Shadow of the King (52 page)

into the light of the Christ.” She never related what had swayed her decision,

and Gwenhwyfar never asked. Enough to know that before, she had been

among the Ladies of the Goddess, and had lived in their secluded community

on the far side of those hills that were, this afternoon, shadowed in the mist

of a shimmering heat-haze. Enough to know the one called Morgaine had

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

been away on some journey, private to herself, and had returned with a man,

wounded and close to death. The sister had known no more, whether he had

survived, whether he was still there. That was for Gwenhwyfar to discover.

When—if—she was ready to.

Gwenhwyfar wrapped her arms about herself, closed her eyes against the

tears. Was it not better to have that slight, however improbable, edge of hope?

Tomorrow, or the day after, she would need to find the courage to face what

might well be the final breaking of a heart that was already so bruised and

battered. But from where that courage would come, she knew not.

Forty-Nine

Gweir found his commanding officer sitting, as expected, at the

table set outside the tavern. At least the man had been persuaded to

move from that gateway. Further than that, Ider refused to go. At night, once

dark had fallen, he rolled himself in his cloak and slept across the threshold of

the shuttered gate. Obsessive, some lesser men would call it. Others, Gweir

included, would use the word devoted.

Gweir straddled a chair, mindful not to block the larger man’s view of the

convent gateway, helped himself, with an upraised eyebrow of asking, to wine.

“Good hunting?” Ider asked.

Gweir nodded. “Shall I send a haunch of venison up to the Ladies?”

Ider returned the nod, watched a group of chattering sisters walk by,

acknowledged their greeting. “And last night?” An innocently asked question.

Received as innocent a reply.

“Interesting.”

Stool balanced and with his shoulders propped against the wall behind him,

Ider’s feet had been set upon the corner of the wooden table. He dropped them

to the floor, sat forward, resting his stubbled chin on the knuckles of his linked

hands. “How interesting?”

Refilling his tankard, Gweir drank again, not so thirstily this second time,

answered casually. “Last night I scouted up through those woods to the north

of the road.”

Ider remained silent. This he knew, this they had discussed before Gweir had

set silently out on foot as dusk had settled.

“I found them.”

“They see you?”

Gweir laughed cynically, finished his wine, did not bother to answer

the question.

Ider had realised at Antessiodurum they were being followed. Whoever the

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 1 5

two horsemen were, they were not good at their job, not discreet enough, not

careful enough. Unless that was their intention. To occasionally show them-

selves, to keep Gwenhwyfar’s guard guessing?

Rubbing his fingers across his nose, under his eyes, Ider asked, “Same horse?”

Confirming what he already knew.

Gweir dipped his head. “Same horse. The roan. Why stable it alongside ours

back at Antessiodurum? Why deliberately show themselves?” He folded his

arms, resting them on the table. “And you were right, it is ill.”

Ider sucked his cheek, considering. “Get close enough to find out for definite?”

Gweir nodded. “Discharge from the nostrils, swelling under the jaw.”

Ider swore.

Flicking his head backward in the direction of the convent Gweir asked, “Do

we tell her?”

“That we have an unwelcome shadow who seems to enjoy playing games, or

we’ve been stabling with the strangling disease?” Ider stood up, stretched. He

was an impressive man to look at, strong built, strong minded, dependable, and

unfalteringly loyal. Slowly he unsheathed the sword from the scabbard hanging

at his side, tested its oiled, gleaming blade with his thumb.

“No matter, for both ’tis the same answer.” He looked to the wall, behind

which he knew Gwenhwyfar to be safe. “She already has over much to think

on. This is our concern.”

He put the sword away, strode in the direction of the stabling. Those two

following could be dealt with anytime, when they became too much of a

nuisance. For now, they were a minor irritant, nothing more. Disease among

the horses, however, was always a worry for a cavalryman.

Fifty

There was only the one road. From a high vantage point, the two

men watched its snaking path as it dropped downward to the valley,

taking turns to doze in the morning warmth. By noon it would be unbearable

again and they would need seek the shelter of shade, but while the sun rode

low it was fairly pleasant. The one awake nudged his companion with his foot,

startling him alert. He pointed, grunted. The second man sat upright, narrowed

his eyes to study better the lone rider. The dun horse again. The second time

he had ridden up this winding road alone.

“Where does he go?” the first man mused, speaking thoughts aloud. His

tongue was Saxon with a Gaulish accent, though his dress and appearance, as

with the other man, was clean-shaven, respectable Romano-Gaulish.

“Does it matter?” The second man shrugged apathetically, and rolled again

to his back, set his hands behind his head. “Our orders are to wait and watch

where the woman goes. I can be content with that.” He closed his eyes. Sought

the sleep that had been interrupted.

Irritated, the other man got to his feet. “You’re a lazy bastard. It’ll be your

fault if we’ve been discovered here.”

The response was a lewd gesture accompanied by, “So what if we have? We’re

travel ers, journeying in the same direction, nothing wrong with that. It is the

others they must not know of.” Without opening his eyes he swung his arm up,

flapped a hand somewhere behind his head, vaguely indicating the haze-shrouded

hills at the far end of the valley. He smirked laughter. “But how would they know?

We are the decoys. If we find out anything interesting, one of us goes back.” He

wriggled his buttocks more comfortably into a hol ow. “Meanwhile, I am enjoying

the easy life. Let the woman stay where she is for as long as she likes, I say.”

The other man began collecting up his belongings, kicked his toe among

the flattened grass where he had sat to encourage it to spring up again. “I’m

going after him.”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 1 7

“And what if he sees you?”

“He won’t.”

The second man heaved himself upright, fumbled in one of his saddlebags.

He tossed a leather pouch of gold coins at his companion. “I’d rather you did

something useful. Ride into Avallon. Get me another horse.”

Catching the small bag, the first man weighed it in his hand, then let it

fall. He picked up his saddle, walked away into the covering shelter of the

trees. “Get your own bloody horse. You should have taken more care of the

last one.”

P

Gweir rode relaxed but alert, feeling more than knowing he was being

watched. He let the dun pick his own pace. The road ran steep in places as it

bent and twisted its path upward through these woods. He looked back once,

appreciated, not for the first time, the impressive domination of that lone, high

hill, upon which sat the Place of the Lady. It would take a determined army

to assault that citadel. The sun, gaining strength in the east, reflected on the

whitened walls of the chapel, built on the very crest of the highest ground, and

caught on the gold of the crucifix erected above the door-place. The hand of

God marking his blessed territory, Gweir thought before he set the dun at the

next, even steeper bend.

The horse pricked his ears, turned his head to the north, and whickered. At

Gweir’s urging, continued forward. Another horse answered from a distance,

well back into the trees, possibly from near where that rise of high ground gave a

good view down the valley. So that was where they had moved to. Ah well, this

would save him the bother of coming out again tonight, to look for himself.

It was the bay that had called. The roan lay dead, partially buried beneath

leaves and bracken. Gweir had found it last night. They had cut its throat with

no time or reason to tend a sick horse.

He looked ahead, up the climbing road, his ears and senses alert for move-

ment, for sound to either side among the darkness of the crowding trees. If

there was to be an ambush, it would come here, where the going was slow, a

long haul. Not that he expected one. Not yet.

“They are waiting to find out what we’re up to, why we are here.” That was

Ider’s opinion, spoken last evening in a soft growl as he discussed tactics quietly

with the men around their corner table in the tavern.

“Who else knows why we are making this journey?” one of them had said.

“Beyond our friends?”

3 1 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“More to the point,” another had added, “what is their intention?” Ider had

grunted his opinion. “Probably, the same as us. To find whether the Pendragon

is still alive.”

Loosening the sword at his side, Gweir tested that it would come quickly free

should he need it in a hurry. His lips formed a half-grin. “If that be the case,” he

had answered Ider, “they are more worthless than we thought.” The daylight

had been fading, but the lamp set on the table, flickering in the evening breeze,

had illuminated his features. “For the answer to that riddle, we already know.”

Gweir touched, as if it were a talisman, the roll of linen tied behind his

saddle. Yesterday, he had seen him, admittedly at a distance, too far to see

clearly or to hail, but it was enough. Gweir had known him.

Quietly, calmly, he had informed Gwenhwyfar this morning, as the first,

faint caress of light had began to dim the stars” dance. She had met him a while

later, in the stables behind the tavern, and had given him this thing.

“Take it to him,” she had said. “Tell him I am here.”

“Ought not you to go, my lady?” Gweir had said to her.

She had shaken her head, pushed a strand of loose hair from her eye. “
Na
,”

she had answered him. “I cannot go.”

This morning, he had not understood. All this way, all this long journey—

ought she not have been eager to see Arthur for herself?

But riding up the steepness of this lonely road, Gweir had realised the truth

of it, for he felt the first unease that she too must have felt. What, if after all this

distance, all this effort, Arthur did not want to return to Britain, to his men, his

kingdom, and his wife?

Fifty-One

With livestock to keep safe, there was always fencing to be mended

or tended. Goats especially, stupid animals, had an obsession with

pushing through, finding weak timber, loosened posts. Arthur hit twice more

with the mallet, tested the corner post for firmness, grunted, satisfied when it

did not move, looked up as a horse came into the yard, picking its way across

the sun-hardened mud ruts. A dun, well bred.

Few turned onto the uninviting track that meandered down the valley to

this clustered settlement where the women of the Goddess dwelt. Those few

men who did come, rode here for one reason only. For the pleasures a woman

gave. And for the most part, the women welcomed them. Not here, though,

not at Morgaine’s isolated dwelling. Men did not come to this place. How

word spread there was already a man here, Arthur had never cared to ask, but

spread it did.

His hand went automatically to the dagger sheathed at his waistband. He

took a few paces forward, his eyes squinting against the bright glare of the

sun. Stopped.

Something familiar, alarming. Arthur’s heart quickened, the unexpected

rearing up to meet him square on. Gweir? By all the gods, Gweir! He licked

his lips, wiped his hand down the outside of his thigh, the sweat on his palm

sticky, annoying. Had he known, all this time, someone, some foolish whelp,

might just come looking for Morgaine, might come asking after where she had

buried the body, what she had done with the man who had once been strong

enough to be a king?

For his part, Gweir was as a’feared as Arthur. All this while, all these miles.

All the tears. What did he say, now he was here, face to face with his lord? How

did he begin?

“We thought you were killed on that dreadful day.” It was as good an

opening as any.

3 2 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “As you see, I survived. You also escaped the

clutch of the Otherworld.”

Gweir lifted his hand in a slight gesture of unimportant dismissal. “I missed

most the fighting, was left for dead early in the day.” He threw his leg over

his horse’s withers, slid to the ground. “I made my way back home. Back to

Caer Cadan.” He did not say it, but it was there, deep in his voice, hurting,

screaming.
Why did you not also come home?