Shadow of the King (50 page)

his hands into the loose sleeves of his robe. “I am not intending to wait for them

to attack us. We attack them. Through the winter, we burn and destroy. Come

spring, there will be no Saex left to fight. Not even the women or children.”

For many long seconds Bedwyr stood there, staring at the man dressed in the

style of a monk. “My God,” he said, appalled, “you are to commit us to a war

that will be bloodier than any slaughter ever made.”

“No,” Ambrosius stated, blandly. “I am to do what I set out to do. I intend

to destroy the Saex.”

Forty-Four

So they had taken a barge up the River Liger, had stayed a few days at

Juliomagus, then continued on to Caesarodunum. From where the letter

Winifred held in her hand had come. She tapped the scrolled parchment against

her lips, thinking.

That Gwenhwyfar had gone in search of Arthur was obvious. How she had

discovered him to be alive was inconclusive, but not difficult to realise. Winifred

had known she could not ensure the silence of all Mathild’s men—mind, it came as

some personal satisfaction to know she had almost achieved it. Precautions against

failure had, naturally, been taken, had reaped reward, although Gwenhwyfar

had led the spies a merry, winding dance these last months! Agreeing to wed

Bedwyr, changing her mind, living a while at the Holy House of Durnovaria.

Oh, what a time Winifred’s paid spies had had, trailing and observing. The cost

was mounting, ah, but worth every spent piece!

For although Winifred knew Arthur might live, she had no clue, no hint

of gossip or whispered speculation of where to look for him. Torturing

Mathild’s men had gained her nothing. Her smile was smug, cat-like in her

gloating self-satisfaction, for Gwenhwyfar, it seemed, was inadvertently to

solve the riddle.

She folded her arms, watched her grandson toddle across the courtyard

outside, miss his footing and fall onto his knees. His nurse ran to him, all hugs

and consolation, but the boy stubbornly pushed her aside, scrabbled to his

feet and tried again. Winifred quietly applauded, her expression as proud as

any doting grandmother’s should be. Cynric was a determined whelp, for the

three months he had been here at Winifred’s steading, a few miles from Venta

Bulgarium, she had not heard him cry or wail once. A boy a handful of months

into his second year, Cynric had the resilience of a warrior. Stubborn, with a

mind made to succeed at all cost. Like his father.

Huh! Was there any doubting Cynric was Arthur’s child?

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 0 1

Winifred shed her breath with a loud, partially impatient sigh. It was a pity

Cerdic was the mismatch of the family. Pig-headed, aye, but to all the wrong

leanings. Determined, but only in the area of a determination to do all in his

power to oppose his mother.

It was a marvel she had been allowed this short while to have the boy with

her, happen even Cerdic had a small grain of sense in his granite-bound brain!

Winifred placed her palms together, the fingers pressing under her chin. There

had been fighting again along the Elbe, the peoples moving up from the south

and from the east, causing confrontation with those already settled along that

busy, important waterway. Cerdic was safe—for at least a while, a few years or

so; happen, if he were fortunate, more than that, but three times now his water-

side buildings had been burned to the ground, his fortified settlement attacked.

Added to that, so many of those who were supposed to be loyal to him had

left, taken a craft or walking away, preferring to offer allegiance to some other

man of status. Too many remembered the killing of Mathild to remain loyal to

Cerdic. Those first few months after her death had been difficult, disquieting,

for he had found need to prove himself worthy over again. There were not so

many supporting Cerdic now. Those few who stayed remained for the boy, the

child of Mathild’s body, but there were not enough of them to secure the boy’s

safety, that was now certain, or else Cerdic would never have sent him here,

away from the sporadic raiding, safe with his grandmother.

Winifred chuckled; mayhap the turning of events would force her son to

consider the taking of Britain as his own. There would soon be precious little

for him along the Elbe.

As she watched the boy that wandering thought came again to mind. Whose

child was he? Cerdic’s? Arthur’s? She would never know for certain, but this she

did know: Cerdic enjoyed his women. He had lost his boyhood at the age of

three and ten. Yet no woman, outside of Mathild’s bed, had borne him a child.

Cynric noticed his grandmother watching him, laughed happily up at her.

He adored the woman, for she allowed him anything he wanted, unashamedly

indulged his every whim. Winifred blew him a kiss from her fingers. She, in

return, idolised the boy. He, she hoped, would not turn out to be the bitter

disappointment that his father—whichever one of them was the father—had

proved to be.

Forty-Five

August 472

Antessiodurum was a town teetering on the brink of Christian fame.

Narrow, steep-rising streets, buildings huddled shoulder to shoulder—a

town that was doing well for itself. The abbey, with its complex of buildings, was

already impressive, nestling as it did beside the river and below the domineering

height of the town. A congenial place to be, Antessiodurum, if you had the time

to wander and admire. Along both banks of the wide, slow-moving river idled

clusters of trees, cool with green shade, while in the water fish lazed beneath the

span of the only bridge. Fields of fertile soil supported recently harvested crops

of corn, and strong, healthy vines. Drowsing heat and murmured pleasantries;

trade agreed over a goblet of local wine, a crowded town where no one cared to

hurry, where there was time to sit all day in the sun.

Gwenhwyfar hated the place.

Accommodation had been the first difficulty. The world with all his chil-

dren, it seemed, had decided to visit Antessiodurum this same week, drawn

by a festival, a celebration to the glory of some local, minor, Christian deity.

Eventually they found a tavern that was little more than a flea-ridden hovel,

where the food was mildly edible if not wholly appetising. Ider had long

since taken it upon himself to sleep across his lady’s door-place, not trusting

even his own men to see to her safety. The horses had, through the same

necessity, been stabled in shoddy stalls where the hay was musty and feed

smelt of mildew.

No one knew, or admitted to know, of the pagan Ladies. Ask a question,

receive a shrug, uplifted arms, slow-shaken head, blank or askance expression.

“Ladies? No, not here, this is a Christian place.”

Gwenhwyfar began to despair, even to doubt the wisdom of this fool idea.

Would she not do better to turn around, find some obsolete place in Less

Britain, and settle there in quiet oblivion for the rest of her days? As many in

Britain would prefer.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 0 3

She sat at a table outside a street taverna, Ider standing behind, leaning one

shoulder against the wall; his expression was gruff, as always when on duty,

his eyes narrowed, watching all who passed with a glower of suspicion. Once

or twice his hand tightened around his sword pommel. Ider, too, had little

liking for this place. Antessiodurum reminded him of an old villa he had once

visited as a child with his father. Grand on the outside, giving the appearance

of ordered wealth. Inside, comfortable, with servants and wine and good food,

but Ider had noticed the threads of spreading cracks on the plaster walls, the

patched tunics of the serving girls, and the small portions offered only the once,

no chance of a second mouthful.

Gwenhwyfar sipped her wine, had not touched the greasy stew in the bowl

before her. The barge journey up the Liger River had been frustrating for its

slowness, for the river was low, the exceptional summer heat rapidly drying its

many tributaries. Many times the craft had laboriously to follow the shrinking

navigable channels, and with the river more than a mile wide in places, each

manoeuvre to change direction became an unbearable delay. The horses

drooped beneath the heat, listless and bored, the monotony of the scenery

lulling the passengers into a hypnotic daze. The relief was enormous when they

disembarked a few miles after the river had swung to the south. To ride again,

to be in command of their own pace!

Leaning her elbow on the table, Gwenhwyfar rested her cheek on her fist.

With passing interest, she watched two young women walk by, catching a

glimmer of their conversation. She smiled to herself. Either that erotic descrip-

tion had been exaggerated boasting or the dark-haired girl had a stallion for a

bed-mate. She chewed at some dead skin by her fingernail.
Na
, that would be

impossible to do…Christ and all the gods, she was sitting here, speculating on

some wretched whore’s sexual exploits!

She signalled to Ider, made to move away, heard her name called. The street

to their left was steep, narrow, and busy, but Gweir called again, waving his

hand frantically to draw attention. He thrust his way through a group of women

waiting to buy bread, danced around a man carrying two bolts of cloth, pounded

on up the incline, and stood, panting for breath before his lady, his grin broad.

“I have found them!” he declared, “At least, I think I have.” His face was

alight, animated, the pleasure of success running not far behind the promise of

leaving this seething town.

Excited, Gwenhwyfar grabbe his arms, bent slightly towards him. “Where?”

she demanded. “Tell me!”

3 0 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“To the south. The Place of the Lady!” His grin broadened at Ider, his arms

folded, countenance scowling. “A great hill, rising high, high.” Gweir raised his

hand over his head, “Above the valley. We follow the river south, there will

be a track before the water swings west.” He laughed, danced a few delighted

steps. “The woman who told me—” He flushed, suddenly embarrassed at the

pleasurable memory of these past few hours: he had learnt more than a destina-

tion from that delightful creature. He floundered, forgetting what he was about

to say, blushed at Ider’s snort of amusement. “The place is known, but few go

there, especially men.”

Gwenhwyfar kissed his cheek. “I am not a man.”

Oh, the relief! They could be gone from this wretched town within the

hour. That passing idea of returning to Less Britain was quite, quite forgotten.

Forty-Six

The track, zigzagging up the side of the hill, seemed to take forever

to climb, the riders sweating as profusely as the horses before they were

even half of the way up. Gwenhwyfar brushed hair from her eyes, wiping

perspiration with the same action. She blew out her cheeks, kicked Onager

forward again. He was a bold, strong animal, but even he was labouring.

The day was hotter than yesterday and the day before, a more insistent,

oppressive heat that drained energy, made for bad tempers and irritability.

The blue, unblemished sky had hazed over after the sun had passed through

the midday zenith, with dark cloud building ominously from the south. Rain

would be welcome, but not if it came with a crushing storm. Several women

working at the vines unbent to stand, one hand to an aching back, the other

shielding eyes at Gwenhwyfar and her men, their bodies turning, curious, as the

party rode by. No one spoke; it was too hot for words. At first sight of them,

Gwenhwyfar knew they were in the wrong place. Morgaine would not be

known here, not among these Christian women.

“Different than Antessiodurum,” Gweir remarked with false amusement.

“There, everyone would rather talk than work. Here…” And he swept his

hand behind, across the spread of the vines clinging like limpets to the steep,

sunward slope. “Do we turn back?” he asked, disappointment catching at the

tiredness in his throat.

“At Antessiodurum,” Gwenhwyfar answered, “it was only the men who

lazed and talked. I saw enough women with their backs bent double and their

hands gnarled from hard labour.
Na
, we have come this far, we may as well go

on. There may be someone who can be of help to us.”

One of the men, turning to look behind, remarked, “There are more travel-

lers on the road. Two, three riders?”

The view from up here was tremendous, overlooking the spread of the

parched valley, dark trees dotted against sun-burned, brown grasses and withered

3 0 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

crops. One single track wound through the centre of the valley, bald, bleached

white against the baked earth, the horses too far away to see clearly or make out

detail, a dark smudge against the stark emptiness.

Ahead, higher up the slope, another woman had ceased her work, had