Shadow of the King (2 page)

He nodded, a single, brief movement. “I have to, Cymraes.”

As he knew she would, Gwenhwyfar flared a retort. “Who says you have to?

Your men? Me? No, Arthur, you do not have to answer this asking for help.

Gaul must look to its own defence—as we have had to all these years.”

The Pendragon dismounted, throwing his leg over the two fore-pommel

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

horns of the saddle, and slid to the ground. With the coming of summer, he

would be thirty and three years of age—but he wore the ragged eye-lines of

a man ten years older. It had been a long and often bitter struggle to place the

royal torque around his neck and keep it there. Arthur had been king for eleven

years. And he intended to stay king for, at the very least, twice as many more.

“I am not answering Gaul. I need to give aid to Less Britain, for Armorica is

also of my Kingdom. I personally own an estate three times the size of Aquae

Sulis there—do I turn my back on British people because their land happens

to lie across the sea?” He stepped forward but made no attempt to touch his

wife, knowing she would shrug aside his hand. “The Roman Emperor himself

is pleading for my help—personally asking for my Artoriani to join with his

loyal allies against the barbarians who seem intent on destroying what remains

of Roman Gaul.”

Archfedd was too young to understand the distress in her mother’s eyes, the

determination in her father’s. She was wriggling against Gwenhwyfar’s hold,

her chubby arms stretching for her father to take her. Arthur reached for her,

tossing her high as he took her up, catching her in his strong hands, her dimpled

smile rippling into giggles of delight. All the while he held Gwenhwyfar’s eyes.

“If Gaul falls to the plundering of Euric’s Goths, Less Britain may be next. I

cannot allow that threat to happen.”

“And Britain?” She retorted. “Who will see us kept safe while you are gone?”

Her father’s attention no longer on her, Archfedd was demanding to be

put down. Arthur set her beside a clump of bright-coloured flowers, showed

her how to pick the stems, gather a posy. He straightened, turned, and took

up the reins of his stallion, hauling the chestnut away from cropping the rich

grass. It was difficult for him to spit the answer out, for he knew Gwenhwyfar’s

response. His own heart held the same uneasy misgivings. He mounted, said

the one name.

“Ambrosius.”

Two

Stroking the stone in his hand one last time along the length of his

sword’s blade, Arthur tested the sharpness of the edge with his thumb. It

could slice the wind, this sword. He had taken it for his own from a Saxon in

battle and used its beauty to persuade the British men of the army to proclaim

him as king, by telling them a fanciful tale of its forging. One side of his mouth

twitched into a smile as he remembered that moment of blood-pulsing, glorying

triumph.
The man destined to carry this sword will be the greatest of all kings
. That

is what he had told them, those men who now formed the elite, permanent,

disciplined ranks of his cavalry, his Artoriani. And with them had come the

militiamen and the young warriors of Britain, men who fought when and

where needed for their king as the Brotherhood of the Cymry. The Supreme,

the Bringer of Peace? Huh! He ran his thumb down the shimmering strength

of that craftsman-forged blade, snorted self-contempt. Peace to Britain, but not

his wife. He could not use a sword to cut the ice wall that had formed solid

between them these past few days.

Arthur raised his head. A horse was being pulled up from a canter beyond

the open doorway. An exchange of cheerful greeting mingled with the outside

sounds of voices, children playing, wood-chopping, hammering: the sounds

of a king’s Caer. A young, confident-faced man strode into the Hall, paused

to adjust from the daylight brightness to the shadow-muffled interior, head

up, eye seeking the king among the many. Bedwyr. He saw Arthur, threaded

his way towards him. As he stripped off his helmet and loosened his cloak, his

footsteps thudded on the timber boards and he happily nodded greetings to

others in the Hall, kissing a serving girl who laughed a welcome. He stopped

before his older cousin with a smart salute. Arthur, the sword still across his lap,

accepted the acknowledgement of formal homage.

“We go then?” Bedwyr’s enthusiasm showed white teeth against the dark-

ness of his beard-hidden grin.

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

At least someone was delighted at the prospect.

Sliding the thirty-six inches of potential death into the protection of its

sheepskin-lined scabbard, Arthur nodded assent. “You have heard? Word spreads

faster than a diving hawk. Ships will be sent within the month to fetch us.”

Bedwyr rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Time to get drunk

beforehand?” Added, “Durnovaria is buzzing with the news—talk in the taverns

along the road home is of nothing else.” With a laugh, Bedwyr finished, “It

seems people are pleased at the prospect to be rid of you!”

Arthur laughed with his cousin as he pushed himself upwards to his feet,

slapped his hand on the young man’s back. “I like to keep my people happy. And

aye, we’ll have a hosting for all those wanting to come on this mad-fool escapade.

Barley-brewed ale and the best Gaulish wine, eh?” He began to fasten the jewel-

studded, bronze buckle of the leather scabbard strap around his waist, and glanced

up to see Gwenhwyfar enter the Hall from the far door, coming in from her

small patch of garden. She wore pale green, the colour of new-budded leaves,

with ribbons of a darker shade braided through the copper-gold of her hair. His

stomach tightened as it often did whenever he saw her, especially as now, with

shafts of dancing sunlight shimmering around her. He felt the sudden stomach-

twisting lurch of desire as she came across the Hall to welcome Bedwyr.

“What is this?” she laughed, pointing at the whiskers around the young

man’s chin. “Three weeks away and you sprout a bush!” She hugged her

husband’s cousin, her own good friend. “How is Geraint? Looking after my

Enid, I trust?”

Bedwyr embraced her in return, batting playfully at the fingers tugging at his

beard. “Geraint’s Enid is settling well into married life—you must no longer

look upon her as your handmaiden; she is a freeman’s daughter, married now

to a prince!”

Gwenhwyfar retorted with matched seriousness, knowing he teased. “How

am I to find a new nurse for Archfedd? Enid was so good with my children—

which is of course why Geraint took her, needing to find a replacement for his

motherless brood.” She relented, “I expect no man of Geraint’s young age to

stay a widower. Enid went to her marriage bed with my full blessing.”

“Which is more than I have for going to Gaul,” Arthur sniped. She ignored

him, kissed Bedwyr’s cheek a second time, and turned to go into the private

chamber built along the rear of the Hall.

Arthur had not slept there these past nights, lying instead among the unmar-

ried men who used the warmth of the King’s Hall for their sleeping place. He

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

had tried, that first night of his home-coming from Ambrosius, to enter his own

rooms, but the atmosphere had been as chill as the longest winter’s night. He

was not welcome; he stayed away.

Sensing the animosity, Bedwyr fashioned a sympathetic expression. “It seems

not everyone is enthusiastic about the prospect of Gaul then?”

“
Na
, not everyone.” Arthur turned the subject. “Does Geraint accompany

you? I need to have a word with him.”

Nodding, Bedwyr confirmed, “Aye, he rides with Enid; they will be here

within the hour. I came ahead.” His grin was returning. “He is eager to come

with us, though I suspect my Lady Gwenhwyfar may find an ally with his

wife.” A thing to be expected; the couple had been married but two months.

Arthur sighed, steered Bedwyr into the corner where the flagons of ale and

wine were stored. Gwenhwyfar was angry with him because she was afraid.

Afraid because she might lose him.

This escalating trouble in Gaul was not their fight, but the barbarian invaders

were increasingly demanding too much land for their own. Land that was once

Roman. Some of it had been given legally, as reward for services to the Empire,

but men like Euric of the Visigoths wanted a kingdom and cared not how

much blood need be spilt to get it. He was not a man to stop until the whole

of Aquitainia was his—and from there it would be Soissons and the land given

in friendship to the Burgundians—or Arthur’s Less Britain. Gwenhwyfar was

afraid because she knew he had to go, was afraid because the ache in her bones

was screaming that he might not come back. Anger was an easier emotion to

face than fear.

The Pendragon, too, was afraid, for all those same reasons and more.

This was a risk he was taking, agreeing to go into Gaul and help in the

fight that would soon be coming there. It was not the fighting—any battle

anywhere was a risk. You came out of it dead or wounded or alive. But to

leave your kingdom to fend for itself for a whole season? A risk that sent the

shudders of fear coursing through his belly. Especially when that kingdom

was poked, prodded, and battered on all sides by its own share of troubles.

And when the majority of men on the Council supported the king’s uncle,

not the king. Men who would like nothing more than to have Ambrosius

as supreme. Not Arthur.

He motioned for a slave to pour them each a tankard of ale, and said in

answer to Bedwyr’s last comment, “Enid has no need to fear, I cannot take

Geraint with us.”

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

Bedwyr took a deep draught of the ale, enjoying the rich, barley-bitter taste; he

raised his eyebrows at his cousin, half-questioning, then nodded, understanding as

he wiped residue from his beard. “Ambrosius?” he queried. Needed no answer.

Ambrosius Aurelianus, youngest brother to Arthur’s father. Ambrosius, who

styled himself the last of the Romans in Britain, titled himself
Comes Britanniarum

because he did not agree with the barbarian title of
rex
, king. Oh, on the surface

these last few years he had patched his differences with the Pendragon, but the

suspicions were still there, on both sides. Stronger for Arthur, who was certain

his uncle was waiting his chance. His God-given chance.

Ambrosius had backed Arthur into this corner from where there was no

escape except agreement. Ambrosius, guiding the Council, insisted Arthur give

aid to Roman Gaul, out of duty, out of loyalty, and out of necessity. For all

those reasons, Arthur had no choice. He had to agree, had to go. Giving the

ideal opportunity for the uncle to be rid of the annoying nephew.

Half-listening to Bedwyr’s excited chatter about his recent visit with Geraint,

Arthur’s eyes watched the closed door to the chamber at the rear. His chamber;

his wife’s. He had to settle this thing with Gwenhwyfar soon, before this wound

festered and turned putrid.

Easier to command the sun to cease its shining!

Three

The evening gather was more than the serving of the day’s main meal.

It was a time for laughter and conversation, of sharing brave deeds and

excited dreams, to air complaint or suggest change, a time when all were

welcomed to the King’s Hall.

Bedwyr this evening was entertaining those within listening distance at his

end of the trestle-table with stories of his visit to Durnovaria, while Geraint,

seated next to him, and amid much laughter, exposed the younger man’s more

gross exaggerations.

Late evening; the sky had already slid into the dusky purple of day’s end,

and night, with the accompanying scent of damp earth, woodsmoke, and the

heady, overpowering perfume of Mayblossom, was wrapping herself, protec-

tive, around the world. The door opened slightly, and Arthur’s gatekeeper

slipped in, making his way between the crowded tables rowed along the length

of the Hall, exchanging word here and there as he passed. He came to Arthur,

talked quietly into the king’s ear. The Pendragon frowned, chewed thought-

fully at the chicken wing in his hand. Those nearby eased their chatter, aware

something was happening; discreetly, curious eyes were glancing at the king,

watchers, with ears pricked, listening for a snippet of conversation.

“It seems,” Arthur declared, setting down the bones and sucking grease

from his fingers, “that my ex-wife seeks an audience.” He barked a single

stab of amusement, caught Gwenhwyfar’s eye as he added, “She begs my

immediate attention.”

Gwenhwyfar frowned. “Winifred asking polite permission to enter our

Hall?” She lifted her goblet in a mocking toast, “I drink to a first-time event!”

Laughing with her, Arthur added, “Aye, usually she barges in demanding my