Shadow of the King (3 page)

attention like a Roman warship under full sail. I often have the impression that

it is I being summoned to her!” Amusement spread through the Hall. They all

knew Winifred: Arthur’s first wife, his much disliked ex-wife.

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

Despite the fact they were legally divorced thirteen years past, and that she

was now widowed from a second husband, Winifred perversely thought herself

the official, and only, Lady Pendragon, Arthur’s legitimate wife, and mother of

his only known surviving son.

Gwenhwyfar muttered a few profanities. The evening that had been toler-

ably enjoyable had of a sudden turned most disagreeable.

“Send word, Arthur, that she is to take lodging at the tavern; our gates are

closed to visitors.”

A wry smile twitched Arthur’s wind-browned face, crinkling the lines around

his dark eyes deeper. Gwenhwyfar was talking to him again. “I wonder what

the bitch wants this time?” He spoke his thoughts aloud, pouring more wine

for himself and his wife.

“To stir trouble. What does she ever want?” Gwenhwyfar laid her hand on

his arm. “Send her away. I have no stomach for her this night.”

Closing his fingers around her hand, Arthur shook his head. “
Na
, best listen

to the Saex-bred sow. On occasion her information—for all her intention of

dung-spreading—has proved of use to me.” He nodded to his gatekeeper, “Go

fetch her up, but keep your distance—her venom is more potent than that of a

disturbed adder!” Those in the Hall, Arthur’s men and their wives, the people

of the Caer, Arthur’s people, laughed, sharing his humour. Aye, they all knew

Winifred’s reputation!

Winifred. An infected thorn in Arthur’s backside. He ought never have taken

her as wife, but at the time it had been a decision beyond choice. He had not

been a king then, only a raw youth, and Gwenhwyfar had been betrothed to

another. Admitted, it was against her will, and had been torn aside through the

brutal murder of her youngest brother, but all that had happened too quickly to

stop his marriage to the Princess Winifred, only daughter of a Saex-born bitch

and the tyrant who had then ruled as king—Vortigern.

Talk resumed, muted, eyes and heads turning frequently to the door to

look for the lady’s coming, though it would take a while for Glewlwyd to

walk the distance back to the main gate, for her to ride through and up the

track, to dismount. The door opened, thrown wide, admitted a woman alone,

although the shadows of her escort were beyond in the new-lit flickering

torchlight. She stepped through, walked with calm dignity along the central

aisle, walked straight to where the king sat. She wore no jewels against the

plain black of her Christian woman’s garb, her sun-gold hair tucked firmly

away beneath the gleaming white linen of her veil. Only a gold-and-silver

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

crucifix dangled from a chain at her waist, its glint catching the flaming light

of torches and candles.

She stopped a few paces before the king’s table and sank to her knees. From

the Hall came a few gasps. Never had Winifred submitted herself in homage

before—even Gwenhwyfar caught her breath. Arthur alone, unimpressed,

kept his expression masked. Too many times had Winifred tossed her tricks of

humble innocence at him.

The gasps grew stronger, more audible, as the black-clad woman prostrated

herself, laying flat as if she were doing penance before God. Gwenhwyfar’s

fingers tightened in Arthur’s hand, her eyes flicking him a puzzled question.

What was Winifred about?

Impatient, slightly embarrassed, Arthur admonished, “Get up, woman. You

are impressing my guests but irritating me. Oh for Mithras’s sake, get up!”

He stood himself, strode around the table, and hauled his ex-wife to her feet.

And then he did feel surprise, for Winifred’s eyes held real, distressed tears,

nothing fake, nothing planned. Tears that had been falling for some while, for

her eyes were puffed and red, her cheeks sore. He had never felt compassion

for Winifred. Too often had she brought him pain and anger, but this once,

just this once, and only passing briefly, did he feel the great weal of sadness

that was pouring from her. A dozen thoughts of tragedy swirled through his

mind. What had happened? The foremost conclusion that her estate on the

south coast had been raided—pirates obeyed their own law of kill or be killed

and gave no respect for peaceful agreement reached between Saex and British.

The sea wolves would as easily raid their own kind, the English, if the lure of

gain was enough to entice their greed, and Winifred’s steading south of Venta

Bulgarium was as enticing as a bee’s nest crammed with sweet honey.

Arthur took her arm, motioned for a slave to bring a stool for her to sit

upon, said, concerned, in the softest tone he had ever used with her, “What is

it? What is wrong?”

Four

The Pendragon hunkered down to his heels beside the distressed

woman, casting a quick glance above his shoulder at Gwenhwyfar, sitting

at the table. She shook her head, a slight gesture, indicating her own concern.

Gwenhwyfar thought like Arthur, a warrior woman, his Cymraes, his British

woman. She understood the dangers, the threats, the possibilities as much as

he. Returning that glance, she lifted her hand, palm uppermost. Ask, she was

saying, what is wrong.

A few others had gathered around, Enid among them, Geraint’s new wife,

the woman who had for so long cared for Gwenhwyfar’s sons. She offered

Winifred a fine-woven linen square to dry her tears; someone else, more

wine. Winifred took both, smiled a wan thank you. Took also a breath, said

with quavering voice, her eyes holding her ex-husband’s, “I need your help,

my lord.” She looked up, stared, only slightly defiant, at Gwenhwyfar before

returning her gaze to Arthur. “You know the agony of losing a son.”

Gods, Arthur thought with a sudden lurch to his heartbeat, is Cerdic dead?

The strangest thing, he did not feel the gloat of pleasure he would have

expected. Neither was there sadness or pain—for that would not be there for

Cerdic—merely a flickering of sorrow for another’s grieving, a bitter memory

of his own losses, that was all. It might have been that she was telling him of a

valued dog’s passing, not the death of his son by her.

Cerdic, conceived in the last months before Arthur had found legal cause to

set the Saex-bred princess aside in divorce. Winifred’s persistence in claiming

the child was Arthur’s only legitimate-born heir had been as annoying as flies

constantly buzzing on a hot day. Beyond that irritation, and then only as an

indistinct shadow for the future, Arthur rarely considered the boy. But then, he

had once had other sons; sons born to Gwenhwyfar, the woman he had always

loved, would always love.

Amr. Gwydre. Llacheu.

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

Amr, drowned when he was but two years old. Gwydre killed by the bloodied

tusks of a boar at his first hunt, at eight years old. And Llacheu. Llacheu the

eldest, Arthur’s firstborn, conceived while Winifred was still his legal wife,

started while Arthur loved with his Gwenhwyfar. Llacheu, killed by the spear

of traitorous rebels. Rebels who had since paid the blood price for that killing

of Arthur’s most loved son. Llacheu, who had been on the verge of young

manhood. First born, last dead.

And then Cerdic, a pestilence Arthur had, on more than one occasion,

threatened with the punishment of death. A boy Arthur detested, but had

eventually acknowledged to silence the malicious threats of the mother. The

enforced acknowledging of one son serving to conceal another. A secret child

born in shadow, illegitimate, to a girl he had barely known, but could, perhaps,

in another time, another world, have loved.

Winifred knew of this child, the boy, Medraut. Gwenhwyfar did not.

Such thoughts, rapid come-and-gone thoughts skimmed through Arthur’s

mind, and more…Where was Medraut now? He would be two, three years of

age—and where was his mother, Morgaine? The lady who had once dwelt by

the lake of Yns Witrin. Morgaine? Another thought of sudden-roused alarm:

Winifred was an accomplished actress, knew how to turn the sympathy of the

crowd. Was this something to do with that secret-born son? Arthur thrust the

disquiet aside. Surely it could be nothing along Medraut’s path? This distress

was genuine, Winifred would not weep over a bastard brat of the Pendragon’s.

Na
, this was for Cerdic, her own-born.

And so he answered, calm, with inner assurance, “We have seen the new-

born with life that could not take hold, and have watched our other sons learn

to talk and walk and run, only to see the light go out from the laughter of their

young eyes.” He paused, the hurt returning as he remembered. “Aye, we know

the pain of a son’s death.”

“Then help me!” she said urgently, taking his hand between her own, clinging

tight as if he were her last link to life. “Find our son! He has gone, I know not

where! More than two weeks since he took a horse and left me with no word

of where or why he was going! I do not know what to do.” Her rush of words

slowed; with awkwardness, she added, “In my desperation, I came to you.”

Arthur was staggered, angered. He stood, stepped back a pace, a roar of outrage

building in his chest. Tragedy? Killing? Death? He had thought there was some

enormity of wrongdoing, some powerful darkness or dread that would need

facing—and all it involved was this? Her damned, insolent brat running off!

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 5

“By the Bull’s Blood,” he bellowed, “you try my patience!” He stormed

back around his table, reaching for a wine goblet as he passed; drank, in an

effort to control his temper. The strategy failed. “Your son,” he sneered, “I

dislike intensely. Nothing would please me more than to know he has been

tidily dispatched into Hades. You were careless enough to lose him. You

find him!”

Winifred’s anger was rising to equal his. The Hall was in uproar, voices

mingling in mixed reaction, most agreeing with the king, others, women,

mothers, calling for the boy to be found.

Linking her arm through Arthur’s, Gwenhwyfar grasped a chance to snipe at

the other woman. Once, long ago it seemed now, Gwenhwyfar had pledged to

see an end to Winifred for the murder of a dear and much-loved cousin. One

day she would find the opportunity to see her revenge. Not yet, not now. It

would come, the right time in the right place.

To Arthur she said, “The boy has developed sense at last! He has discarded

his mother’s cloying skirts and gone in search of more pleasant pastures.” To

Winifred, with a sweet, sickly smile, “He is nigh on three and ten, have you

tried the local whorehouse?” Triumph! Winifred’s face had suffused red,

her eyes had narrowed. Gwenhwyfar’s idly tossed spear had thrust home at

first casting!

Ignoring the woman at Arthur’s side, Winifred taunted her former husband

with bitter words. “Call yourself king? Protector? Lord? By Christ, you cannot

even give compassion to your own wife and child!”

“Ex-wife,” the Pendragon corrected tartly. “And I care not a…”

But Gwenhwyfar interrupted his anger, silencing him with her upraised hand.

“It is not a matter of compassion, Winifred. My lord Arthur cannot search for

your son; he leaves within the month for Gaul. A king cannot turn his back on

public necessity to pursue personal need. His people are his family; they must

come first.” She smiled, at Winifred, at Arthur, the one returning a glare of

hatred, the other a stare of pleased astonishment. It seemed Gwenhwyfar had

given her blessing to Gaul.

He spread his hands, helpless, palms uppermost. “As much as I would like to

help you, Winifred, I cannot, yet…” He rubbed his chin, thoughtful, with his

fingers. “Yet, if he has not run home to you with his tail tucked ‘atween his

legs by the time I get back, I’ll see what I can do. We all know what mischief

boys get up to.” Men in the Hall chuckled, joined by their womenfolk. Aye,

they all knew the whims of boys!

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

Bedwyr, sitting at Gwenhwyfar’s left hand laughed loudest. “Have no fear

madam,” he called, “I ran away. Admitted, I was older and circumstances were

different, but I was gone some time, travelling to Rome and further. Look at

me now!” He patted his spreading stomach, full of Arthur’s good food. The

Hall laughed louder.

Cold, her face stone, Winifred turned on her heal and strode for the door.

Why had she come? Why had she sought Arthur? She should have known he

would show no concern, no fears. Cerdic could lay dead for all he cared—no,

no she would not consider that. Cerdic must become king after Arthur. He

must. She paused before going out, hurled at him, “If you will not help, then