Verterae woke to fear, hushed citizenry, whetstones sharpening weapons and a miasma of dread.
‘The Saxons or the Jutes didn’t kill my friend, for this isn’t their way. They are barbarians, it is true, but this murder was subtle as well as brutal. Luka’s murder bears all the marks of an assassination by his own people, who have always treated him like a pig. By debasing his body, they’ve left their signature on the flesh of my poor friend. They will rue the day they took Luka from me.’
The Captain of Verterae was shaking with apprehension and his bones turned to jelly under Artor’s basilisk glare. The man wished he were a Christian so that he could swear by the Virgin that he had no part in the assassination but, as a distant relative of King Luka, he was suspect, and he knew it. With rolling eyes and trembling fingers, he cast about desperately for some means of saving himself and his fortress, which Artor had threatened to raze to the ground.
Rhys ap Cernach, for such was his name, admitted that he had heard whispers of dissatisfaction among the ranks of the Brigante aristocrats. King Luka had been the first tribal lord to send cavalrymen to Artor when he was appointed Dux Bellorum by Uther Pendragon, and if gold was needed to pay and feed the High King’s forces, Luka would levy his own vassals to pay the Brigante share. Nor did he spare himself, giving gold, sons and time to the Celtic cause, and the rumblings against his rule had grown louder during his many enforced absences.
While Artor was still at Verterae, he sent Odin, Bedwyr and a small group of warriors to the tree where Luka had been executed and, from there, they were ordered to track the killers and hunt them down. Odin was charged with the task of bringing the murderers to Artor - alive.
Beset by more bad news, Rhys came to the High King and his adviser, Myrddion, late on the second day after Odin’s departure. His face was ashen with dismay.
‘Why the miserable face, Lord Rhys?’ Artor grated, for Rhys remained suspect of complicity in Luka’s murder until such time as he had positive proof of his innocence. ‘I’d swear someone had murdered your own mother.’
‘Better they had!’ Rhys muttered under his breath. Artor heard his words and his knuckles whitened.
‘What’s happened now?’ Artor demanded.
‘Word has come from Lavatrae of more treasonous murders in the Brigante towns. I’m loath to make you angry but, in this instance, I’m fortunate that I’ve been in Verterae with you for the past week.’
Artor’s brows rose. ‘Tell me and be done with it! I’ll not punish you if you have no part in treachery.’
‘The king’s three sons are dead, my lord. Murdered in their beds. Lord Luka’s grandson, who has just become a warrior, has fled to parts unknown, trusting that you will see justice done and punish the murderers. No one knows who is behind these crimes, as common men wielded the knives, but King’s Luka’s cousin, Simnel, has declared himself to be the new king, and rides to Melandra fortress to take up the reins of governance.’
‘Does he now?’ Artor whispered, and Rhys thanked the Tuatha de Danann that he wasn’t in Simnel’s shoes.
The room was cold, grey and damp after days of rain. Artor pushed both hands deep into the folds of his tunic and sat with his wolf cloak around his shoulders to warm his body. In the weak afternoon light beside the shutters, Gruffydd was sharpening Caliburn. His countenance was bland as he feigned concentration on his task.
‘Are you loyal to King Luka’s legitimate heir, Rhys, or will you support the usurper? I don’t really expect an answer, for how can I trust you to speak the truth? Instead, I ask you to place your warriors under my command and ride with me to Melandra to see that justice is done.’ Artor’s voice was clipped, but not unkind. And, like any sensible man, Rhys thought hard as he considered his options.
Finally, he answered his liege lord.
‘I will hand over the entire resources of Verterae Fortress to you, my lord, for the Brigante tribe needs security. We cannot survive a war with all the tribes that will gather under your banner, Your Majesty. But most importantly, this cousin of mine, Simnel, has always been a sly and dangerous man, and no Brigante will be safe under his rule, including me. Better a civil war than obedience to a despot who leads the whole tribe to disaster.’
The next day, before a pallid dawn, Artor rode out and a force of two hundred and fifty armed men rode behind him. A day later, at Melandra, the cavalry camped, conspicuously, on a hill beside the fortress. The Roman structures of Melandra had never been subject to serious threat from enemies, so Luka had retained the buildings as an administrative centre. The Brigante lands had many other, easily defended, fortresses and Luka’s father had cherished Melandra for its deep forests and its fair views of the lowlands. Luka had also loved its vistas, so Artor felt a grim satisfaction in waiting for Odin’s return in the dim, green trees and the wide sun-drenched glades of Luka’s favourite town.
Odin and Bedwyr arrived five days after Artor had set his battle tent before the Melandra fortress. Two prisoners, their wrists and ankles chained together, were securely tied over their horses and their eyes were blackened and terrified from the ordeal they had undergone. One of the men sported a nasty sword cut across his ribs.
‘String them up to the nearest oak so all the assassins will know my intentions,’ Artor ordered, his eyes aglitter with something that was colder than frozen iron. ‘I’ll speak to the murderers shortly.’
Artor drank clean water and ate some nuts, fruit and stale bread with slow deliberation. Because he was expected to wait on Artor’s pleasure, Rhys served the spartan meal with his own hands in Artor’s leather tent. Behind the Brigante, Gruffydd cradled Caliburn and watched Rhys with unblinking attention. Rhys’s fingers trembled when he filled Artor’s cup with water, but he was past embarrassment in the presence of such dangerous men.
‘It’s time to question Luka’s murderers now,’ Artor decided softly, and rose to his feet.
The oak tree selected by Artor to enforce his punishment grew on the very edge of the forest in a place where the prisoners could be clearly seen with the naked eye from the hall in Melandra. The tree was huge; a forest giant from the old days, and Artor marvelled that it remained standing, for the pragmatic Romans regularly destroyed the sacred trees used by the Britons in their religious ceremonies. Always practical and knowledgeable, Myrddion explained that the Roman legate of the garrison had used this same oak to execute those Celts who resisted their new masters, or to torture any unfortunate Druids who were captured alive.
Artor would have shuddered, but he was steeling himself to be stern, implacable and just. The High King was under no misapprehensions: he would order cruel torture and execution in order to extract details of the plot that killed his friend, and he would ensure that even the most obdurate Brigante warrior could not ignore his resolve.
A flag of truce was planted before the oak and its grim, weeping fruit. Myrddion himself approached Melandra and invited all citizens, servants, warriors and aristocrats who loved justice to come forth and witness the High King’s justice.
They came, strong warriors, old men, women, lordlings in their gold and finery, squabbling children and even house slaves, just as Artor had predicted.
‘Kill us!’ the two ragged mercenaries begged the crowd from the tree. ‘We are Brigante; we are loyal servants of the people while the bastard Artor is an ill-begotten, bloody despot who keeps the people poor. He will torture us for our patriotism. For love of the goddess of war, kill us now and be merciful!’
Some of the crowd rumbled in agreement, but most of the warriors present had either ridden with Llanwith’s cavalry or had stood at the shield wall at Mori Saxonicus. They knew, beyond any doubt, that every piece of gold given by the tribes had paid for weapons, food for the bellies of the warriors and as reparation to the widows of the dead. Brows furrowed and many men would have walked away if Artor had not ordered them to stay.
‘Your king, Luka, was my mentor and my friend. The Brigante are honoured by the legends of the three travellers, of whom even the smallest children have heard. For forty years, as prince and king, Luka slew Saxons in bloody campaigns across our lands, and kept you safe in your fine homes. How did he warrant what was done to him? Look on your king that was, and bear witness to the type of death he was given after forty years of service to the Brigante tribe and the Celtic peoples.
Myrddion had laboured to reassemble the rotting corpse of his old friend and had laid him under a length of fine cloth. The smell of death was a sickly prelude to the obscenity that Artor revealed to the gaze of the crowd, nail holes and all.
‘People of Melandra, I ask you to walk past your erstwhile king, and remember his father, remember his sons; remember your pride in Brigante courage, in the salvation of the realm, and then look at what King Luka’s sacrifices have earned him. Look!’
Under his stare, most of the citizens that were present filed past the bier, some out of curiosity but most out of fear. Several warriors laid an earring, a cloak pin, a ring or some other treasured possession on the livid skin of the mutilated body, and women laid flowers, but many citizens looked at the body and seemed utterly unmoved. Simnel was conspicuous by his absence and remained inside Melandra, under the protective cloak of fifty loyal warriors.
Once the citizens had viewed Luka’s corpse, Artor began his interrogation of the assassins.
‘Who paid you? How much were you given, and what were your orders?’ Artor demanded of the two men as they hung by their wrists with their feet barely touching the ground. Unsupported as they were, the stress on their chest muscles was agonizing.
But twisted faces, panted breathing and laboured curses were the only replies that the two Brigante warriors gave to Artor’s questions.
‘Odin! Prepare to crucify them! And, while you do so, you will put out their eyes, for they have no right to look upon the sun and this fair land that they have betrayed. Remember King Luka and the laughter he gave us so generously.’
Odin began his preparations, but the assassins still refused to speak. Throughout that long and blood-soaked day, ever-increasing measures of pain were inflicted upon the bodies of the miscreants and, although many citizens were sickened and turned away, still more watched the atrocities committed with ghoulish appreciation.
The felons were hung on different sides of the great trunk where they were unable to see each other or to take comfort from shared pain. Nails were driven through their wrists and ankle bones. Their fingers were removed, as were their toes, their ears and their noses. Only when hot spearheads were applied to the bleeding bodies did the men finally break, and confess those details of the plot of which they were aware.
Afterwards, Artor showed the population that he could also be a merciful king.
‘Honour should go to these warriors, dogs as they are! They’ve proved their courage and their loyalty to their cowardly master, Simnel, who has not lifted one finger to save them, or even fire off an arrow shot that would kill them and release them from their pain. They earned the right to die as warriors, for all that I’ve been forced to lose a friend I loved. Release them, Odin!’
The Jutlander beheaded them at once.
The crowd sighed.
‘People of Melandra, do I leave you to the rule of Simnel and his fellow conspirators, rather than Luka’s grandson, who has been spared with the help of his loyal servants? Tell me what you want. I’d be loath to cut Brigante lands from the union of kings and leave you to fight alone next summer when the Jutes and Angles pour out of Eburacum, Cataractonium and Petuaria, but you may be sure that I will leave you to your fate if you wish to follow the usurper. I’ll sign no treaties with a man who murdered my friend.’
The crowd stirred as if a sudden gust of wind had caught them unawares. Faces paled, for no sensible man could be ignorant of what breaking the union would mean. Those warriors who had fought at Eburacum remembered the threat of Katigern Oakheart and decided Simnel’s fate, as Artor had known they would.
That night, Brigante hands delivered the usurper and his co-conspirators to Artor. Those men who confessed to their part in the plot were granted a speedy, painless execution, and their wives and children were permitted to keep his land and property, so that the children did not suffer for the sins of the fathers.
But Simnel received justice in full measure.
Artor had to fight against his own rage day and night. Of the murderers involved in the assassination, Luka’s cousin was the least fortunate in his fate. Simnel was hung on the door of the great hall of Melandra with the same nails that had impaled Luka thrust through his quivering and still-living flesh. He was then left on the door to die.
The ordinary folk were completely overawed by Artor, who came each morning to speak to the dying man. The mouth of Luka’s cousin was parched with thirst, and his wounds were festering and black with flies. As he suffered, the High King took his ease and recounted to the traitor his memories of Luka. Although Simnel screamed, gibbered and begged, he was forced to live until his body could no longer endure.
For subtle cruelty, Artor could almost be Uther Pendragon’s superior.
When the unfortunate man died, his body was cut down and left for the dogs on the hall’s midden heap. Then, with Luka’s grandson firmly installed upon his father’s throne, Artor and his warriors disappeared like the cold wind of winter that had brought them to Luka’s lands.
But they left few friends in their wake.
In the months that followed, the use of Luka’s name was forbidden within Artor’s hearing, but Myrddion and Targo would laugh as they recalled Luka’s irrepressible spirit, his bright irony and his gift with a blade. They were comforted by their memories, even as they remembered his sardonic, irreverent joy. But Artor was bereft. Targo and Myrddion exchanged worried glances, but neither man was prepared to voice the sudden reality of what had been vague fears for the king’s well-being only a few months previously.