Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (4 page)

A
while since, the shouting of the mob had grown louder, turned to a hideous
belling, a keening for the blood of death. It was becoming quite dark now.
Walking from lamp to lamp, Gwenhwyfar lit the wicks, lit too, the beeswax
candles. She
would have light in her room
for light chased away the
threatening
shadows of fear, and tonight was Samhain, the
night when the dead
returned. She had no reason to fear the dead, her brother, her father, they
would be welcome visitors, but if Arthur were indeed slain by Icel ... ! She
closed the woodworm-riddled shutters, hiding the night and muffling the noise
of the angry town. Her hand flew to her throat as beyond the door a man’s heavy
tread approached,
iron-trimmed boots
scraping on the flagstones, stopping out
side. It was not unexpected.
They had come for her. She took Gwydre up from his sleep, stood facing the
door, a hundred thoughts whirling. What of her sons? Would the hate and the
fear that Lindum showed for Arthur’s policy of
ceding territory
to the Saex spill
over to her sons? Would the resentment lead to
the killing of the
Pendragon’s children also? She held the boy over her shoulder, her free hand
drawing her dagger. Had they slaughtered Llacheu already? Mithras, knowing this
rising
mood, she ought to have had his
supper sent up here, not let
him go to the kitchens. She had not
thought! Had assumed the crowd would be contained beyond the palace walls,
assumed the Governor would not give in to their demands, that she was safe.. .

The
latch began to move upward. Gwenhwyfar took firmer hold of the dagger — kill
her they might, but not without their
own
shed blood! The door opened, creaking on its rusting
hinges. A man, stubble-bearded face smeared with
dust, clothes
grimed and muddied, entered the room, his sword coming
into his hand as he stepped across the threshold.

§ V

Her
head swam. Gwenhwyfar stumbled to her knees, catching her son tighter to her
shoulder, struggling for breath. Someone
took
the child, who wailed loud protest, then arms were around her, strong,
protective arms clad in what had once been a white
tunic, his red cloak
flung back.

‘Cymraes?’
Arthur stroked her hair with agitated concern, cradled his wife to him. ‘What is
wrong? Does the birthing come?’
Laughing,
crying, both at once, Gwenhwyfar shook her head
and clung to her
husband. She wiped aside scudding tears,
looked
up with a smile into his anxious dark eyes, laughed at her
own
foolishness. ‘I thought they had come to kill me!’
Arthur grinned astonished amusement. He brought
Gwenhwyfar to her feet, set her on the couch and
passed
Gwydre, wailing louder, back to her. ‘When you so often defy
me to go your own sweet way, then aye, I feel like
wringing your
pretty neck.’ His
fingers moved around her throat, lightly
touching the soft, unblemished skin. He bent to kiss the
throbbing
pulse. ‘But having ridden hard for several hours in a
bitter wind, absent all these weeks bringing Icel firm to the
leash,
then na, I can think of no reason to do away with you.’ He held her close a
long while, savouring her warmth and the
scent
of woman and baby, easing her violent trembling.
Unusual for Gwenhwyfar
to take such fright, but understandable, given her condition.

A discreet knocking at the door was followed by the
raucous bellow of an annoyed child. Llacheu burst in with Enid trotting
behind,
apologising profusely for the intrusion. The boy ran to
his father, arms outstretched. Releasing his wife, Arthur turned
to scoop his son into his arms, Llacheu instantly
hurling
questions like shot arrows. ‘Have you been in battle? Did you
kill many Saex? Tell me, Da!’
Arthur held
the lad high, at arm’s length. ‘Is this my son? Na,
this lad is too
tall!’

‘I
am, Da, I am!’

‘
Na. Llacheu was knee-high to a hound when I last
saw him.
You are almost a man grown!’
The
boy swelled with pride at his father’s attention and
teasing. ‘ham’s
teached me to sword fight!’ Bending over the cradle to resettle Gwydre,
Gwenhwyfar
corrected, ‘
"Teaching", lad. I have been teaching you to sword
fight.’ The
excited boy ignored her. ‘Shall I show you, Da?’ He
squirmed out of his arms and ran to fetch his little wooden
sword.

Laughing,
Arthur strolled across the room and retrieved his
own sword and scabbard that he had dropped in his haste to run to
Gwenhwyfar’s aid. He placed it on a table and seated himself
on the couch. Stretching his aching thighs and back
he
watched his son busy burrowing among the childhood clutter
sprawled over the floor. From beneath a bundle of wool,
Llacheu pulled out his toy, sending
his mother’s distaff
clattering across the floor.

‘Oh
Llacheu!’ she scolded. ‘Look what you have done!’ Gwydre was passed to Enid as Gwenhwyfar strode across the
room to retrieve
her spoilt wool, to pick with dismay at the
knots and tangles. ‘It took
me ages to work that!’ she wailed.

Arthur ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Were you aware that your
mam
is
more at ease sword fighting than spinning?’
With wide, innocent eyes the lad
answered, The Governor’s
wife said a lady need not know how to use a man’s sword. Mam
laughed
at her and said even a gutter whore knows how to use such a delight to her
advantage.’ As he innocently repeated the adult conversation, the boy gave a
few ineffectual swipes with
his toy. He
looked up at his grinning father, said seriously, ‘I am
not sure what Mam meant, but I liked it because
it annoyed the
horrid woman.’ Gwenhwyfar’s cheeks had reddened at her
son’s repetition of her play on words — lewd words which she had assumed he
would not overhear, let alone remember! Arthur roared his delight, briefly
hugging his son to him as he winked at her. ‘You’ll discover what your mam
meant when you are a man grown and in full use of your own weapon!’
Llacheu parried and thrust with the wooden toy. ‘Will
I have
a sword as wondrous as yours one day, Da?’ A
rthur laughed the louder; Gwenhwyfar, attempting
with
not much success to keep her
stern composure, stepped forward
and took the toy from her son,
chastising her husband with her
eyes to
remain quiet. ‘If you mean Caliburn,’ she said to
Llacheu, ‘I expect that particular sword will be
yours when your
da has no further
need of it.’ She caught Arthur’s eye, burst into
laughter herself.
Neither had need to make verbal reference to the other meaning, but the mutual
thought of pleasurable love-making after these months apart sped swift and
unspoken between husband and wife.

Gwydre, disturbed so roughly from his sleep, was still
sobbing.
Gwenhwyfar asked Enid to take him to his wet-nurse
for feeding, and then to see about Llacheu’s bed-time. With
their
going, the chamber fell into hushed quiet. Gwenhwyfar
began to tidy Llacheu’s scattered toys, a sewn ball, a carved
boat,
told as she worked of the unsettled alarm within the city.
‘How did you fare, riding in? The shouting seemed
most
hostile.’ A
rthur stood and
encircled her bulk with his arms, kissed her
with a passion that revealed how he had missed her. ‘Everything
is
settled,’ he said. ‘The Governor of Lindum is a prize ass. He could no more
stem malicious rumours than he could return Britain to Roman rule.’ He drew
away, eyed her bulge andpatted the swelling with pride, then seating himself,
began to tug off his left boot.

Gwenhwyfar
kicked a scatter of wooden building bricks
beneath
the couch, and as an afterthought kicked the spoilt
wool to join them.
She squatted, pulled at Arthur’s other boot. The resentment against you here
frightens me.’
Arthur scratched at the itch
of his beard. He needed to
shave. ‘Would
that statement have any connection with the
dagger that greeted my
return?’
She tried to make light of the
thing, waved her hands
casually and shrugged. Retrieving the boot Arthur
had tossed
aside, she stood it with its pair
to the side of the couch. ‘I finally
told
a few plain truths this afternoon, that is all. The
Governor’s wife did
not much like the hearing of them.’

‘For
that, you think murder at the opening of a door!’ Arthur
lay back, rested his hands behind his head and
closed his eyes. It
was good to be in the warm and dry. Good to feel a
couch
beneath your backside. He snorted at a
passing thought, why
did horsehair not feel as comfortable when it was
still on the horse? Gwenhwyfar had made no answer. He opened one eye and
saw her squatting still on the floor. He reached
a hand forward,
stroked the smoothness of her cheek.

‘
Has it been that bad for you here,
Cymraes?’
She
took his hand in her own, held it against her skin, her own
eyes closing
against threatening tears. It had been that bad.

‘Ah,
beloved.’ Arthur leant forward, placed a kiss on her forehead. ‘It took longer
than I thought, Icel is a strong and
determined
man.’ He again lay back. ‘It took a time to convince
him I am the
stronger, and more determined.’ Gwenhwyfar picked up her fallen distaff,
regarded the spoilt wool a moment before ripping it from the wooden haft. She
poked it with the rest beneath the couch, said, ‘You have ceded him territory.
As you did with Hengest?’

‘
Aye. And for the same valid reasons.’
She flared. ‘Valid
reasons? Valid reasons! You spend all these
months fighting Icel, losing
men, good men, to his spears, and
then
after gaining the victory you calmly give him the land he’s
been after!’
She was walking about the room, hands animated,
the distaff waving as she moved. ‘Valid reason or no, Arthur, it
makes no sense to me, nor,’ she pointed the distaff
in the
direction of the window, ‘nor to the people out there. They too
are frightened, and fear breeds anger.’ Arthur was watching her from where he
lay. How often had
he listened to the same
conversation? With Cei, with his
officers. Not half an hour past with
Lindum’s Governor.

‘I
give, Cymraes. There is a difference between giving to a man to rule over as
your subject, and him taking it by force to rule as his own lord. I give on my
terms. Not theirs. Mine.’

‘Huh.’

‘There’s
no "huh" about it.’ He swung his legs to the floor,
leant forward, one arm leaning across his thigh. ‘They
will
come anyway, the Saex. Far better
for the inevitable outcome
to be on my saying.’
For a moment she remained silent, letting the sudden eddy of
anger
flow from her. Calmer, for she knew him to be right, she said as he resettled
himself to lie back on the couch, ‘I think
there
are those in this town who plan to kill you. I thought they
were to make their start on the boys and myself.’
She wiped
aside an unexpected tear. ‘Foolish of me, but ...’ Arthur
tugged his fingers through the tangle of his collar-length dark-brown hair,
scratched at an itch to the nape of his neck. A haircut would not fall amiss. ‘Not
so foolish. Half the country have such plans to make an end of me.’

‘You
know?’ Eyes shut, ‘Of course I know.’ Gwenhwyfar still had the distaff in her
hand. She lunged at Arthur, thwacked his shoulder with it.

‘Ow!’
He opened his eyes, sat up. ‘What was that for!’

‘
For taking over-many risks with your life, my
life and the life
of our sons!’ She hit him again, harder. He laughed,
grabbed at her weapon and holding it tight, pulled her closer.

‘
You were safe enough.’ He gave a sudden tug at
the distaff,
toppling her off balance. ‘They have not yet plucked enough
courage to defy their King, or his wife.’ Gwenhwyfar fell across him, swiped
him with her hand.

‘
However,’ he glanced about the room, ‘I cannot say
the
same for myself, cannot guarantee your safety now.’ He kissed her,
his tongue probing her mouth, hands fumbling for the pins holding her shift.

Attempting to squirm from his embrace, Gwenhwyfar
brushed
her free hand over her huge figure. She wanted him so much, so very much, but
said, ‘We cannot, not with this babe.’ Diverting the subject she asked, ‘Have
you eaten? We dined some hours since but I suspect I can fetch something ...’
Keeping firm hold of her, Arthur pulled her closer
and
nibbled her earlobe. ‘Not for weeks.’
She smiled. ‘I meant food, you fool!
Have you eaten food?’
He narrowed his eyes,
an idiotic grin smirking his expression.
‘A banquet of flesh will
suffice.’
Ignoring
his expressive leer, Gwenhwyfar began to unfasten the
lacings of his riding gear, her nose wrinkling
with distaste at the
smell of stale
sweat. ‘You stink more of horse than the horse does!’