Shadow of the King (21 page)

“He had no means to prove it, though.” Arthur sighed, handed his second-

in-command the parchment he had been scanning. “It came this morning.”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 2 1

Quickly Bedwyr read, his expression altering from brief amusement to disbe-

lief, dismay. “They are as near as that?”

Resigned, Arthur nodded. Euric and his Goth army were less than sixty

miles distant.

“And Syagrius?” Bedwyr queried. “Where is his promised army? The men

we were expected to join with, the men who are supposedly to meet us here,

to be at the forefront of this fight?”

The Pendragon laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. “Still encamped at Lutetia.

Apparently they like the climate better there. It is not so,” he laughed again,

wilder, desperate, “not so potentially deadly.”

Thirty-Three

Mathild signed with her hand to the small group of Saxons

hunkered to the south side of her personal tent. The six men acknowl-

edged the “all clear” with appreciative grins and trotted off, chattering amiably,

returning about their business. It had been a close-run thing. If they had been

spotted by their former master…Mathild smiled to herself as she watched them go,

good men, good Saxon men. No Saxon deserved the fate of being taken as slave.

She was certain Arthur would not have turned them over to that greasy-looking

Gaulish peasant; he needed them too much for himself. But had they been seen,

well, it would have created a nasty incident. Sensible to lay low a while.

She considered returning to the Pendragon’s tent, decided against. He was in

no mood for women, for her, these past two weeks. Not since that messenger

had come from Britain, from the man Ambrosius, telling him Gwenhwyfar was

dying. Arthur grieved for her, his conviction he ought not have come here to

Gaul, stayed so long, magnified that grief. He needed no reminder that he had

also betrayed his love by taking a whore to his bed. Could she as easily cease

her needing for him?

Mathild did not share Bedwyr’s optimism that Gwenhwyfar might yet live.

The messenger had spoken of an illness, of the expectation she would not

survive—had said that further news would follow. But nothing had come, no

word, nothing. Did she secretly feel gladdened at that? If Arthur no longer had

a wife, he would have need of another, one day.

Shaking her head, Mathild lengthened her stride more purposefully towards

the women’s corner, the whores’ tents. She had found friends there and a

chance to share women’s gossip. A chance to ascend to her true-born status

also, for the army whores treated her for who she was by birth, and what she

was, the daughter of a noble-born and the mistress of a king. His mistress
ja
, but

his wife? As much as she loved Arthur, that she did not truly want, not in her

heart. She wanted to go home, to her own kindred along the Elbe River, to

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 2 3

claim her rights of land and wealth. As wife to the Pendragon, she could have

more success in claiming it, but Arthur would never help her. Not now. Never

again would he leave his own Britain. If ever he was able to return to it.

She was greeted with smiles of welcome by the women. Sharing a few

passing comments, a brief exchange of idle chatter, she was invited within

Marared’s tent where a whirlwind of young children were tumbling and

playing. A vivacious, pretty girl, Marared was among the favourites of the

whore camp, her tent always a beacon to those who were looking for a warm

bed. The children were a gaggle of varying-coloured hair, different-shaped

faces, skin tones. All hers, none with the same father. The eldest, ten years old,

shook his brothers and sisters from him, emerged from the heaving pile with

a red, laughing, face. The mock-fight had been fast and furious with all seven

of them against himself.

“There are times,” he declared, “when I discover how it must be to fight

many times your own number in battle!”

Mathild agreed, helping him out of the melee. “These ruffians need the

discipline of a Decurion’s drilling!” She patted the nearest on his backside as he

swarmed past with the others. “Get you gone so I can talk with your mother

and be able to hear my own voice!” Squawking and shrieking, they ran out to

join other children. They would find employment around the camp, carrying,

cleaning, chopping wood, mending clothes. The whores’ army, they were

called, the brats who marched with their mothers behind the men. Often

never knowing which man had sired them, not caring. One father was as good

as another.

The eldest, last to leave, tossed a query at Mathild as he passed. “Be there

news?” he asked. “Are we to fight soon?”

“What? Am I one of Arthur’s officers to have the knowing of such?”

“Nay,” the boy jested, “but you be his whore and that makes you know all

that goes on!” Indignant, Mathild swiped at his ear. He ducked, ran, giggling,

to join his siblings.

“That lad’ll be the end of me!” His mother laughed proudly. “Come you in,

m’dear, and we’ll share this jug of wine I’ve acquired. ’Tis good stuff.” Her eyes

twinkling, added, “Comes from an officer pleased with his night’s sport!”

Mathild sat, accepted the wine. It was indeed good quality. They talked

of women’s things, of the youngest babe, the next that was on the way, of

Mathild’s new gown, fashioned from fine-woven wool, a present from the

king some weeks before. Shared amusement over the morning’s trickery,

1 2 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

their laughter growing the louder as Mathild impersonated the farmer,

mocking his predicament.

They fell silent, laying back on the ragged bedding that served for eight

children. The wine was strong.

“Will he let you go, think you? When the fighting comes?”

Mathild did not answer immediately. Would he grant her freedom? “I

think,” she confided, “he would let me go now, were I to ask, but,” she lifted

one hand, emphasising her uncertainty, “but I think also, I would not ask. He is

so lost, so empty. He will soon again need the comfort only a woman can offer.

I would be here for him when that need comes.” Remembering her own past

pain, she added, “It is hard to accept the loss of the one you love, and Arthur

loved Gwenhwyfar, for certain.”

She lay a moment, staring up at the stained, ragged ceiling of the patched,

worn tent. He loved his wife as much as Mathild had come to love him. “I

think,” she whispered, saying her floating thoughts aloud, “should he want me

again, I will not wear my amulet or use the secret things that stop a child from

forming.” She turned her head, “What think you?” But the other woman had

her eyes closed, her mouth open. A gentle snore emanated into the room.

Mathild regarded the ceiling again, watched it swirl and blur.
Ja
, the wine

was good. Too good.

Thirty-Four

Arthur was standing, his fingers hooked through the leather

baldric that carried his sword, watching the distant, glittering light of the

first stars. A calm, quiet evening, the coolness most welcome after the heat of the

day. He was thinking of nothing in particular, a myriad of thoughts come and

gone as sudden as that bat flickering in and out of the trees and between the tents.

He had never known a time when he had felt so miserable, so utterly despondent

and alone. As a boy, when he had learnt of Uthr’s death, his grief had felt like a

weight crushing him. He had not even known Uthr to be his father, then, but

he had loved him, and the losing of that man had come hard. And then, once,

he thought he had lost Gwenhwyfar, thought she had been taken, butchered by

the Saxons, by Hengest and his rabble when they had turned rebellious against

Vortigern. His feelings then had been those of horror and distress—but he had

had the comfort, however slight, of hope. And it had proved right, for he had

found her alive and well, carrying their first child. Llacheu, his first-born son,

the son who had been killed…Arthur tore his mind from those cruel thoughts.

What point this aimless dwelling on the dead? Gwenhwyfar was gone. Dead.

Finished. Ah, love of the gods, how could he exist without her?

Movement behind, the gentle swish of a woman’s robes and aroma of subtle

perfume, the tent flap lifting, a wedge of light flooding out into the darkness.

Mathild. He was grateful to her, for she was one of those rare women who knew

when a man needed the solitude of silence or the companionship of talk.

She came to stand beside him, with sincere fondness, slid her arm around his

waist, stood looking as he did, up at the stars pricking the darkening sky, sharing

his reverie. Absently, he laid his hand over hers, his fingers twining with her

own. She would never love him as deeply as she had once loved her husband,

but Arthur, despite his sudden tempers, was capable of being a kind and loving

man. You had to know him, know the man, the reality that lay hidden beneath

the hard exterior.

1 2 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“What will you do?” she asked, knowing he would understand to what

she referred.

“Stop him from coming further north.” He sighed, squeezed her fingers

again. “That is all I can do. There is no choice in the matter.”

“Is there much hope of being successful?” She did not add any more. They

all knew the answer. Without Syagrius, without his substantial, promised rein-

forcements, knew the answer too clearly.

“Hope?” Arthur said, with a sardonic laugh. “Hope took a swift horse an

hour or so since, and is heeling hard for home.” He turned to her. “You are a

good woman, Mathild, you will make someone a good wife. Choose your next

husband wisely.”

She smiled back at him, her feelings for him plain in the unwitting shine of

her eyes. “I will find it hard to meet with another man like you.”

He smiled. “I hope so! There are, fortunately in some eyes, few like me!”

The camp was settling for the night, to sleep or to gather in comrades’ tents

for dice or board games. For the sharing of ale and wine, or the exchange of

tales of bravado and boasted prowess. A congenial, high-hearted camp, even

with the knowing that soon, they were to meet with Euric.

“Come with me.” Arthur led her back inside the tent, stood her in the

centre, strode to the table where he rummaged through the scattered pile of

letters, wax tablets, and documents. Lists, petitions, correspondence. Took up

two scrolls, rolled and sealed, one larger than the other. He crossed back to

Mathild, handed her both. “Open the smaller one.” He pointed to it, took a

step backward, stood watching as, curious, she glanced from him to the things

in her hand. Encouraging, he nodded his head.

Puzzlement increasing, she wandered to the bed, sat, put the larger scroll

down, broke the seal of the smaller, and read. When she looked up tears glis-

tened on her cheeks. Her voice was tight, the words coming in a quivering

whisper. “It is my freedom.”

Arthur shrugged, as if this were but some light, inconsequential matter.

“Have you ever felt anything but free? You are too independent a woman.”

She bit her lip to stem the great flood of emotion. Looked up at him, more

tears coming. “I can go home?”

He nodded.

“Now?”

He shrugged again with one shoulder. “If you wish.”

She re-read her manumission, signed with Arthur’s flourished signature,

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 2 7

Arthur Pendragon, Riothamus
. Sat, feeling limp, awash with such a mixture of

feelings, not knowing what to say, do.

Casually, aware of her consternation, Arthur crossed to the wine, poured for

himself and her. “I would like it were you to stay this one last night, but that

would be for you to choose, not me to demand.”

A third time she looked up at him, her face and heart glowing with a happi-

ness so great she thought she might burst open, like a seed head that was overfull

of pollen.

Embarrassed, Arthur indicated the second scroll. “Why not open that

one also?”

Almost reluctant—for what further happiness could he give her she did so.

She read quickly, abandoned her restraint of tears, let them fall freely as she

hurried across the tent to hold him, to bury her head in his shoulder as she

wept. The second contained legal freedom for all the Saxon slaves currently

enlisted in Arthur’s force of the Cymry.

Feeling a little awkward, Arthur slid his arm around her. “Well,” he mocked,

“had I known it would upset you so much, I’d not have written the document!”

She pulled away, wiped at her tears with her fingers, laughing aloud. “I am

not upset. I am,” she fumbled for words, admitted, “I know not what I am.”

Drinking his wine in gulps that betrayed his own mixed feelings, Arthur half-

turned away from her, said, “They, too, the men, may leave when they wish.”

Incredulous, her laughter faded. “But you are already too short of men.”