Shadow of the King (102 page)

the fight those few miles inland.

“No good-byes,” Natanlius said to Archfedd. He reached up, ruffled his

second son’s hair. The lad sat before his mother, eyes wide and frightened, his

arms tight around her waist, ropes securing him to her as added precaution.

They would be riding fast when those gates opened; they could not guide

horses or fight their way out and also hold onto the boys. Gwenhwyfar had the

eldest, Constantine. A Decurion sheltered the baby.

The roar beyond the closed gates was increasing, the flames licking at the resistance

of the oak timbers, bil owing acrid smoke, spreading through the piles of brush and

carcasses, both animal and man; the stink of burning covered everything.

“No good-byes,” Natanlius said again with a loving smile. He squeezed

Archfedd’s knee, took a last look at her. They called her the Lioness, many of

his people of Caer Morfa, as a term of respect. There were a few from further

away who thought her too headstrong, too determined to stand firm for the

things her father advocated; mostly, those of the Church. Those few used the

title as a curse, but she did not object. It added to the remembering that she was

daughter to the Pendragon.

“No good-byes,” she repeated back. She tried to smile but the tears would

not stop coming. They had been so happy together, this short while.

Natanlius would have swept her off that horse, called a halt to this whole,

foolish idea. He turned, and went quickly to the head of the phalanx of men

waiting this side of the gate with swords drawn, spears ready. This way, she had

a chance. The other, for her and his sons there would be nothing except slavery

or a cruel death.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 1 5

Ider took his place beside him. There would be fierce fighting when those

gates opened; they would need the best men. He glanced around, only the

once, at Gwenhwyfar. She had hurriedly dressed herself as they would expect

a warrior queen to be. Her red cloak, white padded under tunic, with the

thicker, protective leather and bronze studded tunic above. Leather doe-hide

bracae. Boots. She had her sword out, a dagger ready in her belt, a shield. Her

hair she wore tied at her neck, a thick single plait of grey-streaked copper.

Around her neck, the royal torque. She caught Ider’s glance, raised her sword,

with the blade touched her forehead in salute.

And the gates were open, fast, hurling inward, the men leaping forward,

screaming, yelling, to meet the Saxons who rocked backwards at the unex-

pected manoeuvre. They cut a swathe through, those brave British, scything a

path through the formidable press of the Saex.

Virtually every man from inside the stronghold formed a protective barrier,

and, not understanding what was happening, the Saex reacted too late. The

burst of horses thundered through and away. The Saex slammed their spears

at them, tried to rush forward, cut them off; a few arrows were loosened. One

or two horses were hit, brought down, their riders hacked, unmercifully, the

horses butchered. But they got away, Gwenhwyfar and Archfedd. And two of

Arthur’s grandsons.

Fifty-Seven

What did he do? Damn it, what could he do! The Artoriani had

broken through the shield-wall. One more heavy thrust and they

would have them all running, or dying. But he could not let Caer Morfa

fall, not while…Arthur thrust the protest from his mind. He was a soldier,

a battle-hardened warlord, could not let personal love come into this thing.

Gwenhwyfar and Archfedd had insisted on staying. They knew the risk they

took, knew what could sit before them. All the same…

He had the reserves and two turmae to send in up the hill. Yellow Turma

and his own King’s Troop. A good leader needed the ability to think quickly, to

change plan, alter direction with fast-made decisions for the sway of battle could

alter as swiftly as a peregrine’s dive. He yelled for Yellow Turma’s Decurion to

come forward, told him briefly, concisely he was to ride to the stronghold, see

what help he could reasonably give.

“Reasonably,” Arthur repeated, ensuring his trusted officer under stood. The

Decurion nodded. If his small force would make no difference, if the stronghold

had already fallen, the men were needed here, for it was Cerdic they must put

an end to.

Through the day Arthur had been cursing that Bedwyr was not here with

him. Bedwyr as second-in-command had been needed, but was it not ironic

that even if he were here, he could not have sent him to the Caer?

Arthur raised his arm, gave the command his men were waiting for. To

charge the remaining solidity of the shield-wall, finish it.

Bedwyr would have led his men into certain death for Gwenhwyfar.

“
Whatever happens
,” she had said to Arthur as they lay together last night—

Mithras! Was it only last night? “
Whatever happens, you must close your eyes and

ears to what is around you, fight Cerdic, and only Cerdic. For until he is finished, this

thing will not be ended.”

“
There is the boy Cynric
,” he had pointed out.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 1 7

“
Cynric
,” she had answered obligingly, “
is Mathild’s son. Not Cerdic’s.
”

Twenty yards from the shield-wall Arthur released the tight hold on the

reins, shifted his grip to his sword, used his heels on Brenin’s flank, and let the

stallion plunge forward into a gallop.

He only hoped Gwenhwyfar was right, for it was Cynric who led the

command down at the inland sea. Cynric who was besieging Caer Morfa.

Fifty-Eight

He stood before his father, enraged, his fists clenched, nostrils

flared, jaw clamped. The passion of anger so overwhelming in Cynric

that he could feel the desire rising up in him to take an axe and plunge it into

his father’s brain. The blood of war was still spattered on his clothing and skin,

even his sword had not yet been cleaned.

“They were good men,” he stated through clenched teeth. “And there was

no need for the slaughter of women and children.”

“Are you, then,” Cerdic spoke through one side of his mouth, the other

being puffed and swollen, the eye black and disfigured, “disagreeing with the

action taken by two of my most supportive allies?”

For a wound, a blow to the face by a club was nothing glamorous, but for

Cerdic the pain went deeper than anything marked on the surface. The broken

bone of his nose would be permanently disfigured, and the blood that had

gushed from him surely almost led to him bleeding to death. They had assured

him it was all superficial, but what did these medical people, those imbeciles,

know of the needs of a man who had Woden for ancestor? A known fact that

kings had greater feeling than peasant folk.

“I was in command!” Cynric hurled back at him. “Not your friends, Stuf

and Wihtgar. I ordered the British men to be taken prisoner, the innocents to

be treated with respect. Orders ignored by their men.”

“Innocents? Fah! They were poxed British. At least they met death swiftly. I

would have let the men use the women and girls, first.”

“
Ja
, you would have done.” Cynric began to turn away from his father, the

disgust blatant on his face. “But then, you too are a bastard whore-son.”

Cerdic leapt to his feet, overturning the chair, knocking aside the table that

had been placed at his right hand, scattering the bowl of fruit, the wine. He ran

the few paces separating them, caught hold Cynric’s arm as he stepped away.

“How dare you, boy?” Cerdic roughly swung him around, took a hurried

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 1 9

backward pace, let go his spiteful grasp as he met with an expression that

shouted contempt and hatred.

“How dare I, Father? How dare I?” Cynric jabbed his father in the chest

with his finger, pushing him back another pace, and another.

“I dare because I know I will become king of the West Saxons when you

are gone.” He jabbed again. Cerdic came up against his chair, tripped, sat down

heavily, his son leaning over him, breath spewing the fury on his face. “I dare,

because it would not take much for me to decide to take my kingdom for

myself now. This day, this moment.”

Cerdic was quivering, struggling to contain his bladder. He never had much

bravery, had not inherited his mother’s quick thinking, nor her ability to

disguise thought or fear. He could lie, but his untruths were plain seen.

“You promised your friends great reward for victory over the British, did

you not? And for so thoroughly destroying the marsh stronghold, what do they

get? The Roman isle of Vectis? Wihtgar is even now taking the first ship to

claim his land, sailing to establish for himself a burgh. What do I get from all

this, then, eh? What is there for me?” Cynric’s hands tightened on the neckline

of Cerdic’s tunic, his father gurgled some half-heard response.

“Arthur, my grandsire, fought with you, fought an honourable battle. He

set your troops running. How many did you lose, Father, six, seven, eight

hundred men?”

His courage returning, Cerdic tried to prize the tight fingers away from his

throat. Cynric would have drawn his dagger by now had he truly intended murder.

“We slaughtered more than three hundred British this day at Caer Morfa!”

“Caer Morfa is become ours. It is peopled with the rotting carcasses and

charred bodies of the British dead. Where is the victory? Where is the honour

in the killing of so many women and children?”

“For every Briton dead, I gain another acre of land…”

“We have gained nothing today. You ordered your men to retreat. You saw

the Pendragon coming for you, saw your death in his sword, shit yourself and

ran. As you did the last time, at Llongborth. The Great Wood may be ours,

because Arthur will not be able to rebuild the stronghold that protects it, but

we have penetrated no more than twenty miles, Father. And we have the blood

of innocents and heroes to carry with us to our graves.”

Cynric released his hold, almost tossed his father aside. “If you had fought

as you had boasted, we would this first evening after battle, have for ourselves

a kingdom.” He turned on his heel, walked the length of his father’s Mead

6 2 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Hall, the eyes of those within, following him. No one else would say all he had

voiced, none of the hearth-guard, the thegns. Not elders or chieftains, not the

ordinary man who fought in the shield-wall when Cerdic called him to battle,

or felled trees, grazed sheep and planted corn when he did not. Only the eyes

portrayed their thoughts. And every man in the Hall thought to himself,
Cynric

will be the better king when he is called to lead us
.

Hunched on his chair behind the high table, Cerdic saw those thoughts, and

the jealous doubts whiffled through the hollows of his own dark mind.
Cynric

has more of his father in him than do I.

“
Boy!
” He scrabbled to his feet, bellowed down the length of the Hall. “Boy,

do not turn your back on your king!”

Cynric halted. He was a tall young man, agile, long fingers, strong arms. A

man with the nobility of the stag about him. Handsome with his dark eyes and

mother’s flaxen hair, his firm jaw, long nose, and quick, humorous wit. He was

much liked for his fair judgement. He stood with his shoulders back, head high.

Did not turn.

“Did you hear me boy?”

“I heard you.” Cynric slowly turned around, faced his father, regarded him

a long, silent moment.

“You are not yet a king.”

The gateway at Caer Morfa. It had come so unexpected, startling, the opening

of those gates. None of the Saxons swarming before it had remotely considered

they would be thrust open and the British would—so insanely—come out to

fight. The scrabble of those first few moments had been little short of panic, the

Saxons ready to flee for the safety of their ships, believing, in that mad whirl of

yelling and shouting and sword-brought death, that the Wild Hunt was escaped

and coming for them. Indeed, had that not been the Huntsman himself out in

the front? An oak of a man, as tall as a tree, as broad, as strong. Dressed in red

cloak, white tunic, the uniform of the Artoriani—his roaring voice, his sword

whirling pounding death on all who had the misfortune to be in his crazed path.

When they gathered their wits and tried to cut him down, he fought on. Though

they hacked and sawed at his blood-spewing body, still he stood there, defying

death, fought on, refusing to let go of life and sword until the riders—the two

women—had gone through, had reached the first line of trees and were away to

the road, to safety. Ider, someone said his name to be. Cynric would have had him

buried with honour, but the Saxons, his father’s friends, Stuf and Wihtgar, had

ordered him dismembered and used in the burning of the Hall at Caer Morfa.