Shadow of the King (14 page)

of sending his men to drag the lad away, there was little Ambrosius could do to

enforce the order. In the meanwhile, he had to endure the knowing glances,

the sidelong nudges. Outright comments. Dirt and dregs. The things meddlers

like Winifred thrived upon.

Curtly, he deflected the probing. “These tales are lies, there is nothing save

malicious gossip behind them. Aside, my son is a man grown, his life is his own.”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 7 9

The smile left Winifred’s face, replaced by an expression of crumpled sorrow.

She said, with such sadness that Ambrosius’s head came up, “Sons. What aching

heartbreak can be inflicted on us by our sons.”

A long silence. Embarrassed, Ambrosius thought that the normally hard

woman sitting opposite him was about to weep. He finished the too-sweet cake,

refused the offer of another. Searched for something appropriate to say, alarmed

at this unusual revelation into Winifred’s personal vulnerability. Noisily, he

cleared his throat, electing to alter the conversation. “You invited me here, I

am sure, with intentions of discussing matters other than the wilful disobedi-

ence of our respective offspring.” Fervently he hoped so. Cerdic, Winifred’s

son, was not a lad he was inclined to think over-much upon.

Her poise had returned, that fleeting glimpse of despair thrust aside. She was

shocked at herself for allowing the flicker of grief so openly to manifest itself.

See what the strain of Cerdic’s foolishness was doing to her! She folded her

hands neatly in her lap, tilted her head, drew breath to tackle the subject she

had invited Ambrosius here to discuss.

Her guest relaxed. Ah, this was the Winifred he knew! There, against the

ice blue of her eyes, was the familiar glower of hatred, the incessant quest for

meddling or vengeance, at both of which she excelled.

“My brother,” she demanded. “What are you intending to do about him?”

For a wicked moment Ambrosius was tempted to laugh. He might have

guessed this was the reason behind such an appetising dinner! The half-Saxon

whelp Vitolinus. A whore-son irritation.

Tentatively he asked, “What would you have me do?”

Several vapid suggestions rummaged through her mind, but Winifred kept

the more unpleasant ones to herself, answered simply, “Stop him.”

“Ah.” Ambrosius leant his arm against the padding of the couch arm. His

own furniture was impoverished, shabby by the standard of items in this luxu-

rious room. “That would not be prudent.”

“Prudent?” She spluttered contemptuously. “In God’s good name! My

brother is running rampage along the borders of the Cantii territory, and you

judge putting an end to him would not be prudent!”

“Dealing with a hot-headed, cocksure boy is one matter. Fighting a full-

blown war another entirely.” Ambrosius attempted to phrase his answer politely

but there was a hint of terseness in his reply. He was Governor of Britain; the

Lady Winifred—for all her bloated self-importance—was not. He continued

speaking, cutting off her retaliatory response. “Vitolinus is but an itching sore,

8 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

no more than a minor irritant.” He held his hand up, palm outward again

silencing an interruption. “Would you have me start a war over a mere boy?”

A war which he had every intention of starting when he was ready. A war that

he had no desire to let Winifred know about. Yet.

“Vitolinus has burnt two or three peasants’ farmsteadings, stolen a few head

of cattle, nothing more serious.” Ambrosius waved his hand, dismissive. “I have

sent protest to your uncle, Aesc. He assures me the boy shall be dealt with.”

Incredulous, Winifred gaped at him. “Arthur,” she sniped, “would have

hoisted Vitolinus’s head on a spear ere now, aye, and for less reason!”

“I,” Ambrosius retaliated coldly, “am not Arthur.”

No, Ambrosius was not. They were opposite ends of the spear, these two

men of one kindred. Arthur, a pagan, a battle-hardened warlord, a realist,

willing to make peace and uneasy friendship with the English, understanding

that the might of Rome would never raise to power again.

Ambrosius a man of God and learning, who believed passionately in the way

things once were, and would, he was determined, be again.

Claiming a more mellow tone, Winifred asked, “Is it that you do not have

the men or finance to put an end to my brother’s raiding?” Refrained from

adding,
or is it that you do not have the balls?

He must have read the unspoken thought though, for Ambrosius retorted

abruptly. “When I judge it the right time to fight, I assure you I will have all

I need.”

Soon, within weeks, a few months at most, she would see the fruition of his

words. When the harvests were safe in, when Aesc least expected a counter

offensive, when Vitolinus overstepped the mark too far, gave Ambrosius the

full excuse he needed to take the Cantii lands back into Rome’s possession. He

was not about to impart all that to Winifred, however. Aesc was her uncle, and

for all she wanted her brother dealt with, there was no certainty those same

malicious feelings stretched to the rest of her Saex kin.

An uneasy silence. A minute dragged by, two. Unexpected, Winifred

announced, “He should take a wife.”

Puzzled, uncertain of this sudden turn of conversation, Ambrosius frowned.

Who? Who should? Vitolinus?

“Cadwy,” Winifred opined, fluttering her hand. “Find him a wife. That will

put an end to this nonsense with the Pendragon’s whore.” Poor Gwenhwyfar,

to lose her boy lover to a wife!

Ambrosius sat quite still. Was this woman totally mad?

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 8 1

“I am quite serious,” she stated, correctly interpreting that open-mouthed

look of horror on her guest’s face.

“My son, Madam, is a cripple.”

Winifred curled her fingers around the stem of her fragile and expensive glass

goblet, sat back into her wicker chair, her smile indulgent. Said as if explaining

some obvious matter to a child. “It is his leg that is crooked, not his cock.” She

sipped the wine. “There are women who would not decline such a husband if

the right compensations were agreed.”

“Compensations?” Ambrosius spoke slowly. The abhorrent idea had never

occurred to him. Added tentatively, curious, “You know of such a woman?”

Winifred sat straight, the image of calm reassurance. “Of course.” She looked

Ambrosius square in the face, holding his eye. Announced, “Myself.”

Spluttering through a mouthful of wine, Ambrosius half rose to his feet,

incredulous. “You? Wed my son? Indeed, you are mad!” If he realised how

rude his words sounded, he made no notice of it. Emphatically, he shook his

head, his mouth open, shocked, speechless. Horrified.

Similar thoughts occurred to Winifred. Whatever had made her say this

thing? Her last marriage to Leofric had been a disastrous mistake, a mistake

she had needed to rectify almost immediately. She did not want to repeat the

experience—yet had this idea been entirely impulsive? Opportunities offered

themselves at unexpected moments, and had to be grappled immediately, lest

they escape usage. Ambrosius was not telling her all his thoughts, was hiding

something. War with Aesc was a strong probability. He was also intent on

taking Arthur’s place—whether he returned from Gaul or not, that much was

obvious. When he became king—assuming Aesc did not butcher the man ten

minutes into the first fighting—someone would have to be appointed as his

heir. Cadwy with his deformity could not, by law or in all practicality, become

king. And Winifred, despite the present estrangement with her son, was still

determined to see Cerdic declared king of Britain; she would follow any path

to gain him that royal torque. Any path.

She indicated Ambrosius ought re-seat himself. “I am somewhat older than

your son, I grant you,” she pronounced candidly, set, now she had spoken,

with the preposterous idea. “He is but nine and ten to my two and thirty, but

there is no reason why I cannot still bear a child. A grandson,” she promised,

“could become all your son might have been.”

Winifred drained her wine a-flutter of doubt drying her throat. What in the

good God’s name was possessing her? Cadwy, that limping crutch-hobbler as

8 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

husband? She swallowed. Wife to the son of the Governor of Britain, another

foot wedged firm in an opening door, that is what possessed her. The fault for

not conceiving another child would, naturally, be laid to Cadwy. She relaxed. It

could work, this union between herself and Ambrosius. It could—just—work.

She signalled for her glass to be refilled, lifted the goblet in a salute. “As wife

to your son, my lord Governor, I would bring you a generous dowry. Enough

men, and their payment, to bring down not only my brother but my uncle,

Aesc also. And,” her expression clearly signalled, although no word passed her

lips, “
and Arthur.
”

Her smile was self-pleased, smug. She doubted Ambrosius would ever agree

to such a suggestion, but the paleness of his skin, the way his tongue flicked

over dry lips showed all she needed to know. He was tempted. She savoured

the wine, the last goblet of fine Greek. A pity if he would not accept her. It

would be so very pleasing to steal Gwenhwyfar’s lover from her bed!

Twenty-Two

While Winifred dined with Ambrosius to encourage an ending of

her brother, Vitolinus was watching as flames engulfed the house-place

of a British farmsteading. The screams from inside had ceased, his men were

sauntering away, the amusement over; they were beginning the slaughter of the

livestock. They would only take the meat they could carry to their boat. The

rest would be left to rot.

Cille stepped behind Vitolinus, stood, much as the boy, legs spread, arms

folded. Watched as the final roof beam groaned and collapsed inward, sending

a fresh eruption of flames into the night sky. Soon there would be nothing left

to burn; come morning, only the charred timbers would remain heaped behind

the stone pillars of the doorway. Among it all, the bodies, probably huddled

in one place, the burnt flesh and bones fused and gnarled into a grotesque

remainder. Cille said, “It is a pity about the women, they would have provided

extra entertainment for your young men.” Not for himself. He was becoming

too old for this, for fighting, for war. Even for women. A warm hearth-fire and

a belly-full of ale suited his needs better now. He sighed. This was the work for

younger men, not for the likes of himself. He had been flattered that the lad had

sought his advice and guidance. But was this, this shabby burning and killing,

truly the work for a warrior such as he had once been? Nay, he would be away

soon, back to his own hearth.

Vitolinus merely grunted. He had no urge for the forced taking of poxed

British women. It was death he wanted. An ending to the British, to all that

had once been Arthur’s.

“The old man here was a fool,” Cille added, “to hide his family inside.” He

shrugged, but then to his mind all born of the British blood were fools. Had this

been his steading he would have taken the lives of his womenfolk quickly with

his own knife, and then sought an honourable warrior’s death for himself, not

cowered behind burning walls. He shook his head.
Ja
, a pity about the women,

8 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

the men needed something to crow over, something more than the rise of

flames and slaughtered meat. He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth

and chin. It did not matter. There would, no doubt, be other women.

“So, do you return to our boat, go back up the Meduway? Or do you try

for some more sport?” Although he was an older man against the ten and six

of Vitolinus, he tactfully looked to the younger lad for the decision-making.

Vitolinus was the son, grandson, and nephew of kings, to him fell the position

of liege lord; this was his war. The sky would fall on the lad’s head when

the Pendragon returned home, not on mere followers. Aside, Vitolinus was

intelligent enough to look for guidance when it was needed. As he did now,

for the lad was turning, with a distorted grin, his eyes reflecting the glare of

orange, smoke-wreathed light, the scar running along his cheek giving him a

look of hideousness.

“The night is young, my old friend, and as you say, ’tis a pity about

the women.” He sprung full around, with a bark of laughter slapped his

companion and adviser on the back as he sauntered past, heading for the

shadowed woodland rising to the west of the steading. To the men he called,

“Hoist the choice of carcasses into the trees for safe keeping, we will collect

them on the return journey.” And with an expression that was more sneer

than grin, exclaimed, “I have a taste to roast more than one whore-son’s

family in their beds this night!”