Shadow of the King (105 page)

steps, anxiously hurrying, waving and calling for his servant who was about to

disappear into the narrow streets of the stronghold’s ragged little settlement.

6 3 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“Medraut, no!” Archfedd ran after him, caught the sleeve of his under tunic.

“You cannot go, you have just got here!” Her heart was bumping, her mind

quivering. Her first visitor, the first person she could relate to, talk with as a

friend. He must not go!

“I took ship to come back to Greater Britain. It was coming for tin from

the trading harbours of these shores. I realised I must make my peace with

my kindred. I began with you, for you were the nearest, but I must mend old

wounds with my father. If he should die before I have chance to…”

Archfedd threw herself to her knees, clutching at the swirl of Medraut’s

cloak. She bowed her head, let the tears sob from her. “And I,” she cried, “I

must also make my peace with him!”

Strange, as they rode together she felt a small, whispered note of regret at

leaving the sea behind. So it was not Din Dirgel that had clutched, dark, at

her then, losing her in a mist of despair. It was the knowing she was not at

peace with the ones she loved that caused her spirit to wander so restless and

dissatisfied. “You will come back?” Llawfrodedd had asked, holding her to him

before they parted. His regret at her leaving had been genuine, for in his quiet

way he had much love for her.

As Archfedd and Medraut entered into Dumnonia and followed the road

which would meet with the Roman Way, she was glad she had not needed to

lie to him when she had answered, “Aye, I will be home to you soon.” And

had meant it.

Three

Arthur was aware of rising voices from beyond the door that ought

be firm closed but was not. He ached. His head, arms, legs, everything,

everywhere ached. It would be better if he drifted back into the warmth of

sleep, easier, but one voice in particular was persistent, a voice he did not much

like. Something was wrong. He tried to think what it might be. Could not.

He groaned.

Someone came near the bed, a man. Arthur opened his eyes, closed them

again. Bedwyr.

“Has Council ended so soon, then?” Arthur asked, his throat husky, his

energy drained.

“Not yet.” Bedwyr had no idea what to say, or do. Cerdic was out there in

Arthur’s Hall as bold as life, behaving as if he were some Augustus or a god.

Jesu Christ, how many more Saxons had he waiting outside—how in all Hell

had he come all this way unchallenged?

“What is it?” Arthur asked. He was not so ill as not to recognise trouble

when he smelt it. And this, whatever it was, reeked of raw, sun baked sewage.

Bedwyr took a breath, spread his hands. Told him.

“I assure you, the Pendragon is well,” Gwenhwyfar said again, feigning

patience and calm—it would not do to show the fear coursing through

her; bad enough several of the Council had scattered to the corners of the

Hall, were huddling behind the presence of the Artoriani—who waited

Gwenhwyfar’s signal. One nod from her and this impudent turd would be

run through. “He had a mild fever, which has left him tired. He is a strong

man, your father.”

Cerdic picked at a loose thread dangling from the hem of his cloak. A pity.

His informer had been wrong then. The last information he ever carried. He

shifted his leg—damn fool idea, this sitting on the floor. He gave orders from

his gold-inlaid chair where the people, his Saxon people, could see him and

6 3 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

wonder at his wisdom and power. Of course, he listened to his Council, the

Witan, but he did not always heed them.

They had strongly advised him not to come here, not to march as bold as

midsummer daylight into Caer Cadan, but he had disagreed with their advice.

He needed to know for himself whether his father was dying, and this was the

only way. He heard a noise behind, the unmistakable sound of a sword being

drawn from its scabbard, and folded his arms, contempt lurid on his face.

“Is this, then, the hospitality and welcome given at the king’s hearth to the

king’s son? I entered here under the green branch of peace and I brought two

white doves to symbolise my awareness of your Christian preaching. Yet this

is how you respond? By drawing a sword to plunge into my back?” He pinned

Gwenhwyfar’s gaze, realised he had never seen her close before. “They say you

were once a beautiful woman,” he remarked.

“They say,” she retorted stiffly, “you are a deceitful bastard.”

“Ah no,” Cerdic sneered at her, “that is my father they speak of.”

“Well, at least you have inherited something from me then.”

There came an in-drawing of breath, shuffled movement. Arthur entered

the Hall from the privacy of his chamber, stood beside the door. He was pale

beneath the beard stubble, a few beads of sweat dabbed his forehead and his skin

was drawn thin over his cheeks. Perhaps there was too much brightness in his

eyes? The fever had not wholly gone, but it was only there for those who knew

to look. He wore his purple cloak, his white under-tunic, leather armour.

Dignified, Gwenhwyfar rose from her seated place, walked to him, head

high, proud, and made obedience to him, a deep, submissive reverence. With

the queen so publicly—and unusually—acknowledging the presence of the

king, all others in the Hall, by necessity, made a formal salute. All others, save

Cerdic and his Saxons.

Arthur held his hand to her, made it seem as if it was he who led her to be

seated before the hearth fire, although it was the other way around. His legs

were shaking, his strength already sapping: he had not been from his bed for

over two weeks.

“So the dog returns to his vomit,” Arthur said to Cerdic, after he had seated

himself. “You are not welcome in my Hall; your presence is not recognised

or required. Get you gone before I order my men to throw you to your death

from my walls.”

“Do that,” Cerdic answered, “and my people will ensure all Britain hears how

you deal with those who come to you with offers to treat for peace.” Cerdic’s

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 3 9

narrow eyes glinted; he knew his father could not argue against that, knew he

must be treated with respect and courtesy—at least as an outward sign.

Arthur had taken his sword from Gwenhwyfar, had placed it across his knees.

His hand was touching it, lovingly. He could take it up, use it on the scum

sitting opposite him. He had created that life, could take it away.
Na
, this blade

was too worthy to have it blunted on the spilling of such poisoned blood.

“You came hoping to hear I was close to death. What if I had been? What

then, Cerdic?” They were rhetorical questions, for Arthur allowed no answer,

he plunged on, making this ordeal pass quickly, for he would not be able

to hold himself so straight, keep the quivering from his dry voice, too long.

“As you see, I am not. Nor do I have any intention of discussing peace terms

with you, for I know you to be a cheat and a liar, and aye,”—he held up one

finger—“I know this because that is what I also am.” Arthur beckoned his

men forward. Gradually, more of the Artoriani had filtered into the Hall, more

would be outside, ready, armed, eager to fight. “Decurion.”

“Sir?”

“Escort these men from the Caer and from my British land. Immediately.”

“Sir.”

Cerdic remained seated a moment, his fingers locked together, an amused

smile playing over his mouth. “I have no need for escort,” he said, “I will go,

for I see you have not the wisdom to talk of a settlement between us. I will tell

my people the Pendragon has no time to listen to those who are not as great

as he.”

Bedwyr, standing a few paces behind Arthur, almost vomited. He had seen

more truth in the eyes of a wife caught lying about a lover! Arthur, too, it

seemed, for he made no answer. Cerdic made no salute, no form of reverence

as he turned to leave. Arthur had not expected any.

“Cerdic,” Arthur called as the Saxons reached the open door. “If you wish to

see me dead, I suggest it must be at the doing of your own hand.”

“Oh, it will be so, Pendragon. I assure you. Soon, very soon, it will be so.”

Cerdic rode from Caer Cadan well satisfied. He had established for himself

two things. One, his father was old and would not have the strength to fight as

once he had. Second, he had proven to his son Cynric that Cerdic of the West

Saxons was no coward, no scurry-away. And a third thing. It was time to fight

his father again.

Four

June 500

They could not believe they had missed their father by a day. Caer

Cadan was deserted but for women, children, and a small guard. The

Artoriani had gone, all of them, with Gwenhwyfar and their king the Pendragon.

Gone, to meet with Cerdic at the borders of Arthur’s land and his own.

Archfedd sat her horse in the stable courtyard behind the king’s chamber; she

had never seen the place so empty. Eerie, not having the men of the Artoriani

around, as if she had ridden into an abandoned settlement populated by the

spirits of the past. There was the horse trough, there, the manure pile, the dung

drying for use as fuel in the fires. Old Onager’s stable—Brenin’s now; the one

for her mother’s grey. Over there, the kennels where Mel had been whelped

and weaned. The hitching ring where, as a child, she had tied her pony Briallen,

groomed her, pampered her. The door to the chamber—the family room, her

home—was firmly closed. Never had it been shut during the hours of daylight.

Oh occasionally, aye, when the wind blew so strong it whirled the hearth

smoke into all the corners and into eyes and nose, or when the snow lay deep

and drifting; a few times when her father and mother wanted the privacy due

to husband and wife. But even if the door was shut-to, it was never closed,

never loudly proclaiming “
There is no one here.
” The courtyard was different,

too, clean, tidy, no piles of horse dung, no wisps of stable bedding, no buckets

of corn waiting to be fed to horses banging, impatient for it at stable doors. No

wise-eyed heads looking out, ears pricked, inquisitive.

“It was not this quiet even when my father was away in Gaul with the men,

when Mam thought him to be dead,” Archfedd said.

Medraut shifted uncomfortable in the saddle. When Arthur had been with

him and Morgaine. Archfedd did not notice his discomfort, that was all a

long time ago; she had been a child then, all she remembered was her Mam’s

unhappiness and her own enjoyment when she had been with the children of

Geraint’s stronghold. Distant days of childhood summers. She had swum in the

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 4 1

sea, played on the sand and ridden in the undulating, sun baked hills on Briallen.

A child’s order of priority. She had been well cared for and loved by Enid,

Geraint’s wife. Of course she missed Gwenhwyfar when she had gone over the

sea, but she would have missed the pony more!

They dismounted, put the horses in stables, dismissed the escort, Archfedd

sending a slave to fetch water and feed for the animals. The few servants

around—and the gatekeeper as they had entered—had nodded polite greeting

to her, but it was not extended to Medraut. Archfedd assumed they did not

know him for who he was, took him as another of her escort. It was possible,

for he was dressed soberly in plain riding gear, bearing no shield or elaborate

sword, having no identifying badge. He had been away a long time. Twelve

years. There would be those who did not recognise him.

They shied away from the Hall, wandered instead through the low archway,

along the side of the granary and into the maze of narrow alleyways between

the huddle of dwelling-places; a village in itself, where the married Artoriani

who chose to lived with wife and family. Here there were more people, women

Archfedd knew.

The wife to one of the senior Decurions invited them into her house-place,

a building eight man-strides by ten, reed-thatched, wattle-walled, one third

two-storied, made as a slatted loft, hay scattered, several blankets. Here, the

children would sleep. The central hearth-fire with the inevitable cooking pot,

lazy smoke rising to linger between the roof-beams before meandering out

through the smoke-hole. Simple furniture, a bed, stools, a wooden clothes-

chest. In one corner, a loom. Cooking pots, wooden and pottery bowls. Herbs

hanging from the beams among the salted and smoked meats.

Bechan her name, with a brood of youngsters from babe to one almost man-

grown. “There are a few folk up at the Hall,” she explained to Archfedd, “but

with so many away it seems so large and empty. Come, sit, eat.” She ladled

broth into wooden bowls, handed them to her unexpected guests. A few of the

children were grouped, owl-eyed, squatting close for self-protection at the far