Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (70 page)

Dawn. The stirring of a new day touched the
night sky behind the Tor, fingering spreading tendrils of delicate pink and
pale, creeping yellow. Arthur had taken Brigid’s body to the lake, pushing the
black-haired woman into the soft mud at the edge, weighting the carcass with
rocks. Then he had talked with Morgaine a while, conversation and idle chatter
to ease the
shaking reaction from her —
never easy the first time of killing. She had slept for the last few hours of
darkness, her body curled
against him, her head on his shoulder. Arthur
had sat, awake, the touch of his naked sword against his thigh, ready should
anyone else come. With the dawn, he had to go. He ought not to have lingered,
could not afford to stay longer. She stirred,
woke,
puff-eyed, blotchy-skinned, still frightened. Before
leaving he kissed her, as a friend would give a
parting kiss, and handed her a battered gold ring from his smallest finger. ‘It
was
given me by my father,’ he
explained. ‘It is most precious to
me.’
He paused, uncertain what more to say, whether indeed he
should say
more.

‘
If the
child lives, if it is a boy —’ he spoke hesitantly,
reluctant —’there may be a time when those who
need to know
will recognise that ring, and, through it, know him to be a
son
of mine.’ And he was gone, out into the
paling sky, through the
trees, up onto his horse and away at a canter.

Morgaine watched him go, her hand resting on the bulge that
was his child.
He had asked, as they had talked, if she knew who
had sired her.
When she answered that she did not know, he
had shrugged, said perhaps her mother had not known. But
Morgaine had shaken her head, told him, ‘She knew
him. When I
was a child, she would taunt me, tell me it was as
well he had not
known
of me.
I
grew to
know my father
would
be ashamed of me.’

‘
How old are
you,
Morgaine?’

‘
Five
and ten. My
birthing
day was
the day of the
Roman new year.’ He
had not spoken for a long while after that, and then she had slept, and dawn
had come, and here she was watching him ride away. The tears came to her eyes,
for she knew that he would not come back.

She stepped from the
hut and made her way along the hidden
paths
running across the lake and through the water-meadows.
The birds that had risen at Arthur’s going renewed the
protesting
at this second disturbance, but she ignored them,
walked purposefully with a sudden-come strength of courage to
the
muddied track that led from the pagan place of Yns Witrin
to the calm comfort of the Holy Sisters. She
would not birth her
child for the Goddess, for Morgause. This was Arthur’s
child, and he or she belonged in the new, Christian world. She took
nothing with her, not even a cloak, for she wanted
nothing
from her miserable,
despairing life. Arthur had given her a new
hope, a new way, and she had to seize this one chance of
following
it. For the sake of the child, she had to.

As Arthur rode home, following the threaded
ways of higher ground and the tracks through the marsh, he did not look back.
He would not go again to the Tor. It held for him nothing save the memory of a
misshapen child given back to from where it
came,
and a menacing, dark-tainted thought of a horror so great
that he had at first tried to push it aside and
bury it. But a
thought, once sown,
takes root; especially when such a thought
shouts the truth.

‘
Five
and ten,’ Morgaine had said.
Five and ten years past, Arthur had been a boy on the brink of manhood, a boy
who
thought himself to be a bastard, born
of a serving girl. Five and
ten years past, Uthr, the Pendragon had been
slain by the old King Vortigern and Arthur had been revealed not as a serving
girl’s brat, but as Uthr’s true and only son. Five and ten years
past, Morgause had still been mistress to the
great Uthr. She
had not known then
that he was Arthur’s father. But would
have
known it as she birthed a girl-child. Would have known it when she instructed
that girl-child to ensure she showed herself to the new Pendragon. Knowing that
once seen, the urge of lust
would, eventually, lead him to his own
half-sister’s bed.

March 466

§
XXIX

Gweir ducked quickly
through the door into his Lord’s
chamber. ‘My Lord,
there is a woman demanding to see you.’ Arthur did not answer, for he had his
eyes closed while
Gwenhwyfar, laughing,
poured a jug of hot water over his head.
He was taking a bath in the relative warmth of their own
chamber; it was not suitable to build a complex
bath-house here
at Caer Cadan, and the weather did not lend itself to
bathing naked in the winter-cold river. Most of the men went dirty, but for
themselves Gwenhwyfar insisted on regular bathing. She and Llacheu had taken
their turn in the round, wooden tub and now it was Arthur’s. He wiped at his
face with the linen towel
Gwenhwyfar passed
him. ‘Who? What woman?’ He stood,
water dripping from his wet-glistening
body. A dozen possibilities skittered through his mind –not one of them the
name Gweir announced as he flicked an embarrassed glance at his mistress.

‘She gives herself the title Lady Pendragon.’

‘
Love of
Mithras!’

‘What?’ Arthur and
Gwenhwyfar
exclaimed together,
she, wearing only a thin under-tunic, poised with a second towel, about to rub
dry her hair, he,
standing naked in the
tub of water.

The door banged open
letting in a stream of blasting cold wind
and rain and a woman swathed in a wolf-skin cloak,
dressed in the
black garb of a
Christian. ‘God’s death, you wretched, heathen boy! Dare you leave me standing
out in the rain ..." Winifred stopped, stood staring at the scene before
her.

The silence was embarrassingly long. Arthur
made the first move by draping the linen around himself and stepping from
the tub. ‘I normally receive guests in the public
surroundings of
my Hall, not unannounced in the privacy of my chamber.’
He
indicated a second door with his hand. ‘Happen
you would
grant me the courtesy of waiting for me there?’
Winifred recovered herself, the red flush to her
face
receding, but her heart was still
humping. It had been a long
time
since she had seen a man naked, a long time since she had
seen Arthur
so. His body, despite the harsh marking of scars, was as desirable as that
first time when she had slid quietly, uninvited and unexpected, into his bed.

She crossed herself against the sin of that
rush of erotic thoughts, stepped with dignity past Gwenhwyfar, whose lips were
pressed tight with anger, to the inner door that Gweir had
run to open. On the threshold she thought again,
turned back
to look at Arthur. ‘What
I have to say is most urgent, my Lord. I
have ridden personally to tell
you that I have received word of Hueil. He is on the move, marching south.’

‘
What?’
Arthur was across the room in three strides, the
cloth slipping forgotten from his body. ‘How do you know this?’

‘
We have heard nothing!’ Gwenhwyfar cast a worried glance
at her husband, who, slamming the door
closed, was urgently
drawing his first wife
back into the chamber. ‘Why have we not
heard?’
Arthur waved her to silence, seated Winifred on a stool,
began
searching for his clothes and dressing, modesty irrelevant. ‘Tell me, and tell
me quickly, woman,’ he snapped at
Winifred;
‘Fetch wine,’ to Gweir, and Gwenhwyfar, tossing her
a gown, ‘Get
dressed.’ Winifred, perversely refusing to hurry, unbuckled the fastening of
her heavy, wet cloak, handed it to the servant boy,
smoothed her gown, patted her hair straight. ‘I heard because
sail
with a good following wind travels faster than horse.’ She raised a chiding
finger at Arthur. ‘You ought to instruct your spies to use ships, my Lord, as I
do.’

‘Get on with it,’ Arthur snarled.

Unruffled, Winifred answered, ‘The Saxon,
Leofric, brought word to me. He had been,’ she paused, ‘trading, in the North.’
Pirating off the coast of Dalriada, but she
was not going to admit
that. ‘He saw the war-host leaving Alclud. Hueil
may be down as far as Caer Luel by now.’
Arthur
swore, began searching among a tangle of linen for his
sword and
scabbard. Gwenhwyfar, fastening one shoulder of
her gown, the brooch for the other between her teeth, grunted at
him,
nodded towards his riding cloak. ‘Under there,’ she said,
removing the brooch, pinning the second fastening.
Arthur
kicked the garment aside, buckled his sword about his waist.

What a flurry of
disorganisation – Winifred was enjoying
this! She had never in her life ridden so far or so
fast, thrashing her horse into a gallop for most of the way, determined to
reach
Arthur and alert him
personally. Why? She did not know.
Leofric had laughed at
her panic, saying Arthur would find out
for
himself soon enough; the officer of her bodyguard had
begged her to stay
in her steading, to send servants with the message instead, but no, she had
wanted to do this thing, take
the urgent
word to her Lord – because she had some vague hope
that the Pendragon would reward her? Grant her
what she
desired for her son?
Possibly, probably. She had not stopped to
think, had ordered horses saddled and ridden, now here she
was,
sitting in Arthur’s private chamber, and for once, happen the only time in her
life, he was treating her with respect.

He was at the outer door,
yelling for the officers of the
Artoriani to be
assembled immediately in the Hall. He swung
back
to lift his cloak from the floor, crossed to Gwenhwyfar and
kissed her
quickly on the cheek, saying, ‘At last, Cymraes, the waiting is over.’ He was
like a young boy, the excitement and
anticipation
bubbling from him like winter-melt from the
hillside. In his enthusiasm
he crossed to Winifred, took her shoulders in his hands and kissed her cheek
also, then he was heading for the inner door.

Glowing with self-pleasure, Winifred tipped
her head to one
side, asked, as he was
about to disappear into the Hall, ‘Have I,
then, done well, my Lord?’

‘Aye,’ Arthur grinned at her, ‘very well.’ He
was gone, his voice, shouting orders, ringing back through the closed door.

Winifred was left alone in the room with
Gwenhwyfar, the
first time they had met
for, oh, the gods knew how many years!
Gwenhwyfar was piling her hair
into some order, pinning it as
best she
could. She looked at the other woman, her eyes
narrow, suspecting. ‘Whatever
you have come for,’ she warned venomously, ‘you will not be getting it.’ Winifred
folded her hands into her lap, smiled in the sickly,
unpleasantly sweet way that Gwenhwyfar remembered so well,
and
said, ‘Do you not think so? I think I nearly have it!’

§ XXX

‘
I was at the holy house of
Yns Witrin three weeks past. I go there often to meet with the Sisters.’
Arthur continued with his writing, ignoring
Winifred who
sat, her feet stretched towards one of the braziers in his
private chamber, having taken the room over as her own for this one night that
she would be staying. Gwenhwyfar had moodily
gathered
a few personal belongings and huffed out into the
Hall, professing that
she would rather sleep among the hounds
than
with a sow. Even Arthur, who knew Winifred well,
marvelled at the level
of the woman’s audacity.

He was sitting at his
desk, hurriedly writing letters to be
taken
immediately by the messengers already saddling their
horses. It was the advantage of his Artoriani, no weeks or
months
to assemble a war-hosting, no time wasted preparing
war gear and supplies. They were ready, eager to march. Would
leave
at dawn for the North.