Warrior of the West Read Online Free PDF Page A

drawstring and kissed the purpled lips that were still curved in the rictus of death. A trick of the late afternoon sunlight played about Gaheris’s dead features and captured a trace of Artor’s daughter, Licia, in them. Artor shuddered that Licia could die so easily, just like her cousin whose head spoke so eloquently of the family ties between them.
    ‘Mine is the blood guilt, Gaheris,’ the High King murmured. ‘And it shall be paid in full.’
    The cold part in Artor’s brain whispered that the Saxons had gone too far this time, for even Lot and Morgause could not ignore the murder of their unarmed child, regardless of his allegiances. He turned to his sword bearer. ‘Find a box of aromatic wood, Gruffydd, the finest that can be purchased. Wash and wrap the head of my nephew in fine, perfumed linen, and then send it to King Lot and Queen Morgause. They, too, should have an opportunity to mourn what is left of their child.’
    Gruffydd came forward. He had aged in the past twelve years and grey sprinkled his hair and his close-cropped beard, but his eyes were still as warm and as sharp as they had ever been. Now they rested on his king with open concern.
    ‘If you approve, my lord, I’ll carry the head of Gaheris to King Lot in person,’ he volunteered. ‘Should I bear a message of sympathy from you to the boy’s father?’
    ‘We wait upon the message from Glamdring Ironfist, but you can recount Ulf ’s description of the death of their son,’ Artor ordered. ‘They are entitled to know that he could have lived if he had been prepared to break his oath.’
    Gruffydd nodded. Privately, the sword bearer thought that Artor should use the slaughter of Gaheris to advantage himself over King Lot, but the High King was a man to love because he scorned to cheat or lie.
    Gruffydd bowed low, although his back twinged with the bone ache that attacked his joints and made long journeys so painful. Yet, out of love for his king, he would brave the journey and the rage of the grieving parents. Artor had raised his status in the world, and Gruffydd always paid his dues.
    When Gruffydd heaved the leather bag and its grisly contents over his shoulder and turned to leave, the High King called Ulf to his side.
    ‘Wait a moment, Gruffydd,’ Artor instructed. He turned to face Ulf. ‘You may now tell me the exact message sent by the Saxon barbarian.’
    Ulf gulped in near panic. ‘Please don’t judge me by the words I bear, my king. We wouldn’t have survived if we hadn’t been needed to return to your fortress with the remains of your emissaries.’
    Artor stifled his impatience. He was fully aware that couriers were often executed when their masters were angered by the content of a message.
    ‘You will be safe, Ulf, regardless of what the Saxons have instructed you to say to me. The words come from Glamdring, not from you.’
    Ulf heaved a deep sigh, looked skyward as a memory aid, and began to recite his message in a stilted voice.
    ‘To Artor, who is an impostor and a dog. In the name of the dead Vortigern, Vortimer and Hengist, I, Glamdring Ironfist, demand that you cease all hostilities against the holdings of the dead king, Katigern Oakheart. I command you to relinquish your crown to King Lot, who is the rightful heir of Uther Pendragon. If you comply, you will be permitted to live. If you meet us in battle, you will surely die.’
    Ulf stepped back quickly, well out of reach of Artor’s sword blade, but his caution was unnecessary. The High King’s eyes glinted with what looked almost like amusement.
    ‘Gruffydd, you may give King Lot my condolences and inform him of the substance of Glamdring Ironfist’s message, that his son was murdered so that the father could take my place. You will also remind the king that those who trust to the honour of the Saxons are fools. And they are worse than fools, for they are traitors to the Celtic cause. You will say to King Lot that, if he should give aid or comfort to any