Warrior of the West (4 page)

One grizzled matron stepped forward and stared down impassively at the king’s stern, controlled face. Her simple peplum and cloak masked her roman ancestry, but the garnets in her ears, red as dried blood, shouted her quality. Then, with a wry twisting of her lips, she pulled him to his feet.

‘Two of my sons have died at the hands of the outlanders for you, my king. The head of another lies in a bag on one of your horses - or so I guess. I’ve one more son who is near old enough to bear a sword and, if God chooses to take him from me to serve you, then I will make no complaint. You must drive the Saxons, and all who are allied with them, into the dirt.’

Artor nodded his appreciation of the old woman’s savage patriotism, and stripped a golden arm ring, carved with his personal dragon motif, from his wrist.

‘The Saxon women are fierce creatures, Mother, but they are no match for matrons such as you. Although gold is no recompense for your losses, I ask that you take this bauble as a gift from a grateful king. And more gold shall be given to the mothers and widows of these brave men who died at my behest. I am ashamed that I can only offer you coin for your loyalty.’

‘My grandson will hold it sacred to his house, my lord. But for now, I ask that you give me leave to take my son’s remains and see to his honourable burial.’

Artor inclined his head in permission, and the elderly woman approached the grisly bags, checking each dead face until she found the one she sought. Then, regardless of the odour and the vile ooze of corruption that enveloped it, she clasped the bag to her heavy breasts and uttered a single, high-pitched cry of grief. Then she pattered away down the roadway.

One by one, the heads were claimed and loud were the cries of grief and rage that circled the tor like the screams of hunting birds.

Finally, only one unclaimed head remained.

‘Gaheris, my nephew.’ Artor sighed. ‘They didn’t even spare the son of King Lot.’

Targo stared disbelievingly at his king. ‘What sodding stupidity! How could the Saxon oafs have been so foolish as to kill the beloved son of King Lot, their most loyal ally? Gaheris followed Gawayne into your service and, at the time, King Lot almost swallowed his beard in rage, but even Lot won’t tolerate such a fate for his son.’

‘My lord,’ Ulf interrupted, blood suffusing his face at his impertinence. ‘Prince Gaheris was the very last to die, and he defied the Saxons to the end. He was offered his life if he would resile from his oath to you and return to the halls of his father, but the boy refused. He perished bravely, and died cursing the Saxons as he fell. He said he saw the fate of the Saxon thane. He warned Glamdring that you would exact justice on all Saxons in the name of the dead envoys and their escort.’

‘He was a good lad.’ Targo offered Gaheris the highest praise he knew. ‘He was far too good to die without a sword, or the opportunity to defend himself. ’

‘Tell me every detail of the Saxon treachery,’ Artor ordered. ‘Leave out no detail of your experience. I know the telling will cause you pain, but I must understand the depth of Saxon perfidy.’

Ulf bowed his head and began to speak in little more than a whisper. So vivid and heartfelt was his report that, as his voice began to gain in strength and passion, the listeners could visualize the deaths of the envoys and experience the quiet courage of Gaheris.

Artor cradled the bag containing the young man’s head for several moments, and then opened the drawstring and kissed the purpled lips that were still curved in the rictus of death. A trick of the late afternoon sunlight played about Gaheris’s dead features and captured a trace of Artor’s daughter, Licia, in them. Artor shuddered that Licia could die so easily, just like her cousin whose head spoke so eloquently of the family ties between them.

‘Mine is the blood guilt, Gaheris,’ the High King murmured. ‘And it shall be paid in full.’

The cold part in Artor’s brain whispered that the Saxons had gone too far this time, for even Lot and Morgause could not ignore the murder of their unarmed child, regardless of his allegiances. He turned to his sword bearer. ‘Find a box of aromatic wood, Gruffydd, the finest that can be purchased. Wash and wrap the head of my nephew in fine, perfumed linen, and then send it to King Lot and Queen Morgause. They, too, should have an opportunity to mourn what is left of their child.’

Gruffydd came forward. He had aged in the past twelve years and grey sprinkled his hair and his close-cropped beard, but his eyes were still as warm and as sharp as they had ever been. Now they rested on his king with open concern.

‘If you approve, my lord, I’ll carry the head of Gaheris to King Lot in person,’ he volunteered. ‘Should I bear a message of sympathy from you to the boy’s father?’

‘We wait upon the message from Glamdring Ironfist, but you can recount Ulf ’s description of the death of their son,’ Artor ordered. ‘They are entitled to know that he could have lived if he had been prepared to break his oath.’

Gruffydd nodded. Privately, the sword bearer thought that Artor should use the slaughter of Gaheris to advantage himself over King Lot, but the High King was a man to love because he scorned to cheat or lie.

Gruffydd bowed low, although his back twinged with the bone ache that attacked his joints and made long journeys so painful. Yet, out of love for his king, he would brave the journey and the rage of the grieving parents. Artor had raised his status in the world, and Gruffydd always paid his dues.

When Gruffydd heaved the leather bag and its grisly contents over his shoulder and turned to leave, the High King called Ulf to his side.

‘Wait a moment, Gruffydd,’ Artor instructed. He turned to face Ulf. ‘You may now tell me the exact message sent by the Saxon barbarian.’

Ulf gulped in near panic. ‘Please don’t judge me by the words I bear, my king. We wouldn’t have survived if we hadn’t been needed to return to your fortress with the remains of your emissaries.’

Artor stifled his impatience. He was fully aware that couriers were often executed when their masters were angered by the content of a message.

‘You will be safe, Ulf, regardless of what the Saxons have instructed you to say to me. The words come from Glamdring, not from you.’

Ulf heaved a deep sigh, looked skyward as a memory aid, and began to recite his message in a stilted voice.

‘To Artor, who is an impostor and a dog. In the name of the dead Vortigern, Vortimer and Hengist, I, Glamdring Ironfist, demand that you cease all hostilities against the holdings of the dead king, Katigern Oakheart. I command you to relinquish your crown to King Lot, who is the rightful heir of Uther Pendragon. If you comply, you will be permitted to live. If you meet us in battle, you will surely die.’

Ulf stepped back quickly, well out of reach of Artor’s sword blade, but his caution was unnecessary. The High King’s eyes glinted with what looked almost like amusement.

‘Gruffydd, you may give King Lot my condolences and inform him of the substance of Glamdring Ironfist’s message, that his son was murdered so that the father could take my place. You will also remind the king that those who trust to the honour of the Saxons are fools. And they are worse than fools, for they are traitors to the Celtic cause. You will say to King Lot that, if he should give aid or comfort to any person involved in Ironfist’s war against me, then his own crown will be considered forfeit by the Celtic kings. And I will not forget the slight when I arrive at his gates.’

‘He’ll not like such a message,’ Gruffydd replied drily, although his mouth smiled within his grizzled beard.

‘You may inform him that all of our lands will not be wide enough to save him from my wrath if my messenger is harmed in any fashion.’ Artor grinned. ‘Just in case he determines that he doesn’t like you, my friend.’

‘I take your kind addition gratefully, my lord,’ Gruffydd responded. ‘I’m fond of my head just where it is.’

‘And if King Lot rails against my decision to place his son in danger, or complains that the offer of a truce was weak and foolish, you may remind the king and my sister that they have constantly pressed me to cease the bloodbath of racial hatred.’

‘I will be happy to remind them of their old loyalties.’

‘But you should also tell my sister that I weep with her for her lost son. Gaheris was a better man than I am, and would have grown to be a leader of other men because of his purity of spirit and clarity of mind. Good Celts everywhere share in her loss, for all the kingdoms are the poorer without his grace.’

‘I will say all that is necessary, my king. Of this you may have no doubt.’

‘I don’t, Gruffydd. Take an escort suited to my consequence. You will do all honour to King Lot and Queen Morgause, regardless of past insults and allegiances, for they are the parents of Gaheris, one of the heroes of . . .’ Artor paused, and looked to Ulf for an answer.

‘We met the Saxons at Y Gaer, my lord.’

‘One of the heroes of Y Gaer. I will not permit that name to be forgotten, nor will I forget the appalling cowardice of Glamdring Ironfist. He will suffer for every drop of innocent blood that he shed so unnecessarily at that accursed place.’

The High King was a man who paid more than lip service to the notion of protection for the innocent, Gruffydd knew. He thought of his foster-daughter, Nimue, and how Artor had ensured that the infant would grow and blossom.

Artor transferred his gaze to Odin. ‘Find shelter, ale and clean pallets for these good men. Honour them, for theirs has been a terrible burden.’

Odin departed at a run.

Turning back to Gruffydd and Targo, Artor issued his orders.

‘Gruffydd, you have my leave to proceed with your task, with my gratitude. Targo, call the captains to attend me for a council of war. Ironfist had best be like his name, for I plan to lock his hands in a vice and squeeze him dry. Then I will rid the earth of this Saxon. We’ve reasoned with him for long enough.’

‘It will be a pleasure, Artor, a great pleasure. We have sat on our arses for three years.’ Targo grinned evilly.

 

A war council was held four days later, long after the remains of the dead were burned with aromatic woods and their souls had been sent to the heroes. The hall atop Cadbury Tor was filled with warriors and chieftains, the greatest of whom sat on sturdy benches and drank from Phoenician glass as the day surrendered to evening.

Many of their number had ridden far, for they had come from the far-flung outposts of Ratae, Venonae, Viroconium, Aquae Sulis and Venta Silurum. Their horses had been ridden to the point of death and men had driven themselves, without sleep or pause for food, in order to answer the call of the High King. A sophisticated network of communications made meetings such as this one possible, but only the loyalty and obedience of the captains could bring them to Arthur’s court at Cadbury so expeditiously.

Artor’s hall lacked the heavy ornamentation or the pretensions seen in Uther Pendragon’s formal rooms in Venta Belgarum. In true Celtic style, the hall was longer than it was wide, and no anteroom forced visitors or petitioners to cool their heels until the High King chose to admit them. Simple, beautifully polished benches were provided close to the doors so that weary men might rest their tired legs.

The ceiling was very high and was shaped to draw smoke from the fire pits into a circular hole in the roof that possessed its own cover to prevent inclement weather from entering the building. The wooden walls were softened by great lengths of woven fabric, an amazing luxury that provided splashes of woad blue, jewel-bright crimson and cheerful yellow. The flagged floor was unremarkable, except for the figure of a dragon that celebrated the might of Artor’s totem, the red Dracos. Made of glass tesserae, it was rumoured to be the work of Myrddion Merlinus. This Roman dragon, whose origin was virtually forgotten, stood proudly rampant directly before a low dais on which a single, use-polished curule chair rested.

For this meeting, King Artor rejected the raised dais in favour of a long table with benches for seating. The High King sat at one end and his chief adviser, Myrddion Merlinus, was seated at the other; all the men present were equal, and were free to speak and openly express their opinions. Goblets of wine in rare Roman glass and large platters of sweetmeats, fruit, nuts, and even cold meats provided food and drink that would tempt even the most epicurean of tastes, although Artor and his adviser chose nothing but clear, cold water. Wall sconces provided a pleasing light and the wood in the fire pit had been soaked in a subtle, aromatic oil to sweeten the air.

As the council began, Ulf was instructed to relive the tale of the death of the truce bearers and their escort. His face was suffused with blood, but he recited the brutal story with increased confidence.

‘I was forced to watch these treacherous murders without the arms to strike a single blow. I will not rest until I have either killed ten Saxons for each of my companions, or I am dead. So do I swear!’

Ulf ’s formal words caused a ripple of unease and anger throughout the packed hall. Peace is a strange and addictive state, and Artor had provided three years of relative quiet. The land was in the process of rebuilding after years of neglect, and only fools would choose to cast away the comforts of soft beds, willing wives and full bellies for the discomfort and uncertainties of battle.

Now that three summers of relative peace had passed, fields that had been left fallow and had been choked with weeds and nettles were now cleared and ploughed. Homesteads, villages and fortresses that had been neglected were now blessed with the luxury of time to make repairs, neaten fences, rethatch roofing and repack stones into walls from which they had fallen.

But, while some warriors present seemed unwilling to take offence, other men rumbled their rage and frustration at the insults hurled at them by the Saxons, a white-faced Gawayne foremost among them. The prince took great pride in the bravery displayed by his younger brother, and he was also experiencing a measure of guilt at the premature ending of the young man’s short and glorious life. By Gawayne’s code, the truce breakers had no honour, for they had slaughtered Artor’s emissaries out of hand, like oxen.