Shadow of the King (103 page)

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 2 1

Cynric gazed down the length of the Mead Hall at the overweight figure

of his father and knew him for what he was: a man who had never known

love, who had not experienced pity, and who would never understand the

word compassion.

All the British had fought well, sacrificing their lives for those two women

and the children who had been with them. Cynric had caught a glimpse of

one of the boys himself. He had pushed forward, grappling with one of the

riders whose horse had fallen, a spear through its chest. The woman had

been there, urging her grey horse on, her mouth open, the war -cry of the

Artoriani shrieking from her lips. Cynric had finished the man, leapt up,

trying to make a grab for the horse’s reins—and he had seen the boy clinging

to her beneath the fold of her cloak. He had hesitated. Gwenhwyfar. She

could have been no one else, and that must have been one of Arthur’s own

grandchilder. Her sword was raised; Cynric had stood, transfixed, unable to

move for that one, so very brief moment when all else, the rage of fighting,

the noise, the blood, the stink, had faded into the mists that swirled outside

of time and life. She could have struck him, used the sword to end him, but

she had not.

Their eyes had met, fleetingly gazed into each other’s thoughts, into each

other’s soul. Why had she deflected that sword stroke? Mayhap Cynric would

never know, not until he entered the next world and the gods saw fit to tell

him. And he? He had stepped aside, brought the flat of his blade down on the

grey’s rump, urging it away faster. With what followed, he had been glad he

had. He would not have wanted that sorry ending for the Lady Gwenhwyfar

and her kindred. His kindred.

“You bring dishonour to me, boy!” Cerdic rasped. “I ought have you

whipped for your insolence.”

Cynric was looking at his boots. They had blood on them, a spattering of the

life of men. He was a Saxon lord, and he had honour and courage. He would

fight for a land of his own, fight the British, whoever. But he would not fight

with dishonour, with the blood of murder on his sword and shield.

It was they, his father’s friends, who had butchered the lord of Caer Morfa.

Not Cynric. Natanlius had not been as fortunate as the tall man. He had not

been killed, but captured. Wihtgar had ordered him gelded and while the man

still lived, his intestines drawn from him. They used them as rope to fasten him

to the broken door-timbers of his own Hall. Then they took the dismembered

bodies of his officers and men, and piled them before the doorway around him,

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

adding bracken and hay and anything that would burn, poured oil over it all,

and fired it with the women, children, and wounded huddled inside.

Natanlius had not cried out once during his slow death, but the tears had

poured from his eyes. At his feet they had placed one body for him to see, to

watch, as it burnt.

Cynric lifted his head. If his father ever had doubt as to how much his son

despised him, he was made clear of it now.

“I have no need to bring you dishonour,” Cynric said. “For you bring

it to yourself. I asked for some reward from you, as is my due for fighting

beneath your banner. I ask for the destroyed stronghold of Caer Morfa as

my own.”

The hostility was thick; it could be severed with a dagger. Cerdic knew

his son was leaving him, taking a hearth-place for his own. The fear stabbed

through him. If his son left, then others might follow, for Cynric was much

liked, had much favour, most especially from the younger men. He could not

let him go—least, not while this anger rested in his heart. Cerdic was not fool

enough to miss that necessity, had learnt something from his mother.

“It is yours, as a sign our disagreement is passed and we are again friends, as

kindred such as we ought be.” It stuck in Cerdic’s throat to be so pleasant, the

smile he forced onto his cheeks hard, without warmth. The atmosphere in the

Hall, however, eased, the men visibly relaxed. A few hands dropped away from

their daggers and sword hilts.

Cerdic’s one fear, had passion overspilt between father and son, on what side

would they have fought?

“I intend to bury the remains of the dead. To give the area a new name.”

Settling back into his chair, showing outward sign that he was content,

relaxed, Cerdic gestured with his hand. So be it, he signalled.

“From this day, the day when so many brave men died, when so much

honour was lost by the spilling of bloody murder, the British place of Caer

Morfa will bear the title Natan Leag. The Forest of Natanlius.”

Cynric ignored the infusion of red colouring his father’s enraged face. He

saluted, a mocking gesture of uncivil obedience, swivelled on his heel, and left

the hall. His last words echoed the dark length of that huge place.

“And if you were not my father, I would challenge you for the futile butchery

you brought about this day. My grandsire may be British-born not Saxon, but

it seems to me that to be British is to fight and die with honour. Do not ask me

to fight with you against Arthur again, Cerdic, for I will not.” Honour meant

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 2 3

much to Cynric, and oath taken was oath kept. The shame of Caer Morfa

ensured he kept his word.

It was a child they had lain there. Natanlius’s own son. A babe, no more than

a few weeks into life. It would not have been so shameful, that wicked burning,

had the boy at least been dead.

Part Four

The Final Thread

One

May 500

A group of men stood, close together, talking low-voiced beside

the blaze of the hearth-fire. Occasionally, one would cast a furtive glance

at the woman who sat in the king’s place.

Gwenhwyfar was aware of their hostile appraisal, guessed their thoughts as if

they were being spoken aloud. What did they see when they watched her from

beneath those half-closed, wary eyes? Confidence, an appearance of ease, that

there was nothing wrong? Or did they see the copper hair, now silvered grey,

her wrinkled skin, her stiffened fingers that found it difficult to hold, let alone

use, a sword? Did they realise, if she seemed so old, what age was her husband,

their king?

It was they who had called this Council, the lords, the elders, men of the

Church. Justly, she supposed, for Arthur was ill and for a man nearing his five

and sixtieth summer, their concern could be expected. Did they not think she

shared their worries? They did not listen to the breath rattling in his throat, they

did not watch the strength daily sapping from him in the sweat of his fever.

There were not as many lords as there ought be. How many had not come?

Dyfed was not here, nor Powys, Rheged, Builth, or Brycheniog. None from

the North. Gwynedd? Hah, Gwynedd! Gwenhwyfar clenched her jaw against

the vomit that rose. Thank all the gods she was the last of Cunedda’s children

to have life! How her brothers, she closed her eyes, her dear father, would have

wept to see Gwynedd as she now was! Would the Council, Arthur, expect

Gwynedd’s loyalty? What, allow a murderer, a cheat, and a liar to sit at the

Council hearth? Maelgwyn, her—God preserve her—her kindred. Maelgwyn,

who had taken a sword to his own uncle, Owain, had murdered him for the

prize of Gwynedd. Prince Maelgwyn? Scum, dog’s dirt.

A side door into the Hall opened. Bedwyr stepped in, his expression and step

jaunty, his hair tossed, wind-tousled. “My,” he joked, “the wind’s stronger

than an evening after onions for supper!”

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A few men politely chuckled.

Bedwyr strode to Gwenhwyfar, saluted, made his obedience. She made a

light gesture of implied question with her eyebrow. Imperceptibly, Bedwyr

shook his head. She had hoped Archfedd would come, but she was new wed

to Llawfrodedd, Lord of Comovii, a good man, but not wholly to Archfedd’s

liking. Between them, with Archfedd’s land of Dumnonia, given her by her

father for her eldest-born, Constantine, they had much to rule, much to see

to. Though for all that she had gained in land and wealth, Archfedd still had to

forgive them for advising her into this marriage. She did not want Llawfrodedd,

for all he seemed kind and generous, nor for all the alliance this marriage brought

her father. He was ten and five years her senior, and with a serious view of his

responsibilities. His first wife, Archfedd declared unkindly to her parents, most

probably died of boredom.
Natanlius is my husband
, she had added, on that

wedding night, two months past.
The memory of his love will not fade merely because

I must go to another’s bed. He knows it is against my will.

Archfedd had always been stubborn. Too much like her mother, Arthur

often complained.

Indicating Bedwyr was to lead her to the hearth, Gwenhwyfar took his

hand, rose from her chair. Would she have gone through with marriage to

another, to Bedwyr? Who knew? Certainly not she. Happen, it was only the

Three, the goddesses who wove the fate of men and women, who had seen

the future rippling in the pattern of life. There was a difference, though,

between herself and Archfedd. She had not had two living sons to follow

after Arthur. Archfedd did. And one of them might become Pendragon one

day. For that, Archfedd needed the alliance of a husband who would fight

for those sons. Archfedd knew that. It was the reason she had agreed to wed

with Llawfrodedd. But, even for that reason, she could not forgive her father

for making her do it.

Gwenhwyfar hid her disappointment.
Give nothing away in your expression,

hold your planning close to your chest
. Arthur had instructed her what to do, say, at

this Council, but she wished it was he who was now making way to the hearth,

calling the men to order. As she sat, making herself comfortable on the cushions

spread, for them she allowed a slight smile to slip onto her lips.
And such an

interesting, enjoyable chest ought have things held close. My body, preferably.
He might

be ill, but he could still tease her!

Bedwyr sat beside her, at her right hand. To her disgust, Caninus seated

himself, uninvited, to her left. Almost in his thirtieth year, a man with young

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 2 9

sons of his own, but another like Maelgwyn, out for his own gain with blood

on his hands and deceit in his mind. Oh, he had come to the Council, for even

after the treachery of the past he considered himself next after Arthur. Well,

he would need to pursue another thought on that! Constantine of Dumnonia

might yet be only ten and three years of age, but Arthur had been barely a

year older when his father had been killed in battle. The grandson would be

proclaimed the next Pendragon, not Caninus.

They sat in a circle as Arthur had introduced the tradition so many years

past. Circular, so that each might see the others’ expressions, read the others’

thoughts. They began with the trivial things, the levies for the rate of taxation,

the granting of rights for three settlements, a change to a minor law. The

matter-of-fact everyday items that the Council was responsible for. All the

while their minds on the door to the rear of the Hall, the closed door, where,

behind, lay the king. Never before had Arthur missed a calling of the Council

through illness. Anger, belligerence, aye, then he had stayed away; but never

would he have admitted the frailty of the body, the creeping hindrances of age

to so important a group of men. They were here, these lords, to gain what they

could for themselves, to discover how ill Arthur was. How soon it would be

before he died. She would need say something, show them that soon he would

be well, on his feet, as strong as ever he had been.

The Bishop of Aquae Sulis cleared his throat. “It grieves us that the Lord

Pendragon cannot be with us. How is the king’s health?” He asked it politely,

with a grave smile. “We trust he will be not be incapacitated long?”

“It is a fever, nothing more. A few days to regain his strength,” Gwenhwyfar

spread her hands. “It is difficult for me to persuade him to rest, you know how

the Pendragon loathes to lay abed when there are things to be done.”

They nodded, agreeing, sympathetic, offering their hopes for a fleeting return

to health. Most of them lying, most, secretly delighted he might soon be gone.

Too many in this Council wanted the royal torque for their own decoration.

A man came quietly into the Hall, whispered to Gwenhwyfar. She gasped,

half-rose to her feet.

Bedwyr put his hand to her arm. “What is it?” he hissed. Concern raced

through the circle of the Council, all sharing the same, unspoken thought…

the king? Only Bedwyr realising the gatekeeper would not be bringing word

of Arthur.