Shadow of the King (100 page)

from him, tapped the tip of her nose with one finger, limped to his feet, and

strolled towards Medraut, who was tentatively scrambling upright, ready to bolt

if need be.

“You boar’s whelp,” Arthur growled, “if you are damn well going to hit me,

you could at least try to remove the right bloody tooth!”

Standing with head bent, hands bunched and gripping his tunic, blood drib-

bling from nose to chin, dripping onto the toe of his boot, Medraut knew not

what to say or do. He had lurched from being the fool to a full-fledged imbecile.

His father ought take up that sword lying naked on the wind-quivering grass

and rip the blade through his throat. His death would be no loss to anyone. He

raised his head, his eyes, face, expression, sodden with grief. “I have been with

my half-brother,” he stated, his voice cracking, dry. “I went to him, deliberate.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 0 3

At first to hurt you, to make you realise I was someone to be valued, to make

you see you needed me. And then I realised you never would, because,”

he swallowed down the pain of truth, spread his hands, pleading, asking for

forgiveness. “Because you do not.”

White, puffed clouds had been straggling across the sky, shading the spring

colours of the Summer Land into muted greens and pale yellows. The lake, down

beneath the Tor, lay dark, brooding, in its overpowering shadow; the insistent

wind, up here on the height, petulant and chil . When the sun shuffled from

behind the covering, a glow, a warm, mother’s smile, embraced the world, the light

catching against the Stone, casting shadows among the swirled, carved patterns.

“How could you live with the shame of knowing I was born of your own

sister?” The cry came, anguished, from Medraut’s heart.

All his life Arthur had found the need to hide feelings behind a shielding

armour of pretence. Pretence that beatings and sneering words did not hurt,

pretence that he did not care if he were called bastard-born. Pretence that he

was in control, in command. How could he pretend to his own son? How

could he lie about Morgaine? He did not feel shame, because it did not matter

to him. Relationships were only wrong to those who believed in Christian

sin. Arthur was no Christian, but he could not, for all his lack of belief and

indifference, hurt Medraut any more than he already had.

“There are three methods of bringing discredit to a man, Medraut. One, by

accusing him of adultery, the second by calling him bastard-born. The third,

branding him as a coward. There have been plenty who have tossed the first

two at me, but they have failed to bring me down because I am not the third.

And then there is a fourth for those who follow the Christian way of thinking.

The accusation of illegitimate or incestuous birth. ’Tis only the priests of the

Christian God who seem afeared of either. Happen they are right to, happen

not.” Arthur drew breath. Gods, he had made a mess of both his living sons!

He ought never have allowed Winifred to keep Cerdic. Morgaine ought never

have birthed this one.

“On my life, and that of Gwenhwyfar’s, I swear to you, son, your mother

had no knowing of her father. She was born after Uthr’s death; those who say

we shared the same father have no proof of it, ’tis speculation—and stirring

of trouble. There is only one who could say for certain, your grandmother,

and she is long dead. And anyway, I would never believe a single word she

ever uttered.”

“Then,” Medraut answered hesitantly, “it may not be true?”

6 0 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Arthur shrugged. “That is for you to decide, what is truth, what are lies.

Who would have reason to tell the one, or the other.”

Medraut turned away, stood looking out over the expanse of the Summer

Land. Had he been so much of the fool all this while? There was much to think

on, much to decide and accept, much that he ought outface about himself. He

swung around, turned back to his father.

“I have decided to go north,” he announced. He had not, but it seemed a

reasonable enough thing to say. “I came to tell you Cerdic is to march with the

waning moon. He has many men. He intends to take Caer Morfa for his own.”

Arthur bent, took up Ider’s sword, held the blade before him, watching as

the ripple of the sun swarmed up and down its crafting. He tossed it, caught it

again by the hilt, handed it to its owner. Ider threaded it back into the protec-

tion of its sheepskin-lined scabbard.

What more could the Pendragon say? He had never meant to hurt the boy,

but Medraut had not been Llacheu, or Gwydre, or Amr. He was chance-born

to a woman who had beguiled a man. Just over there, in the hollow of the

Tor. With the Goddess sublimely watching and the Christian God frowning,

no doubt. Arthur had lain with Morgaine, believing the act was as a gift to the

Mother. Offer the beginning of one life to save another. How the gods must

laugh at the simplistic trust of mortal men!

He looked away, much as Medraut had, out over the Summer Land, his land,

to where the purple spread of hills hid the Caer that was his stronghold. It was

open up here, uncluttered, unconfined. No walls, no darkness.

“I would have my body brought here,” he said, unexpectedly, “to where my

spirit can watch over that which means so much to me.” He loved this land,

had fought so hard, so long, to make it good, to bring peace. Was all of it to be

destroyed by his own son Cerdic? Cerdic, turned sour through the jealousy and

ambition of his mother. Medraut, abandoned and ignored by the selfishness of

his. And Arthur, the father, had stood by and rammed it all home with the toe

of his boot. What more could he say to this one who stood empty and battered

before him?

“Lad, I cannot expect but to be what I am, who I am. No more can you, or

Cerdic, or anyone. Our fates are there before us, woven by the Three. All we

can hope is that we can cling somehow with our bruised and torn fingers to

the tangled threads of life. And make some good out of the torn remnant that

is left us.”

Lightly, Arthur placed his arm around Gwenhwyfar’s waist, led her down the

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 0 5

slope of the Tor, going the gentler way, following the path where Medraut had

brought her up. Ider, a snarl on his mouth at Medraut as he passed, followed.

To his mind, he would have cut the bastard’s throat and had done with it.

“Father!” Medraut ran a few paces after them, stopped as Arthur turned,

inquiring. “What of Cerdic!”

Was the death blow any the better for being sharp and swift, or lunged

from behind?

“Cerdic? I already know of Cerdic. The Artoriani will be ready to ride as soon

as I return to Caer Cadan.” He half-saluted his son, hurried Gwenhwyfar away.

Medraut stood, blank, alone with only the sound and tug of the wind. It was

for nothing then, all this. His father had already known and his stupidity had

added delay.

He would go north—why not? They must have fools in the north. One

more may not be overmuch noticed.

Fifty-Three

Arthur pushed Brenin into a hard canter—it would be no use

encouraging him faster. With eleven miles to cover and another ride

at the end of it, the horses would be finished before the Caer came in sight.

Especially while carrying extra weight.

Strange, after all these years with him, as friend, mistress, then wife,

Gwenhwyfar had never ridden double behind Arthur. It was not an unpleasant

experience. The only slight discomfort was the press of the saddle against her

groin, but to counter that Brenin had a smooth pace and a broad rump; she felt

secure with her arms around Arthur’s waist, wonderfully safe.

“You lied,” she said into his ear. “To Medraut.”

Guiding the horse past a few ruts Arthur made no immediate answer. Then,

“What did I say that was a lie? Morgaine was born after Uthr’s death. None of

us can be certain of her conceiving. There is a suspicion, that is all. I may not

have told Medraut all the truth but I did not, for once in my life, lie.” They

cantered on another mile, then he asked. “Would you have minded if I had?”

Gwenhwyfar said nothing. Did she mind about Morgaine, about Medraut?

Would it be the truth to say she did not?

“Are you well?” he called when she made no reply, his voice floating past

her ear, carried by the wind.

Briefly she tightened her grip, smiled as his hand reassuringly touched hers.

Aye, she was well, now.

“I have acquired yet another lump on my head,” she said, then laughed. “I

ought wear a war cap more often!”

“You ought take a guard with you!” Arthur growled back. Ahead, a bridge

spanning a narrow, meandering river and an ox-cart laden with timber blocking

it, one wheel shattered and buckled. Arthur drew Brenin to a jog-trot, assessing

the situation as he approached. It would be cleared; ten, mayhap fifteen minutes.

Too long. He heeled the horse from the road, across the parallel drainage ditch

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 0 7

and pushing him into canter, set him to jump the river. Deeper than it was

wide, a spread of only a few feet; it was an easy leap, for Brenin had the agility

of a cat. Gwenhwyfar squealed as they landed on the far side, her balance

toppling. Arthur put his arm behind to steady her, but she had already adjusted

herself. She glanced behind, saw Ider’s horse clear the ditch; behind him, the

two Artoriani.

Medraut had declined to ride with them, opting instead to bring the mule.

“You need your men,” he had explained to Arthur, “more than you do me.”

To that, Arthur had no disagreement. To need his men more than his son?

How deep could the truth hurt?

“Forgive me!” Medraut had called as he stood by the Stone at the height of

the Tor, watching them ride away, small figures against a wide land. He would

send payment as soon as he could for the mule and cart, but he would never go

back. Not to Caer Cadan, not to his father. There was nothing to go back to,

nothing to go back for.

Arthur had known it, had seen it there in his son’s eyes—had known it before

Medraut had realised it for himself. Would they meet again in this world? He

ought have said something, embraced his son, given him blessing to travel safe

along the road ahead, but he had remained silent, just walked away, down the

path from the Tor, back to the horses. He had left the ring, though, the battered

gold ring with Gwenhwyfar’s hair still threaded through it, had fastened it to the

mule cart. With it, a dagger, one Arthur had carried for many years. Medraut

would remember it from those days in Gaul. As a child he had often asked to

see it, touch it, the brightness of its deadly blade, its jewelled hilt.

“
Will I have a dagger like it one day?
”
Oh, Arthur remembered him asking!

“
Aye, lad,
”
he had answered,
“
when you swear oath of homage, your chosen lord will

give you such a weapon as your own. But if you do not remain loyal to him, you must

either use it on yourself or use it against the man you called Lord.
”

Fifty-Four

The sweep of the rain-grey marsh and the permeating tang from the

estuary were the Artoriani’s companions. Caer Morfa and the inland

run of the sea lay less than three miles to their left, with the Terste River

and its tributary sisters behind. They had distinctly little room to manoeuvre

here—Cerdic’s intention by choosing this ground so close to the rise of the

Great Wood.

Arthur could have waited, forced him to move, but this suited well. It could

have been a better place for a battle, but he had fought in worse and those

tight-packed oaks and regal beeches would be of hindrance to both sides.

The woods had seemed so content at sunrise. The scent of leaf mould,

dew-wet grass, and wind-teased leaves; the gentle swirl of a light morning

mist evaporating beneath the warming embrace of the sun. While they waited

to move forward, Arthur had watched a tree-creeper jerking up a trunk, busy

jabbing for spiders among the minute cracks of the bark. And then Cerdic’s

army had stepped forward from between the sentinel trees, locked their shields

into the formation of the shield-wall, and cast their first introductory foray

of arrows and spears. The nesting birds had flown, abandoning their young

families, the tree-creeper had been brushed from her breakfast-hunting by the

flank of a horse passing too close to the trunk. Her wing damaged, she had

fluttered helpless beneath the surge of hooves. The first death.

Cerdic had chosen his ground well, Arthur had to acknowledge him that.

The Saex fought on foot, men standing firm behind their shield-wall, the front

rank the better armed, shield overlocking shield, spears ready for the horses,

bowmen to left and right. He had the advantage of the high ground, with dense

woodland behind.

Three hours after the first tentative steps into battle. The Pendragon would