Shadow of the King (20 page)

her as wife.”

Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes, silently concluding a prayer. If Cadwy had not

responded as she had bargained…Ah well, was life not one long sigh of “if”?

Thirty-Two

June 469

Arthur stifled a yawn. He had slept badly again and now had to

sit listening to this imbecile whining about lost slaves. Several times he

found his mind wandering, the despair and aching loss hammering persistent in

his brain and heart.

“And, so my lord,” the little man stammered, anxiously twisting his woollen

cap around and around in his fingers, “if you could, in your royal benevolence,

but see your way to…” He trailed off, fiddled more earnestly with his head-

gear. Exactly how did a mere farmer command a king to return his slaves?

Rubbing tired eyes with the fingers of one hand, Arthur reread the letter

held in his other, trying to concentrate, to blot out the memory of those words

spoken two weeks past. He groaned. Why could the Bishop Sidonius Apollinaris

never write plainly? All this flowery, meandering language and exaggerated

flattery! “
I am a direct witness of the conscientiousness which weighs on you so heavily,

and which has always been of such delicacy as to make you blush for the wrongdoing of

others
.”
What a piled heap of bullshit!

“Your benefactor is mistaken,” Arthur stated blandly. “I have no interest

whatsoever in the laws and justice of this Country, beyond that which affects

my men.”

The little man coloured, said nothing. “I also have been informed, on

many occasions, that I have no conscience or morals. A strong king cannot

afford the first, and I have never been over impressed by the latter.” Arthur

read on, scanning the second paragraph, let the parchment roll up on itself

and took up the leather-bound book from the table beside him, an accompa-

nying gift from Sidonius. A small volume, its rough-cut parchment pages well

stitched, bound between a stiffened leather cover, the text carefully copied

in lines of neat handwriting. The
Carmina
, a publication of the bishop’s

prolific poetry. Arthur frowned at the thing. Was he expected to read it?

He had no use for such egotistic prattlings. As if it were some everyday

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

wax-tablet communication, Arthur tossed the book across the width of his

tent to Bedwyr, who sat cross-legged consuming a second bowl of breakfast

on Arthur’s rumpled bed. The book fell short, fell to the floor; a page loos-

ened by the discourteous handling, fluttering out. “You have time to read,

cousin. You have the thing,” Arthur declared.

The farmer had followed the book’s trajectory with his sorrowful eyes, his

mouth curving deeper into a drooping expression of despair as it fell. Books

were expensive items; he had never even seen one until this day. All he wanted

was his slaves back and to return forthwith to his farm. It was only a small,

unassuming place, situated fifty miles south of Avaricum, but it was pleasant,

bordering the banks of the River Allia. And it prospered. For several years

running the harvest had been good, yielding a high crop of grain and grape. At

least, it had prospered until this British man came here with his army.

These past months, as Arthur had marched along the course of the Liger,

young men in their hundreds had deserted the land to flock to join with

Riothamus. All well and good for the free-born, but when the slaves ran off,

who was there left to do the work? In desperation, the smaller landowners had

put their enjoined case before the newly consecrated Bishop of Augustonemtum.

Sidonius had been most sympathetic, but not exactly helpful. In this little man’s

private opinion, written letters never achieved as much as the spoken word.

Now, if only the eloquent bishop were standing here in the king of Britain’s

command tent…No doubt the good bishop thought himself correct to urge

that Riothamus was a fair-minded man, that a case of wrongdoing, if put before

him, would be judiciously and impartially judged. But the farmer wondered,

shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot, whether the bishop truly understood

the reality of situations. He was not an educated man, he was a farmer, he could

not read or write, nor was he assertive or vocal. He farmed his land, raised

his sons, kept himself to himself; but even he could see he was going to get

nowhere because this British king was not the amiable, courteous, gallant man

Sidonius had expressed him to be.

As each minute passed, he began to wish fervently he had never allowed

himself to be persuaded to come here. Never had he seen so many men encamped

in one place. More than two thousand, he had been told. Why, even when the

local folk gathered back home their number of twenty and four seemed a huge

crowd! But all this, the noise, the bustle—the stench! And they all seemed such

large, boisterous men. Several times he had been buffeted—they assured him

accidentally—as he came through the throng of tents and men. He was only a

1 1 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

humble man, was finding the enormity of everything quite beyond him. Nor

did it help matters that this man Arthur was known to have been fostering foul,

black moods these last weeks. Word had been passed around, even as far as his

humble farmsteading, of the king’s loss, of the message from Britain, telling of

his wife’s illness. It was sad to lose a wife—he himself had lost three—but death

was a part of life and had to be accepted. To the farmer’s modest opinion, it

was not fitting for a man to grieve so long for a mere woman. A day or two

of public mourning was quite sufficient, a Mass spoken, some gift in her name

made to the Holy Church. But this excessive reaction? Unfitting, unnecessary.

There were, after all, plenty of women to fill an empty bed-place.

“There are no runaway slaves within my army, I assure you,” Arthur stated.

“If you were careless enough to allow them to escape, well,” he spread his hands,

expressive, his meaning unspoken. “They will be long gone by now. Saxons,

were they?” He did not wait for answer. “Scuttled back to their homeland, I

would warrant.” He was lying, but then the Pendragon was a proficient liar.

“I beg your pardon,” the farmer blurted, becoming desperate, “I know they

came to you.”

Arthur said nothing.

Emboldened, the farmer continued with his contradiction. “A few of your

officers rode by way of my farm many weeks past. They were recruiting, they

said.” He nodded his head sharply, as if to emphasise
so what do you think of

that
? “Within a day, my slaves had gone! Vanished! Stole out in the night.”

Gloomily, he added, “They took some bags of grain and baked bread with

them, too.” For good measure, finished, “And some of my best wine.”

Mithras’ blood
, Arthur thought,
save me from such imbeciles
! “Do you think, then,

that some of these men who intend to fight with me, to save your lands and

your farms, have been lenient with the truth about where they came from?”

The farmer missed the sarcasm, mistakenly took the statement as compliant

acquiescence. Eagerly he nodded; then cast a slow, conspiratory glance over his

shoulder, took one, bold step forward. He licked his lips.

Anticipating a shared secret, Arthur leant forward from his stool. “I think,”

the farmer opined in a loud whisper, again glancing over his shoulder to ensure

no one else; aside the king and his cousin were listening, though the tent was

empty save for the three of them, “I think your officers deliberately enticed

away my slaves!”

Feigning incredulity Arthur sat back, a shocked expression to his face.

“Surely not?”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 1 9

The farmer nodded, once. Triumphant.

“Would you know these officers again? Recognise them?” Arthur ques-

tioned, again leaning forward.

“Oh aye, I clearly recall all four. I even saw two of them as I made way

through your encampment!” Emboldened, the farmer straddled his legs, folded

his arms. “Most distinctive they all were. One had a scar running from here to

here.” The farmer brought his finger down his cheek, from eye to chin. “And

another was dressed in a wolf-skin, an older man, craggy-faced. Too old for

effective fighting, I would wager.” The farmer shook his head. What hope had

the citizens of this fair province when they were protected by a rabble such as

this? Enticers of slaves, old men, a king reported to blub like a child every night

because of the loss of a wife…He sighed. They needed real soldiers, legions,

the Eagles. Euric, this barbarian, would not have dared linger so long had the

soldiers of Rome been here in Gaul. Ah, real, proper soldiers they had been!

Arthur looked to Bedwyr, commanded he find these two officers, bring

them without delay to his presence. His lazy smile was reassuring.

The farmer relaxed. Had he misjudged this Riothamus? Was he about to

give justice after all?

It was some ten minutes before two men ducked through the tent opening and

saluted, followed at heel by Bedwyr who again seated himself comfortably on

Arthur’s bed. His face, like the king’s, was impassive, but the laughter was there,

bubbling almost beyond control beneath the surface, sparkling in his eyes.

One of the officers was indeed rugged of face and as tough-looking as old

leather. He wore a shabby, but much loved, wolf-skin. He was Mabon, a

trusted, long-serving, loyal man who had also served the other Pendragon,

Uthr, Arthur’s father. The other officer was younger, but as loyal. Mabon

spoke first, his face thrusting forward, eyes scowling, expression as fierce as the

wolf-head that served as his cloak hood. “The others are hunting my lord king,

for this night’s supper.”

Arthur nodded curtly, wasted no further time with formalities. He addressed

the farmer, pointing his hand at the two officers. “Are these the two?”

“Aye, I would recognise them anywhere!” Proud of his personal achieve-

ment, the farmer stood, arms folded, chin jutting. “I saw them speak to my

slaves—enticing them away!”

The Pendragon’s voice came harsh, a bark of contempt and wrath.

Frightened, the farmer scrabbled backwards a pace or two. “Then I trust you

are no more than a fool, not a deliberate mischief-maker intent on wasting my

1 2 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

time!” Arthur bounced to his feet, came menacingly close. The man backed

away further, mouth opening and closing, speechless, eyes bulging. Arthur’s

anger was in full spate. Gods! They had begged him, these people of Gaul, to

come here, pleaded for his help! All these months he had trailed in the wake

of the ineptitude of this Country’s damned government, had been promised,

and promised again, the reinforcements he so needed to get this thing finished

and done with—promised support, financing…all of it empty words spouting

from empty breaths. Those few who saw sense, who recognised the reality of

Euric’s cold shadow blotting the sun, had willingly joined him—aye, and those

few who were not free to choose their own destinies, but what cared Arthur for

that? He needed men, men willing to fight. Slave or free-born he cared little.

It was their strength he needed, not their background. He lashed out at this

unfortunate who epitomised all the crass stupidity typical of his kind.

“These two men are among the most trusted of my officers, they are too

valued to employ their time on mere recruitment!” Arthur flapped his hand,

effectively dismissing his men, trusting they would not show open grins this side

of the entrance. Another lie, of course. His valued, experienced men obtained

the numbers he needed to fight, for they knew Euric’s numbers now. Numbers

far greater than Arthur had under his command.

He nodded to Bedwyr, who rose, gestured with finality that the farmer was to

leave, the matter settled. Bewildered, wondering where he had been mistaken,

the little man bowed, made to leave, his hopes shattered. How would he run

his farm with no one save himself and five young sons to work it?

“There will be a great battle in these parts soon,” Arthur stated, making the

man pause, turn reluctantly around. “If I do not have sufficient men to fight it

with me, then you’ll not need workers for your farm.”

Arthur was turning away, reaching for other letters on his table, said, his back

to the tent entrance, “Euric, if I cannot stop him, when he comes, will take

more than your slaves.”

Bedwyr, peering through the open flap, one arm resting on the tent pole,

watched the man go tottering down through the lines, head ducked, face red

against the trail of laughter that cantered after him. He only hoped those Saxon

slaves had the sense to keep their skinny carcasses hidden for a while.

“That was neatly done,” he chuckled, turning back into the tent and saun-

tering over to stand behind his cousin. “Of course, he knew you lied.”