Shadow of the King (34 page)

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“No.”

Winifred sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap, ankles crossed. A fine lady

dressed in the softest spun wool, purest linen veil. “That is your final word?”

“It is.”

“Then I call you coward. You are no son of mine.” There was no spite in

her voice, no rise of inflection or anger, but the menaced poison behind those

spoken words were thick and threatening.

Cerdic had never been as self-controlled as his mother and would never be

as adept at schooling his features or temper to suit his need. At her insult, he

lurched to his feet, bottom lip quivering, face reddening, and fists clenched.

The result she had intended, for a loss of self control made him vulnerable and

weak. “I am no coward!” he bellowed at her. “And I tell you”—he was waving

his fist at her, nostrils flaring, face contorted—“the day you are dead and out of

my life will be a day of festival and rejoicing!”

Mathild moved to her husband’s side, threaded her arm through his attempting

to calm him by offering her support. Arguing with Winifred, shouting at her,

being abusive was not the way to handle this bitch. Mustering her dignity,

in contrast to her husband’s outburst, she declared, “We are not interested in

Britain, Lady Winifred. We have enough for our needs here.”

“Bah!” Winifred also stood, her height appearing even greater for her proud,

upright deportment, her high-held chin, and her confident air of command and

authority. Cerdic would seem the more imposing had he not been inclined to be

overweight and did not hunch his thick-set neck so deep into his sullen shoulders.

She had told him so often enough, but huh! Did he listen to her, his mother?

Scornful, she mocked them both, her hand flicking a dismissive gesture. “You

are, then, fools! This sluggish river enough? When you could have Britain at

your feet?” Her head came back, mouth opened in a hollow grunt of derisive

laughter, a sound like the careless snarl of a wild beast. “For how long will it

last, this idyllic settlement of yours?” She paced around them, prowling. “The

Franks are slavering over claiming more territory, and since Arthur so carelessly

failed to stop them, the Goths are driving the Gauls higher northward.” She

ceased her walking as she came face to face with Cerdic again, stared callously

at him and her daughter-by-law. “You have, I would judge, a handful of years

before your precious river falls to the dominance of another nation. Assuming

the floods do not bring about your eviction first.”

Cerdic rasped a bitter answer. “Leofric had wealth enough here, aye, and his

father before him.”

2 0 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“Leofric was as much the fool as you are,” came the swift response, although

a twisted smile formed with it. “Though he had a small prick of sense in his

brain. He wanted me to give him a part of Britain.”

“Pig’s swill!”

“Is it, Cerdic?” Winifred rasped. She sauntered back to her chair, seated

herself, almost regally. “You must, of course, make your own mind.” She

settled herself more comfortable, preening her veil, spreading her skirt. “But

you will never make much more of yourself than what you already are while

you remain here.”

“I am a thegn, and already I have the honour of the title Ealdorman.”

“King would be so much finer.” Leaning forward, Winifred altered her

tone to that of enticement. “Take opportunity while you can, son! Land,

wealth. The authority to do as you please. You have a chance to be a king,

Cerdic, a king!”

Cerdic thrust Mathild’s hand from his arm, took one menacing step nearer

his mother. “And if I were king, what would there be for you?” His laughter

sounded hollow, with almost a madness thrusting through the hard sound of it.

“You failed to become a king’s wife; a king’s mother is your next hope.” He

had stepped closer to her, stood over her, his breath foul on her face. “It is not

for me that you urge this thing, but for your own glory. The mother of a king

can wield great power should she so wish.” His lips drew back in a sneer, “And

if the son would let her.” Slowly, he shook his head. “I do not want Britain. I

will not take it, not for your benefit.”

Eye for eye, Winifred returned her son’s stare. Her answer came, domi-

neering, as from a woman used to being obeyed. “And I say, Cerdic, that

you will.”

He swung away, hurled his fist against the wattle wall, a small puff of plaster

trickling to the floor. The fine tapestries quivered.

Mathild felt compelled to challenge the other woman, to salvage some of her

own authority as mistress of this Hall, this settlement. “I, too, am a mother. I

think of my son, Lady Winifred, as you do yours. His birthing-place is as mine,

this river, the Elbe, not Britain, not some foreign country where the Wealas

breed, live. He shall inherit wealth and power from his father when he is grown

to manhood, without the need to spill his blood for it on some distant, hostile

shore.” She indicated the child’s cradle to the far side of the room, where the

boy lay curled tight in sleep. “It is for Cynric’s future that I and my husband

must think. Not for our own.”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 0 7

Her hand shaking with derision, Winifred pointed at the child. “You think

of the child before your husband. Why is that, I wonder? Because you think

also of his shameful siring?”

Mathild caught her breath, her fist going to clasp the material of her gown

at her throat. Cerdic’s head snapped from watching his mother to scowl at his

wife, then back to Winifred as she spoke again.

“She has deceived you, Cerdic. From the very first she has tricked and used

you for her own gain.” Winifred leant back in the chair, her shoulders pressing

against the wickerwork, her fingers loose, relaxed, along the carved armrests.

“A mother’s power behind her son can be great indeed, depending on the status

of that child’s father. Mathild has never had love for you, Cerdic. Her loyalty

sits elsewhere, with what her son may get her when you are gone. For he has

as much claim to Britain as have you, has he not, Mathild?” Winifred’s gaze

burnt into Mathild, rousing a rage that burnt putrid in the younger woman’s

stomach, but she allowed no time for answer. “Her loyalty has rested all this

while with the man who planted the seed in her belly of that boy asleep over

there.” Abrupt, she stood. “You fool, Cerdic! Do you believe you sired the

child? Arthur had the doing of it. Your own father bedded this whore before

you took her to your bed.” She held open her hand, emphasising the obvious.

“You have not the manhood in you to sire a child, nor the balls to take what by

right ought tobe yours! Arthur was always so much the better than you!”

Like thunder erupting from a black sky, Cerdic hurled the table next to

him over, smashing the pots and tankards that stood upon it, scattering fruit

and wine. The dogs leapt to their feet, barking; he hurled over a stool, a chest,

roaring his hurt pride and rage.

Mathild, stifling a scream, tried to run for the child, frightened that harm

might befall him. Cerdic lunged in her path, grasped her shoulder, spun her

around, struck his knuckles across her mouth, sending her staggering against

the wall, blood welling from her nose and a split lip. She fell to her knees, tears

coming with the blood, pain, and sudden fear.

“You bitch!” she stabbed at Winifred, who stood superfluous, watching, mildly

amused. “You lying bitch!” she hurled again, holding fingers to the blood, her

other hand stretched towards Cerdic, pleading. He stood, panting, trembling, eyes

widened and breathing hot with fury. Mathild clambered, unsteady, upright. “She

lies, husband! Cynric is your son. Your child. Do not listen to her. She has, since

first you wed me, tried to prise us apart, to dirty my name and my honour, for she

knows I would dissuade you to leave this place, our territory, our home.”

2 0 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Haughtily, Winifred protested. “I act only in your interest, son.” Cerdic

caught his mother’s smug expression, turned on her. “For me?” he snarled,

“My interest? When have you ever acted for me, Mother? For anyone other

than yourself?” He stalked through the debris scattered over the rushes,

kicked aside one of the dogs ferreting for food among the spillage. “All you

have ever done is to make my life a misery.” Cerdic drew back his hand

with the intention of striking her also, but Mathild was behind him, seized

his wrist.

“She is not worth your anger, my lord! Send her from here, be rid of her.

We have no need of her spite and her barbed, dung-stirring tongue.”

Twisting from her grasp, Cerdic swung around, viciously pushed her from

him. “You disgust me, woman! Think you I have not heard before this of how

you lay with the bastard who was my father? Think you I have not heard the

tongue whispering that Cynric may not be of my seed?” His foot sent another

stool hurtling across the chamber. “I have ears to hear with, eyes to see, and a

brain to reckon the months!”

Mathild’s anger was rising as high, she realised the need to fight for herself and

for her son. To belittle Winifred. “
Ja
, I laid with Arthur. I was his bought slave,

what choice had I? I was ill-used by him, as he ill-used all women.” Her lip

was sore, already swelling, her head swam, fuzzy, dizzy, she fought the swaying

faintness. “Cynric is your child. The rumours are lies, lies spread after she last

came here.” Mathild thrust her pointing finger at Winifred. “She has stained

the innocence of truth with her black heart and evil mind. Set rumour running

for her own gain.” Unsteady, Mathild stood before her husband. “Who would

you believe in this? Ugly, rattling tongues wagging after the drink has slurred

the senses? Her? Your bitch mother who has no worth save her own arrogance?

Or I, your loving wife?” Mathild spat blood-stained saliva onto the floor at

Winifred’s feet. “Have I lied to you as she has? Have I ordered or demanded

of you, as she does?”

Cerdic nursed the flesh of his hand where he had struck out, the knuckles

were bruised and grazed. His breathing was fast, his eyes darting. Truth? Lies?

He had never known the difference, for his mother held no value for either.

He would not recognise truth even if it were sworn on any oath named. He

wanted to believe Mathild, so wanted to, but how could he judge? How could

he know the truth from a lie?

Attempting to regain calm, Mathild brushed rushes and straw from her

woollen gown, pushed a fallen pin back into her hair.

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Momentarily, Winifred had been alarmed, fearing Cerdic would strike her

also, but the moment had passed. She was again in control. “I swear, on your

father’s grave,” she said to him, “that on this, I do not lie.”

Mathild swung around, her eyes flashing rash, unchecked triumph. “Then

your oath is false! To my certain knowledge, Arthur the Pendragon has not,

yet, need of a grave.”

Seventeen

Winifred’s skin drained white. Cerdic stared at his wife, his

mouth open.

Mathild swallowed. Gods! What had she done? She nodded once, slowly,

her split lip twitching into a slight, mocking smile. “The truth? I will tell you

the truth. When last I saw Arthur, he was clinging to life. By a narrow thread, I

grant, but he was not, as the others believed, dead. I know he is alive.”

Winifred’s hand lifted to cover her mouth, her breathing almost stopped. She

mastered the panic, the uprush of disquiet, forced herself to move, slowly, back

to the chair, to sit. This could not be true—yet she knew it was, knew this to

be no fool jest. It was the sort of bloody-minded thing Arthur would do to her,

cheat her of his death.

“My father is alive?” Cerdic said, through a long, snarled breath. “You have

known, all this while, he is not dead?”

That brief glow of triumph faded from Mathild. This was not knowledge

that ought to have been made public. Not to these two.

“Have I, then, been bedding his whore while he still lived?”

“What difference does that make?” Mathild quavered, with false bravado.

“Whether he be in this world or the next, what I once was to him…”

But she never finished. In senseless jealousy, unreasonable rage, Cerdic

smashed his fist into her face. She fell, but his fists, his feet, kept battering at

her, kept pounding into the body that had been touched, soiled, by the man he

hated above all else. Nor was it Mathild he kicked and punished, but Arthur.

His father, his bloody bastard of a father!

His mother pulled at him, desperate, tugging at his arm, her voice crying in

her throat. “Leave her, Cerdic! We must know where he is! Do you not see?

She must tell us, we must know!”

The child had woken, was wailing, frightened and confused at the noise.

Hammering at the closed door, shouting. It burst inward, men coming in,

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