Myrddion beckoned Artorex and Targo forward. His dark eyes begged the young man to exercise caution.
‘I have brought Artorex, foster-son of Lord Ector of the Villa Poppinidii at Aquae Sulis, a warrior. His companion is Targo, a Roman veteran and Artorex’s personal guard.’
Uther’s lips curled as he chewed upon a new jest at Artorex’s expense. Artorex composed his features so that his grey eyes and chiselled face showed nothing of the thoughts passing through his brain.
‘Remove that covering from your head and come closer. I wish to look at you.’
‘Aye, my King,’ Artorex replied and swept off the wolf-pelt cloak. He passed it carefully to Targo without permitting his flat eyes to leave Uther’s face.
Artorex’s extraordinary hair, plaited at the side but free to tumble and curl down his back, caught the reflection of the fires in a blaze of ruddy gold and blood-red. His great height allowed him to look directly into Uther’s eyes.
As old blue irises met impenetrable grey, the air crackled and hissed with tension.
‘Who was your father, boy? Or don’t you know?’ Uther grinned mirthlessly, with a sneer of contempt. ‘What would I care for Aquae Sulis, or Ector of the Old Forest? Provincial Romans, lad! Provincial nobodies!’
No one laughed.
‘I don’t know my lineage, my King, but Lucius of Glastonbury must hold the secret of my birth. On his orders, I was sent to Master Ector as a babe and he has continued to pay red gold for my tutelage these twenty-three years.’
A small cry escaped from Ygerne’s lips. Instantly, she covered her mouth with her hand while her faded eyes devoured Artorex’s face and form.
Morgan smiled enigmatically at Uther Pendragon. She seemed oblivious of her mother’s distress, while she fed off Uther’s sudden gasp of consternation.
Uther was no dissembler. He sat rigidly, his beringed fingers gripping the wood of his chair arms with whitened knuckles.
‘Where did you get that dagger, boy?’ Uther pointed to the dragon knife on Artorex’s left hip. His forefinger trembled, ever so slightly. ‘I want to see it! Bring it to me - someone - anyone!’ His voice rose to an old man’s quaver.
Artorex drew out the long blade from its scabbard and handed it, hilt first, to a grey-haired warrior who approached from the King’s right hand.
Once Uther had the knife in his grip, his fingers traced the iron dragon on its hilt, following the creature’s spine along the tail and back to its wicked mouth.
‘Who gave you leave to use
my
dragon?’ Uther snapped, his eyes burning, malicious and vindictive within their pouches of wrinkled flesh.
Artorex was perplexed and for the first time he permitted his face to show his confusion.
‘That isn’t
your
dragon, my lord. A blacksmith from a village near to my home forged the knife for me. He believed he owed me a debt, and he copied its features from the Dracos Legion standard.’
Myrddion moved forward, his body taut with apprehension.
‘Aquae Sulis remains very Roman, my king. The Dracos Legion left its mark upon the towns closest to Llanwith’s lands, where the Romans built their forts. This dragon is Dracos of Rome, with some refinements. No insult was ever intended, my lord.’
A thin sheen of sweat covered Myrddion’s face. Artorex had never seen him alarmed or disconcerted, and he felt his nerves twitch. Why was Myrddion so frightened? And why did this mad old tyrant play cruel games with his guests?
‘Hmmff !’ Uther grunted. Plainly, he wasn’t mollified. He returned the knife to his guard who, in turn, placed it in Artorex’s hands.
The old warrior chosen for the task examined every line of Artorex’s face during this process. Then he honoured the younger man with the slightest hint of a bowed head.
‘It’s a fine weapon, young sir,’ the guard said quietly.
Uther turned to Myrddion.
‘Are you playing with me?’ he snapped, while Artorex thought irreverently that the mouth of his king was like a pike’s maw, filled with wicked teeth and rapacity. ‘Why did you bring this lad to me, Myrddion? What are you plotting?’
‘Sire, Lord Ector is a friend of the west, and he’s a stalwart supporter of your Highness in all that you do. His ties to Aquae Sulis are strong and, where he leads, many of the common people will follow. Within his own small sphere, Artorex has performed many heroic deeds. At great personal risk, he destroyed a group of depraved child killers, and he is, arguably, the ablest warrior in the north-west. I brought him to Venta Belgarum to pay homage to you, and to offer his strong arm and cold logic to you for use against the Saxons.’ He dropped to his knees and bowed his head in supplication. ‘I wouldn’t plot against the High King of Britain, sire. Ever! I have been your loyal servant for longer than I care to remember, and so I will always remain!’
‘Enough, Myrddion, I can only tolerate so many compliments in one day.’
The old man gnawed on one yellowed nail and then smiled with malicious delight. As he formulated his plans, he almost gloated as he stared at Artorex’s aureole of amber hair.
‘We shall soon see whether your boast is true,’ he giggled. His attention remained fixed on Artorex. ‘Artorex? That is your name?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Are you willing to undertake a small sporting contest against the best of my warriors? Or don’t you trust your arm?’
‘I’ll do whatever you desire, my king, if it gives you pleasure,’ Artorex replied evenly.
Uther heard Morgan laugh softly at his words. The sound was delicate and mocking, like the tinkling of silver bells.
‘My suggestion amuses you, Morgan? Well! If that is so, perhaps you, your sister and your mother will watch the contest with me and be entertained.’ The High King did not even trouble to glance at the women.
‘I’ll welcome it, my dearest stepfather,’ Morgan replied, her face as reptilian as the mask of her king. ‘Anything to break the tedium of endless speech.’
Uther made a dismissive motion with his hand and Myrddion gripped Artorex’s elbow and pulled him backward bodily.
‘Bow, boy!’ he hissed and the five warriors backed away from the uncertain temper of their king.
As Uther turned his attention to some new petition, Ygerne swept away, almost at a run, her blue skirts swirling about her and loose tendrils of bound hair flying about her anguished face. Her daughters followed her at a more sedate pace while, behind them, a low hum of muffled conversation drew attention to her odd retreat.
The five men backed swiftly and silently out through the brazen doors and into the forecourt. Once those doors had closed on fresh meat for Uther’s pleasure and malice, Artorex turned to the three travellers - as they would always remain in his mind.
‘That madman is Uther Pendragon?’ Artorex asked Luka, his face at last permitted to register his disgust.
‘He’s not a lunatic, Artorex. Our task would be far easier if he were. Uther was always a predator, so perhaps the cruelty in his nature was the quality that permitted him to assume the mantle of High King. But his internal fires have burned low. He’s lost the will to take risks, so he vents his bloodlust and frustration on those nearest to him, including those who are faithful unto death.’
Luka explained the situation calmly and quietly, but Artorex saw that his hands twitched and clenched.
‘He must die!’ Llanwith hissed and the faces of his old friends blanched at his treasonous words.
‘Don’t say or think such treachery,’ Myrddion ordered the western king. ‘Not when we are so close to success. We walk between knife points here, but we have delivered a message to Uther. Perhaps the sorry impasse between the west and the Saxons will finally be broken if the High King is forced to march against our enemies.’
‘You dream, old friend,’ Llanwith grumbled as they strode out into the cold night. ‘Uther will only act when Artorex’s head is delivered to him on a platter. And then he’ll dance a jig rather than go to war. We’re taking enormous risks, Myrddion.’
Perplexed, Artorex looked directly at Myrddion.
‘Why do you continue to speak in riddles?’ he protested. ‘I don’t understand. Why would Uther want me dead? And why does Llanwith hate our king with such passion?’
‘With Llanwith’s permission, and without going into detail as even the night wind has ears in Venta Belgarum, perhaps I can explain,’ Myrddion began.
‘I’ve no objection,’ Llanwith rumbled testily.
‘Uther didn’t turn into a monster overnight,’ Myrddion said softly to avoid any chance of being overheard. ‘He was ever a difficult, capricious man, as his . . . punishment of Gorlois of Cornwall indicates.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Artorex complained.
Myrddion sighed irritably. ‘The older woman on the dais, Queen Ygerne, was once married to Gorlois, the Boar of Cornwall. Uther gazed on her face but once, and he lusted after her. He seduced her by trickery and when Gorlois objected, Uther sent him into a battle where the Boar was killed treacherously. Later, Ygerne quickened with child, so Uther took her as his wife. Those who knew Uther’s secret believe that the child died in childbirth, leaving Uther without a legitimate heir. The other women sitting with Ygerne on the dais are Morgan and Morgause, the daughters of Gorlois.’
‘I’ve met Morgan, although she was pretending to be a poor fortune teller at the time,’ Artorex murmured. ‘How does she feel about Uther?’
‘Can’t you tell?’ Luka interrupted. ‘She loathes him to the point of obsession so she conspires to stay as close to him as she can. Morgan is a beautiful woman, but I’d be afraid to be alone in the same room with her. She’d castrate a man as soon as look at him, and then expect him to be grateful for her gift.’
‘Your language is colourful, Luka, but it doesn’t explain why Llanwith and his king are at odds,’ Myrddion retorted testily. ‘The other vain bitch is Queen Morgause. She’s married to Lot, the King of the Otadini, who rules the low lands north of the Wall. Lot may be fat, but he’s a formidable fighter and an important ally of the west. With his marriage connections, he considers himself to be a claimant to Uther’s throne. The children of Gorlois are dangerous women, so be warned, my young friend. You may be assured that I’ll be expecting an explanation of how you became acquainted with Morgan.’
Myrddion paused.
‘At the time of which we speak, Llanwith’s late father was king of the Ordovice tribe. Like many good Celts, he disapproved of the fate that befell any Dumnonii warriors who refused to accept Uther’s version of the death of King Gorlois. Uther created a credible lie, but many prominent men found it hard to believe that Gorlois was a traitor and deserved his sticky end. Consequently, Uther was angry with the Ordovice and his spite resulted in the death of Llanwith’s uncle. Uther sent him to Camulodunum with a troop of hand-picked warriors. They were slaughtered by the Saxons.’
Artorex raised an eyebrow as he absorbed this information. How could Uther be at fault if Llanwith’s kin had died in battle?
‘I can tell that you don’t understand the ruthless subtlety of your High King, Artorex,’ Llanwith said in a voice that was quiet and calm. ‘My uncle and his troop were all men who had angered Uther in some way and, somehow, the Saxons were warned of the foray. My father didn’t believe in coincidences - and neither do I.’
Artorex was unable to find anything to say in either sympathy or understanding. He stood and watched as the three travellers made their way out of the forecourt.
‘I wish someone - anyone - would tell me what is going on,’ Artorex exclaimed to the cold air and then stirred his long legs to join Myrddion, Llanwith and Luka, who were striding off into the afternoon darkness.
‘I can’t tell what the king requires of you,’ Targo answered his pupil drily. ‘But I do know that the old bugger doesn’t like you overmuch. I thought we’d be put to the sword when he saw that knife of yours. One of the first things I learned in the legions was that a common soldier should stay as far as possible from them that gives the orders. It stands to reason that leaders such as Uther Pendragon have far deeper games to play than to care for the pawns who exist within their world.’
The deepening gloom was pervasive, but the snow clouds had fled at last. The stars appeared like white holes burned into the sable cloth of the skies and Artorex ached to think that Gallia and Licia could see those same stars from their snug villa. Around him, the stillness of silent walkways smelled of danger, so that he set his feet on the cobbles carefully and lightly, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
Mud and filth collected in the corners of the city, as if a high tide had washed a detritus of rubbish through the alleyways when the citizens were asleep. The corpse of a dog, stiff-legged in rigor, lay frozen near a stone doorstep, and Artorex smelled the rank odour of raw sewerage that overlaid the even more nauseatingly sweet stink of death.
Artorex had come to Venta Belgarum and had discovered that it was further from home than he could ever have imagined.
CHAPTER XI
TRIAL OF STRENGTH
As the five men settled their weary bones in their rooms in the Wild Boar Inn, the apartments of Queen Ygerne were in unaccustomed disarray.
Ygerne had torn her sleeping room apart, tossing cushions, coverlets and boxes of perfumed wood into a great pile on the rush-matted floor. Her hair had come undone as she smashed and ripped her own treasures in an excess of anger and fear. Now she lay, curled up protectively on her wool-stuffed pallet, and wept bitter, scalding tears.
Morgan entered quietly, followed by a timid maidservant who began to clean up the mess.
‘Is he trying to drive me mad?’ Ygerne raised her tear-ravaged face to her daughter and gripped Morgan’s hands tightly. ‘What does he want of me?’
‘Who, Mother?’
‘Uther! God save my soul, does the man hate me so much that he finds suitable young men to taunt me? It would be easier to kill myself and be done with this farce.’