Shadow of the King (26 page)

not question her, for they cared little for anything beyond the immediate neces-

sity to place one foot before the other.

The other woman walked beside the two Saxons who carried between them

the Pendragon. She had spoken three words only, “I am Morgaine,” but this

meant nothing to Bedwyr or his companions. Only Mabon thought he had

once heard the name, but with mind fogged and so utterly tired he had no

strength to pursue the thought of questioning further. She walked in silence,

in her arms a boy of little more than three years of age, his thumb stuffed in his

mouth, his wide, frightened eyes staring and staring at the man they said was

dead. Arthur would have known her, for her son was his son, she it was who

had once had the title of Lady, who had lived serving the Goddess by the Lake

of Yns Witrin. But that was a while and a while ago. She was only Morgaine

now. Morgaine the Healer. And Arthur was dead.

Mathild spoke briefly to Bedwyr, though his body was too tired and his mind

too dazed to listen with care. “I came back to watch,” she explained, “though

Arthur’s orders were that I was to go, put as many miles of safety as possible

between us.” She glanced ahead, at the Saxons carrying, as reverently as if they

were carrying a god, her beloved lord. “I could not go without seeing this

thing finished. Not after the sharing of so much, with one so—” Her words

faltered, choked. “So kind to me.” She mastered the tears, for Bedwyr’s sake

as well as her own. Were one to break, they would all crumble. This forced

pace, the matter-of-fact passing of information, was nothing but a shield, a wall

to shelter behind. Keep the anguish and despair caged, tight-reined. Once out,

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it would run like wildfire fanned before a summer wind. “I wish now,” she

said candidly, “I had not come back, yet if I had not…” She did not finish. No

point in saying that which Bedwyr would know for himself.

“She was there, among the trees. We met by chance.” Mathild indicated

Morgaine, but said no more. They had shared but few words, the two women,

while watching with growing horror the killing below that incline, spread

before them out along the edge of the marsh. But those few words were

enough; enough to convey that they watched for the same man, enough to

cling together for support and comfort when they saw the Dragon Banner cut

down. Knew one of those men dying nearby to be the man they both loved.

Neither of them, Mathild knew, would ever forget this day.

“We will stop soon,” she announced, “when my men think it safe to do so.”

She trusted these men, men who, before they were taken into the indignity of

slavery, had been acclaimed warriors, skilled soldiers, who had fought beneath

the command of the Saxon leader, Odovacer—for two of them, beneath her

own husband. Arthur had been no fool when he accepted such slaves into his

army. Had been no fool when he had given them their freedom, weapons,

and armour, demanding nothing in return save their sworn oath of loyalty

to Mathild, Lady of the Elbe. An oath not truly required, for they were her

people, her blood.

“Get her home,” he had ordered that last evening. “Whatever the gods bring

for me against Euric, get the lady home to her land along the Elbe.”

“Soon,” she said again, “we will halt. And do what has to be done.”

Three

They walked until it was too dark to see where they put their

feet. The farmsteading was a lowly place, a barn, a few dung-stinking

cattle pens, a round, wattle-built dwelling. The man of the steading had

come out at their arrival, looking them over suspiciously, nose wrinkled, axe

solid in his hand. Reluctantly, he agreed to allow them to build a fire, rest

a while. He would not let them inside his house-place, a snarl and his back

turning as he stumped away from them, his decided answer on Mathild’s

polite asking.

“Please,” she begged, running after him, “at least grant shelter for our wounded.”

“You be nothing to do with me or my kin, neither you nor them soldiers.

Your fight t’ain’t naught to do wi’ me. Use my field to rest in, but be you gone

by mornin’.”

The door to the house-place had been open, and as he shambled through

into the dim-lit interior, Mathild had an impression of children watching, and

a woman gathering them inside as her man entered. The door was shut firm,

the poor, ragged family on one side, the last remnants of Arthur’s once-proud

Artoriani on the other.

The fire they had built was small, but enough to heat a few, rough-made

oatcakes. Barely enough for tired men, but better than an empty belly.

The flames gave only dim light. Morgaine saw as best she could to Arthur,

cleaning away some of the grime and blood, tending him with the love she

had felt for him since the days of early childhood, when he had been the

first, the only other being to smile with warmth at her. Her boy was curled

asleep with a cloak wrapped snug around him, his back firm against the

solidity of a tree.

Only Mathild heard the other woman’s low intake of breath, followed by

a quick, flurried movement. Alerted, she observed Morgaine a moment, saw

her hands lay still over the place where the heart should beat, saw her fingers

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move to where the rhythm of blood should pulse within the neck. Watched as

Morgaine put her cheek to Arthur’s blue-tinged lips.

Unhurried, Mathild licked oat crumbs from her fingers, stood, wandered

towards Morgaine as if to offer assistance. No one followed her, not even with

their eyes. The British were too tired, heads drooping, most already sleeping

where they sat. The Saxons, the few who were not sent to scout behind for

signs of being followed, too busy with the sharing of the only wine skin.

Mathild squatted opposite Morgaine, boldly put her own fingers to the naked

skin of Arthur’s chest, felt nothing. Searched for the beat in his neck and put

her cheek to his lips, as Morgaine had. Sat back on her heels, each woman

looking direct, challenging, into the eyes of the other.

Morgaine looked away first, her eyes flicking, briefly, to Arthur’s sunken

face, before going back again to Mathild.

“He lives,” she said, “but it will not be for long, for in this darkness I know

not what damage has been done. I cannot heal what I cannot see.”

“A few hours and it will be light.”

Morgaine shrugged, said nothing. A few hours? It might be too late in a few

hours. Yet he had clung, somehow, and if only by the most slender, fragile of

threads to life thus far.

Running, boots scuffling fast. The Saxons around the fire were on their feet,

weapons drawn, and for all their tiredness, the British were not far behind them.

The women stood, Morgaine moving swiftly to her sleeping boy. The

relief showing clear when their own kind came into the small clearing, the

Saxons sent behind as scouts. The relief lingering momentarily only, for the

news was bad.

“We are being followed. Thirty, mayhap forty men.”

A few flurried questions. Were they sure? Was that possible, in the dark?

How far behind were they? Immaterial questions, for already Mabon was

kicking earth and turf over the fire, already they were gathering cloaks tighter,

collecting possessions and weapons, preparing to move out.

With a despair Bedwyr thought could become no deeper, he looked at the

body of Arthur. Morgaine had lain him out, had half-covered him with the

banner, his Dragon Banner. “Have we time,” he enquired, “to bury him?”

The Saxons looked from one to another. They had not, but they could not

leave the Pendragon, nor could they make much speed with taking him.

“I will see to him,” Morgaine said. “I will hide with him and my son in the

darkness until they have gone by, then I will see to his grave.”

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Bedwyr, the Decurions and Illtud were all for protesting, but Mabon silenced

them with a rough growl. “’Tis sense. We can do no more for him. ’Tis our

duty now to head our eyes for Britain, take word of this bad day home.” He

shook his head. An unwelcome but necessary duty.

Still they were for protesting, but it was useless argument. They each, in turn,

bid their farewells to their king, Illtud taking the bloodied and torn banner.

The Dragon Banner, Arthur’s. Mabon had given Bedwyr the sword, the great

sword Arthur had taken in battle from a Saxon, and as he stood by the man he

had once called lord, Bedwyr held that sword before him. “I will take this,”

he said, “but I would with all my heart that there was one worthy to use it as

you have used it.” He swung away, trudged after the others, already beyond

the clearing.

Mathild kept her counsel. She saw no reason to tell them Arthur was not,

yet, quite dead. For if she did, they would insist on staying or carrying him

again. And either option, she guessed, would bring his end. And theirs.

She hoped only the one thing. That, should the gods grant him their favour,

and if by some great miracle he should survive, she hoped that someday, if it

were not possible for him to do so himself, the woman, Morgaine, would send

word of it.

Four

October 469

Gwenhwyfar was playing with Archfedd. She was a happy child,

full of giggles and smiles; enjoyed, as much as her mother, this shared,

especial moment before she was taken to her bed. Beyond the solid walls of the

chamber, the wind howled around the height of Caer Cadan. Occasion ally, the

hearth-fire and braziers would flicker as a tendril of the outside rage found its

way through a gap or crack, then the colourful tapestries that graced the walls

would lift also, flap weakly. Neither mother nor child noticed. They were safe

and warm, cocooned in this, their place, their home.

The door opened, not unexpected, allowing in a rush of cold air, a gust of

power that ruffled everything within. Gwenhwyfar did not look up or round,

for her back was to the door, but Archfedd pulled her favourite wooden doll

closer, her eyes widening, mouth shaping into a silent “oh.”

The door was shut, thudding closed, shutting out the anger of the night. Feet

shuffled, the damp smell of rain on woollen cloaks, hair and skin. A cough. The

unmistakable presence of men.

Gwenhwyfar swivelled around, Archfedd’s other doll in her hand, not

worrying to rise, expecting the newcomer to be Ider, or another officer. Her

face paled, eyebrows furrowed. Slowly, she stood up, the doll falling, forgotten,

to lay face down among the scattered floor rushes. Her eyes told her what she

saw, but her mind was numb, silent, and dark. No one spoke; there came only

the sound of the wind and the vivid crackle of logs burning in the fire.

There were three men. Three men, wind-tousled and rain-wet, two of

whom Gwenhwyfar would never have expected to enter her private chamber

unannounced. Her eyes roved from one to the other—questions poised, stuck

like a bone in her throat—rested on the third man, tall, square-chinned, dark-

haired and eyed. Dark, sad, tired, red-rimmed eyes.

“Bedwyr?” she whispered, almost a’feared to utter the name aloud. “Bedwyr?

Why come you here? And with Ambrosius?” Her gaze flickered to the third

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 6 1

man, knew him as an officer, Illtud. Found the same haggard, twisted look

about his expression.

The door was behind them. Was it to open soon, was another man, a man so

cherished, so loved, to come banging through at any moment? But it remained

shut. No one else entered. And no one spoke or moved.

The three-year-old girl could sense something was wrong, this quietness

was frightening. The three men, standing so still before the door, intimidating.

She clutched her doll tighter to her chest, toddled to her mother’s side, slid her

pudgy hand between Gwenhwyfar’s cold fingers, and snuggled her small body

against the comfort of her mother’s leg.

Gwenhwyfar was not even aware she was there, for her eyes, her mind, was

directed upon Bedwyr, upon the sword he was holding in his hand.

Only one man had the honour of owning such a sword. It was unique,

forged, so story told, by the gods and given to the world of mortals by the

hand of the goddess. Arthur’s sword. Still her thoughts were unmoving, frozen,

unable to bear to think upon the meaning of all this. Arthur’s sword. Arthur.

She swallowed, her throat tight, constricted, the scream swelling in her

stomach churning higher.

Her eyes asked the question. Bedwyr’s brief, downward nod answered.

She put the back of her hand to her mouth, did not notice the pain from her

teeth, stuffing that scream away, back down. She shook her head, one slow,

unaccepting movement, the one word coming, denying. “No.”

“You have my deepest sorrow, Madam. This news is not palatable to either

of us.” Ambrosius felt awkward, knowing she would not believe him, but it