Shadow of the King (36 page)

The marshes were already drained, for dry weather had come early; the

Summer Land lay as a worked tapestry of flowers of many colours and the

varying greens of grass and tree. No breeze stirred the alder or willow; running

streams gurgled laughter, lazy rivers trundled their meandering course. The

Tor, the whale-hump island that rose above these miles of flat, marsh levels

seemed to be sleeping, drowsing under the heat. Ahead, the Caer lay camou-

flaged against a background of blue-hazed, grassed hills, with only a few thin,

spiralling wisps of cooking-fire smoke to give notice of its being there.

No banner flew above its ramparts. Gwenhwyfar had refused her own,

and she would not fly her husband’s Dragon. There seemed to be no guard

patrolling the walkway. A solitary gatekeeper snarled his growled challenge as

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

Amlawdd drew rein at the summit of the cobbled lane’s incline. The visitor

dismounted; handed, with jovial cordiality, a small wooden box to the man

who came stumping from his guardhouse beside the open-thrown gates, bid

him, with polite courtesy, take it immediate to Lady Gwenhwyfar. “With my

good wishes and compliments.”

He could have ridden straight in, made his way direct to the Hall built on the

highest ground, bold against the skyline. Could have marched in and demanded

his right to hospitality. Did not. Ah no, Amlawdd intended to follow correct-

ness to the letter. In case the lady should not be in a mild temper this day.

He waved his men to dismount, settled himself on the grass bank below the

palisade fencing, lay back to enjoy the calm pleasure of early afternoon sun on

his face. He had bathed first thing, been shaved, had his hair trimmed. Had even

chewed on a fresh hazel stick to clean his teeth. His clothes—best doehide boots,

leather tunic settled over linen shirt, and fine-woven woollen bracae—were

recent made. His cloak, a favourite, a deep blue and red plaid, the slaves had

cleaned and hung above a smoking fire for several days. There ought to not be

any remaining fleas or lice sharing it, not after such strenuous treatment.

He must have dozed, for the clouds seemed thicker bunched as he opened

his eyes on hearing the tread of a shuffling, approaching step. Congenially,

wearing an open, pleasant smile, Amlawdd bounced to his feet. The gatekeeper

had returned without the box. A good sign. Promising!

He was a gruff man, the gatekeeper, elderly, his left leg swinging in a stiff limp.

Undoubtedly an old soldier. He tossed his head over his shoulder, muttered

through toothless gums, “My lady’ll see you. You’re to go up.”

Polite, Amlawdd thanked the man, mounted, proceeded through the gate at

a walk, did not see old Glewlwyd spit and make a contemptuous, horned sign

as he rode past. If matters had been left to this trusted old man, scum such as

Amlawdd would be sent, no questions asked, bouncing and rolling direct over

the ramparts.

Were he to have known the nature and intention of the visit, Glewlwyd

might have been sorely tempted to do so also.

Twenty-One

The concentration on the little girl’s face would almost have

looked comical had her intent not been so serious. Brows slightly furrowed,

lips parted, she stared ahead, eyes directly focused between the pony’s neat,

pricked, black-tipped ears. Archfedd would soon be five years old; it was well

time that she learnt to ride, and Briallen, named for the spring primroses that

had bloomed so profusely in the year that the mare was born, was to be as much

her tutor as her mother, Gwenhwyfar.

“A little kick-kick with your heels to make her walk on…aye, that’s it!”

Gwenhwyfar clapped her hands as her daughter again successfully moved the

pony into a walk. Her legs were too short for such a fat pony’s round belly,

but Briallen had known enough children, knew her job. A patient, steady

mare, alarmed at nothing save the thought of missing out on her next feed.

Sure-footed, pretty, intelligent, the colour of sun-dried hay, with a dark mane

and tail that tumbled down like the wild waterfalls of her native mountain

home of Gwynedd. All the Artoriani children of Caer Cadan had learnt to

ride on Briallen, including Gwenhwyfar’s sons, Llacheu and Gwydre. Now her

daughter, Archfedd.

“Good,” Gwenhwyfar encouraged, “keep her going; now turn her—well done!”

Horses were approaching the area running beside the Hall that served

for courtyard and stableyard alike. Gwenhwyfar frowned, ignored the men

coming to a halt, dismounting. Her back was to them as she watched her

daughter ride, but the pony was going forward; she would need to turn

with her—and Amlawdd was striding across the yard, both arms outstretched,

smiling hugely. Politeness could dictate no other response; Gwenhwyfar

would need welcome him. She nodded a cursory acknowledgement to him,

called for her daughter to halt.

“Gently on the reins, cariad, do not pull at her, the bit will hurt her mouth

badly if you do.”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 1 9

“A fine young lady,” Amlawdd observed, “every inch her mother!”

Ignoring the flattery, Gwenhwyfar instructed her daughter to dismount,

watched with approval as the girl moved her legs from the saddle horns and

dropped neatly to the ground.

“Shall I take her to a stall and brush her, Mam?” Archfedd asked, taking the

reins over the pony’s head and patting her neck.

Na!
Gwenhwyfar thought, desperately.
Do not leave me with this imbecile!
But

what help could a child be, save as a distraction? She nodded, “Of course. Find

her a handful of chaff as reward for her hard work.”

Grinning, Archfedd produced a chunk of stale, fluff-covered bread from the

leather pouch at her waist, showed it proudly. “I have this for her!” Scenting

it, the mare pushed her nose, eager to eat the titbit immediately, but the girl

authoritatively shoved her aside. “You wait, greedy pony!”

Joining the conversation, Amlawdd attempted friendliness. “You will spoil

her, make her fatter than she is!”

His effort failed, for Archfedd only scowled at him. Briallen was as round as

a barrel of ale, but it was not for strangers to say so!

Indicating a side doorway into the Hall, flung open for the light and air,

Gwenhwyfar gestured for Amlawdd to walk with her, ordered his escort be

comfortably attended. She served him herself, pouring wine, offering food,

anything to delay the need to sit, converse with him; she thanked him politely

for the gift, the expensive myrrh from the eastern trade routes. A luxury few in

Britain could afford to buy from the traders who sailed from those distant lands.

Genially he patted the bench with his hand, gesturing for her to be seated

beside him, chatted pleasantly of his journey, the weather, the prospect of an

excellent harvest. She answered him, able to talk of minor things, but her

breath caught inaudibly as he slightly shifted position, took her fingers up in

his hand.

Gwenhwyfar did not dislike Amlawdd. Indeed, he was a man so innocuous

it was impossible to like or dislike him. It was his kindred, one brother in

particular, long dead, she hated. Amlawdd had so much of his appearance,

though without the rank stench of stale wine and dried sweat. She could never

look at him without the tremor of memory returning. That brother had beaten

and mistreated her husband, raped her, murdered her own beloved brother. She

gazed, eyes tear-misted, across the Hall at the bustle of the women preparing

the evening meal around the hearth-place. That was all so long, long ago, but

the memories lingered. Memories would always linger.

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

Amlawdd had been talking. Gathering her wits, Gwenhwyfar apologised,

asked him to repeat what he had said. Her mind was so easily distracted these

days. There was no inclination to do anything, to go anywhere, she would sit

for hours, staring at nothing, her mind blank. She had once been so active and

alert, but since, since he had gone…

“I said I have been into Gwynedd recently.” Amlawdd was stroking the skin

along the back of her hand. Idly, Gwenhwyfar watched his fingers moving

there, wondered at why she did not withdraw from the touch.

“Gwynedd?” she asked, vague.

“Aye,” Amlawdd cantered his mind on his rehearsed speech. “Your brother

Enniaun was most welcoming. We passed several weeks together in mutual

pleasure, hunting through those deer-filled forests of his. There are still some

small patches of snow on the tops of the highest mountains, you know!” He

had been amazed at that, indeed, as a man born and bred along the coastal

marshes of the Summer Land had been amazed at all the beauty and awe the

mountains of Gwynedd offered. “I feel it a privilege to be honoured by your

brother calling me friend. He is a most generous and wise man, will make a

most pleasing kinsman.”

Dumbly, Gwenhwyfar stared at him. Why was he telling her all this?

For Amlawdd, the conversation seemed not to be going as well as he

had hoped. Deliberately he had talked of her childhood home—an opening

move to put her at ease. She ought to have responded with enthusiasm, with

exchanged pleasure. Momentarily he fumbled for what to say next, decided

to come straight out with his reason for being here. “As you know, I have no

wife. I asked permission of your eldest brother for me to consider the taking

of another.”

Frowning, the thought trundled through Gwenhwyfar’s sluggish brain:
Why

ask Enniaun?

Beads of sweat began to prickle Amlawdd’s forehead. “My dear, you are a

woman alone, unprotected. Your daughter has no father.” He lifted her hand

to his lips, turned it over, and kissed the palm, his eyes on her face. Relieved,

she did not snatch away from him. “I offer you my sword and shield. I offer you

myself as husband. I truly want you as wife.”

Blankly, Gwenhwyfar stared at him. The silence became embarrassingly long.

Gamely, Amlawdd stumbled on. “Your brother believes it to be an excel ent

match and already the Supreme Governor has given us his blessing. Our union can

take place,” Amlawdd vacantly waved his free hand, “well, almost immediately.”

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

“No!” Gwenhwyfar shot to her feet, snatching her hand from his grasp, her

startled cry echoing and bouncing between the timber, tapestry-covered walls.

The heads of servants and Caer-folk lifted alarmed, one or two men came a step

closer, hands on their dagger-hilts.

Hurriedly, confused, Gwenhwyfar waved their startled concern down. She

was not in danger, needed no help. For all that, her faithful Ider, standing just

within the shadows of the open doorway, checked his blade was loose in its

sheath. He did not trust this Amlawdd of the Mount of Frogs. Never had.

Amlawdd had once ordered him killed, only his men had bungled the doing.

Ider had conveniently set aside the fact he had gone to Amlawdd’s fortress for

the same purpose, to kill him.

Gwenhwyfar recovered herself, managed to smile at her visitor. “Sir, forgive me,

your words have flustered me.” She kept the smile, though her heart was lurching.

Enniaun, her brother, had agreed to this? How could he? Then the thought,

how dare he!
And Ambrosius had been consulted in this obnoxious thing—God’s

breath, had everyone, save herself, been involved in decision-making about her

future? She must find a way out of this without giving offence, gain time to think

straight. Aye. Gain time. Her smile widened, reaching to her eyes. “This is so

unexpected, so generous. I,” she faltered, took breath, plunged on, “I would ask

time to make a reply. My husband, you understand, meant much to me. It is a

serious matter to take a successor. I will need to consider, and seek advice.”

Her answer seemed plausible for, coming to his feet, Amlawdd beamed plea-

sure. For a moment he had thought she was going to reject him. “Naturally,

my dear, I understand. But this you must understand also, you need to take

a husband.” He lowered his voice, glanced surreptitiously around to ensure

none stood too close, could overhear. “Ambrosius needs to have you placed

somewhere that gives him security. You are, however unintentionally, a threat

to him. It would be wise to take a husband, to retain your freedom.”

The false smile vanished from Gwenhwyfar’s face, that muddled panic disap-

pearing with it, a flare of anger interceding. She had not missed the subtle

threat. “Freedom? What mean you?”

A second time, Amlawdd glanced around. “Ambrosius confided in me,”

he shrugged his shoulder, flapped a hand, “oh, some while past, that he could

not leave you to stir possible trouble. It is a steadying husband, loyal to the