Shadow of the King (12 page)

like one of the bitches when they are weaned.”

“You’ve nothing to barter for such a hound!” Aelfred teased, “Vitolinus has

enough blunt spears and worn, holed cloaks already!”

Playfully, Cuthbert batted at his friend’s shoulder, laughed, “Mayhap not,

but he needs sharpened spears and willing hearts to form the basis of an army!”

He spoke to Aelfred, looked at Vitolinus.

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

Aesc’s nephew, resting his elbow on the gate, nestled his chin on his cupped

hand, pointing with the other, offered, “You can have that black and tan,

she’s small but seems game.” He straightened, threaded his fingers through

the baldric slung diagonally across his chest. “I need no payment, only an oath

of loyalty.”

There was no hesitant thought, no decision-making; Cuthbert was instantly

on his knees before his young lord. “Need you offer reward for such a thing?”

he asked, “You have my loyalty without condition.”

Aelfred too, knelt, “And mine.” His features were earnest, sincere. “And

many another, were you to ask!”

Touching their heads with his fingertips Vitolinus nodded grimly. He was

heartsick of this unquestioned obedience to the Pendragon, heartsick of being

treated as a child, a useless nothing. He was ten and six, old enough to lead men;

the son of Vortigern, grandson of Hengest, old enough to try for a kingdom of

his own. His father’s kingdom; the kingdom Arthur had stolen.

As if reading his thoughts Cuthbert stated, “If Aesc will not help you gain

what by birthright is yours, then there are plenty of us who will. We are

warrior-born, the sons of warriors, we wish to use the spear and sword, not the

plough and pitchfork.”

Vitolinus smiled, a scheming, unkind smile that sat well on his weasel-like

face. He knew those sentiments ran in the blood of the young men, knew

and fostered them! He would be king of Britain! To take everything from

Arthur and with the same sword-thrust, keep the prize from the greed of his

sister Winifred! That was his double ambition. And ambition had to be tickled

at the right moments. If Arthur’s hold was to be defeated, it had to be done

now. Now, while he was over the sea, while the God-mumbling Ambrosius

Aurelianus was fumbling his way around in the dark.

His smile widened, the glint in his blue eyes triumphant, gloating. “Then

I see no reason to plod behind dull-minded oxen any longer!” He raised his

companions to their feet, cuffing each of them affectionately around the ears.

“Pass word to all who would give me their pledge. I will be going from here at

the rising of the new moon, five days hence, to prepare to take my kingdom.

I will wait at Cille Ham, while the moon swells three nights for any who wish

to join me.”

Stroking the shadowed beard-growth around his chin, Aelfred considered

Vitolinus’s proposal. “It will not be easy to send out word without the older

folk knowing, but it can be done.”

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

Cuthbert asked, hesitant, for he had no wish to offend, “Cille is old, is he

trustworthy? ’Tis the older men who side with Aesc’s decisions.”

Vitolinus sauntered across to the door, patting his friend’s shoulder in a

fatherly manner as he passed. “Cille, in most circumstances, I would not trust

even if my life depended on it! But he fought when he was our age with the

great Hengest against Arthur, at that time when the British took final victory. I

know for certain he has an old itch that he yearns to scratch.” He had reached

the door, had it open. “He will support us.”

Eighteen

April 469

Never before had Cadwy defied his father. Never before had he

found the courage to do so. But this? This was unacceptable, horrible.

He stood before Ambrosius, uncomfortable from the press of the crutch

beneath his armpit despite the leather and straw padding along the crossbar.

Stood as straight as his deformity allowed. “No,” he declared, raising his chin

with as much pride as he could muster. “No, I will not offer myself to God, I

will not take holy orders.”

Ambrosius was clearly shocked, for he seated himself, took an over-large

gulp of wine. No? No! What was this from his son, what was this defiance?

Calm, swallowing anger, Ambrosius said, “There is nothing else suited for you.

A bishopric would sit well. The duties are demanding, I grant, but mentally,

not,” he paused, licked his lips, tried so hard not to look at his son’s deformed

leg, “not physically.”

Wanting to sit down himself, to take the weight from the pain that ushered

from his hip to knee, Cadwy forced himself not to glance for a stool. His father

was a good man, had a weight of problems as heavy as the drag of his own

lame leg, had only the best of intentions at heart, but always, always where

Cadwy was concerned, the wrong intentions. He did not understand, could not

see beyond this wooden crutch and dragging leg that Cadwy was in all other

respects a normal man with the desires and ambitions of any young male of ten

and nine years.

Slowly, measuring his words, Cadwy tried to explain, tried to show his view

of this thing without hurting or wounding his father’s pride. “It is an honour to

be recommended as taking the new-vacant position of Bishop of Aquae Sulis,

Father, and I thank you for your concern in putting my name forward, but…”

His eyes sought his father’s, failed to hold them, instead, he took a clumsy step

forward, “But I cannot give myself to a life as a priest. I want a wife, children.”

His expression was pleading, begging, “A grandson for you.”

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

The hurt came deeper, more wounding when his father bitterly laughed,

stood, and turned away from him.

Fighting tears, tears that would not become a lad of his age, Cadwy said

through a choking throat, “As a priest, even as an exalted bishop, I could never

find a way to prove to you, Father, that despite my lameness I am, inside, as

much a man as any other.”

He half-held his hand, pleading. Ambrosius did not turn back. Cadwy made for

the door, his crutch loud tapping on the flagstone floor, his left boot dragging.

As he reached the door, Ambrosius spoke, his voice taught, rasping, emotion

raw. “Along but one path could I have found pride in you, along a path to God.

Reject that route and you reject me.”

No choices, no regrets. “Allow me to live my life as I choose, Father, or

equally, reject me.”

There came no answer, no movement, only a solid-turned back. Cadwy

opened the door, shuffled through, closed it silently behind, not seeing his

father’s disappointed misery.

Ambrosius sank to his knees, clasped his hands in prayer.
Why
, he questioned,

why does naught come easy for me? I try, I give my heart and soul into doing what I

believe is right, yet each time, along every path, around every corner, I meet failure.

Bitterly, he moaned, bowed his head. Why could he not be strong, successful,

obeyed, and respected like his elder brother Uthr had been? Why could he not

achieve, as the son, his nephew Arthur, seemed always to achieve?

Why, for Emrys, as his British given name had been, did everything always

take a wrong turn?

Nineteen

It was raining when Cadwy rode up the steep, cobbled lane into Caer

Cadan. His twisted leg was aching horribly, his teeth clenched to ignore the

torturing stabs that seemed to lance his entire body.

The past days had dragged through the sullen anger of an interminable

week of glowering half politenesses and barely veiled displeasure. The deci-

sion to come here to Caer Cadan had formed yester eve, an hour or so after

the messenger had ridden in. Gwenhwyfar was taken seriously ill, he had told

Ambrosius, was dying.

“
I will go
,” Cadwy had offered, “
I will see how she fares.
”

His father had responded with a sharp, instant forbidding of no, and there

had come another bitter quarrel.

Was he to be kept prisoner then? Cadwy had demanded, shuttered away,

snared, because he would not do as his father bid? In anger, Cadwy had saddled

his horse and left his father’s household with no word of farewell. He would

see the queen for himself, could not believe her life was so desperately near its

end. Gwenhwyfar and Arthur had always offered him kindness and respect, had

never patronised or pitied him. He would go to her, if for nothing else, to show

his respect for the sadness of death.

The gatekeeper acknowledged him with a nod of recognition, directed him

to the King’s Hall where lord Geraint would be, and in answer to his question

said, with a slow shake of his head, “My Lady be no better, my lord. The

medics say there’s nothing more to be done for her, save pray.” And that they

had been doing these past three days without the need of asking.

With his good leg, Cadwy kicked his mount forward, a fresh burst of pain

jolting from the movement. It was a dismal day, for all the fresh growth of

a new spring and this great Caer echoed the flat, dull, greyness. The place

seemed empty, where was the familiar bustle and pride? The air of power and

authority? Those few people about their daily tasks passed barely a nod at him

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

as he rode; no one smiled, there was no idle chatter, no laughter or merriment.

The women were mostly inside their dwelling places; the men, those who had

not ridden with Arthur to Gaul, must, Cadwy concluded as he approached the

Hall, be away drilling or training or something.

There were few children about—one or two only, hurrying on whatever

errand they had been sent. Even the geese and chickens were quiet. This great

place was hushed, its breath held, shuttered. Waiting. A darkness stalked beside

the cobbled track. Lurked, unwelcome, uninvited, beside every building, behind

every fence; in every corner, every hollow. The darkness of death waiting to

claim Arthur’s Queen.

He dismounted, stiffly, grateful to a young lad who ran from the Hall to take

his horse; as grateful to enter through the doorway into the dry.

He had expected more people to be in here, the people of the Caer, a settle-

ment in itself. There were always men in a Hall, mending leather, fashioning

a hunting spear, putting an edge to a blade…The women would be cooking,

sewing, or weaving, but this place, the spacious interior of this vast King’s Hall,

was all but empty, apart from a few small groups huddled in the shadows to

each side. They were looking up at him, their faces ashen, sleep-lacking and

lost. It was like a tomb, when this Hall ought to have been vibrant with life. A

dank, inhospitable tomb.

Someone was coming from the far end, his hand stretched out in welcome.

Cadwy limped forward to meet him, grateful to be greeted by someone he knew—

Geraint of Durnovaria. He walked quicker, the drag of his leg more pronounced,

took Geraint’s hand firm in his own. Asked straight away, “How is she?” Nothing

seeming so important as this asking. Nothing more urgent to know.

A sudden, grasping thought hit him with the strength of an axe blade. Had

this been the reason for his father’s forbidding him to come here?

The cause behind the enmity that had been steadily growing between them?

Had Ambrosius realised that which Cadwy had, until this moment, not? That

the son would rather sit at the Pendragon’s hearth than at his own father’s?

Cadwy thrust the uneasy thoughts aside. He would need to examine them later,

in his own time, when there were less important things to ask. He gasped at his

own dawning truth. Important? Aye, Arthur’s Queen was more important to

him than was Ambrosius.

Geraint, too, had the dark rings of sleepless nights under his eyes; he, too,

had that same pale skin, taut, drawn cheeks, as others of this grieving place. The

dreadful hush, the sense of foreboding and waiting, pressing in from the timber

7 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

walls, down from the height of the vaulted, dust and cobweb-strewn rafters.

Even the spirit faces carved along their length sat quiet, anxious.

Geraint helped remove Cadwy’s cloak, escorted him nearer the central hearth

fire, a blaze of brightness and warmth in this dismal place. He had not initially

answered, reluctantly blurted, “She is dying, we think. The fever has raged for

several days. Beyond prayer there is nothing more we can do for her.”

Geraint served two bowls of hot venison broth, indicated they should sit at a

nearby trestle bench. Cadwy complied, spooned the steaming food, the warmth

chasing the ache and chill from his body. Geraint swallowed only a few mouthfuls,

did not taste the goodness of the meat. No one felt much like eating, no one felt

much like doing anything while Gwenhwyfar lay in her bed so ill, courting death.

A door at the far end opened, a woman came through. Everyone in that Hall