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Unaware of his King’s surging anguish, Hueil
made another
step forward. ‘I regret this
must come into the open, but the
truth ought not be hidden behind
shadows. As one of your
friends,’ he
flicked his eyes around the assembly, ‘I am relieved
that I found the
courage to inform you of this treachery.’ Bedwyr crossed the distance between
himself and Hueil in
three long strides,
swung him angrily around. ‘Friend? Courage?
Aye, it takes courage to
repeat such filth!’
Hesitant at first,
Gwenhwyfar reached out and rested her
hand lightly on Arthur’s hand, a
cold hand that was clasped so
tight around
his sword. When he did not flinch from her touch,
she said, ‘It is not I
who lie, my Lord. Not I who deceive you.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘On the life of
our two sons, Arthur, I do not lie.’ Hueil laughed. With his fists bunched at
his lips, head back, chest thrusting out, he bellowed laughter. ‘What!’ he
guffawed,
‘Arthur’s sons? It is in my mind
that the King let the one drown
because he suspected it was not his to
call son!’ A dreadful silence slammed across the room.

For Arthur, it was as
though an enchantment had been
broken. He spun Hued
around with his right hand, his left fist
coming
back and forward in a movement so fast that few saw it.
Hueil staggered,
fell, fresh blood streaming from his nose. He was a fighting man, a
tribes-warrior and the eldest son of a
chieftain.
No man treated him so. Not even a king. Enraged, he
was instantly on his
feet. Heedless of the blood spurting down
his
chin and tunic, he lowered his head and butted Arthur full
in the
stomach, the force sending them both reeling, crashing into the table behind, where
Morgause sat. She moved, calmly
but quickly,
left the Hall, returned to her chamber with a slight,
triumphant smile. Arthur was fighting, and doubt
had been
sown on Gwenhwyfar’s fidelity. Hued? Arthur could not have him
killed, for he was an honoured chieftain’s son and the repercussions would be
immense were the Pendragon to act so foolishly. But Hueil would be forced to
leave Arthur’s service,
would become his
enemy, and where would he go, save back to
his father’s lands? And once there, it would take small
contrivance
to help him take a kingship – and set her free.

Morgause inclined her head to the two guards
outside her door and entered her chamber. For all her annoyance at being kept
here against her will at Caer Luel, it had been a most interesting evening.

§ LVIII

No one had noticed Morgause leave. Gwenhwyfar
was swept aside, almost forgotten, as the crowd formed a hurried, eager
circle around the two men. There was nothing people
liked
better than to watch a fight. Arthur was stripping his leather
jerkin, his sword belt, Bedwyr taking them from him, saying
with fervour, ‘Leave some of him for me to finish!’
Gwenhwyfar
stuffed her fingers in her mouth to stop the scream escaping.

The two men circled,
eye fixed to eye, watching for that first
important
move, fists clenched, muscles taut. Hueil kicked, his boot missing Arthur’s
thigh as Arthur stepped aside, his foot in turn missing Hueil’s outstretched
leg by the breadth of a hair. Again they circled, sprang, hands gripping on
tunic-clad arms,
their wrestling evenly
matched for strength, though Arthur was
the taller. He brought his
opponent down, both men collapsing
to the
floor, where they rolled several times, neither able to
gain the
advantage.

Arthur was on top,
shifted his weight and Hueil thrust up
with his knee, sending the Pendragon careering backwards
into
the circle of cheering onlookers. Hueil was
up. Roaring he smashed his fist into Arthur’s stomach; he doubled, but as he straightened,
sent his own fist upwards into Hueil’s chin. They traded blows, each punch
finding a mark. Both were bloodied, Hueil from his still streaming nose, Arthur
from a jagged gash raking from temple to eyebrow.

Suddenly they were down
once more, Arthur on top with his
hands gripping Hueil’s
hair, lifting his head, banging it again and again to the floor.

Gwenhwyfar clawed her way
through the crowd who
cheered,
calling advice, whistling encouragement. ‘Stop it!’ she
screamed,
‘stop them!’ She tugged at one man’s tunic, tried
another, an officer this time who, in the heat of excitement
thrust
her aside. Desperate, she ran to Arthur, pulling at him, pleading. He took no
notice, continued pounding Hueil’s head.

That grip on his arm, the slight distraction,
was enough for Hueil to gather his senses and effort of strength. He shoved
Arthur from him, sending him and Gwenhwyfar sprawling to
the floor. Bedwyr dragged Gwenhwyfar away, holding
her tight
to him, cried, ‘Leave them, Gwen, it is for Arthur to finish,
Arthur alone and in his own way.’
She
struggled. ‘Kick the bastard, Arthur!’ Bedwyr was
shouting. ‘Use your
feet, man!’
Twisting free of Bedwyr’s hold
– he barely heeded her going
–Gwenhwyfar thrust her way out through the
press of rowdy
spectators, one man only
murmuring a brief apology on
realising
who she was. Women stood shoulder to shoulder with
their menfolk; some
shouting louder, even coarser than their husbands. They were like animals; a
wolf-pack, baying for the kill at the scent of blood. Then a low moan swept
around the
circle as Arthur took a sharp
blow, staggered and lost his
balance. Hueil, grinning, took advantage,
jumped, pinned his opponent down.

Gwenhwyfar did not look back. She heard the
howl rising
from thirsting lips, encouraging
the savagery of one victim
pitted against another. A bestial lust that
Rome in her day had exploited with the staged deaths of the arena. Cock, bull,
bear. Men, women and children. Covering her ears with her hands, she fled, ran
to where there would be no people, to where she could hide, curl into a foetal
ball and submit to the misery. Shewent to where she had always gone when
seeking solitude in this place brim-full of wearisome people; to the garden.

There was no moon this night; the few lights
that did emit from small windows and open colonnades casting only a dim glow. The
overgrowth of winter-dead shrubs and plants, the neglected trees, cast weird
and wonderful shadows against the
darkness.
Gwenhwyfar slumped against the wall of the fish
pool, which held only
weeds, no fish. She was sobbing, long
shuddering
breaths catching harsh in her aching chest.
Nothing made sense, nothing
seemed real, solid. She huddled, blind to sound, touch and feel, spiralling
down into a pit of
reaching, grappling
hands. Vaguely aware of numbing cold and
throbbing pain, she slithered
to the hard frost-gripped ground. None of it mattered. None of it, for she
thought, wrongly, that
Arthur had listened
to them. Listened to their lies; believed
them. Worry, hate, jealousy,
subdued emotions and feelings
which by
accustomed habit she usually thrust aside, rose
unbidden to the surface.
Why had he believed them? And now Arthur was fighting. For her? No, not for
her, for his own hurt pride. The confused emotions swirled through hurt and
back to fear; fear for Arthur. Fighting, He delighted in battle, but was not so
good when it came to wrestling. He relied on weapons, his skill with sword and
shield unequalled. He could fight well enough to hold his own if evenly
matched, but Hueil was accomplished with his fists.

A
rthur was breathing hard, sweat trickling into his
eyes,
soaking into the linen of his shirt. He crouched, again circling,
balancing lightly on the balls of his feet,
waiting for the chance
to spring and gain a firm hold. His one
satisfaction Hueil was
breathing as hard,
the sweat standing as proud on his forehead.
The intensity of anger had
given way to something deeper in
Arthur.
This was something more between them now, more
than proving a point.

Some watching, Bedwyr, Geraint and Meriaun,
men who knew Arthur well, realised the mutation to this darker side. Morgause,
with her eye for seizing power, would have recognised it instantly, were she
there. Gwenhwyfar certainly did,
which is why she had fled. This was the young stallion
challenging the old. Only one could
lead. Only one could win, and live. There was nothing visibly to show how the
thing had shifted, how the shadow blended from a heated quarrel to the death
fight; from the settling of angry words to the taking of leadership. However it
happened, the watchers’ intoxication
subtly
altered, their excited shouts beginning to fade. This
thing had become
serious.

Hueil, from where many
would later wonder, suddenly had a dagger in his hand. Some said he had been
passed it, others that
he
had it hidden in his boot; no matter, it was in his hand,
slicing at Arthur’s belly. Astonished, Arthur leapt back
as he
saw the blade flash, but not fast enough. It
carved a streak of blood and he blocked a second slash with his arm, using it
as a shield. He tried ramming his elbow hard against Hueil’s chest but his foot
slipped, forcing him to spring apart, eyes, ears,
senses, oblivious of everything save this man trying to kill him.
Someone
was quick-witted enough to toss a dagger to Arthur, but he missed the catch, it
fell at his feet. Hueil tried to kick it aside but Arthur was quicker. He
sprang, rolled, was up, the dagger in his hand in one fluid movement.

Someone said, ‘Should this not be stopped?’
Several agreed. None made any movement.

Llacheu sat crouched in the shadow of the
wall, Gwydre’s
head burrowed into his tunic,
the younger boy shaking with
fear.
Both had witnessed their mother, blinded by fear and tears, leave. Both, though
not understanding the shouting,
realised
enough to know that something awful was passing this
night. Their mam was upset. Da was fighting. No
ordinary fight
as the men often displayed on the training ground. No
friendly
wrestle to keep muscles and wits
sharp. This was the real, deadly
thing.
He was an intelligent boy, Llacheu. He listened,
watched, gained much
from his observance of father and men. Saw too the women’s side, the love and
hurt Gwenhwyfar had for Arthur. Understood it, for as a child he loved his
father beyond question but was often confused by his acid temper. Knew also
that his da loved his mam. Why did they quarrel? And why had his father not
ordered Hueil instantly arrestedwhen he had spoken those terrible accusations?
Llacheu
recognised malicious lies when he
heard them, did not his
father? He had to see for himself, had to watch!
The shouting, the cheering, he had tolerated, for such noise was always at the
training ground: men’s good-natured jeering at a companion’s ill-timed stroke
of the sword or bad javelin throw; bursting
laughter
when someone was unhorsed; cheers, respectful praise
for quick thinking.
This unnerving semi-silence was altogether different. No words, only the
occasional sharp ,breath or exclamation. What was happening? He stood, settled
his brother safe in the corner. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered. Gwydre, his lip
caught between chattering teeth, nodded.

It was easy for Llacheu
to push his way through. No one paid
him heed, assumed he
was some impertinent servant boy. He
squirmed
to the front just as Hueil first produced the dagger, bit back a startled cry
as he saw his father’s shirt tear and soak with
blood. He watched in
fascinated horror, everything seemingly
slowed,
drained. Sound, action. Hate and blood rising in a slow
stench of
time-captured movement.

His father parried a blow, thrust with his
own dagger. Hueil
feinted to the left. Arthur
as he caught the ruse, countered,
slipped again on the blood-stained
floor, went down. Fell, his face pale, staring gape-mouthed as Hueil seized his
chance and with dagger raised, came to make Arthur’s end.

Llacheu screamed. His body moved; it seemed
as if he were
running through thigh-deep mud,
he couldn’t get there;
couldn’t get to his da! Bedwyr too was pounding
forward as
Llacheu ran. The boy was there
first, leaping at Hueil, his hands
thrusting the weapon aside,
deflecting the blade to rip through his own tunic. Hueil staggered under the
unexpected weight of fury. He cried out, dropped his weapon. Llacheu fell,
tears of rage and pain mingling with the soaking blood.

All life in that room paused, became
petrified for two, three heartbeats. Bedwyr stilled in mid-run; men’s mouths
fell open
in half-shout; women, hands
clamped to lips, chalk-white
faces. Stilled, as if a spell had cast over
them all.