Warrior of the West (19 page)

Gawayne understood their plight.

The day was well-advanced when an outrider heard the sound of gravel sliding from the hillside, a warning that someone was approaching from the east of Caer Fyrddin. Three horsemen were dispatched to intercept the man and bring him to Gawayne.

The Celtic warriors returned with a half-naked savage slung over the neck of one of the horses. The man was bound, hand and foot.

‘Who’s this pretty boy?’ Gawayne asked sharply. ‘Where did you find him? It’s obvious that you smelled him long before you saw him.’

‘He appeared out of nowhere, Lord Gawayne, right under the hooves of the horses as if he’d grown out of the ground. He speaks good Celt, but he’s asking to be taken to the High King. I believe he could be an assassin.’

The young Dumnonii warrior who spoke took the safety of the High King very seriously, for his tribe and the Durotriges clan both claimed Artor as their own. Gawayne grinned sardonically. Regardless of the origins of Queen Ygerne or Uther Pendragon, Artor was content to be simply Celt. In truth, Artor was more than half Roman in thinking, for his foster-mother and his arms master both stemmed from that ancient, redoubtable race.

Gawayne looked down at the filthy creature. He had been allowed to fall to the ground Stocky, rippling with muscle, but poorly nourished, the body of the man was grime-encrusted and lousy from his matted hair and beard to his calloused, black toenails.

‘Stand!’ Gawayne demanded with scant courtesy. ‘Who are you? And where are you going? If you were seeking King Artor, then you’re going in the wrong direction.’ His nose wrinkled as the stink of unwashed flesh assaulted his senses.

‘I am Bedwyr of the Cornovii, taken alive from the land to the south of Castell Collen over three years ago. I was a house slave to Glamdring Ironfist, and I’ve escaped to carry news of Glamdring’s defences and strategies to King Artor. If I became lost, it is because I’m not familiar with this place.’

Gawayne and his warriors stirred as the savage spoke, doubting that such a dirty creature could be Celt. Gawayne stared at the filthy, soot-darkened face, his distrust written plainly upon his freckled face.

‘You may doubt me if you wish,’ Bedwyr said. ‘And I suppose I would do the same were I in your shoes. If you allow me to clean myself, and if you have something else for me to wear, then you will see that what I say is the truth.’

‘The air would certainly smell sweeter if you were clean,’ Gawayne responded. ‘But why should I believe you? Ironfist is capable of sending a spy to assassinate Artor under the guise of a freed captive. You’ll have to be more convincing, my friend.’

The man stripped off his ragged tunic with his bound hands. As he straightened, wearing only an equally dirt-encrusted loincloth, the warriors could see the slave mark on his shoulder and the iron collar round his neck. Deep scarring marked the flesh around the heavy metal. Gawayne recalled Gruffydd’s scar, the twin to the cicatrice on the breast of this savage.

‘Very well, I accept that you have been marked as a slave. But how can I trust a man who stayed in Caer Fyrddin for three years, and only now escapes from our enemies to join King Artor?’

‘I bear news that King Artor must hear. As Glamdring’s servant, I heard much, and even now his men pursue me. Don’t hinder me, for he plans to attack Artor at the river mouth. Glamdring marches against Artor with a very large force, and they are determined to wipe Artor and his army off the face of the earth.’

Since Bedwyr knew the location of Artor’s camp, Gawayne calculated that his information was probably true. But a small worm of distrust still slithered its way into the thoughts of the prince.

‘Why should you care? Don’t you desire freedom and the chance to return to your family?’

Bedwyr spat on the earth, and anger flickered in his hazel-brown eyes. His lips parted, and Gawayne saw that his teeth were very white and sharp, as if Bedwyr had chewed on twigs and bones to preserve them.

‘I won’t rest or return to Arden Forest until the hive of Caer Fyrddin is scoured clean of the Saxon stink. For three years I’ve dreamed of choking the life out of Glamdring Ironfist, and I’ve stayed alive for the single purpose of revenge. Blood calls to blood, and a price is owed for the deaths of my friends who were burned alive near Castell Collen. When I flag in my purpose, I’ve only to remember those screams and my hatred is restored and renewed.’ Bedwyr paused for breath and his wide, muscular chest heaved with repressed emotion. ‘You may doubt me if you wish, for any sensible man would, but don’t block my path to the king. Only he can burn that filthy nest of savages. My hands can only kill so many, but the High King can slay them all.’

The manic light in the eyes of the slave, coupled with huge knuckled fists that he raised in front of his face as if he was already tearing bone from bone, repulsed Gawayne. He hated the Saxons for their treachery towards Gaheris, but no one could doubt that this man was fuelled by unhealthy lust for barbarian blood, and that nothing would deter him from his chosen path.

‘Cut that slave collar from his neck.’ Gawayne ordered crisply, his decision made.

Other than to wince when a hammer and chisel freed his throat of the constricting iron band and set his blood flowing freely, Bedwyr made no sound.

‘Take him down to the river,’ Gawayne ordered the three warriors who had discovered the slave. ‘You can give him a knife to shave his beard and shears to do something with that hair. But, just in case, you’d best keep him under close guard so that he can’t attack you with your own weapon. Let’s see how he looks when he’s clean.’

The river was icy, and Bedwyr shivered as he sat in the fast-flowing water and scrubbed his nakedness with handfuls of river sand. When one of the Celts threw him a knife and a small phial of oil, he dragged the sharp blade through his matted beard, cutting himself painfully in many places so that the water around him ran pink. Then he set to work with a pair of blunt shears on the mane of hair on his head. So matted were the tangled locks that Bedwyr decided to cut them off only an inch from his skull. He immediately gained a civilized appearance. Finally, clean and roughly trimmed, he lunged out of the water and stood, shivering violently, on the bank.

With a look of sheer bravado, he threw the knife into the earth between its owner’s feet.

‘I apologize if I have dulled the edge of your blade.’ Bedwyr bowed slightly, and grinned. ‘And I thank you also for the use of your oil. I’d not have removed three years of dirt without it, although I now smell of rancid fat.’

‘It’s an improvement,’ the Celt guard, Alun, retorted.

The cavalryman passed him his tunic and loincloth, and Bedwyr pulled them over his wet body.

When he was brought back to Gawayne, no longer dripping but still chilled, the water and the hair cropping had wrought a minor miracle. Bedwyr’s hair was now undoubtedly russet, and he had a disarming smattering of freckles over his nose and shoulders. The white skin where his beard had protected his face from the sun revealed a firm mouth and a stubborn jaw that belied the youth of the man who stood before the band of cavalry.

Bedwyr’s body reflected the years of abuse suffered during his captivity. His nose had been broken, creating a slightly crooked appearance on his otherwise symmetrical face. The white seams of old scars covered his body, one laid on the other, especially around the ribs and the back. One of his smaller fingers had been broken, as well as several toes, and his torso and shoulders were covered with scrapes, bruises and cuts.

Gawayne saw, and was half convinced.

‘Tell me, Bedwyr, how were you captured?’ he demanded.

And Bedwyr told him.

‘I still don’t understand why you stayed with Glamdring’s warriors if you escaped so easily in this instance. If I doubt your honesty, it’s because of your unwillingness to flee the Saxon fortress.’

Bedwyr snorted. ‘Where was I to go? King Artor has only recently moved his army to this part of Britain and, until now, there has been no haven open to me. I have cared for Glamdring’s war dogs, but they would have happily hunted me down, for all that I slept with them and fed them. I’ve waited, and stayed alive, knowing that a time might come when I, Glamdring Ironfist’s dog, could tear out his throat as I swore to do so long ago. I’ve been prepared to die for a very long time, for all slaves know that living is hard with such masters. But if I was destined to perish, then I wanted my death to mean something. I determined that I should direct a killing blow at the hearts of my captors and remain alive until Artor came.’

‘If you desire to kill Glamdring, you will have to stand in a very long line to await your turn,’ Gawayne retorted drily.

‘Nor was my escape easy. I sat quietly for years, enduring insults, blows and starvation, so that one day I could take my chance to fly from Glamdring’s tender care. In my escape, I was forced to kill two guards. I also killed Wyrr, Glamdring’s sorcerer and his closest, most clever adviser. At least he’ll never again whisper words of caution into the ears of his master. He was the intelligence behind Glamdring’s brawn.’

‘Who is this Wyrr?’ Gawayne asked. ‘We haven’t heard of him.’

‘He was a vicious albino creature. He was clever and cold, but I killed him anyway. The knife I used to silence Wyrr’s dangerous tongue was taken from me by your warriors. My lord, we’re wasting time with these pointless questions.’ A sense of urgency gave an edge to his voice now. ‘I am only one man, and I’m easily slain if I should prove to be false. But Glamdring is coming against Artor, and he has amassed more than eight hundred men, and will raise even more warriors once the villagers begin to flock to his banner. Artor has enraged Glamdring beyond reason, and I was running to warn the High King when your men found me and brought me to you. Take me to the High King, Prince Gawayne, for I have not listened and endured my slavery for three years to see the Saxons win the coming war because Artor was kept in ignorance.’

Gawayne thought ponderously for just a few more minutes. He remembered Artor’s plan, and made his decision. He directed his orders to the warrior whose knife Bedwyr had blunted at the river. As a fellow Otadini, Gawayne trusted him completely.

‘Alun, take Bedwyr to Artor at full speed. Once there, you will wait for any message for me from the High King, and then you may return to my command. Use one of the spare horses for Bedwyr, and you can return his weapon. He looks famished, so give him some rations to eat as you ride to King Artor’s encampment.’

‘My thanks, my prince.’ Bedwyr smiled. ‘Your trust is not misplaced.’

‘I hope not. Otherwise I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you!’

With efficiency and speed, Bedwyr and Alun were mounted and had departed within minutes of Gawayne’s decision. Morosely, the prince watched the two horsemen disappear into the tree line. More than anything else, Bedwyr’s riding skill convinced him that the Cornovii was no spy. The Saxons preferred to walk, scorning horseback, but Bedwyr was obviously a skilled horseman.

‘Well, Artor will discover the truth of this man far easier than I could,’ Gawayne said aloud. ‘If Bedwyr found Glamdring’s sorcerer to be exotic, what will he make of Myrddion and Targo?’

 

Alun and Bedwyr travelled at a steady canter. At first, they followed the track of Artor’s army, so they moved swiftly. Then, as the light faded, they moved into the tree line.

The spring weather was still cold and Bedwyr was only lightly clothed, but years of privation had inured him to light rain and the chill of the night. When the horses began to weary, the two men walked. Bedwyr’s horny soles were accustomed to the sharp flints and rough underbrush of the ground they traversed but, even so, his bare feet began to bleed from slippage on the knife-sharp flints and slate. Although he gave the cuts and slashes little attention, and walked on stolidly, he began to leave bloody footprints on the stone. Eventually, because discovery would be disastrous, Alun tossed him a length of old rag, and Bedwyr took the time to bind his feet.

The heavily wooded slopes of the hills rising out of the coastal strip appeared like stumpy teeth to Bedwyr, for he had been raised in Arden Forest. The whole dim greenness was silent, except for the cawing of the ever-present crows that had learned to follow armies a thousand years earlier. The young man’s imaginative intellect filled the stunted woods with black, beady eyes that followed their passage. No stranger to the gloom of forests, Bedwyr felt at home in the dim, sea-green light, and gained confidence from the old trees that were twisted by the sea gales into strange, humanoid forms that rattled their leafy branches as the riders passed by.

Within four hours, they saw smoke rising above the tree line, and Bedwyr’s ears caught the sound of running water, of a river, and the muted rumble of the nearby ocean.

The two warriors halted and dismounted to survey the terrain ahead of them.

Satisfied, Alun gathered his reins and remounted, indicating that Bedwyr should do the same.

‘The smoke that we can see is from Artor’s camp,’ Alun said, ‘but I can’t begin to guess where Glamdring’s men are. I can feel eyes watching us, and my back already feels the bite of an arrow. We shall have to ride for our lives from this point onwards, even if our horses die in the run. We go by the open road, so you must keep up. Hear me? I don’t propose to stop if you should fall.’

Bedwyr merely grunted, and settled his nervous horse. ‘Good. I’m sick of hiding. May the gods judge the justice of our cause.’

Before Alun could take the lead, Bedwyr whipped his horse with his reins and it sprang into a gallop.

The beasts bunched their thigh muscles and broke from cover, sending a flock of complaining crows flapping from the trees. Crouched over his horse’s neck, Bedwyr urged his steed to greater efforts. The track was so muddy that he chose the slopes above the dragon’s spore, with Alun directly behind him. A thin whistling sound came from the woods on their flank and a shaft hit the neck of his mount. The arrow was almost spent and caused the animal to check its stride only momentarily.