A chapter a day: The Broken Kingdom – Chapter 6
I’ve decided to publish a fresh chapter every weekday for the next week or so of my new Arthurian epic novel The Broken Kingdom. It’s completely free to read, and I am hoping that people will come to this website each day and read the next chapter of the story about the legendary hero Arthur, his mother Igraine and sister Morgan, the wizard Merlin, and all the rest of the familiar cast from the legends, plus a few new additions. It’s a fantasy novel, technically, as it has a little light magic and some seriously nasty dragons, but otherwise it is set in a realistic 5th-century Britain, after the Romans have left, which is riven by endless war. Only Arthur and his band of warriors, can hope to mend The Broken Kingdom . . .
Chapter Six
Morgan ap Uthur sat on the edge of the huge bed behind the wicker screen and listened to the sounds of carousing coming from the great hall in the Palace of Penrith. Urien, King of Rheged, was feasting his warriors and his honoured guest – Angharad of Gwynedd, Prince of Ynys Mon – on the eve of that prince’s departure.
Morgan had not been invited, and she sat on the bed trying not to weep in front of the Rhegedian spearman who lounged against the screen with his insolent, leering gaze fixed upon the princess. I will not cry, she swore to herself. No matter what they do to me. I shall not shed even one tear. The vow seemed to make her feel braver.
From time to time, she heard a particularly loud gust of laughter coming from beyond the screen, and thought she heard Angharad’s voice raised in praise of his host. It was a hectoring voice, seemingly full of confidence and pride. A hard voice, and a stranger’s voice. But she supposed that it would grow more familiar with time.
Princess Morgan had been promised to Angharad – not as a bride, not to take up an honoured place at his side in his little kingdom in the northwest corner of Britain, not to preside over his fortress on Ynys Mon and ensure its smooth running. No. She was to be given to him, as a gift, like a new plough or prize pig or some other chattel.
He would take his pleasure on her, and she would no doubt bear his children, in due course, but without the honour of a marriage, nor the status as his queen. She would be his whore, his concubine. She wondered what his wife would think of this.
Growing up in Caer Camlann, and destined since birth for a dynastic marriage as the daughter of the High King of Dumnonia, Uthur the Pendragon, Morgan was well versed in all the histories and details of the marriages of the various royal houses of Britain, and even of some of the bigger Hibernian kingdoms, too, as well as the war-torn British-speaking lands across the Dividing Sea in rock-girt Armorica.
She had studied hard with her tutor every day while she was growing up and could recite the lineages of Kernow, Dumnonia, Gwent, Demetia, Powys, Elmet and Rheged. She had even memorised the ancestry of the petty clan chieftains of the half-civilised lands of Strathclotha, Lothian and Dalriada in the wastes beyond the Wall.
So of course she knew that Angharad of Gwynedd had a wife. Teagan of Powys was her name and they had married three years ago, and had one living son, an infant.
She thought of Arthur, then. Her lovely Arthur. His mother Igraine had been a concubine, Uthur’s favourite, they said, before Queen Bronwyn took her place beside him as his lawful wife. She had always felt sorry for Arthur’s second-class birth, and a little embarrassed by it, made on the wrong side of the blanket, they called it. Now her own children would be bastards, too. Like Arthur. Like brave, strong, kind Arthur.
Perhaps it would not be so bad. She heard Angharad’s booming voice once again – he might have a name more usually given to a woman, but he had nothing of a woman’s subtlety. She could tell he was drunk; now he sounded even more arrogant.
Perhaps he would want to take his drunken pleasure with her this very night.
Suddenly, she felt very much alone. She had witnessed the slaughter of the Dumnonians in the great hall two nights before. It had been so sudden, so brutal. One moment they were discussing the merits of the gifts that Uthur had sent up to Rheged – her dowry – and the next the spears were tipped with red, Julius the Decurion and Father Antonius were dying in agony on the floor, along with four of the turma men, and her Arthur was struggling desperately with a Rhegedian spearman. At that point she had been dragged from the hall by Ceinwyn, her gaoler, and had seen no more of the horrific events, only heard a hubbub, and the hall emptying of warriors.
She had been terrified by the savagery but also extremely angry: “My father Uthur will come and punish you all – you have made a bad enemy in the High King,” she had shouted at Ceinwyn. “He will kill you all.” The crone had merely laughed.
“Do you not know that Uthur ap Ythur is dead?” she said. “Talek of Elmet plotted his downfall, with his lord’s connivance. They took him at a feast in Caer Camlann. Gorlois of Kernow did the deed – and he now rules in Dumnonia. All of Uthur’s men are dead too; those that did not side with Gorlois. Uthur has been cold in his grave these two weeks’ past, you silly little fool. There is no one to protect you.”
Morgan had tried to slap Ceinwyn then, but the older woman had seized her wrists and thrown her roughly back on to the big bed. She had cracked her head painfully on the wooden headpiece. Then Ceinwyn went away and she had been left alone in the half-darkness, with only the spearman to guard her. She had feared Urien would come, or the Prince of Gwynedd. But she remained unmolested all that night.
In the morning, after the long, sleepless, fretful hours, Ceinwyn had brought her water for washing, and a mug of ale sweetened with honey and a freshly baked loaf.
“Women’s lot is hard,” Ceinwyn said, with a half-smile. “Yet we must endure.”
Morgan recognised that this was the older woman’s weak attempt at an apology.
The princess spent two full days and nights in the chamber behind the hall. Alone, except for the guards, who changed every few hours, and the occasional visits from Ceinwyn. She had not seen either Urien or his guest Angharad and, while she was grateful for that, there was a part of her that felt slighted. She certainly had no desire for either brute’s company, but to be so comprehensively ignored was a little galling.
On the morning after the raucous feast, Morgan was bidden to wash and dress herself and make ready to ride. There had been a fire, Ceinwyn told her, and all of her belongings had been burnt to ashes. Morgan did not believe it. Someone had stolen all her beautiful things – that was obvious. But the older woman had brought her a clean moss-coloured gown, fresh linens and a comb and some hot water in which to make her ablutions. When she was ready, and had eaten a bowl of porridge, Ceinwyn led her out of the chamber, out of the hall – where scores of men were still snoring on the benches – and into the courtyard where a party of mounted warriors was gathered.
Morgan saw Angharad of Gwynedd, standing beside a fine black stallion, his cropped brown head adorned by no more than a circlet of gold, and his half a dozen attendants, servants and bodyguards, gathered around him also holding the reins of their mounts. A dozen Rhegedian warriors, led by the rascally Haffa, were already mounted. When Morgan appeared, a servant led a pony over to her, which she noticed with pleasure was her own docile mount from the Caer Camlann stable in Dumnonia.
As the Gwynedd men mounted, Morgan followed their example, swinging up easily into the pony’s saddle. She watched Angharad with particular attention. He had a hard, square face, a thin moustache, with a small scar on his shaven chin, and cold blue eyes. She was expecting him to give her some small acknowledgement, a nod, or perhaps even a smile. But he seemed oblivious to her presence. He called out a jest to one of his men, something about the weather gods being kind, for the day was sunny and cold, and then the big, double gates of Penrith were opening and the whole party was riding out on to the muddy flint-paved track that led up to the old Roman road.
Two Rhegedian spearmen closed in around her and, as she kicked her pony forward, Morgan happened to look over at the far side of the courtyard and saw the barn where she had changed her dress after the journey north. It was a burnt out ruin. Where were the men who had ridden with her? Inside that mess of blackened ash? Morgan shuddered. All dead. Her Arthur too. Her beautiful brother destroyed.
She kept up with the rest of the warriors with little difficulty. She had ridden out almost every day growing up in Caer Camlann, and in one wild moment she even thought of trying to make an escape. But her pony was not a particularly fast animal, and she was surrounded by nearly twenty warriors, who would surely hunt her down. And, even if she did manage to outride them all and escape, where could she go?
Caer Camlann was three hundred miles to the south. And if what Ceinwyn told her was true, her father Uthur was dead and Gorlois of Kernow sat in his throne. Where could she go? She would be a young woman alone in the world, unprotected, unarmed, untrained in warfare, easy prey for any stranger who crossed her path.
She determined to make the best of it. Who knew what the Almighty had in store for her? She had prayed hard in darkness in the long, lonely hours in the chamber at the back of Urien’s hall, and tried to make a bargain with God for her safety and perhaps for someone to rescue her. She would live her live as a perfect Christian, she swore, doing good works, humble, faithful, pious, if only she could be saved. She had prayed for Arthur, too, prayed that he had somehow escaped the fate that all the others in her party had suffered. She prayed he had not been burnt to ash in that barn.
She prayed again now, in the saddle, closing her eyes as the pony jogged along the Royal Road. And felt a little better. She lifted her eyes and straightened her spine.
They were riding past the grim line of executed criminals now, and Morgan forced herself to look upon them as she passed. This was the truth of her situation. She was a captive, there could be no running away. She was fortunate that she had not been treated as cruelly as these poor souls had been. Nailed up, like Our Saviour, to a tree. A hideous line of them all along the western side of the old Roman road. A message to other malefactors. A gruesome warning. She was tempted to look away, instead she made herself closely study every one of these wretches as she rode past.
As she looked up into the faces of the executed men, she was struck by how familiar some of them looked. That one looked so much like Bagdemagus, with the same round cheeks, although slathered with blood and filth. He had the same girth as the legionary, too. The next man along was too decomposed to resemble anyone she knew, his tongue was lolling, blackened and buzzing with flies. But the one after that – now she sat up in the saddle with the shock. The executed criminal looked exactly – exactly – like her brother Arthur. The same fine cheekbones, although smeared with mud, the same beardless face; the same curl of dark hair over his bright blue eyes.
Then the executed young criminal, nailed to his upturned tree, winked at her.
Morgan nearly fell off her pony with surprise.
And everything became like some weird, flowing dream. There were executed men both in front and behind her coming back to life, leaping down from their crosses, producing weapons, knives, swords, even a spear and launching themselves at the astonished men of the mounted column – pouncing on them like hunting cats.
Ahead of her, Morgan saw a man who looked very much like Agravaine dive off his crucifixion tree and knock a Rhegedian warrior clean out of the saddle with his driving shoulder. And, as Morgan looked on in amazement, Agravaine and the man struggled together in the mud, until the legionary had the other pinned and repeatedly punched his blade into the Rhegedian’s neck. Her pony was shying and rearing with fright at the sudden noise and clamour, and the stink of fresh blood, and she was now fighting to stay astride it. She turned the animal right around and saw Arthur, a long grey sword held in both his hands, an expression of grim fury on his face, battering a standing Gwynedd man with the blade, once, twice, striking him until he fell bloody to the ground. Another horseman rode at Arthur, trying to skewer him with his spear, and her brother knocked the lance side with one blow and then, quick as lightning, backhanded the fur-clad warrior across the back with the sword as he rode past him. The enemy warrior yelled and slid bonelessly from the saddle, his spine shattered.
A horse barged into the haunches of Morgan’s and she felt a sudden presence behind her, and two strong arms reach forward and grab her and bundle her up and away from the saddle. She was hauled across the man’s pommel, her legs kicking wildly in her skirts, her head down below the horses neck, arms flailing. By twisting and looking up she saw a black raven painted on the shield that hung from the man’s back, and then a bearded face, gap-toothed grin and blood red mouth. It was Haffa.
She struggled to rise but he pushed her down, his strength astonishing, subduing her with only his left hand. The right held his war axe, a short-hafted brutal weapon with a wedge-shaped blade. Looking upwards from her humiliating position, she saw a man come at Haffa – it was Dagonet, one of the legionaries, and he was jabbing at the Haffa with a short Roman sword. A jarring clang of metal as sword met axe.
The legionary lost his footing and Haffa jabbed the blunt head of the axe full into Dagonet’s face, knocking him back. He stumbled a step and fell on his backside.
Then Arthur was there. He seized Haffa’s fur cloak from the other side and pulled him over. Haffa responded with a wild swing of his axe, and Arthur ducked under it and jabbed up with the sword, ripping into Haffa’s beard, blood spraying.
Bors was beside Morgan’s lowered head, on the far side to Arthur. He stabbed up at Haffa with a spear, the point striking low at the waist and sliding in under the Rhegedian’s ribs. Then Bors shoved again and Haffa screamed. Arthur pulled once again at his cloak. Haffa disappeared, falling from the saddle on the other side to her.
The pony wriggled and bucked, whinnying in fear, and Morgan tumbled off the beast and landed painfully, face first on one of the broken stones of the Roman road.
Morgan sat up, rubbing her bruised face. A man came stumbling towards her, a Rhegedian, she thought. A dark shape rose behind him. A crack and a gout of blood.
The man was falling, and Arthur stood there with his bloody sword in his hands.
Morgan got to her feet – but once again was seized by a powerful arm.
She felt a tall man behind her, his right arm crooked around her neck, his elbow stuck in her bosom, and a painful prick of steel under her jawbone on the right side.
“Take one more step, Dumnonian, and your precious little princess is meat!”
Morgan recognised that voice. Strident, arrogant – it was Angharad who now held her so tightly, with a knife at her throat, his arm trapping hers against his body.
She felt sick in her stomach. Fear. The insects in her belly were dancing again.
She saw Arthur’s face – appalled. He was looking at her from five full paces away, beyond the reach of his sword. His blue eyes huge. But he stayed completely still, heeding Angharad’s command, nodding at him. Behind Arthur, Morgan could see the wreckage of the travelling party, a few galloping away, more men dead and wounded lying on the broken stones and below the crucified men – she could see the pattern now: every other executed criminal had been a Dumnonian posing as a dead man, smeared with blood and guts. She was pleased to see so many of them left alive. There was Gawain, the baby of the turma, coming up behind Arthur with a javelin in his hands. And beyond him Bors, and Dagonet, with a bloody mouth, Agravaine, Geraint, Hywel and fat little Bagdemagus, too. And others, too: some of them were soothing horses, others drinking from bottles. Some dispatching the enemy wounded.
“You hurt my sister, I’ll make you scream for the rest of your life,” said Arthur.
“Throw down your weapons!” Angharad shouted. “All of you; drop them now.”
“What do you think is going to happen here?” said Arthur, reasonably. “Do you think we are all going to surrender to you? Are you mad? We won this fight. Let the princess go and I will take you prisoner. I won’t kill you. We’ll work something out.”
Arthur took a step towards them
“Drop your sword, keep your distance – I swear I will slice her from ear to ear!”
Morgan felt the gorge rising in her belly, her throat. It was coming, she knew.
“Let her go, and you will live,” said Arthur. “We can solve this like civilis . . .”
Morgan spat. A gobbet of green slime on to the muscular arm that held her pinned to the Gwynedd prince. The bile spattered on the sleeve of Angharad’s mail coat and immediately began to hiss and smoke, and the bile-acid began to spread and bubble, eating through the iron links as if they were no more than gossamer threads.
Angharad screamed and looked down at his smoking arm. He released Morgan and shook the limb, staring incredulously at the disintegrating metal and leather and and the burning flesh beneath, the blood sizzling. He screamed long and hard, a howl of anguish, dropped the knife and began batting at his burn with the flat of his hand.
Morgan squirmed free and jumped away from him.
Gawain drew back his arm and threw. The javelin flew through the air and smacked into Angharad’s chest. The shaft passing though him. He fell to his knees, and Morgan saw the gory spear point extending a foot out of the centre of his back.
He looked up at her, his face a bewildered, horrified mask. Morgan stepped forward again. From just a foot away, she spat a full load of green bile into his face.
Chapter Seven
The sea spray felt cool against Redwulf’s weather-burnt cheek. The sun had been shining down on them for days as the open snake-boat made the long crossing from the Frankish coast – for the gods had been kind and held back the wind and rain and storm – and the kiss of water was welcome on his reddened skin.
To be continued on Monday.
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Angus Donald’s has also written an epic five-book Viking series, published by Canelo, which begins with The Last Berserker (Fire Born 1). He is the author of the Outlaw Chronicles, which kicks off with Outlaw, published by Little, Brown. He is currently writing the 11th Robin Hood novel in that bestselling series.