A chapter a day: The Broken Kingdom – Chapter 8
I’ve decided to publish a few chapters on this website 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 site 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. If you are enjoying the story, and you want me to continued posting chapters each day, I would really love some feedback and/or encouragement. It’s a fantasy novel, technically, as it has a tiny amount of magic and some very nasty dragons, but otherwise it is set in a real 5th-century Britain, after the Romans have left, which is riven by war. Only Arthur and his band of warriors, can hope to mend The Broken Kingdom . . .
Chapter Eight
They did not linger. Arthur stopped only to confirm that Erec was dead – an axe had destroyed the left side of the legionary’s skull. He said a short prayer over his body but no more. Galahad and Bedevere had collected up the loose Rhegedian horses, and they had already stripped the bodies of their enemies of food, clothing and weapons.
Then, after a brief and urgent conversation with Morgan and long hug of deep gratitude, Arthur helped his half-sister back up into the saddle of her pony and they all set off southward, with many an anxious look cast behind them. Several of the Rhegedian warriors had escaped the ambush and Arthur fully expected a horde of King Urien’s furious warriors to come boiling out of Penrith and overwhelm them.
They fled southward, using the lesser tracks and paths, avoiding any settlements, and, so far as they could, the sight of any human eye. They rode hard most of that day without stopping, except briefly, long after noon, to wolf down some bread and drink water from their flasks, and to sponge down the horses and change their sopping saddle blankets. They were on high windswept ground, barren moorland, and Arthur clambered up a lonely ash tree and searched their back trail. At first he thought it was a herd of sheep, and then he recognised the purpose and direction of travel and saw that it was a mass of horsemen in the far distance. It was too far away to estimate the numbers but they were clearly on their trail and easily overmatched their own little band in strength. An hour, maybe two and the Rhegedians would be upon them.
As he climbed down, Arthur pondered their options. The kingdom of Elmet lay a full day’s ride south and east of the hills they were now traversing, and Queen Bronwyn of Dumnonia was a daughter of that land, but when he suggested it as a destination to the others, a place in which they might seek refuge with King Bran in his hall at Loidis, Morgan quickly told him about the part Talek of Elmet had played in the treacherous murder of Uthur in Caer Camlann.
“So both Rheged and Elmet are now against us,” said Arthur tiredly. “And Gwynedd now, too, I suppose. And Kernow, of course, has long been our enemy.”
“Who is with us?” asked Caradoc. “Does anyone stand with Dumnonia?”
“We do not know which side Powys and Gwent have chosen,” said Hywel. “Gwent has long been an ally of Dumnonia, perhaps they yet remain staunch . . .”
“We cannot know for sure,” said Arthur. “Until we do know, we must treat every man we meet as a potential enemy.” He looked round the faces of the legionaries and saw their exhaustion and, worse, despair. Many of them still bore the smeared traces of the filthy disguise they had worn to spring the ambush, the dried blood, flesh and entrails of the dead criminals.
They had been in far better spirits then, Arthur thought, when mischief was afoot. Jokes had been heard as they hauled down the crucified dead and while they were slathering themselves, and taking their places on the upturned trees. He had worried that someone might giggle and spoil it all. Mercifully no one had laughed.
And no one was laughing now.
“We need to hide somewhere, until the enemy gives up the chase,” said Arthur.
“Where?” said Bedevere. “There are no friendly halls in all the North.”
“Who knows this land?” Arthur asked, looking once more round their faces.
He had not expected a reply but Caradoc said: “I don’t know this place but I think we made camp near here on our way north. Over that ridge with the three elms is a valley – you remember, Decanus? The place where Bagdemagus fell in the fire?”
“I did not fall in the fire, Geraint shoved me and I tripped,” said the fat man. And he held up his left hand to show a half-healed burn on its side.
“I remember,” said Arthur.
“There is a cave there, under the cliffside. I found it when I was collecting firewood. I was going to suggest we shelter in it but, well, we were well settled in, comfortable and it was a fine, dry night, so I said nothing to Julius at the time.”
“Do you think you could find this cave again?” said Arthur.
They posted a lookout on top of the ridge with the three elms, Yvaine taking the first watch, and the rest of them made camp inside the cave. It was large and deep and dry and they led all the horses inside and stripped off their gear, and hacked down several thick bushes and covered the entrance with the thick foliage. In the valley bottom, where Arthur was filling water bottles in the small creek, he looked back and could not make out the entrance to the cave; the cut bushes melded in with the other scrub and foliage that grew against the cliff face. As a hiding place, it would do. It was better than running their horses into the ground. If the Rhegedians found them, they could defend the cave well enough. Not that it would save them. If the Rhegedians found them, they were all dead, Morgan too. Their rescue would have been in vain.
Arthur remembered how he had persuaded the legionaries to adopt the poses of dead men to surprise the enemy. They had been watching the caer from the woods and Arthur had realised that he had not a hope in Hell of breaking in and rescuing the princess. Then he had remembered Urien’s words “I shall keep Uthur’s miserly gifts, and give his virgin daughter to my good friend Angharad as his concubine . . .”
Angharad, Prince of Ynys Mon, would take his sister Morgan home with him. So when he left Penrith, that was the time to strike. They had only had to wait a day, a day in the woods above the caer, thinking, planning, and then the idea came to him. They had resisted the idea at first – only Galahad had thought it a good plan. But he had cajoled them, appealed to their honour, and one by one they had come around. The plan had worked, surprisingly well, and now all they had to do was . . . what? Survive? Find refuge? Find friends of some kind? Or exist on the run for ever?
As he lugged the heavy water bottles back to the cave, Arthur thought about something else someone had said to him. Taliesin had said what was left of the turma needed a leader, and Arthur must become that man. The leather straps of the heavy water bottles were rubbing on the half-healed scabs on his shoulders and back – the marks of the whipping he had received in Caer Camlann before they left. He adjusted the straps and thought: I would gladly take another whipping just to be back home before all this began. I would volunteer to be beaten again just to make everything right. He had chafed at his confinement in Dumnonia – now it seemed like freedom. As he approached the cave, Arthur recalled something else Taliesin had said: “They need a mission. A reason to carry on. You must give them that, too.”
An hour later, Yvaine came in to report and said he had seen the horsemen passing below their ridge and moving at great speed to the south, along the main road. They had missed the legionaries, and dusk was falling. They would be unlikely to find them again this night. For the first time in days, Arthur felt himself relax.
Bagdemagus had a cheery fire going; soup boiling in a small round blackened cauldron. Morgan looked brighter, too. She smiled at him. Then yawned like a cat. It was clear that his sister was exhausted. But who was not. Fear was tiring. Once the soup was shared out, and eaten, Arthur lent Morgan his red cloak and she went to find a quiet sleeping place in the darkness at the back of the cave. The men of the turma were at their ease, fed and safe, lounging around the crackling fire, making a murmur of conversation, with Dagonet standing by the cave mouth, looking out at the night.
Arthur set aside his soup bowl, took a long swig from his water bottle and loudly cleared his throat. He looked around the fire-lit circle of faces and said: “My friends, I think we should now take counsel with each other. It seems that the danger has passed and, for this one night at least, we may count ourselves safe from harm.”
“I truly hope so,” muttered Geraint. “I could stretch out and sleep for a week.”
“We are all dog-tired – and have more than earned our rest. And it is thanks to your efforts and sacrifice that my sister is whole, hale and at liberty. But we must think of what tomorrow holds, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that . . .”
“We need a plan,” said Agravaine. “But I suspect you have one ready, Decanus.”
Arthur inclined his head slightly in what might have been agreement.
“Perhaps I do, Agravaine. But let me say this to you all first. We cannot know who our true friends are, at present, nor can we determine who is our secret enemy. Is the King of Powys our foe? Will Gwent’s capital Glevum open its gates and give us succour? I do not know. And I would not choose to take unnecessary chances with our lives. All I do know, all that I am certain of, at this moment, is that every man in this cave tonight is my brother. You are all my brothers, my comrades. We have ridden together, we have fought together. And without your help my sister would be bound for slavery in Gwynedd. I trust you with my life and the lives that I hold dear.”
Arthur looked around the fire circle and saw that every man’s eye was upon him. No one looked away, no man’s gaze slid aside. He said: “And so I say to you all this night, let us swear an oath to celebrate our fellowship, to acknowledge our bond. Our enemies are legion and they will doubtless seek to destroy us – but we will have each other. All of us, together, we shall be a fellowship, we shall be a band of brothers and united in our strength and by our sacred oath, no man may hope to stand against us.”
“Yes,” said Bors loudly, “yes, by God! I am with you, Arthur.”
“This is good, and right,” said Galahad. “This is the only way we can prevail.”
“Then stand now, all of you, and let us make an oath. Stand up and swear with me. We will make a blessed circle of men of the sword, a ring of warriors – for what is stronger than a ring of steel? Stand and take the next man by his hand, and swear!”
And there and then, in that cave in the wild north, they pledged their honour before God to each other, swearing to hold the life of the others more precious than their own, to protect each member of the fellowship in battle, and to avenge them in death. To be honest in all their dealings, to avoid quarrelling with their fellows, and to share the hurt and honour, the pain and the prizes of war among all of them equally.
“We first met like this in that half-burnt mill east of Penrith,” said Arthur, “at a table made from a millstone. A round table where we all sat and broke bread together. And so I name this noble fellowship . . . the Warriors of the Round Table.”
They rode south the next morning in a fine drizzle, with the chill wind whipping in from the east over the barren hills, and yet they all sat a little straighter in their saddles, shoulders square, their eyes were lit with an inner light, and Arthur knew that he had made something new, even something rather beautiful from this ragtag band.
They had a destination, too, after some late-night discussions. Clas Myrddin.
“Merlin sent Taliesin to King Urien,” Arthur had said. “We would never have escaped Penrith without Taliesin’s help. So we can assume Merlin is on our side.”
“He is a sorcerer,” said Bedevere, making the holy sign of the cross on his chest. “He traffics with the Devil. We would be putting our heads into the wolf’s mouth.”
“I do not believe he means us harm,” said Arthur. “Why would he send Taliesin to save us only to kill us in his own land. He is our friend. I am quite certain of it.”
Arthur had won the argument – in truth no one else had any suggestions to offer. But Bedevere had another concern that he wished to air with Arthur. The legionary waited till he had Arthur alone, and then he said quietly. “Speaking of sorcery – what was that with your sister and Angharad of Gwynedd? I saw her spit up something burning on his arm. I saw it afterwards, when I took his cloak from his dead body. The left arm was nearly burned all the way to the bone, like fire but cold, a greenish substance. I did not touch it. But . . . what in the name of all that is holy was that.”
“Has anyone else spoken of this to you?” said Arthur, looking about him. He was glad to see that all the other legionaries were out of earshot, preparing for sleep.
“Gawain said something but I don’t think the others noticed. What is wrong with your sister? It troubles me, Arthur. It smacks of devilry – the works of the Evil One.”
“My sister is not evil, Bedevere,” said Arthur sharply. “And if you ever suggest that to me again, I will hold you to account for it. I mean that. She has an affliction, she has had it since she became . . . since her first bleeding. It is something to do with her stomach. Or her insides. But she is not evil. She is the sweetest girl in the world.”
Bedevere grunted something and began to turn away. Arthur seized his arm. “I ask you not to speak of this to the rest of them, Bedevere. I ask it as a boon. I will get Merlin to examine her when we reach Siluria – he has great skills as a healer. He was much consulted in Caer Camlann whenever he came to visit us there. And Uthur trusted him. But I ask you to keep her sad affliction out of the mouths of the others.”
Four days of hard riding and they saw no sign of the Rhegedian pursuers. They went southwest, into the mountains on the border between Gwynedd and Powys and only once they saw spearmen, a hundred of them marching eastwards, and then they took shelter in a narrow valley, while Arthur and Hywel climbed up a steep ridge and watched the column pass from the heights until the spearmen were out of sight.
Then they changed direction and went due south, higher into the hills, with the majestic peaks capped with snow even in spring. When they saw people working in the fields or walking the roads, they kicked their horses into a gallop or took cover in the woods. It was freezing in the high places, particularly at night, and the mist came down so fast it felt like a dropped curtain. But throughout their travels their spirits remained high. Before the week was out, they rode down through the valleys into the flat lands of Siluria between the mountains and the sea, and there they rode easy. There was no one on their tail, so far as Arthur could tell, and they were confident enough in their youth and strength to fight or flee from any foe they encountered.
One sunny morning, riding along a grassy track beside a sheep pasture, they came to a large rock, a boulder the size of a small house that sat beside the road. There was a very small man in a bright red tunic sitting on the summit of the rock.
Arthur reined in and stared up at the dwarf on the rock. He seemed to be sewing.
Arthur watched the man, his steel needle flashing in the sunlight, the item he was working on was very large and seemed to be a bed covering or very large cloak.
The dwarf finished the row he was sewing and looked up at Arthur, glancing behind him to take in the column of dusty riders. His gaze lingering a little longer on Morgan, wrapped in her travelling hood and cloak. Then he looked back at Arthur.
“You took you time,” the dwarf said. “We were expecting you some days ago.”
Arthur drew the notched iron sword from his belt, and pointed it up at the little man. “Who are you? And why were you expecting us? Speak!”
“Gods, is that what you call a sword? I’ve seen sharper clubs. Put it away, I beg you. Quickly before someone see it. I’m embarrassed just looking at that bludgeon.”
“Who are you?” Arthur repeated. He kept the iron sword pointed at the dwarf.
“My name is Kalin. But you can call me . . . well, you can call me whatever you like if you are going to menace me with that oversized poker. I’ve a better idea: give it to me and I will find a better use for it than threatening one of Merlin’s counsellors. It might be good for raking coals in the forge. Or Balin could use it as a toothpick.”
“Did you say Merlin? Do you know Merlin the Sorcerer?”
“You know what? I really thought you would be a bit quicker on the uptake, young Arthur. But you seem, well, not to put too fine a point on it – not that you would know anything about fine points, judging by that disgrace of a sword – but I did expect that you might be a bit, um, how can I put this politely . . . a bit cleverer.”
“Can you take me to Merlin?”
“That’s why I have been waiting here for you these past two days. Oh, and while I was waiting, I made you this.” And with that the grinning dwarf pushed the edge of the cloth he had been working on with the steel needle over the side of the boulder.
It was a battle standard, which then slowly unfurled almost to the ground.
A wide length of linen, dyed a deep scarlet with madder root, holding a beautiful image of a black bear, rampant on the field, the animal’s claws out as if to rend a foe.
Chapter Nine
Igraine wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her forearm. The wash house was filled with steam from the big copper cauldrons, which held the boiling linens of Caer Camlann, and the fires beneath them were always kept well stoked. She looked across the scrubbing-board at Hanna, who was rubbing lye soup into a large patch of rusty red on a fine white woollen cloak – and felt a cold jolt right through her heart.
To be continued tomorrow.
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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.