Leader of Battles 002: Artorius by David Pilling

Author:David Pilling [Pilling, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction, War & Military, Medieval Europe, Arthurian
Published: 2014-09-15T06:00:00+00:00

14.

Morgana moved across the land like a ghost, flitting to and fro, seeing much and forgetting nothing. She was feared by all she encountered, respected by most, hated and persecuted by a few.

At times she had to flee for her life, pursued by those who would put a witch to death. Bands of peasants, usually, incited to murder by their local priest. At these times Morgana would fade into the landscape, becoming as one with the woods and fields. The gods protected her and cast a veil over the eyes of her enemies.

This protection would only last, she knew, so long as she was useful. Compelled by the spirits of old, and her desire to see Artorius made High King, she made her way to Londinium and presented herself at the palace.

Constantine knew who she was, and had her ushered into his suite of private chambers. Morgana was escorted through the galleried corridors by a couple of trembling, white-faced guards. She could smell the fear rising off them. It gave her little joy to know how men feared her, the blind female seer, only child of Ambrosius Aurelianus, blessed as a child by the holy Saint Germanus.

It was only the saint’s blessing that stopped the black-robed priests, who infested the palace like flies, from laying violent hands on her. Morgana sensed their hatred and contempt as she strode past, her staff clicking on the flagstones. They hid down side-passages, hissing at her and making the sign of the cross.

Cowards, she thought, not one of them dares to confront me. How many of them truly believe in Christ, or chose to enter the church for the sake of an easier life?

The central chamber of Constantine’s suite was a large, vaulted hall. Morgana found the High King reclining at ease on a purple couch, surrounded by a twittering mob of lackeys and favourites.

They were in the latter stages of what appeared to be an orgy. Morgana wrinkled her nose. The stench of roasting meat and spices and stale wine filled the air, along with a hint of vomit. A number of bodies lay scattered about the tiled floor, sleeping off their excesses. The shutters on the high windows were locked, allowing not a hint of fresh air to penetrate the stuffy, cloying atmosphere. A rabble of drunken musicians sat in one corner, lute players and a harpist, murdering some tepid Greek melody.

“Noble lady,” mumbled Constantine, wiping wine spillage from his mouth and attempting to sit upright, “you are welcome at court.”

Constantine was a sight. His once-handsome features, now thickened with sloth and debauchery, were made hideous with rouge. The heat from the hypocaust had mixed with his own sweat, causing the cosmetics to run. Yellow and greenish paint trickled down his face, as though his flesh was melting.

She ran her gaze over his followers. Trash, most of them, prostitutes of both sexes sharing wine and their half-naked bodies with freemen and minor court functionaries. None of the Council of Britannia was present, save one.

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