Shadow of the King (29 page)

These rebellious British in the north would be content if left alone. Could

be dealt with later. The Saex? The Saxons were waiting to see what happened

with the British, and between themselves. Waiting to see who made the first

move. Who would prove to be the stronger.

Every leader’s nightmare: that the enemy would agree to settle their differ-

ences and unite.

For a while, Ambrosius was safe there. The Anglians considered themselves

too aloof from Aesc’s Jutes of the Cantii territory to join in a chosen fight with

them. Aesc’s father, Hengest, had been a mercenary soldier, homeless, landless; the

various independent lords of Anglia and the North Humbrenses were noble-born,

princes, kings from their own birthright, they scorned the line of Hengest with as

much distaste as they did the British. For the others, the South Saxons were too

new-settled, with not enough strength to brave a foray beyond their insignificant

lands; likewise, the Saxons along the Tamesis, the East and Middle Saxons, and

those settled along the South Ridge were no threat. At least, not yet.

Aesc had little to lose if he decided to run against the British, and much to

gain. He was wealthy enough to be able to buy himself into some other place

should he come out of a fight the worse off. He held lands, through his wife,

in Northern Gaul. As easy for a Saxon to live under Childeric’s law as under

Ambrosius’s. He could lose his life and respect, but to a Saxon neither were

of consequence when weighted against the kudos of possible victory. It was

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regarded as honourable for a Saex to be killed in battle; respect was given to the

warlord, the leader, the Bretwalda. Ah, there was the danger! It needed only one

man, one arrogant Saex, who thought he had more strength than others of the

English kind. One Saxon to award himself the title Bretwalda and become the

Supreme, Woden-blessed, King. Aesc seemed to be courting that title. Little to

lose. Much to gain. King of all Britain. King, at least, over the English.

Ambrosius had reached his seat, settled himself comfortable. Could Aesc

aspire to such a height? Or was that privilege waiting some other for the next

year, or the next? For the lord Winta of the Humbrenses? For the Anglian Icel,

or Aelle of the South Saxons?

“My lords and gentlemen,” Ambrosius began. It was no good, he would

have to be honest, could not conceal the situation with half lies, half-truths. As

Arthur would have done. “My emissary was returned from Aesc two days past,

the last of those I sent out.”

A few in the Council sat forward, interested.

Ambrosius studied all their faces, their expressions. Some eager, glowing with

the prospect of a fight—the tribal lords mainly, the petty kings, those who had

agreed to remain under the supremacy of Ambrosius, men such as Amlawdd,

who expected much from the new supreme leader. Too much? Others seemed

dour or irate. The bishops, the clergy. They could ill-afford a war. A few even

seemed bored. One man, elderly, admitted and known to be hard of hearing,

was asleep. Ambrosius sighed. Arthur would have had his sword out to such an

insult. Christ’s good name, why was he forever thinking what Arthur would

have been doing?

So, it was the whole truth, not hiding anything. “My entrusted man, who,

in peace, had taken word that Aesc was to submit in homage to me as overlord,

came back with his ears sliced from his head, his fingers severed and his tongue

cut out!”

Shouts of rage, men stamping to their feet, hands and fists waving. The

elderly lord, as deaf as stone, slept on. Cries for action to be taken against all

the heathen Saex.

“Aesc has declared war!” Ambrosius called, raising his voice, attempting not

to reach an undignified shout. “He has joined with Vitolinus! We need to fight

the Jutes of Cantii.”

“Can we?” someone called, thinking practically. They were crowding

forward, huddled together before Ambrosius. Anxious, alarmed, their given

opinions and suggestions mingling.

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“Strike the impudent bastards now!”

“Burn them in their hovels!”

“Drive them back to the sea!”

“Aye, we ought have done so years ago!”

“Have we the men?”

“Of course we have!”

Patting the air with his spread hands, Ambrosius appealed for calm. “That

is the point,” he emphasised. “We have not!” He stood to regain attention.

Could see now why Arthur had spent so much of his time on his feet at these

meetings. “Arthur had not as many men in his army as I—but his men, the

Artoriani, were professionals, drilled and drilled again. I have but a few hundred

with as much dedication and spirit as they, and half of them are what remains

of that Artoriani! The rest, the bulk of our fighting men, come from militias

and tithed quotas. Arthur relied on such as padding, extras for garrison duty and

reserves. He could fight where and when and how he chose, not relying on any

save his own bound, brotherhood of men!”

“Then he had no right to take them from Britain!” Someone shouted it out,

the Bishop of Venta Bulgarium, Ambrosius thought. The cry was taken up,

variations on the same theme.

Angry, Cadwy pushed forward, making way by striking out with his

crutch, earning himself black stares, curses; but, determined, he thrust his

way to the forefront.

Ambrosius had been embarrassed to discover his son here, but it was an

emotion he had been forced to swallow. The lad was here by right of being the

appointed lord of a stronghold. Badon was his, the fortified Caer that dominated

the Great Ridge Way. One of Arthur’s places—Gwenhwyfar’s. She had given

it to him. Why, Ambrosius could not understand. A cripple with a hag for a

wife, to hold and, God forbid, soon, too soon, need to defend. There were

others more suited to the granting of such a prestigious holding, but Cadwy had

it, and there was nothing Ambrosius could do against it.

“My lord, I wish to speak.” Formal, Cadwy addressed his father. Few in this

council followed correct procedure. Ambrosius nodded permission.

“I have the floor, my lords! I will speak!” Cadwy found he had need to

repeat his claim for attention several times. He rapped the foot of his crutch on

the stone floor, gained reluctant ears and eyes.

“May I remind you all,” he said candidly, “that it was Council who voted

that Arthur Pendragon must take half of his men away into Gaul? He had no

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wish to go beyond the boundaries of Less Britain. You forced his decision.

Must I also remind Council it was you yourselves,” and he lifted his crutch,

swung it in an arc, pointing it at each and every man, “at Yns Witrin, who

unanimously voted that Arthur, our king, was not to be encouraged home!”

Disagreement, cries of “no,” “lies,” and “shame.” Cadwy countered swiftly.

He fumbled beneath his toga—Council insisted on dressing in the traditional

style—brought out a parchment, waved it at the dissidents. “This is a copy of

the reached agreements, as written by the clerk of that Council.” He flourished

it higher. “Your voting is recorded by black ink on a scrolled parchment!”

Bolder than his fellows, recently appointed, the Bishop of Aquae Sulis spoke

out. “We have no need of Arthur. We will call out the militia and assemble our

own men—and we will send for Rome to help us!”

The suggestion was well received, was taken up. “Aye! Send to Rome!”

“Rome will help rid us of these Saxon parasites!”

Men were bustling to their seats, someone called for the vote, hands were

raised, aye had it. Cheering, patting each other on the back, men began to leave

the chamber, assuming business for the day to be concluded.

Ambrosius fumbled for his own chair, slumped, head in hands. For not even

one year around had he ruled in Arthur’s stead and already his hopes and dreams

were proving to be nothing but ash and dust. He groaned.

Why had he not seen that Arthur, for all his arrogance and temper and faults,

had been right?

Nine

I am thinking,” Cadwy said into the echoing emptiness of the Council

chamber, “that it is no easy matter, to be a king.”

His father lifted his head from his hands, though his fingers remained spread

across his cheeks. They had all gone, save for Cadwy and the clerk, a scrawny

noviciate who was gathering together his scribe’s equipment.

“I am no king,” Ambrosius answered, but without the strident conviction

that this retort usually conveyed.

Cadwy shrugged. “Title is unimportant; it is the doing that counts.” He walked

a few paces nearer his father, his crutch tapping, leg dragging. “And what will you

do? Nothing? Or follow Council’s blindness and make appeal to ears that will no

longer hear?” His words were a direct challenge; he expected rebuke.

Ambrosius sighed, eased the tiredness from his eyes, and face by rubbing his

fingers across the tight skin. “Do? What can I do?” He stood, spread his hands.

“God’s truth, Cadwy, I do not know for certain what to do.” He snorted

self-derision. “I am, unfortunately, not an Arthur.”

Quirking a half-smile, Cadwy cocked his head to one side, uncertain whether

he could tease his father. “There is no reason why you could not be. You only

have to rid yourself of a few prejudices, learn how to lie and fight, and become

a total bastard.”

Eyes narrowing, Ambrosius regarded his son carefully. There was something

different about him. The style of hair and the dress were unchanged; he still

favoured his weight onto the undamaged leg, giving his body an imbalance. His

eyes were brighter, more alive, but it was not that.

To his son’s surprise, the father also smiled. “I thought you already regarded

me as a bastard.”

Cadwy laughed outright. “Oh aye, I do, but that is a personal viewpoint;

others think of you as a saint. Hardly a description that can be applied to

Arthur’s memory!”

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“His men thought him even higher! A god.”

“Alas, gods are immortal. Arthur was not.”

It occurred to Ambrosius this was, perhaps, the first amicable conversation he

had held with his son. “Your wife,” he asked, after clearing his throat several

times, “she is well?”

Cadwy’s expression brightened, glowed with pleasure and pride. “Most well.

The child is due within the next month.”

Clearing his throat again, for he found himself feeling unexpectedly awkward

and ill at ease. Ambrosius added, “I wish her safe delivered.” More unexpected,

he truly meant it. A grandson. A grandson! He chuckled, invited his son to

walk with him from the chamber. “This would displease Arthur. Something

Winifred said once to me has proven to be so.”

“Really?” Cadwy was tempted to ask further of the matter, thought better

than to pry over-close, but his father, opening the door for them both to pass

through, volunteered the information himself.

“She implied a grandson could make up the ground lost between us.

Slightly hesitant, “If you wish it to be so.”

“Of course, it may be a girl-child.”

“It may.” Cadwy met his father’s eye, defiant, bold, announcing either would

be welcomed, as equally loved by the child’s parents.

They walked together, Ambrosius matching his pace to his son’s. Evening

was settling, the swifts were busy, swirling and swooping, noisily darting

after their supper, the sky a warm red, promising another day of sun on

the morrow.

“If Ragnall bears a girl-child,” again that defiant tone had come into Cadwy’s

speech, “she will be named after my mother.” He expected some reaction, an

indrawn breath, a rebuke. Nothing. They walked on, along the narrow cobbled

streets of Aquae Sulis, easing past an ox-pulled cart, a woman carrying a basket

of soiled linen destined for the fuller’s place, some drunkards singing loudly and

out of tune before a crowded tavern.

Abruptly Ambrosius announced, “Your mother was no beauty; she would

often remark her features were plain, her eyes were too small, her mouth

too large. Yet to me,” and his voice choked with the memory of the wife

he had loved so dearly, “to me, she was more beautiful than ever a Venus

could be.”

She had been murdered when Cadwy was a child in arms. Murdered by the

brutality of Saex pirates who came raiding one autumn afternoon. Raped and

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murdered, their child daughter with her. The boy had been spared, for a slave

had hidden him. A cruel jest, that, having been spared, the boy had later fallen

so ill, become so lame.

Hah! Ambrosius checked himself. He was in danger of becoming sentimental,

and that he could not allow.

They had reached his apartments, a grand building, suited for the High

Governor of All Britain. Ambrosius offered dinner, but the younger man

refused, declaring he had arranged to meet with friends.

“So what will you do now?” Cadwy asked.