Shadow of the King (40 page)

later. Arthur was so hard to talk to, she could never entice him into conversa-

tion, tease him into even a smile let alone laughter. With the boy he was as

distant—though he took interest in his upbringing and education, teaching

him his letters and numbers, telling him the histories of Greece and Rome.

He never showed feeling, though, seemed so aloof, remote. Not once had she

seen Arthur embrace the lad, yet he cared for him, she knew. The time last

year when Medraut had fallen from that tree…it was Arthur who had run to

him, Arthur who had carefully set the broken leg in splints, carried him to the

house-place. Arthur who had watched over him during those first few fevered

nights of the lad’s discomfort and pain. Through eyes half-closed against the

hot glare of the sun, Morgaine studied the man sitting cross-legged beneath the

shade of the trees, patiently carving the figure of a slender woman. She wished

she could understand him. Wished she could do more to help him.

Wished she had the strength to let him go back into his own world.

She pushed herself to her feet, dusted down her skirt, her bangles jangling and

clanging. “I called for I am about to set supper cooking. Will you be long?”

“Might be.”

“It will be ready for you when you come in.”

No, she would not wish for the last. She would rather they, all three of them,

were dead rather than be without him.

Twenty-Eight

September 471

Ecdicius of Gaul was too tired to dismount. He knew if he tried

to drop to the ground, his legs would buckle, he would crumple into an

undignified, quivering heap. His body ached. Beneath his leather and iron-

linked armour he stank and itched from runnels of sweat, his face was dirtied

and bloodied; bruises and welts would appear on his legs, arms, and torso by the

morrow. But by all the love of the good God, how wonderfully, exhilaratingly

happy he felt! The grin beneath the loosened strap of his battered helmet was

as wide as the Ligre River in full flood, and not all the shaking of his body was

from exhaustion. Some of it was sheer excitement and incredulous disbelief.

They had done it, by God, he and a handful of men had defeated Euric’s

rabble, had sent them running, tails tucked tight between their legs! They had

done it! The siege of Augustonemtum was lifted—by no more than a mere eight

and ten mounted men. Less number than he would invite to dine at his table!

Bodies, the enemy only, for not one of his own men had lost a life, lay

fallen, sprawled in a grotesque trail across the plain. They had been brave, those

of Euric’s men who had tried to make a stand of it to the rearward of their

fleeing army, but God’s hand had most surely been cupped around Ecdicius

and his cavalry this day! That first, unexpected, madly heroic charge had been

responsible. From the cover of the hills, Ecdicius had led his men at the gallop,

straight across the plain, straight through the milling crowds busy with their

besieging, ferocious assault on the town.

From above the battered and blood-marked walls, the citizens had watched,

open-mouthed, heart-held, as the horses thundered through, leaving bloodied

chaos and panic in their churned wake, their riders not giving a single backward

glance. Hooves, teeth, lances, swords. It must have seemed as though all the

hounds of hell had been let loose!

The enemy had fled to the sanctuary of the hills, unaware of how few

their attackers were in number compared to their own. What chance had a

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 4 3

poorly armed, common foot-soldier against the crushing, terrible deadliness of

a cavalryman?

Ecdicius had swept through on that first charge with the ease of a hot knife

through goose fat. He had wheeled, pursued the fleeing numbers, leaving

behind the dead and the screams of the dying. A few, the more experienced,

the harder-armed warriors, had tried to cover the rear, tried to salvage some

dignity from the blind panic, but there had been no attempt to rally or re-form.

Shattered, defeated, stunned, and appalled, the Goths had kept going, up into

the hills and away.

They would be back, of course, on another day, at another town probably,

before long, back to Augustonemtum for another try at taking it as their own.

But for today and tomorrow at least, the citizens were safe. They opened the

gates and poured out in a great spill of joyful cheering and shouting. Ecdicius

grinned at his men, ordered their banner to be held high, and rode leisurely

towards the procession flowing out to meet them.

A multitude of hands reached to take the bridles that were thick with foam

and blood, clasped manes, tails, saddle straps; others reached to kiss away the

dirt and grime from the faces of the eighteen men. Proud, they were led back

into the crowded streets of the town. At the Forum they dismounted, eager

helpers unfastening armour straps, helmets, and grieves. The few wounds were

marvelled over, reverently touched. Jostled and cheered, hugged, embraced, the

eighteen Gauls found themselves carried high on shoulders, eighteen exultant

men, grinning and laughing, enduring the high enthusiasm with good grace,

though their bodies ached and their tiredness was immense.

At the steps of what the bishop proudly called his cathedral, Ecdicius was

deposited on his own feet. Slowly, as if he were faced with climbing the

steepness of a mountain, for his aches were many and his limbs heavy, he

ascended to meet with the man waiting there at the top. The bishop himself,

his brother-by-law, Sidonius Apollinaris. The most important man—save

for Ecdicius!

Eager, Sidonius swept half-way down to greet his kinsmen, clasped hands,

stood back for a few heartbeats, then took the town’s hero tight in close

embrace, tears streaming his face, words for once lost to this eloquent bishop’s

voice. They cried together a moment, laughed at their absurd emotion; then,

with arms about each other, led the way inside the grand, stone-built church

that stood as tall as three storeys and could seat along its benches the prominent

citizens of all the town.

2 4 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Ecdicius sank to his knees before the central altar, his men forming behind,

their banner furled in homage to their God, heads bare and bent in submission

and thanks. His mind only half listening to the bishop’s inspired prayer, for he

was idling, mulling over his own wonder and praise. His plan had been ambi-

tious, formed of desperation, but it had worked, against all the sensible, wise

odds. It had worked! He closed his eyes, let his heart and mind drift. Among his

thoughts, the realisation that today, this day, was his birthing day.

“May our God be praised for this glory…” The bishop’s words were booming

and resounding around the echoing building.

Sidonius had balked at this position of bishop, had been forced to take it, or

face ruin and exile, but since this was now his vocation, he plied all his mobile

strength and character into doing the job to the very best of his ability. He

was judged a fair-minded man who cared much for the ill and poor; a revered

man, loved by the people. He was wise and educated; some even believed him

to possess powers, for did he not, at that time when the prayer books went

unaccountably missing, recite the entire Mass from memory? Did Sidonius

Apollinaris not have the wondrous ability to read from the scrolls without the

need to move his lips? Today’s prayer of thanksgiving was one of the bishop’s

best delivered, and would be remembered for many a year to come, but Ecdicius

heard little of it, for he was making his own prayer, his own thanks. And he was

thinking of one other, one who had not held the fortune that was blessed for

them this day. Of Arthur, the Pendragon.

The bishop was ending, giving the blessing, and they were being shepherded

outside, into the bright sunlight and great tumult of cheering. Tonight and

for the next few nights to come, there would be feasting and dancing—such

celebration as the town had never witnessed before, and would not see again.

Ecdicius turned to grin at his brother-by-law and at his sister, Sidonius’s wife,

who had come to greet her beloved brother. “Is it not fortunate,” Ecdicius

shouted above the din and clamour, “that the Pendragon taught me how to

drill cavalry, how to lead and fight a charge?”

Sidonius half-heard, catching only the words Pendragon and cavalry, but

he returned the grin, nodded vigorously. Refrained from saying that if the

Pendragon had fought the harder, the better, Gaul would not have need to fear

the Goths now. Best left unsaid. Ecdicius had always held these silly notions put

into his head by the dead and defeated British king.

Twenty-Nine

December 471

Saturnalia, the time of winter feasting and merry-making, had

become, for the Christians, a celebration of the birth of Jesu Christ. A pagan

feast that they had blatantly adopted as their own, its symbolism nearly fitting their

beliefs. The evergreen for eternity; the blood-red berries for the shedding of the

mother’s birthing-blood and for Christ’s own; the giving of gifts as the Magi had

given Christ; a season of peace, goodwill. The symbolism of renewal, the passing

of the old and the coming of the new. An opportunity for Gwenhwyfar to cast

aside the past and look ahead to the future. A new life. New husband.

Geraint’s Hall was crowded and jovial. Garlands of holly and ivies were

draped along the rafters and placed behind the warriors’ shields hung along the

walls between the coloured, exquisitely woven tapestries. A great log burned

in the central hearth-fire; lamps, candles, and torches brought much light and

warmth. At one end, the children played, Archfedd with Enid’s own, and others

of Geraint’s officers and companions, their childish laughter shrieking with

excitement, hands and faces sticky from honey-sweetened nuts and fruits.

Gwenhwyfar had dressed elegantly, wearing her favourite emerald-green

gown, her amber necklace and earrings. Green ribbons were twined and plaited

into the complicated braiding of her rich, copper hair, her green eyes sparkled

in the dance of fire and lamplight. She smiled widely, amused at Bedwyr who,

rather drunk, was making a good-natured ass of himself in trying to imitate the

three professional acrobats. He fell heavily from his fourth attempt at walking

on his hands, lay on his back, spread eagled, puffing like a stranded fish, while his

audience cheered, clapped, and guffawed. Geraint suggested he try balancing

on someone’s shoulders; Enid protested, alarmed that Bedwyr might take the

jesting encouragement seriously.

“Great God, husband! He’ll break his neck!”

Geraint chuckled happily, he too had partaken of too much wine. But why

not? It was midwinter, the rain and cold was as hostile as a barbarian army

2 4 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

outside while in here, inside his Hall, it was warm and dry and pleasant. They

had plenty of good food, good company. Good wine. Aye indeed, if a man

could not enjoy his drink at Saturnalia, what was the point of celebrating? “As

long as he does not break his manhood, does it matter?” he jested, nudging

Gwenhwyfar who sat beside him.

She also had consumed a glass or two too much of Geraint’s fine, imported

wine. She giggled, made a ribald answer. “I suppose a crutch would not be

suitable for all parts of the anatomy. Could a sling be fitted, I wonder?”

Geraint roared delight. “Have we material wide enough to fit Bedwyr’s

adventurous piece?”

His wife tutted, shook her head, though she was laughing as much.

The subject of their amusement had scrabbled to his feet, was boldly fiddling

inside his woollen bracae. “
Na
,” he announced, “everything appears func-

tional!” Earned for himself more laughter and cheers.

Beaming, his face red from drink and exertion, Bedwyr settled himself on

Gwenhwyfar’s left, took his wine-glass up from the table, and saluted her with

extravagant gesture. “I would do nothing that might jeopardise our partnership.”

“You had best take yourself off to your bed then, stay there in safety,”

Gwenhwyfar teased.

Rolling his eyes, lips sporting a leer of approval, he answered rapidly, “A fine

idea! Come with me! Let us ensure all my equipment is kept practised!”

“Fool!” Chuckling, she batted at him with her free hand, her other had been

taken by him as soon as he had seated himself. Bedwyr was proud to claim

Gwenhwyfar publicly as his own, made much of ensuring all knew he had won

her, not caring to take regard of the disparaging comments that had drifted

southward. The stirring was done by Amlawdd, of course, sour jealousy behind

the widespread malicious gossip. As personal friend to Ambrosius, Amlawdd saw

himself as a figure of high importance, felt slighted by Gwenhwyfar’s refusal,