Shadow of the King (45 page)

beating. Both. He knew little of the Saxon stranger, for Eadric had kept his

own council, save that he had no family and had made the journey across the

sea for a reason. But then, had not they all at some time done so?

“You speak,” Cuthwin observed, “as if you had known the Pendragon?”

Eadric did not answer. Instead, he tossed the little brooch, caught it again, and

slid it into his own waist-pouch.

2 7 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“I am thinking,” Eadric said, “it would be good to have a home and a wife.

To raise childer and crops.” Gundrada smiled secretly at him, quietly accepting

his offer. “I will wear Aelle’s badge when the call comes; I will fight against

Ambrosius, although never will I take arms against any loyal to the Pendragon.”

Cuthwin’s brows rose. Ah, he
had
known Arthur then!

“But before I put an edge to my war-blades, and before I take your daughter

to the marriage bed, I have a task to complete. I need to talk in privacy with

the Lady Gwenhwyfar.”

The older Saxon whistled, was eager to ask on what matter, and through what

circumstances, but held his council. It was not for him to pry into another’s

business. “Be that why you were up at the British fortress?”

Eadric nodded. Cuthwin shook his head, bewildered. “Yet they treated you

as they did?”

“What they did to me was dishonourable, but it was not of the Lady’s doing.

What I need to do is also a matter of honour.” He held his hand out for

Gundrada to shyly take. “When I have discharged my promise, I will return,

and we will be wed and raise our children. And hope that perhaps this badge of

Aelle’s will stay untouched in my pouch.”

Thirty-Six

May 472

Bedwyr hated tax collecting. Arthur had, too, he remembered, when

it came to taking tribute from the poor. A necessary evil, he had called it.

Mind, obtaining due tithe from the wealthy had often compensated! All that

blustering and protestation could be a joy to handle. The majority of settlers

and farmers in his jurisdiction of command, up and around Cwm Dolydd,

though, were not wealthy. The harvest last year here, as elsewhere, had been

frugal and the winter exceedingly wet. Not as many as in some years had died

from the cold, but enough had neared starvation. Aye, Bedwyr always hated

the spring collection of taxes. How did you take a farmer’s last surviving sow?

His only sack of grain?

He rode at the head of his turma of men. They all rode with swords loosened

and spears ready. The ox-cart was filling rapidly with payment already collected:

grain, barrels of ale, furs, leathers. Christ God, what was he going to do with the

girl-child? Selling a child into slavery was commonplace, but Bedwyr had no

stomach for it, even if in all probability the child had more chance of surviving

under a master than with her malnourished parents. She could not be more

than five years of age.

For the fourth time the men had to dismount, manhandle the cart through the

mud. The two oxen were militant beasts who saw no reason to work any harder

than they needed. Bedwyr cracked a slight smile; one of the men, he noticed,

was playing with the lass, tickling her under the chin, making her grubby little

face shine with laughter, instead of putting his shoulder to the cart. Bedwyr

turned away. If the others did not mind this shirking, why should he notice?

Another muddy lane led up through thick, hazel hedging to another

steading-place, slightly larger this one. The freeholder had been a favoured

mercenary soldier, given high reward. He had a British wife, one daughter of

marriageable age, three under-age sons; he held four hides of land, which in

the Roman was about sixty acres, one fish-pool, ten sow pigs, one boar, four

2 7 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

oxen, twenty geese, four beehives, and ten goats. Bedwyr knew all this from

his official scroll. He was surprised, therefore, when rounding the last bend in

the lane, to see a young man leaning on his spade, watching the soldiers from

the fortress ride in, taking a rest from digging what was obviously a vegetable

garden. The man nodded; he was a Saxon, unmistakable from the colour of

his hair, manner of dress. The daughter was wed then, the scroll would need

be amended.

Cuthwin, the landholder, came from around the back of the dwelling-place.

Bedwyr caught a glimpse of three impish lads peering curiously after their father,

heads hastily ducking back as the British commander winked at them.

“It’s waiting for you, the tax be by the gate. Grain and furs. The pig’s in

the pen over yonder.” Cuthwin spoke gruffly, barely moving his lips, his Latin

clipped and uneasy.

“I thank you,” Bedwyr said, gesturing an accompaniment with his hand

and talking in the Saxon language. Cuthwin was an honest farmer, for all

his curt manners and abrupt ways. Given the situation, who could expect

anything less?

“No need to give thanks for starvin’ us,” the Saxon bowled back, crabbily.

“You’ll not get a thank you in return.”

Bedwyr surveyed the farm, neat kept, well stocked even this side of winter.

“You do all right for yourself, old sir.” He indicated the younger man, still

leaning on his spade, still intently watching him. “With another hand to guide

the oxen, you will plough well later this year.”

Cuthwin sniffed loudly, rubbed his bushed beard, and regarded Eadric, who

without haste set his tool against the low, stone wall and sauntered over to stand

beside Bedwyr’s horse. He ran his hand down its neck, appreciating the smooth

coat, fine muscle of the crest. “A good horse. One from the Pendragon’s desert

bred stock, I’d wager.” He spoke British well, with an accent deeper than most

the Saxons in this area.

Shrewdly, Bedwyr surveyed him, taking note of his stance, his confidence,

hearing the marked difference in speech. “Do I not know you from somewhere?”

Eadric gave the horse a final pat, pulled one of his bay ears through his

fingers, and let the animal lick at the salt taste on the palm of his hand. “Mayhap

you do. I know you.” He returned Bedwyr’s stare, said lightly, almost offhand.

“I helped you drag the Pendragon from that bloodied field of battle.”

Bedwyr gasped, swung down from the saddle, stood looking eye to eye at

the man. Slowly he nodded, accepting the statement for fact. “One of Mathild’s

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 7 3

men.” Bedwyr loosed his held breath, added, “You are a long way from the

Elbe; could you not find a wife nearer home?”

Lifting a slight smile to one corner of his mouth, Eadric shook his head.

“I am here at Cuthwin’s farm because of your men, though Gundrada, his

daughter, is good reason to stay.”

Frowning, Bedwyr queried the answer. “My men?”

“Aye, my lord. Your men beat me so bad I have not been long from the

bed-place.” Eadric indicated his leg, that was bent, slightly misshapen, touched

a vivid scar to his temple.

Still, Bedwyr did not understand. “You enjoy riddles, my friend. I cannot

fathom this one.”

“No riddle, my lord. I came up to the fortress just as the winter snows cleared.

I needed to speak with the Lady Gwenhwyfar. I was beaten for my trouble.”

At that Bedwyr formed a wry smile, not quite enough to laugh. “Why would

a Saxon from Mathild’s Elbe River wish to speak with my lady?”

The answer came back swiftly, Eadric”s head high, eyes piercing, sincere. Proud.

“That be for me to tel her.” Then he relaxed his expression, a weariness entering

his spirit, gazed at Bedwyr’s men sitting on their horses a few yards away, came to a

decision. “I wil tel you though, my lord, for I believe it wil be the only sure way

my lady will hear what I have to repeat.” He glanced, pointedly, at the other men,

included Cuthwin in his flickering eye. “’Tis for your ears alone, though, Sir.”

Now Bedwyr was growing curious. He passed the reins to one of the men,

put his hand on Eadric’s arm, guided him to the house-place. Inside, Gundrada

squeaked with alarm, although her mother barely glanced up from her cooking-

pot at the two men. Her nose did wrinkle at the thick mud cloying on their

boots as they stamped in over the doorsill, but she made no comment as she

would shrilly have done had either Cuthwin or Eadric entered so, alone.

“Get you gone,” Bedwyr ordered, tipping his head to the outside. “I need

speak with this man.”

Gundrada hurried away, risking only one quick, frightened glance at Eadric,

who smiled encouragement at her. Her mother grumbled. “My stew be nigh

on cooked.”

“We’ll see to your stew,” Bedwyr assured her, holding the door wide,

ushering her through with an encouraging gesture of his hand.

“You mind you do! If it burns, it’ll be the waste of a fine hare.” She stalked

outside, nose tipped high, muttering protest. Bedwyr slammed the door shut,

stood with his back leaning against it, arms folded.
Tell me
, his expression said.

2 7 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

The dwelling-place was larger than most farmsteadings, Cuthwin being of

higher status financially. An aisled timber-built structure, with at one end the

family place, lower down, the cattle stalls, all empty this time of day and year.

Pegs for hanging harness. Three fattened chickens scratched, content, at the

straw-scattered, beaten-earth floor.

The living space seemed comfortable, although sparsely furnished with a

wooden box-bed to one end and loft space above where the boys slept. Another

bed, smaller, lay to one side. An old oaken chest, a sturdy table. Several stools,

baskets, pots, flagons, and barrels. In one corner, the inevitable loom. Hunkering

down on his heels before the hearth-place, Eadric poked more kindling onto

the fire, blazing the flames higher.

Bedwyr waited. This was obviously something of importance, and there

could be no hurrying for great matters.

Finally, Eadric lifted his head. He was nervous, for his tongue licked at his

lips, hand rubbed hand. “Since June’s month have I been hiding my tracks,

looking over my shoulder.”

Bedwyr made no interruption, let the Saxon speak. June? All but the year

around. A long time.

“Those first months I was running from Lady Winifred, ensuring she could

not know where I had gone.” Eadric spat into the fire, sending a hiss of steam

flaring out.

Bedwyr’s eyebrows rose. Winifred had long claws if her malice was stretching

as far as the Elbe! But then it was her son’s place now Leofric the Saxon was

gone. Was she making it her own also? “Why?” he asked simply.

Taking a deep breath, Eadric poured the next out: “Because I am certain she

was responsible for my Lady Mathild’s death. Because she could not let those of

us who served that good lady live to tell others what she knew.”

Pushing himself away from the door, Bedwyr approached the opposite side

of the hearth-place, hunkered on his heels as Eadric did. “And that is?”

“Mathild told us, I and several of my comrades—they are cruelly dead

now, that bitch’s doing. How my lady knew this thing, I know not, but

there was no reason to doubt her.” Squarely, the Saxon regarded the British

commander. Bedwyr, an Artoriani officer. Cousin to Arthur, the Pendragon

and, so word on the wind chattered, a man who would soon be husband

of that same lord’s widowed wife. “Mathild gave us secret command. If

death came to her we were to bring word to Lady Gwenhwyfar. Word of

the Pendragon.”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 7 5

Bedwyr raised one eyebrow higher, his breath, though he realised it not, was

tight held. Everything seemed paused, stilled and waiting, waiting for this thing

that, with a prickling itch to his scalp, he had feeling was going to be difficult

to hear.

“The Pendragon was not buried. She believed he did not die. He lives.”

Eadric shrugged. “At least, he did last year, when Mathild was murdered for

the knowing of it.”

For a long, long while, Bedwyr sat very still, very quiet. The flames of

the hearth-fire crackled, the stew bubbled, began to burn. A hen at the far

end of the dwelling-place announced her proud intention to lay. He drew

his fingers down his nose, across his clean-shaven chin. Bit at the rough skin

around one nail.

“If this be some evil jest…”

“’Tis no jest. I carry out a promise to my Lady Mathild. She wished your

lady, Gwenhwyfar, to know the truth.”

“Jesu.” Bedwyr breathed. “Jesu Christ.”

Thirty-Seven

Utter stillness. Gwenhwyfar sat unmoving, her ankles crossed,

hands folded on her lap. Still, except for the steady rise and fall of her

breathing, the occasional blink of her eyelids.

A cuckoo was calling outside from somewhere in the small copse behind the

chapel. A bell began to ring, calling the women to prayer. Someone walking

quickly, her feet scrunching on the gravel path, her shadow flickering briefly

beneath the closed door as she strode past.