Warrior of the West

 
 
 

 
King Arthur: Warrior of the West

 

 
M. K. HUME

 
 
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Copyright © 2009 M. K. Hume

 

 
The right of M. K. Hume to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 

 
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

 

 
All characters - other than the obvious historical figures - in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

 

 
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

 

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Table of Contents

 

 

 

Warrior of the West
is dedicated to my parents, Ronald Henry Smith (1920-1980) and Edna Katrina Ellis Smith (1920-2004). These two extraordinary people raised three children to believe that the only limitations that exist in this world are those that we build for ourselves, stone by stone.

A number of acquaintances, men and women, read
Dragon’s Child
, Volume One of this trilogy, as a ‘taste test’, and as a means for me to discover if I had the capacity to write historical fiction that was suitable for public consumption.

In particular, I would like to mention David Hall, Guy Ogden and the family and friends of David and Jolene Hill. Their kind words of encouragement have been a great fillip to my confidence, and their positive comments were the spurs that kept me writing, especially during the boring times when the work was hard and creative thoughts got lost in the muddle. I have never thanked them. But I do so now.

Still other acquaintances, like my beautiful friend, Pauline Reckentin, never wavered in their unshaken belief that I would make the grade as a writer. At times, Pauline embarrassed me with her faith, but whenever my spirits flagged, there was Pauline (who herself leaps tall buildings with a single bound) telling me that I was unstoppable. Such friends are beyond price.

Finally, how can I find the words to thank those who are nearest to me - Michael, hard taskmaster and savage critic; Damian, my highly intelligent son, who is the prototype for several of the characters in my Arthurian legends; and Brendan, my prodigal son, whose work habits, courage in impossible situations, and absolute dedication to his children forced me to understand the difficult choices that confront Artor. I am blessed with extraordinary kin.

Writers write, but publishers polish and turn our thoughts and words into the books that readers crave. I consider myself to be a journeyman wordsmith, hammering my ideas out of my imagination and my experiences. The people of Headline Publishing, therefore, who are warm, talented and very professional, made these books as complete as they are. Thank you, every one of you.

Finally, I wish to thank my agent of agents, Dorie Simmonds, who is a friend, a lifesaver and a genius in her chosen field. She is lovely in every way that matters.

Life is a cruel teacher and we all learn, like Artor, that only by facing the great beauty and the suffering of life can we become that which makes us strong. Ultimately, facing ourselves is the lesson that we learn and carry with us until we go to whatever fate awaits us in the Great Unknown.

I hope Arthur will forgive me for the liberties I have taken with his life when eventually we meet.

Horses whickered nervously, and the skittering of their hooves on the flinty scree was the only sound of discord in the still morning. Within the nearby wood, the rooks, ravens and crows waited silently with their blue-black plumage almost lost in the shadows of the old trees. Only the bright eyes of the birds glinted with signs of life, and they were malicious and hungry.

Weaponless and wary, the six envoys waited impatiently, even though their armed guards ringed them, ill at ease, a little way from the nobles. Twenty in number, the guards rolled their eyes expressively, and were inclined to jump at every shadow. Here, where Saxon hands held the reins of governance, a Celt was unwise to ride incautiously through woods where every tree could hide a Saxon with a battleaxe.

‘I don’t like this place,’ one warrior hissed at his neighbour. ‘It’s too damn quiet for my liking.’

His companion tried to peer into the impenetrable woods, but the darkness was absolute.

The envoys of Artor had chosen a large patch of open ground where they could wait for the planned parley. Above their heads, the white flag of truce snapped and curled in the wind. Their escort waited five spear shafts from their masters, looking outward at the dense trees that surrounded this bare, grey knoll.

As the proposed meeting place was deep within enemy territory, their guards were fully armed but had been ordered by King Artor to keep their weapons sheathed unless the envoys were under direct attack. Only their loyalty and impassioned devotion to the High King kept these veterans calm in the face of brooding menace and the threat of impending attack.

The Celtic emissaries had come to this parley at the express wish of the High King in a last attempt to reason with the newest war chief of the western Saxons. For well over fifty years, these barbarian tribesmen had been a thorn in the Celtic heel.

Artor had sickened of death over twelve years of brutal battles. He had smashed the eastern Saxons again and again, but his enemy was implacable, and every summer brought new, leaf-shaped ships across Litus Saxonicus or the huge, grey seas of Oceanus Germanicus. Although Artor struggled with a growing dread that his wars achieved only minor gains, battle by battle the High King began to stop the Saxon advance. But he sought a better solution than brute force, and he had sent six of his most loyal noblemen to Saxon country to broker a truce.

Now, his envoys and their warrior escort doubted the good faith of the barbarians.

‘It’s a cold morning,’ Gaheris murmured quietly, more to calm his nerves and to break the eerie silence than to begin a conversation. ‘Spring seems so far away.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d notice,’ Cerdic ap Cerdyn muttered sarcastically. ‘You Otadini like the cold in the north. The eastern Saxons must enjoy it well enough too . . . since they’re so cosy with your father.’

Cerdic ap Cerdyn was a blunt man, thick in neck, chest and thighs, and possessing red hair and a temper to match. Artor trusted him completely as a young son of the king of the Silures, for Cerdic had followed the High King from the first desperate forays out of Cadbury Tor at a time when the Celts had struggled to stop the Saxon advance. Focused and rigid in his thinking, Cerdic would follow Artor’s orders to the letter, but he lacked his master’s quick empathy and cold reasoning.

The insults that Cerdic chose were sufficiently offensive to warrant a challenge to armed combat. Gaheris bit his lip until he tasted the salt of blood. He was the younger brother of Prince Gawayne, Artor’s most ardent champion, and shared a familial tendency to sudden, searing explosions of temper. But Gaheris acknowledged that the Silures warrior spoke the truth, albeit with unforgivable lack of courtesy. King Lot, Gaheris’s father, was an ally of the western Saxons of Caer Fyrddin.

Gaheris breathed the frigid air deeply into his lungs to avoid the temptation to snarl an offensive retort. What would be the gain?

Gaheris was Queen Morgause’s youngest legitimate son and, undoubtedly, the most beloved. Sunny-tempered, with tawny hair, pale green eyes and a rich, golden tan deepened from months in the saddle, Gaheris had a face and a form that drew the swift interest of women and the easy camaraderie of men. But, for all his maturity, Gaheris was young - not yet nineteen - and ardent to prove that he was loyal to the High King rather than to the treasonous dictates of family.

‘You’re very quiet, Gaheris,’ Cerdic taunted. ‘Why did you come, unless you intend to betray us to your friends? Or perhaps you’re afraid.’

Cerdic even refused to use Gaheris’s rightful title, but the young prince knew the surly noble only spoke aloud what other warriors were thinking. Unlike his brother Gawayne, Gaheris had an agile brain that was nearly the match of the High King’s, and he refused to take offence at Cerdic’s slurs.