M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon by M. K. Hume Page A

uncombed hair on his head was rank, tangled and knotted into a bird’s nest, while his sunken lips spoke of broken teeth that were rotting in his gums. Mark was pathetic; the traitor already smelled of death.
    ‘This creature is the erstwhile King Mark, whom we accuse of treachery, albeit he is a distant kinsman to most of us. This man has conspired to revolt against the council of kings, and has now been brought before us for trial. Many among us have no doubt of his guilt, but to judge him and kill him out of hand would be an act comparable to those carried out by the Saxon barbarians who beset us. We are a civilised race, so we intend to try our brother in this place, where any man or woman may speak in defence or in accusation.’
    Bran’s words fell into the subdued silence like a stone flung into a very deep well. They had expected the Deceangli king to be dishevelled, dirty and cowed, but none of them had dreamed that Mark could be transformed into this subhuman bundle of stick-like bones.
    A long sigh rippled through the crowd, half in sympathy, half in shock, as the former king stirred on his hard stool as if the pressure of sitting hurt his skin.
    ‘Who will list the traitor’s crimes?’ Bran demanded. ‘Who speaks against Mark?’
    The room was silent, and Anna feared for a moment that the crowd’s sympathies had been touched by Mark’s physical decay. She looked across the room to the corner where the Deceangli contingent huddled behind their new king with their heads down in a wordless statement of collective guilt. Only one face was lifted and stared back at King Bran, with neither guilt nor anger imprinted on the bland young features.
    ‘Who is that young man?’ Anna asked her maid, the wife of one of Bran’s advisers. ‘The fair lad in the fourth row of the Deceangli attendants?’
    ‘I don’t know, madam, but I’ll ask.’ The woman rose and swept away in a swirl of heavy woollen skirts.
    Bedwyr of the Cornovii had risen to his feet and joined Bran beside the sprawled figure on the stool. The atmosphere in the hall had a distinct taste and texture that was thick, expectant and almost sexually charged, as if bloodletting were a kind of orgasm. Bedwyr wore a heavy cloak of winter pelts taken from wolves he had killed with his own hands. A massy gold pin held the cloak together, and on the simple hand-span of gold a dragon reared its scaly head, reminding everyone within this ruined space that Bedwyr would be Artor’s man until death, and beyond.
    ‘I speak for Artor, who trusted Mark’s word and handclasp when he said he would forgo the lure of gold and preferment in order to honour his oath of allegiance. Yet when Mark came to Cadbury, an attempt was made on Artor’s life during a hunt held to entertain the visitors. Although the attack was unsuccessful, Artor was convinced that Mark had arranged for the bowshot to be taken. This treasonous attempt on the High King’s life occurred before Mark had openly allied himself with Modred, demonstrating that perfidy and cowardice had been breeding in secret over a long period of time. Later, when Artor received his death blow during the Battle of the Ford, I saw Mark and his lords on Modred’s side of the river in company with the Matricide. Mark’s treason is beyond argument, so I demand his death.’
    With a straight back and a rigid face, Bedwyr turned and resumed his seat. Once again, heavy silence descended over the assembly.
    ‘Do the Deceangli lords deny the treason of their king and themselves? Do you have any justification for what you did?’ Bran demanded, his thin lips curled in contempt.
    The Deceangli king rose to his feet reluctantly. Of average height, weight and colouring, his gaze was direct and he stood with the confidence of a man who had no reason for fear or shame.
    ‘My name is Deinol ap Delwyn. I am a distant kinsman of King Mark’s father, but I have been living far from Canovium out of choice. I am not a warrior, and