Read Online Arthur Imperator by Paul Bannister - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Bannister
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Grimr threw his arms wide. “Lord king,” he said as sincerely as he could manage, “how could a small party of men like ours even hope to confront your might?”
The flattery was swallowed uncritically, the Suehan saw, thinking ‘May as well ladle it on, nothing to lose,’ so he continued: “Just take us under your wing, lord, and we will be your faithful servants and soldiers.”
Web cleared his throat importantly and handed down his decision in a ponderous manner. “I have considered your pleas,” he said, “and you may swear fealty to me. You shall do it in front of all your men, when the rest arrive, so there is no mistake or possible misunderstanding. You will be my vassals. Displease me, and your head will adorn the prow of my ship. Meanwhile, prepare yourselves as best you can, and do as my officers order you. We are sailing for Britain in a matter of a week or so, as the weather and the gods permit. You may go.” Grimr lowered his head humbly. He’d settle matters with this arrogant princeling at another time, but for now, he and his men were safe and were set for an expedition of blood and fire, as they’d wished. If he just happened to kill this pretentious clown who mistakenly thought he was a warlord, there would be no surprise in it to Odin.
In Chester, the sorceress Guinevia was readying herself for an expedition, and I was unhappy about it. My scribe, advisor, lover and mother of my child was planning to be away for several months while she studied with her mentor, the Druid Myrddin. Her journey would take her west into the mountains of Wales, to stay with the enchanter in his home under the shadow of the sacred mountain Yr Wyddfa while the pair worked on his scrolls and sky charts to untangle some mystery at which he would only hint.
In time, they might journey on, down the long passes to the coast, to take a ferry across the treacherous straits to the sacred island of Mona. It was there under the sacred oaks and mistletoe where the druids had soaked the ground with the blood of human sacrifices and eventually with their own, spilled by the swords of a Roman legion. Guinevia told me little of her mission, and knew less of Myrddin’s intentions, but she was determined to acquire more of her mentor’s secrets and to assume some of his powers, so she could help return Britain to the old gods. “We have the Christians confined for now,” she told me, “but they have still weakened our nation. Their tattered priests with their bands of followers are still roaming the land and building their strength. Myrddin has a plan to redirect the energies of nature and to bring back the old gods who made Britain great.” I nodded, not totally comprehending her words, but aware of the threats that beset my land and people.
It would be good to get the old gods looking over us again. It was they who had led me to locate, after its sleep of 200 years, the iconic Eagle standard. Finding it had proved the god’s care for us and had helped me rally the cantankerous chieftains of Britain behind it to defeat our Roman overlords. For luck, I touched the great silver and amber brooch at my shoulder that is the symbol of my standing as a British jarl, then rubbed my fingers against the iron of my sword hilt to avert evil. Guinevia would be a strong ally if she could enhance her sorceress’ powers…
The pack horses were laden, the escort of four legionaries were shuffling about tightening buckles and straps, Guinevia was fussing calmly over our small son Milo as he wriggled in his nurse’s arms and I was swamped in a fog of gloom. This expedition to the wildest part of Wales was doomed, my instincts told me. Something bad was about to happen. I had told Guinevia of my fears, and she had cast an augury – positive – and sent out her inner eye to seek Myrddin – pottering happily in his garden, she reported. I could not dissuade her. I held her and smelled the crocus oil she had dabbed behind her ears,
The flattery was swallowed uncritically, the Suehan saw, thinking ‘May as well ladle it on, nothing to lose,’ so he continued: “Just take us under your wing, lord, and we will be your faithful servants and soldiers.”
Web cleared his throat importantly and handed down his decision in a ponderous manner. “I have considered your pleas,” he said, “and you may swear fealty to me. You shall do it in front of all your men, when the rest arrive, so there is no mistake or possible misunderstanding. You will be my vassals. Displease me, and your head will adorn the prow of my ship. Meanwhile, prepare yourselves as best you can, and do as my officers order you. We are sailing for Britain in a matter of a week or so, as the weather and the gods permit. You may go.” Grimr lowered his head humbly. He’d settle matters with this arrogant princeling at another time, but for now, he and his men were safe and were set for an expedition of blood and fire, as they’d wished. If he just happened to kill this pretentious clown who mistakenly thought he was a warlord, there would be no surprise in it to Odin.
In Chester, the sorceress Guinevia was readying herself for an expedition, and I was unhappy about it. My scribe, advisor, lover and mother of my child was planning to be away for several months while she studied with her mentor, the Druid Myrddin. Her journey would take her west into the mountains of Wales, to stay with the enchanter in his home under the shadow of the sacred mountain Yr Wyddfa while the pair worked on his scrolls and sky charts to untangle some mystery at which he would only hint.
In time, they might journey on, down the long passes to the coast, to take a ferry across the treacherous straits to the sacred island of Mona. It was there under the sacred oaks and mistletoe where the druids had soaked the ground with the blood of human sacrifices and eventually with their own, spilled by the swords of a Roman legion. Guinevia told me little of her mission, and knew less of Myrddin’s intentions, but she was determined to acquire more of her mentor’s secrets and to assume some of his powers, so she could help return Britain to the old gods. “We have the Christians confined for now,” she told me, “but they have still weakened our nation. Their tattered priests with their bands of followers are still roaming the land and building their strength. Myrddin has a plan to redirect the energies of nature and to bring back the old gods who made Britain great.” I nodded, not totally comprehending her words, but aware of the threats that beset my land and people.
It would be good to get the old gods looking over us again. It was they who had led me to locate, after its sleep of 200 years, the iconic Eagle standard. Finding it had proved the god’s care for us and had helped me rally the cantankerous chieftains of Britain behind it to defeat our Roman overlords. For luck, I touched the great silver and amber brooch at my shoulder that is the symbol of my standing as a British jarl, then rubbed my fingers against the iron of my sword hilt to avert evil. Guinevia would be a strong ally if she could enhance her sorceress’ powers…
The pack horses were laden, the escort of four legionaries were shuffling about tightening buckles and straps, Guinevia was fussing calmly over our small son Milo as he wriggled in his nurse’s arms and I was swamped in a fog of gloom. This expedition to the wildest part of Wales was doomed, my instincts told me. Something bad was about to happen. I had told Guinevia of my fears, and she had cast an augury – positive – and sent out her inner eye to seek Myrddin – pottering happily in his garden, she reported. I could not dissuade her. I held her and smelled the crocus oil she had dabbed behind her ears,
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