrwm thrust the
thing into Arthur’s hand and spun away,
running with his robe hitched to
his knees back into the Hall,
where already
the wounded from this assault were being carried.

For a blind moment,
Arthur stared after him, astonished, then glanced down at the oval brooch in
his hand. He laughed then, a
loud roar of delighted
amusement, head back, mouth wide,
laughed,
his head shaking, tears, almost, coming to his eyes. Still
chuckling he turned in his saddle and grinned at
the men, holding the brooch high, though they would be hard pressed to see its
fine
painted detail. ‘See,’ he
shouted above the noise, ‘it is a portrait of
the Lady. The Mother rides
with us!’ He fastened it beside the great cloak-pin at his left shoulder, the
shout of approval increasing as word rippled back through the ranks.

Arthur raised his hand,
the wooden doors beneath the
entrance
towers swung inwards and the Artoriani, spears raised,
heads
back, mouths open and yelling their battle-cry plunged out into the swarm of Lot’s war-hosting.

Cethrwm, so devoted to
God, so immersed in the short
sighted values of
Christianity, had not seen beyond his belief. Aye, the woman with dark eyes and
veiled in pale blue, was
indeed a mother,
but she was not, as the priest thought, the
Holy Virgin Mary, Mother of
God. She was earlier, older than that, was the pagan Goddess, the Earth Mother.

Arthur roared his
laughter as he cast his spear, seeing, with a
grunt of satisfaction, it thud deep into a warrior’s
chest. Then
he had his sword out and had no more time
to reflect on how
each man within this
furious mêlée would look upon the
Mother, be she of Christ, or the
Goddess.

§ XLV

The prisoner, hands bound
firm by coarse rope, stood tall,
proud, before the
British Pendragon. Arthur was deliberately ignoring him, paying attention to
the stark gash snaking across the ribs of a bay stallion. The horse fidgeted,
half-raising his off-hindleg in protest as Arthur’s fingers probed the jagged
wound.

‘It will heal well enough,’ he said to the
cavalryman holding
the animal’s drooping
head, ‘though the scar will be an ugly
one.
It saddens my heart that his rider did not escape as lightly.’ He patted the
horse’s flank. Too many of his men were as badly
wounded, awaiting
treatment within the Hall – more, like the
rider
of this bay, lay growing cold beneath their cloaks awaiting
burial.

As if seeing the prisoner for the first time
Arthur, with his
head back and slightly
cocked to one side, stared long and hard at him through slit, appraising eyes.
They were lucky indeed to
have captured him, these Eastern Picti men
were as wily as wolves when it came to vanishing among the undergrowth.

Fresh blood oozed through old that had dried
and crusted around the man’s thigh, a deep wound, reason for his capture.
The Pendragon noted the slight flicker of his
eyes at the brooch
pinned to Arthur’s cloak. Absently, he toyed with it,
watching with satisfaction as the same superstitious flicker came again. ‘You,’
Arthur, said, using the tongue of the Picti, ‘are no doubt craving the
honourable death of a warrior. I could order it so,
and the same swift death for Lot’s captured lowland curs.’
Arthur
dropped his hand ostentatiously to his sword hilt. ‘Or, I
may decide to order your maiming and let you go
back, blinded,
worthless and mutilated, to your people.’ He paused, his
calculating gaze never leaving the man’s
guarded
expression. ‘There again, I could show mercy and grant
you pardon, in
return for some small gesture of loyalty to me, the Supreme King.’ The prisoner
spat at Arthur’s boots. A smile played over the Pendragon’s mouth. ‘Na, I thought
the idea would not appeal.’ He turned to the two men keeping firm hold of the
prisoner’s bonds. ‘Have the captives blinded and gelded then throw them to the
wolves. Oh, and Decurion,’ he added as an afterthought,
‘have Lot brought to my chamber, I would speak with the traitor
before
you do the same with him.’ As he knew they might, the words caused the prisoner
to react with cautious uncertainty.

Arthur stepped closer, saying with venom, ‘Aye,
I have the
whelp who has dared call himself
King of the North. That is my
title.’ He made a dismissive gesture and
turned away, swinging
back at an
afterthought to add; ‘One thing I would know. What
were you promised in return for this alliance?
Whatever, it
would almost certainly be as hollow as a decayed oak.’ Arthur
fingered his brooch again, ensuring the man saw it clearly.

That flicker to the eye had come again in the
Picti man, an uncertainty, a doubt. Arthur smiled, a lazy, unconcerned
expression. The figure painted on that brooch, representing the Mother, the
pre-eminent goddess of these pagan clans, meant much, very much.

Arthur laughed and began to walk away, called
over his
shoulder, ‘Morgause is no goddess.’
The man’s eyes had
narrowed, ah, so Arthur was riding the right track!
He wasseveral paces away now, half turned, ‘I wear the image of the Mother. To
me, she gave her protection and the victory, not to Morgause or her whore-son
husband.’ He paused. ‘See that my orders are carried out, Decurion.’
And Arthur strode away, heading for his private
chamber.
He lay on the bed, still wearing cloak, muddied boots and
battle-stained bracae. Within a few breaths, he was asleep.

§ XLVI

Rotating his aching shoulders, Arthur
attempted to ease the weariness from his muscles. All he really wanted was to
lie on his bed and finish the sleep that had been so necessarily short.
He sighed and returned his attention to the man
standing
before him, bound as the Picti captive had been. Only this
prisoner was clad in rich dress and had more to lose than the Picti and the other
hundred or so lowland prisoners who had half an hour since been herded beyond
the gates, naked of
clothing and weaponry,
blinded, and mutilated of their
manhood. Most would not survive the
night. It was the way of things.

‘I am weary, and I have yet to see to the
well-being of my
men,’ Arthur said to Lot, dispassionately, ‘I will not waste
breath
on trivial formalities. Your instigated rising of the North
has been
crushed.’ He waved his hand to silence Lot’s denial. ‘My Artoriani will soon
head further north, to purge the foul
stench
that you and your bitch wife have created.’ He sat
forward on his stool,
rested an elbow on his thigh, cupping his stubbled chin in his palm and threw a
lie at Lot. The prisoner I
questioned told
me Morgause was the leader behind this
uprising. I could not believe
that. A woman such as she cannot think beyond who next is to share her bed.’ Lot angered, but held his tongue.

‘
I
believe it was you who rallied the North; you who arranged
alliance with
the Picti. Whatever it was you promised them in return, cannot now be given.
You have failed, Lot.’ Arthur shrugged. ‘You will shortly be joining the other
unfortunates beyond our defences.’ Lot licked his dry lips nervously. It was
one thing facing the Pendragon with a thousand and a thousand men at your back,
quite another to be herded, defeated, before
him. It had all
seemed so promising back in his own Hall, where he and
Morgause and his warriors had talked of easy victory. With
Morgause’s suggestion of an alliance with the Picti
the
possibility of losing had never entered his head.

Arthur suddenly tired of the pointless
taunting. He flapped his hand at the guard. ‘Take this pathetic fool away,
blind and geld him as you have the others and throw him over the
battlements. Either the fall shall kill him, or the
waiting
wolves.’
The guard saluted
and began dragging Lot from the chamber.

Lot
panicked. He squirmed from the man’s hands, flinging
himself to his knees before Arthur. ‘My Lord, let me speak! I beg
you!’

‘I have other matters to attend.’

‘
It was
Morgause who sent to the Picti for alliance. The
Eastern Clan need a
royal woman as high priestess and queen. We offered our daughter to their king.’
Arthur controlled the quick catch of breath. So-o, that was how they did it!
And the one Clan would call to the other for
support
... Speaking slowly, he countered, ‘But your daughter
is not even a
handful of years old.’ "Tis old enough to become a Clan queen!’ Lot replied with pride.

It took only a rapid moment for Arthur to
mull over the information, to reach conclusion. He laughed cynically. The Picti
were to have had their queen, but I doubt Morgause was intending for it to be
your daughter! If victory had gone your
way,
Lot, you would now be dead. Conveniently killed in
battle.’
Lot
was
shaking his head. ‘No,’ he mumbled, ‘it was not
agreed like that!’
Arthur lunged to his feet in sudden
anger, crossed the small space between him and Lot, his hand reaching for the
saggingflesh of the man’s quivering throat. ‘For you, you poor, blind,
used fool, it was agreed like that. The Picti
would not unite and
raise a
war-hosting for a pathetic rebel and the bedding of a baby
girl but, for Morgause, and holding the entire
North, they
would!’
Lot
looked wildly around the chamber, seeking the help of some sympathetic
eye, but not one of Arthur’s men gave him
anything
but a returned stare of contempt and loathing. He
hung his head,
swallowed hard. ‘You have it wrong. She has been a good wife to me, she is
loyal and faithful.’ He could not
believe
Arthur. Would not believe him! Even though he
feared, deep down, that he
spoke the truth of it.