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  The Pendragon Banner

  Sylvian Hamilton

  An Orion paperback

  First published in Great Britain in 2001 by Orion

  This paperback edition published in 2002 by Orion Books Ltd,

  Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin’s Lane,

  London WC2H 9EA

  Copyright © Sylvian Hamilton 2001

  * * *

  The right of Sylvian Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 075284 800 3

  * * *

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

  In memory of Michael. Shine on, Michael.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Prologue

  Mid-winter, and the wind still came scything from the east, its howl drowning the chanting of monks and nuns shivering in the church. Candle flames dipped and swayed, flaring in the draught and casting strange shadows. If only it would snow, said the farmers and thralls huddled round their fires — snow would dull the bitter edge; but although the clouds massed heavy and dirty yellow, the snow that should have fallen still held back, and nothing softened the stone-hard ground or the sharp vicious outlines of leafless trees.

  Mid-winter, and day by day for weeks the ice had spread and thickened until now the island of Avallon was an island no more; folk could walk dryshod instead of poling their flat boats to the convent’s jetty.

  Mid-winter, in the year of Our Lord five hundred and sixty-five, and in her stone cell on a narrow bed lay an old woman, dying hard. For thirty years she had lived within these walls and the world outside had forgotten all but her name, which men would remember for ever. Her confessor prayed, a tall dark rook of a man; and two nuns tended her, wiping the death sweat from her face and chafing her cold hands.

  She was not aware of them. Behind her flickering eyelids she was young again, bride of Arthur, the warlord who called himself king. He was in her dream, seated in his hall with his captains. There they were, Bedwyr, Cei, Drustan, Gawain; she could see them, she could even smell them — leather, iron, sweat, and blood.

  She woke, heart hammering, fearful eyes staring past pools of candlelight into the shifting shadows. Her fingers plucked at the coarse blanket and her cracked lips moved.

  "Who’s there?’

  "Dear Mother,’ said Sister Berenice tenderly. "Be at peace. We are here and God is here.’

  Of course He was. God was everywhere, even in Camlodd . . . Camlodd! Sinking back into the dream she rode again through muddy vennels between traders’ stalls, where litde brown pigs rootled, grunting around folks’ legs. She could smell the throat-catching reek of dung, tanning, brewing, rancid fat, sour milk and smoke, and heard again the sounds of batde, horses neighing, men shouting, women screaming and the shrill cries of children.

  But the stronghold of Camlodd was gone, laid waste long ago, destroyed so thoroughly that no one was even sure where it once stood, or could say, "Here was Arthur’s hall, here Guinevere’s bower.’ It had become legend: Camlodd, that had been no more than a squalid huddle of huts and stables around Arthur’s hall, with the heads of enemies stuck on the stockade posts, stinking and shrivelling until at last the skulls of kings and warriors fell to the ground to be kicked about by litde boys.

  Camlodd was gone, Arthur too, and his captains. Gone, Cei and Bedwyr, Gawain and Gwalchmai, and — so they said but Guinevere knew better — Medrawt. Sometimes, when her shields of prayer and penance were lowered in the unguarded moments when sleep took her, or as she woke, she heard his bodiless voice calling her name.

  For thirty years she had mortified the guilty flesh that had yearned for Medrawt, lacerating her skin with the lash, tormenting it with a hair shirt, ulcerating her knees to the bone on cold stones, praying for the souls of those who had died because of her lust; all but one. She did not pray for Medrawt.

  Something touched her face. Warm, wet. Tears. Sister Gruach was weeping. Guinevere touched the young nun’s hand. "My daughter . . .’

  These were her only children, no child had been born of her body. If she had given Arthur a son, would men still have turned from him to Medrawt? Thousands might have lived; Camlodd itself might still stand had she not been barren. But she was not to blame.

  Virgin she had gone as bride to Arthur’s bed, and ten years later, virgin to Medrawt.

  Medrawt.. .

  ‘Still here, old woman? Not dead yet? I am waiting for you?

  ‘Lord Jesus, protect me . . .’

  Father Magnus bent, his ear to her lips to catch the faint breath.

  ‘The Banner,’ she whispered. ‘Bring it to me.’

  He fetched it from the altar, Avallon’s treasure, in its precious case of garnet-crusted gold, the dragon-blazoned war banner of Arthur; and more precious still, stitched between its doubled layers of heavy silk, a relic beyond all price: a linen cloth stained with the blood of Christ.

  Reverently Magnus placed the reliquary in Guinevere’s hands. She fumbled with the clasp, and as he bent to help her the distant chanting stopped and the screaming began. There was a clash of weapons. Nuns and priest stared at one another in sudden terror. They knew what it was, they had all heard it at some time in their lives.

  ‘Raiders!’

  ‘God have mercy on us!’

  Berenice slammed the door and leaned against it — there was no bar. Magnus bent over the dying woman, touching her eyelids and lips with his crucifix and holy oil.

  There were shouts and rushing feet in the passage. An axe blade split the door which fell inward under blows that burst its hinges, crushing Berenice beneath. The raide
rs pushed into the room, a nightmare of helmets and grinning teeth, brandishing swords and axes oily with blood.

  ‘Don’t hurt her,’ Magnus cried, standing between death and the dying with arms outspread. ‘She is a most holy lady, and was a great queen!’

  But in seconds the cell was a shambles, the priest speared to the wall, the old nun’s worthless carcass hacked, kicked aside and trodden underfoot. Gruach flung herself across Guinevere’s body, but was seized and stripped, her value as slave or bedmate expertly, brutally assessed: young, fair, virgin — worth keeping.

  The chief of the raiders snatched the reliquary from the dying woman’s hands, laughing with pleasure at its weight and richness. The plain silver ring on her swollen finger was a paltry thing, but Borri let nothing pass, not even a trifle such as this. He cut off the finger.

  Guinevere died.

  Borri opened the reliquary, discovering the fabric rolled within. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘That’s a treasure of the Cross-God,’ said a thrall, one of the convent’s kitchen slaves and fellow-countryman of the raiders whom he had let in at the back door. ‘They keep it on the altar. A mighty talisman. Very magical.’

  ‘Magic?’ Borri shook out the heavy silk, and the scarlet embroidered dragon quivered as if it breathed. ‘What does it do?’

  The thrall questioned Gruach and turned triumphantly to Borri. ‘Long ago,’ he said, ‘their god was murdered. The night before he died he was in a garden. He was afraid, she says,’ he added disgustedly, ‘and the sweat of his terror turned to blood.’

  ‘Gods fear nothing,’ said Borri. ‘But I have heard this Cross-God is a womanish thing that fears blood and battle and the business of men.’

  The thrall nodded. ‘True, master. One of the god’s servants, Yosif by name, mopped up the blood with a linen clout. Christians value such stuff. That,’ pointing at the pennant, ‘has a bit of the cloth sewn inside it.’ He jabbered at the nun again, heard her reply and continued.

  Yosif came to this land, and that talisman brought him great wealth while he lived. That was long ago, but later Arthur Pendragon, the one called the Bear, had it sewn into this pennant to give him victory in batde.’

  Borri snorted. ‘He was defeated.’

  ‘That was because he lost the talisman and his luck with it. His sister’s son Medrawt stole it. There was a batde where each slew the other. After that the talisman was brought here. It has great powers, this woman says.’

  ‘I’ll keep it,’ said Borri after some thought. ‘Let it bring wealth to me, my kin and my friends.’

  Gruach snatched at his arm mouthing nonsense. He shook her off, looking at the slave for translation.

  ‘She wants someone to bury the old woman. She says she was once queen of this country.’

  ‘Torch the place.’ said Borri. We dig no holes for their carrion.’

  ‘She says the old one was Arthur’s queen.’

  At that there was an uneasy silence. Arthur had been dead for thirty years but his fame was very great.

  Borri frowned. ‘It would not be wise to offend such a ghost as his. We will bury his old woman.’

  They buried her in the leafless winter-bitten orchard and heaved the great altar slab off its base to lie over her grave. They fired the convent, took their captives and plunder and moved quickly onto the next settlement, the next rich church.

  A trail of bloody destruction led back to their ships in the river called Sabrina. Two nights ago they had landed there and marched inland to Avallon, leaving a smoking spoor of crows and corpses. They met no defence for in winter no one feared sea raiders; like everyone else, they stayed at home by their firesides. But a spae-wife had told Borri to fare forth over sea and win great fortune. She gave true rede. When at last they turned back, their plunder filled three long carts.

  Two ships foundered on the way back, but Borri’s, carrying the talisman, was spared. At home, he set it in the place of honour, but was careful to placate Odin with a blood offering.

  A man needed all the gods he could get on his side.

  Chapter One

  It began like any other Showing Day. Who could have foreseen it would end in the abbey’s ruin?

  Pilgrims had been turning up since dawn. Laughing, chattering, singing and cheering, some drunk, some weeping, some propping along others in worse case than themselves. By midday the queue had grown quite long, a hundred or so. Some brought food, others fasted. A few of them seemed whole, but mosdy they were a collection of the afflicted — harelipped, wry-necked, club-footed, goitrous, pocked, scrofulous, limbless, blind, deaf, mute, palsied, tubercular, deformed and insane. Some walked, some limped, some crutched and some crawled. Some were self-propelled on little trolleys, paddled along by the hands, or else levered themselves forward on hand-trestles. Others were led, pushed, dragged or carried; the hopeful, the hopeless, young and old, the living, the dying and occasionally — carried by friends or relatives — the already dead.

  The great doors of the church opened and the queue began to shuffle forward. They were let in a few at a time and looked over, shut up, exhorted, and suitably intimidated by the sacristan, Brother Harold, whose skull-faced severity put the fear of God into the most obstinately cheerful spirit. The senior brethren had seen the uninhibited goings-on at many another shrine and they weren’t having any of that here, thank you very much! Pilgrims the worse for drink were weeded out at the door, and any misbehaving once inside were collared and hauled away by burly Brother Simon.

  By the time the hopefuls had been inspected, sorted, preached at, rebuked, dusted and tweaked into tidier presentability, most of them were quite deflated. Then they were made to kneel and only managed a timid cheer when the relic, the hand of Saint Derfel, was held up to their eager eyes; creeping out afterwards like chastened children while the next bunch was admitted.

  The hand had a notable history of miracles in the past but in recent years its reputation had fallen off. Fashions come and go, in saints as in garments, and Derfel was no longer popular. Like many other shrines throughout the realm this one had lost out to Becket. Fifty years ago there would have been a thousand or more pilgrims here. The flood had become a trickle. Nevertheless, twice a year on the Showing Days some pilgrims still came, and from midday to dusk the relic lay in full view on the altar.

  It was not imposing. Its original reliquary, a jewelled silver gilt casket in the shape of a hand, had been sold, for with the decline of offerings the priory was feeling the pinch. Now, when not on show, the hand was kept in a plain wooden box. The priory had grown disenchanted with its relic; instead of locking it carefully away with the prescribed ritual and prayers at dusk the brethren more often scurried off to their suppers and left the hand lying on the altar, sometimes all through the night until Prime.

  There it lay, claw-like, mummified, brown. Most pilgrims were permitted merely to touch the faded purple silk bands tied round the stump of the wrist; these hung down over the edge of the altar for that purpose, their ends blackened and frayed from innumerable fingers, kisses and tears. The more pitiable, however, were privileged to be touched with it.

  Outside, a fashionably dressed man had been watching the queue. Fine clothes strained around his broad belly, and the brimmed and feathered cap pulled well down over his eyebrows and shadowing his fat face couldn’t hide the ugly red pits and furrows left by smallpox. Not until evening did he join the queue. By then the crowd was thinning and drifting away, locals heading for home and travellers for the Maison Dieu or more interesting places to spend the night. Small parties had set off already to reach other towns before nightfall.

  The dandy tipped a boy to hold his horse, and tacked on at the end.

  It was damp and perishing cold inside the church. The candles had burned low and the fiery sinking sun shone through small panes of precious coloured glass in the centre of the western window, splashing rainbows over the stone floor. As the pilgrims shuffled, some on their knees, towards the altar, their flesh and
garments were tinted violet and emerald, ruby and amber. A child crouched, patting the coloured flagstones, smiling at the play of colours over his small scabby hands. His mother yanked him to his feet, whispering loudly, ‘Don’t let them bloody monks see you muckin about!’ Harold scowled at her. The child’s upturned snotty face, lit red and green, was marred by a harelip.

  This was the last group and the guardian monks, chilled through, were stamping their cold feet, yawning, scratching and huffing warm breath on their fingers, their minds on supper. The pilgrims were relieved of their offerings, mere fourthings and halfpence for the most part, before they trooped out. The dandy came last.

  As he bent his knee at the altar he glanced back over his shoulder; the monks were already vanishing through the door into the slype, which led to cloister, wash house and refectory. The door squeaked shut behind them and the dandy heard the key turned in the outside lock.

  Now only one monk remained in the church to herd the pilgrims out, the dandy coming last with the gaunt figure of Brother Harold right behind him, ready to close and lock the great doors.

  The dandy unhooked a flask from his belt and handed it with a coin to the boy waiting with his horse. He made a shivering noise with his lips.

  ‘Brrr! Is cold, no? Get this filled. Wine, not ale, and urry!’

  A Frog, thought Brother Harold with instant Saxon dislike. The boy handed the Frog his reins and ran to the nearest pothouse. The Frog gave Harold, who was hoping for more, two pennies, then clapped a hand to his belt for his gloves and found them missing. He turned back to the doors which Harold, coming forward to take the pennies, had left ajar.

  ‘Sangdieu! Mes gants!

  I ave forget ze gloves. Old ze orse!’

  Before the monk could object the Frog had shoved the reins into his hands and darted back inside. The horse shifted its feet, stamped, sidled and snorted. Harold eyed it with irritation and clung on. After only a few moments the Frog emerged, pulling on one elaborately embroidered and tasselled glove and carrying the other.