M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon Page 15

  Gawayne glared at his host from under his sandy-grey brows. ‘I tell you, Bedwyr, Artor had the best of it. He died gloriously, having killed his enemy. Not for him the slow decay into blindness and senility. I envy him at those times when my bones ache so badly that my physician is forced to give me an infusion of poppy. But it’s only a temporary cure. Would you believe that the great Gawayne would rather talk about seducing a pretty lass than bed her? Aye, it’s true. And I’m ashamed that I’ve been reduced to this slow decline. Seeing young Arthur sometimes makes my heart hurt. Artor lives again, and who’s to says he doesn’t see us through the eyes of the boy? Fuck it, Bedwyr, getting old and into my dotage is almost more than I can bear.’

  Bedwyr recognised that honesty rather than self-pity lay at the bottom of Gawayne’s complaint, so he clapped his friend on the back. ‘It comes to us all, Gawayne. I don’t relish the prospect myself, but I scorn to wait passively to have my throat cut by the Saxons as I sit at my fireside. Let’s pray that the gods will grant us a quick death with our swords in our hands.’

  ‘Aye, friend. We can but pray that such will be our lot.’

  So the Arden household and its guests heaved a sigh of relief when a small party on horseback, with Ector at its head, hove into view during the late afternoon. A very tall stranger in full battle garb stood out in the forefront of the troop, just behind Ector’s sturdy figure.

  ‘At last!’ Gawayne muttered, sotto voce, as the gates opened to admit the troop. ‘Ector has arrived at last, and with a barbarian arms master, if these old eyes don’t betray me.’

  Ector leapt off his horse with a young man’s vigour and strode across the forecourt to greet Bedwyr and the two kings. Having observed their approach from the apple orchard, Arthur skidded to a halt before his kinsman.

  ‘Ector, you’ve come,’ he piped in his boyish voice. Ector ruffled the lad’s wild hair absently and addressed Bedwyr with a broad smile.

  ‘My apologies for my tardiness, but good arms masters are hard to find. However, I believe we’ve been lucky enough to secure a man well qualified to serve your purposes, Master Bedwyr, so allow me to introduce him.’

  Ector motioned for the large barbarian to join them. The huge man had dismounted from his horse, and now strolled nonchalantly towards the kings. When he reached them, he bowed low and then stood at his ease, perfectly comfortable in his own skin.

  ‘As I promised, this is Germanus. He insists on using this name and refuses to give his father’s gens or nomen. He has sworn allegiance to the Merovingian king and also served the lords of the north. He was trained as an officer in the old Roman style of the Frankish kingdoms, which accounts for his moustache and his bare chin.’

  ‘You are a mercenary then, Germanus?’ Bedwyr asked bluntly, because a warrior for hire suggested a man who had no personal loyalty that led him to fight for a cause, payment in gold being his only motivation.

  ‘No.’ The flat syllable was unequivocal and Bedwyr raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  ‘No?’ The response from Gawayne was immediate, and Germanus swivelled his body to face this new questioner. He had already assessed the three men who stood before him with a warrior’s practical eye for detail.

  ‘I’m a professional, masters, and I go into battle to earn my coin. I sign on, or I did, to serve any master who pleases me. I do not sell my services to the highest bidder, and I resent any suggestion that I would.’

  ‘No offence was intended,’ Bran apologised. ‘But we require an arms master for Bedwyr’s son, young Arthur here, who may become an important man in the west in years to come. You must understand that few good things are spoken of mercenaries in this land, for most such men are famed for changing sides when it becomes expedient for them to do so.’

  ‘Not me. I serve those masters who are worthy of my talents. I’m getting old now, so I came to Britain to settle down, marry and perhaps father a family. I’ve a tidy sum put by, so I don’t need your coin. I am not yet convinced that I should waste my talents on a mere stripling.’

  ‘Well, then, we must try to persuade you.’ Bedwyr’s voice was slow and reasonable. He had not taken to the barbarian, but the man was obviously powerful and the array of weaponry, both on his person and attached to his saddle, pointed at proficiency in a wide range of the instruments of death. He was tall, near to six feet three inches, and hugely wide across the shoulders. His legs were long, as were his arms, and his whole body was ridged with hard muscle.

  ‘However, before I sing young Arthur’s praises, I must ask whether you are Saxon, Angle or Jute in origin. As they are our sworn enemies, I’d be a fool to take one into my household.’

  ‘Like Hengist and Horsa before me, I am Friesian on my mother’s side, but I was trained in a Librone troop in the lands of the Salian Franks. I have no interest in local politics and wish to be left alone. The role of arms master would suit me well, for I’ve shed enough blood for one lifetime and wish to retire permanently. Does that answer satisfy you?’

  ‘I suppose it must,’ Bedwyr replied, and Germanus snapped his head back aggressively, a reaction which did the barbarian no harm in Bedwyr’s eyes. Any man whose word was doubted would naturally be insulted.

  Germanus’s face was open, possibly because he was clean shaven except for a pair of bristling moustaches that were reddish-brown in colour. His hair was much lighter, tawny like a good ale, with highlights of blond like sun-kissed sand. His armour was workmanlike, very scarred on the leathers, while some of the iron plates were buckled. Gawayne noted that every item, from his sturdy gauntlets to his breastplate and groin guard, was polished and oiled. His boots were also clean, and very soft, to permit his feet to find purchase on any terrain, while the exposed hair on his bared head was neatly braided and ready for the unadorned helmet that rested in a pouch on his saddle. A spear, a long knife, a sword, a bow and a rectangular shield were also beautifully maintained and unembellished.

  Arthur stared openly at the warrior who might teach him the martial arts. He was keenly interested, but disappointed that Germanus’s accoutrements looked so plain, and surprised by Gawayne’s obvious approval of these unadorned weapons. The old king had spotted the gladius that rested in a scabbard attached to Germanus’s saddle, close to the Friesian’s right hand.

  ‘May I examine your gladius, Germanus? I sense that my request impels you to send me to the Christian devil, because you know it means I don’t trust you yet. But only a foolish man would stand unprotected before a seasoned warrior until he knows the person he faces. Your blade will tell me much about you, if you are indeed a true master of weaponry.’

  ‘My Minerva has only one master, but you may hold her as long as you do not harm her. As you may know, she is named for the goddess of the arts and wisdom, especially in weaving, and my beauty weaves death to those who presume to attack me or mine. She is wise enough to know a dishonourable hand and will turn on any man who tries to misuse her.’

  Many men would have been amused, but Gawayne respected any man who worshipped his sword. A warrior’s life depended on his weapons.

  ‘I can promise you that your Minerva is as safe in my hands as she is in yours. Ah, but the scabbard is beautiful, my friend. The man who made this sheath knew his trade.’

  From his position behind his father and the two kings, Arthur peered at the sword, still nestled in its scabbard, and tried to see what was so special about this very utilitarian object. As far as he could tell, the scabbard was made of metal, probably iron to judge by its colour, covered by some kind of roughly textured, dense hide which had been bound to the metallic surface with plain bands of brass polished to mirror brightness. The dark hide was almost black and mottled with brown, grey and amber. A neat, well-oiled clasp held the sword in place until it was released with a rapid flick of the thumb.

  ‘This mechanism is lovely, and deceptively simple. I’d be willing to bet that the sword can’t fall in the roughest gallop unless it’s released, regardless of the most dange
rous tumble.’

  Germanus nodded economically, but Arthur would have sworn that the large warrior was pleased, if the slight flush on his cheekbones was any indicator of pleasure. Gawayne reverently drew the gladius out of its scabbard. The metal blade hissed as it came free of its well-made sheath, revealing the sword in all its glory.

  ‘See the clever mechanism?’ Gawayne handed the scabbard to Bedwyr, who whistled softly in admiration of its weight and craftsmanship.

  ‘Fish skin?’ the forest master asked as his strong thumbs caressed the unfamiliar texture of the hide covering.

  ‘Close – but not quite. This is the hide of a curious creature that lives in warmer waters and can hide itself in sand. It has two huge flaps of skin on each side that are shaped like triangles, and can grow to be six feet across. Its hide is very tough, and beautiful, as you can see, and the beast is armed with a vicious barbed spear attached to a long, narrow tail. It looks like no animal I have ever seen and it is called a manta, or devil fish. Its hide is perfect for a scabbard because it is so strong and long lasting.’

  All the men showed their interest in Germanus’s explanation, and Ector and Bran were impatient to feel the texture of the hide.

  ‘It’s not rough exactly, but it repels water,’ Germanus added. ‘It also prevents a hand from slipping in blood, and even the sharpest sword finds it difficult to cut.’

  ‘You’ve used the manta skin on the hand grip of the gladius, too, over a wooden base, with the iron tang driven through to the pommel. It’s a lovely design. May I examine the blade?’

  Gawayne waited for Germanus’s permission, and then the Otadini king swung the weapon in a circle, manipulating the blade into a deadly parabola of shining metal. Arthur was fascinated by the sound Minerva made as she cleaved the air. It was almost a hiss – but far more seductive.

  ‘The balance is beautiful. Feel it, Bedwyr.’ Carefully, Gawayne handed the gladius to the forest master, whose eyes showed a moment of pain.

  ‘I’ve never seen or held the like – except for Caliburn, King Artor’s sword. And that weapon will never again be seen by the eyes of men, for it lies deep in the icy waters of a tarn, guarded by Nimue, the Lady of the Lake.’

  Germanus looked confused, so Bedwyr quickly explained and the barbarian’s face cleared with understanding. ‘Thank you for the compliment, my lord, but the man who wrought this blade deserves your praise rather than its owner. I simply saw the genius in an old swordmaker and I’ve had many reasons to thank the gods that he wrought Minerva for me.’

  Bran ran his thumb along the double-edged blade and winced as its razor sharpness left a fine line of blood in its wake. ‘Minerva is one sharp bitch,’ he muttered. ‘Like King Gawayne, I envy you such a lovely weapon.’

  Germanus nodded his thanks with a strong man’s phlegmatic economy.

  ‘Have you ever changed sides in a conflict?’ Bran asked softly. ‘I suppose that’s a disingenuous question, because you can lie and I would never know it. But I ask as one warrior to another. The boy, Arthur, is a kinsman and I would have him strong and well trained as my ally, once he is fully grown.’ He pressed a scrap of cloth to his thumb to stem the bleeding from Minerva’s kiss.

  ‘Never, King Bran. Every man who earns his bread in battle must have his own personal code. I choose whom I fight for after I have ascertained the nature of the men who offer me coin, and I’ll not risk my skin for a pretender, a traitor or a liar. My life is worth too much to me to be lost for an ignoble goal.’

  ‘A good answer,’ Bedwyr responded. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I am near to thirty-five years, and I know my reflexes are slower than they were. I’m still a skilled warrior, especially in strategy and leadership, but from experience I am aware that my years will progressively slow me down until I am killed by a younger man. And in answer to your unspoken question, my trade has meant that a family of my own has been barred to me. A man pining for his wife is a liability on the battlefield. Part of the reason why I considered Prince Ector’s proposition was that I could set down roots in this land, wed and eventually have sons of my own.’

  Impressed, Bedwyr called Arthur to come and meet Germanus, who offered the boy his hand as if they were equals, thus winning the boy’s immediate approval.

  ‘I am pleased to meet you, young man. If your father and I come to terms, I believe we will rub together well, as long as you understand that I must be obeyed as your superior officer. Can you do that?’

  ‘Aye, sir. My tutor has taught me not to be fractious . . . or hardly ever.’ Then Arthur smiled and Germanus fell under the spell of the boy’s charm. But like any other professional fighter’s, his face said nothing.

  ‘How old are you, boy, and what are your current skills?’

  ‘I am seven now but I am soon to turn eight years of age. I am accurate with my sling and I can kill a hare without flinching, just as my father taught me. I can also use a small knife, although it’s not good for much. I’ve sharpened it so I don’t hurt the animals I kill.’ Arthur handed over his old knife and Germanus tested the truth of the boy’s assertion with the ball of his thumb. The blade was very sharp and worn, but Arthur kept it oiled ready for use. Not a speck of rust marred its surface.

  ‘My son is modest. He is nearly as talented at tracking and woodcraft as I am,’ Bedwyr said with pride.

  Germanus examined father and son with a wise man’s objectivity. Bedwyr was obviously a skilled warrior, judging by the positioning of the buildings and defensive emplacements in his fortified home. As for the boy, there was something enigmatic about that open face, the grey eyes that were cold and warm by turn and the long-boned frame that was so full of promise. Never an overly imaginative man, Germanus suddenly visualised a double-bladed axe he had seen in Italia. To cover his confusion and puzzlement over Arthur’s origins, he focused on the one fact that stood out above everything he had been told about his potential charge.

  ‘You’re very tall, young Arthur. If your hands and feet are any indication, you’re likely to be as tall as I am – maybe taller.’

  Arthur stared up at Germanus and grinned. ‘Everyone calls me a beanpole, sir, so I’ll have to take what the gods give me, I suppose. Mother says I grow out of sandals too quickly, but what can I do? I just grow and grow.’

  Germanus felt as if the air shivered about the boy. Something impelled him to raise his hand to his chest in the shadow of a salute in the old Roman way. Then, embarrassed, he let his hand drop to his side. ‘Fair enough, lad,’ he said quickly to cover his unusual lapse of common sense, and then Arthur was dismissed so that the men could discuss terms and payment in private.

  The royal visitors had been gone for a week when Arthur arrived at a run for his daily lesson in arms. To the boy’s surprise, Germanus had concentrated on perfecting the skills he already possessed with the sling and the knife, and Arthur chafed at the slowness of his progress. On this particular day, he appeared carrying a very long bundle wrapped in a length of homespun that was unravelling a little at one end.

  ‘What have you got there, lad? It’s obviously a weapon of some kind. You’ve not been borrowing your father’s knives, have you?’

  Arthur was insulted at the thought. ‘No, sir. I swear. My mother gave it to me recently and told me it is part of my inheritance and I should take great care of it. I wanted to show it to you, so you can tell me something about it.’

  The boy’s face was so open that his affront was clearly written for anyone who chose to see. Germanus nodded in understanding. ‘I believe you, lad, so let’s have it. Show me your treasure.’

  ‘It’s very long, sir.’ As he spoke, Arthur unwrapped the bundle to reveal a knife that was almost the length of a short sword. It was distinguished by an unusual hilt, formed to represent a sinuous, malevolent dragon which protected the hand of the wielder with a mesh of outspread wings and serpentine coils. The decorative hilt was covered with a thin layer of pure Cymru gold.

  ‘Gods!’ Germanus b
reathed. ‘What a superb weapon! May I feel its weight, Arthur? I’ve never seen the like of this before.’

  Arthur handed the knife to Germanus, hilt first, and the arms master swore under his breath at the feel of the sharkskin grip and the beautiful balance of the weapon as it seemed to fit itself into his hand.

  ‘The owner of this beautiful blade was a large man, I’m sure, and his hands were long and very fine. It was designed specifically for him, and the length tells me he was as large as I am, at least. And he would have held it just so.’

  Germanus fell into a fighting crouch with his sword in his right hand and the Dragon Knife poised in his left, waiting for an opening so it could taste blood. The blade was beautiful, edged on both sides and curved just a trifle towards the point. Hours of care had been lavished on it, and the arms master could see that it had been honed and oiled over many years of hard usage. A tiny dent along one wing spoke of a hard sword slash averted by the web of iron that protected the owner’s hand.

  ‘This was Bedwyr’s knife?’ Germanus asked, a trace of incredulity in his voice, for this weapon was surely designed for a great king. Arthur was inclined to be insulted by the implied slight on his father, and he stiffened a little in anger. But then his innate honesty reasserted itself.

  ‘No, master. This knife was an inheritance from my . . .’ Arthur’s voice trailed off in confusion. ‘Oh, it’s too complicated to explain. Bedwyr’s hereditary weapon is the Arden Knife, which gives him his title, and you should ask to see it, but this weapon never belonged to him. Perhaps I shouldn’t have shown it to you – I only did so because I wanted to boast that I owned such a beautiful object. My father might tell you its history if you ask him, but it’s not my place to reveal secrets. I’ve been told that I must learn to use it as soon as I’m big enough to hold it properly. At present, I can barely lift it in my left hand.’

  This whole situation is curious, Germanus thought as he tried to keep his face blank. This young boy possesses a truly great treasure, a completely original piece of art as well as a weapon that any warrior would kill to own.