Pendragon and the Traitor's Menace Read online

  “So, we will put off the attack by another day?” Lispania asked, disgruntled.

  “It would be wise, sire,” Bishkar said, addressing his suggestion to the king. “I will leave post haste and return to Caledonia to seek an audience with King Fergus. You bring the expendables and meet me in Aberdeen,” he said, looking at Lispania.

  The king nodded and Bishkar, ever the tactician, had succeeded in laying a mortal trap for the competition.

  “How will this all work out in the end?” Attila asked, just to make sure that the simple plan was not just naive.

  “I will have Fergus attack the Romans,” he said, pretending that he had the ability to pull that off. He never revealed that he did not know Fergus, and Fergus had no idea who he was. But that point did not matter to his plan at the moment.

  “How will you do that?” asked the king. “Have you made your way into the good graces of the King of Caledonia in your short time there?”

  “I have, sire. And I will leverage that relationship to exact our revenge on the Pendragons,” Bishkar replied.

  “Very well. Continue.”

  “Once I convince him of that, I will ride to join the expendables, and we will attack Uther.”

  “That is a waste of time,” Lispania barked. “You will do better to ride with the Caledonians while I bring the expendables,” Lispania argued. “You just want all the glory. For that, you are sacrificing the objective.

  Bishkar bowed his head, feigning guilt, but actually relishing the fact that his trap had ensnared its victim. From the corner of his eye, he looked at his king, who had suddenly realized that Lispania was right. The alteration in his countenance spoke volumes.

  “Your desire to prove yourself has blinded you, Bishkar. The better alternative would be to have Lispania command the expendables.”

  “I shall not argue with your wisdom, sire. But I beg you to let me prove to you that I am up to the task,” Bishkar continued sealing the advantage that was already his.

  “No, Bishkar. Lispania will lead the expendables.”

  Lispania felt emboldened by the king’s support. He was even emboldened enough to take it a step further. “I believe it is best that the expendables and I join you in the north before we attack the Pendragon camp. There is no need to close in on them from two sides. They are not large or formidable. Uniting with the Caledonians and attacking them from the west will mean that they have nowhere to run but the sea. This strategy would limit unnecessary casualties on our part.”

  “Since when do we care about the expendables?” Bishkar shot back, seeming to disagree with the idea.

  “Since we are not able to get more of them while we are on the island,” the king replied without waiting for Lispania to respond. “Lispania is right again. He will meet you in the north. And the two sides will ride down together. I like this plan better.”

  “Very well, sire. I shall do as you wisely command. I will leave right away and make preparations,” Bishkar said, pondering for a moment. “In that case, sail up to Dornoch and come ashore there. I will arrive with King Fergus and meet you at dawn the following day.”

  Attila shook his head while Lispania, smiled.

  Lispania felt like he had wrestled back the potential to be the hero. He had caught Bishkar in a moment of weakness. His strategy was poorly orchestrated all because he wished valued position over efficacy. Lispania was certain that Attila saw that as plain as day. When all this was over, this will serve as a reminder to the king who was the better general.

  4

  Farewell

  “I am to return to the north with the welcoming party,” Arthur said. “I have been advised by the princess that the king takes offense at our silence since we arrived on these shores.”

  Igraine pondered. She had seen the look on his face when he escorted the princess. It occurred to her that meeting the King would not be a bad idea. But she had to bring her son up to speed on the matters at hand.

  “I will not be here when you return,” she said, certain that her opening statement would catch her son’s attention. There were many things that she had to say but could not use words to say them. She had to intimate her message so that she would not be accused of betraying Uther.

  “You are leaving father?” Arthur asked, already aware of the existence of Uther’s child out of wedlock, but not aware that his father had indeed loved the woman.

  “Yes. There is no other way. It is best for me, for you, and for him. And, not that I care, better for the Anatolian, whatever his name is.”

  “Where will you go?” Arthur asked, not reacting hastily, but allowing the facts and the nuances of a complicated situation to present themselves.

  “To Demetia. That is my true home now,” Igraine whispered to her son, as she glanced at his face to see his reactions. She could see that he was as calm and collected as ever, but the thoughts in his mind were revealed by the shape of his brow. She had known her son all his life and knew exactly what he was thinking when he was thinking it. Only a mother could truly know her son, she knew. Only a mother could protect her son, she understood.

  “Has Father said anything more? Has he said or revealed something that has caused you to take this decision?” Arthur asked, unsure of how to treat his mother kindly while attempting to liberate the truth from her chest.

  “Does he need to say more to wound this old heart?” Igraine replied, her silvery golden hair reflecting the thousand points of light that illuminated her tent.

  “No, Mother. I suppose not,” he replied, knowing full well that there was something more his mother was not telling him. For all the insight she had into her son, Igraine had failed to realize that Arthur had evolved over time as a true general and one of his skills was the profound ability to shield his inner-most thoughts and feelings when he really needed to. For now, those feeling that remained locked inside him were born out of venomous hatred for his father. He knew without a doubt something else had happened in his absence.

  “When will you return?”

  “By nightfall, Mother.”

  “I shall be in Demetia by then. When you have done your duty here, come and visit me. I am sure Megolin and Merlin look forward to seeing you again.”

  “I shall. In the meantime, please convey to King Megolin that I have ridden north to meet with King Fergus out of respect to him,” Arthur requested. “I do not want him to misunderstand.”

  “Shall I leave out one small detail, though?” Igraine said, a light smile occupying the corner of her lips.

  “What is that, Mother?”

  “That you have taken a fancy to the heir to the throne of Caledonia,” Igraine said, the smile now growing broader. It was obvious to Arthur that his mother was pleased with his decision.

  “You have no objection to my interest?” he asked. Both of them momentarily forgot the pain that stood outside the tent.

  “None whatsoever. She is beautiful, intelligent, and is worthy of your spirit. You should ask her father, when you meet him, for his permission to court her.”

  Arthur smiled. “I had intended to, Mother. And your blessing now makes it whole.”

  “Very well, come and give your mother a kiss for her long journey. You be safe. Stand your ground and do not antagonize your father. In his mind and by Roman custom, you are no longer heir to the throne. The only way you will ascend to the apex of the Pendragon Clan is if you maneuver around the obstacles intelligently. Aggression will not work,” Igraine advised.

  Arthur shook his head, but said nothing. He had other plans. None of which included ascending to the head of a clan where he was either second in line for or atop of a structure that had no land, power, or purpose. To Arthur, the Pendragon crest was as cold as the iron it was embossed on.

  Moving toward his mother, he embraced her tightly, kissed her once on each cheek, and then stepped back to kneel on one kn
ee. “Until we are united once again, Mother, I pray your blessings to watch over me and for me to forever hear your voice of reason and compassion in my heart.”

  “So be it, my son,” Igraine replied, holding back her tears as she had no idea what the future would bring. Her power to see events that had not yet come to pass eluded her, for Arthur was a man of mystery and his path was not yet charted, especially now with so much tumult surrounding him.

  Arthur left his mother’s tent with a mind, now refocused, on the task at hand.

  5

  Low Tide

  Having to contend with a receding tide, the trireme’s captain leaned on his coxswain to drive the rowers hard. The captain had strict instructions from the sole passenger on board to get him to Lochfleet, the cape north of Inver Bay, by noon. Even during the best of tides and wind, that would be a tall order, but the captain did not make his doubt known. The sight of Bishkar told the captain that this was not a man to trifle with.

  Bishkar’s regularly pliant features had an odd feature about them. His smile, while charming and disarming, had enough evil in them it to send shivers up a man’s spine.

  The winter sun had still a long way to travel before it would rise in the southern sky. In the meantime, the silent waters and calm winds placed the burden of travel on the effort of the rowers who put their backs into propelling the trireme forward.

  The passenger riding next to the helmsman stood silent, deep in thought. Pain, regret, anger, and bile all swirled inside his heart and possessed his mind. It was fortunate that he had the few hours to let the bile settle so that his reasoned mind could return to command.

  The rhythmic rowing of the slaves below-deck and the rapid calls of the coxswain provided the necessary harmony that lulled his anger and calmed his spirits. He knew full well that they would not make his destination on time, but he said nothing. He had calculated the delay into his plans. Bishkar was nothing if he wasn’t a pragmatist.

  As the fires inside settled, he distilled the situation down to two choices.

  “Am I a Roman or a Hun?” he asked himself. Consequences and opportunities aside, he needed to weigh his options. He was never a Hun, being part Anatolian and part Roman. But he had been raised as a Hun all his life. He ate with them, slept with them, shared fortune and troubles with them. His mind and soul were Hun, while his flesh remained Roman.

  “If I am Roman, then why do I have such hatred for them? If I am not Hun, why do I have such love for them?” Bishkar asked himself as the stars above trickled light onto a countenance in agony. Being ripped from a loving home and thrown to the wolves, he hated the man that had caused him so much pain.

  Thoughts bounced from one macabre fantasy to the next, from one heartache to another. Until finally, by the time the lazy winter sun found its way to dawn, Bishkar had resolved what he had to do. He had to have his revenge.

  ***

  The encampment gradually came into view as the light of morning penetrated the misty skies of winter. Igraine had not slept all night, thinking of the path in life she had to take next. The servants made the necessary preparations for her departure. The candles that illuminated her tent had given all they had to give and now were getting ready to breathe the last measure of illumination in the lavender-scented tent.

  “We will travel light,” she told her chief valet. “There is no need to burden the beasts with heavy luggage. Those of you who are coming with me must pack light as well.”

  “Yes, my lady. My family and I would remain in your service and come with you,” Methula said, bowing to hide the tears caused by the new development.

  “How many will come with me?” Igraine asked.

  “Almost a hundred,” the servant answered.

  “Very well. We will leave when all is ready.”

  “Yes, my lady. It won’t be long now. Your horse is being saddled, and the caravan is assembling.”

  As Methula exited the tent with the last of Igraine’s belongings, Igraine looked at her tent one last time. It was never really her home for it to have any kind of sentimental value, but it represented the state of her current existence. Just as the tent symbolized nothing more than what could have been, her life with Uther was just that, a list of possibilities that could have been. But only one thing remained true, and that was the man her son had grown up to be. Her life was now in pursuance of what he would become. Igraine had full insight into the future that Merlin had alluded to. But just like Merlin, she could not make the choices that would get Arthur to that point. He had to make it them himself. And for that reason, she could not see his future at that very moment.

  As she looked around the tent, her gaze settled upon the pendant that Uther had given her during their unification ceremony. It was the last symbol of their relationship as husband and wife, and now it hung there alone. When Uther saw it, he would understand that it was now there to symbolize the end of their union. Igraine was no longer a Pendragon. She had been displaced by the knowledge of Uther’s love for Mehmet’s mother.

  ***

  In the darkness that hung outside the tent and within his heart, Uther sat silently. Not a single candle burned to illuminate the darkness. No fire in the hearth burned to warm the empty tent. Draped in the sacred cloth of the Pendragon clan, one he would have worn on the day he ascended the throne, Uther embraced the bewilderment of his current state. Anger washed over him in waves like the lava of Vesuvius. Pain filled his chest as the desperation of his predicament choked him. Regret for all that had fallen upon him, including his marriage to Igraine, filled him like the cheap wine-filled camel skins traders carried with them across the provinces.

  He needed to think, but he found that the emotions coursing his being blocked his ability to reason. In the fleeting moments of lucidity, he knew that the right thing to do was to uphold the Pendragon crest and elevate Arthur to rise. They were in a new land. It was clear to Uther that his time had set. His station in life was now to stand back and give Arthur his opportunity, but his ego would not allow him to.

  “Why would you give Arthur the opportunity when he spoke with contempt and questioned you?” Uther heard a voice ask. “You have done nothing but treat him well and elevate him his entire life. And for that he speaks ill toward you. That is not a son in the Roman tradition.”

  “I have given him all my time and the benefit of my heritage. It is true he owes all he is to me, yet he speaks harshly in the presence of company, and that will not do,” Uther whispered to himself. “He speaks to me in the same spirit of his grandfather, my father. I will not have it,” he continued, pounding the armrest.

  “Yes, that’s right. Your father treated you like a slave. ‘Do this. Don’t do that,’ he used to go on. Now Arthur assumes that you are his puppet to push around. ‘Why this? Why not that?’ he questions you. Are you going to accept that? Are you going to accept allow the son of Igraine to push you around while the true son of the love of your life anguishes in the pain you have caused him because of your father?” the voice asked.

  “No, I will not make the same mistake. I betrayed Mehmet and his mother because I was weak against my father. I will not be weak again. Instead, I will redeem myself and raise Mehmet. If Igraine or Arthur doesn’t like it, they can leave or spend the rest of their lives in a prison I shall build in their honor.” He scowled.

  “Yes. Yes. Throw them in prison and let them rot there for their insolence. Who do they think they are? You are heir to the Roman Empire. They are not. They are nothing without you,” the voice said.

  Uther thought for a while. “I cannot throw Arthur in prison yet. He controls the men and the army. Vipsanius is loyal to him, and the men under Vipsanius are loyal to him as well.” It suddenly occurred to Uther that he had no support of his own. Of all the men who survived, the men who had come from the legion that was most supportive of him had been massacred by the Huns. What remained were the men who wer
e under Vipsanius.

  “You may not be able to throw Arthur into prison, but you can arrest Igraine, and use her as leverage to control Arthur, and by extension, control the army.”

  “Yes. I will arrest that wretch. She and her sorcery. I should have arrested her a long time ago for her pagan worship. I will arrest her today, after the Caledonians have left. I do not want them to see the disarray within us. I am, after all, a Roman and heir to the throne, I have my honor to maintain.”

  “Indeed, sire,” the voice replied. “You are not just the heir to the throne, you are Rome itself.

  6

  Journey across the Highlands

  Vipsanius had prepared the men who would accompany Arthur. Two hundred, in all. In total, four hundred men accompanied Arthur and Olivie across the highlands of Britannia on a journey that would take them half a day. With no flares in the sky, the previous day, the ships that stood just off the inlet to Inver Ridge, prepared to set sail and return home.

  Two hundred Highlanders marched ahead while the Romans marched in the rear. Arthur rode between the two alongside Princess Olivie. As the view of the camp drew to its end over the horizon, Arthur grew impressed with the lands of the northerners. The tall mountains that scraped the deep blue sky and the rivers that formed between them took his breath away. The land was vastly different from the south, and even more different than the lands he was used to in Rome and its provinces.

  “What are your intentions, my lord?” Olivie asked, suddenly breaking the silence that enveloped the beauty of daybreak.

  Arthur was caught by surprise. Wanting to be clear about all things, he steadied himself and ventured an answer. “I intend to seek the king’s approval to court his daughter.”

  A moment of silence passed, as Olivie was not prepared to hear the answer he offered and sought to find the best way to turn it around without offending the man who rode beside her.