Shadow of the King (53 page)

Again Arthur shrugged, how could he answer? How could he say aloud that

there had been nothing for him to go back to? That he had not the courage

to face what once had been, with the blood of defeat stinking so strong on his

hands? In the end, all he could say was, “I walked with death for a long time, and

when I was recovered there was nothing left in my spirit to guide me back.”

Standing beside his horse, one hand to the reins, Gweir felt a surge of sudden,

uprushed anger. All those tears, all those damned, wasted tears! “Not even for

us?” he said bitterly. “Not for all those men who would die a hundred deaths

for you?” Then softer, perplexed, added, “You turned your back on so much,

so many.”

“They say,” Arthur replied, a tightness catching in his throat, “that when

learning to ride a horse, if you fall you must get on again straightway, else your

nerve shatters.” He spread his hands, the mallet dangling, “I fell, and there was

no horse for me to mount.”

Gweir stepped forward, leading his dun, held the reins out to Arthur. His

eyes, imploring, said, “Here is mine. Take him. Come home.” Arthur’s smile

was sad. “’Tis not as simple as that, lad, I would that it were.”

“Where is the difficulty?” Gweir protested. “If ever you loved your men and

your country, if ever you loved your wife”—Arthur winced—“then mount

this horse. Now.”

For a moment, Arthur held the lad’s hurting eyes, recognised the pain

there—did he not feel that same pain biting into his own, twisting soul? He

shook his head, turned away.

His head hanging, Gweir shut his eyes against the well of tears. He had not

intended to say all that, had not expected to be so angry. What had possessed

him? Hastily, he untied the roll of linen from behind his saddle, ran the few

steps that separated him and his lord, held the bundle to him.

“She said to give you this. Said, this would tell you all you need to know.”

Gweir put the thing into Arthur’s hand, stepped back as the Pendragon looked

for a moment at it, unwrapped the covering. A leather scabbard, functional,

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nothing exceptional. Inside, a sword. He knew that pommel, knew the firm

feel of power and strength that flowed from it into the skin of your hand, knew

its wonder. Knew all that without need to draw the blade.

If his heart was pounding before, it now leapt faster. He licked dry lips,

looked from the sword to Gweir, back to the sword. His sword. The sword he

had taken in battle from a Saxon, the sword he had last seen at…He looked up

at Gweir, asked simply, “She?”

Boldly, Gweir spoke out. It was the best way, best to fight with the edge of

your blade, not the flat. “Bedwyr took the sword back to Britain; he thought

it a thing he ought do. Found, as you would have found had you returned,

that further word never reached you, that you had been mistakenly told false.

Bedwyr gave the sword to her, and now she has brought it here, returned it to

you. For you to do with as you will.”

Dumb, with no word in his mind or mouth, Arthur stared blankly at Gweir,

his lips slight parted, brow dipped in a questioning furrow.

“You were told wrong, my king, thank the Lord,” Gweir responded in a rush

of words. “She lives. Like me, like you, Gwenhwyfar lives. She is at the convent

at the Place of the Lady, not a handful of miles from here, waiting for you.”

Fifty-Two

Arthur leant his forehead down into the goat’s warm flank, his

fingers working automatically, stripping the milk from her full udder,

sending it hissing into the wooden bucket. She was a good animal, this one,

content to stand quietly, rarely kicking or fidgeting. Not like her eldest daughter,

a demon to milk. Arthur frequently threatened to butcher her. If it was not for

her consistent yield, he probably would have done so by now.

His busy fingers slowed, stopped. The goat lifted her head, thoughtfully

chewing, enjoying the feed placed in the bucket before her. Arthur shut his

eyes, pressed back threatening tears.

A child’s feet, running. They were returned, Medraut and his mother. She

called something to the boy, then he was at the byre door, his fingers fumbling

with the stiff latch. Arthur scrubbed the back of his hand across his cheek,

continued with the milking. Medraut, breathless, his face flushed from the

exhilaration of running in the heat of the afternoon, was at his side.

“Mam says, can she have the milk as soon as you have finished?” Arthur

grunted agreement.

“There were a lot of people in Avallon today, and we saw soldiers marching

along the Roman road.” Receiving no reply, the boy gaily chattered on. His

father was often silent, often answered with only aye or no, or a grunt. “They

were Burgundians, Mam said, hundreds of them, all singing and laughing as

they marched! I wonder where they were going?” He was darting about, full of

a child’s exuberant energy as he talked, swinging his arm as if it held a sword,

parrying and thrusting, fighting an imaginary opponent. “The leaders wore

chain armour and bright coloured cloaks, and their helmets had horse-tails on

the top.”

“Many weapons?”

“Oh aye, spears and swords and great axes!” Medraut changed his imaginary

weapon to an axe, which he swung haphazardly from side to side. Arthur had

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finished the milking, was moving the bucket to where it could not be knocked

or kicked over. You only did that once, when milking, leave a full bucket

where it was vulnerable. “You use an axe like that in battle, boy, you’ll be dead

within the first few minutes.”

Medraut’s lips pouted.

Moving to the stacked woodpile to one side of the cluttered byre, Arthur

casually lifted the chopping axe from where it hung on a roof-support post. He

set a log end on, on the earthen floor and gripping the shaft with both hands,

brought the axe down, clean through the centre, the wood falling in two equal

halves. “You can split a skull as effectively.” Arthur set the two billets of wood

to the top of the pile.

“Have you ever killed a man with an axe?” Medraut was impressed, his

question asked with awe. He was a lad of six years, an age when warrior heroes

and super-strength gods filled his mind and dominated the breathless stories he

asked for.

“You use anything you have in battle, boy, including fists and teeth, knees

and feet.” Arthur held the axe in his hand. It was heavy, not well made, an

axe adequate for wood chopping not sturdy, reliable for battle. “The axe is a

weapon for the ranks. Mine was the sword.”

“Have you been in many battles then, Da? Before you came to stay here

with us?” Medraut knew little of his father’s past. That he had come from

somewhere else, injured and unwell, he knew. He vaguely remembered a long

walk with his mother, once, dimly remembered a lot of men fighting, but his

mother had never talked of it, and neither had Arthur. It could all have been a

dream. He often dreamt of battle and soldiers, marching and fighting, dreamt

of being a hero, brave and strong.

Arthur snorted through his nose. “A few,” he answered. He sighed, placed

the axe back where it belonged. “A few.” He turned his back on the woodpile,

bent to lift the bucket of creamy, warm milk. It was there, hidden between the

logs of wood, his sword, the sword that had once made him a king.

Opening the door for his father, Medraut was still chattering about the

men he had seen, asking questions, reciting his observations, not noticing that

Arthur’s answers were grunts or monosyllabic. “Some of them had their hair

tied in a tail on top of their head, they looked like horses. Who was that man

we saw riding away from here? What did he want?”

Abruptly, Arthur stopped, the milk slopping over the brim of the bucket.

“What man?”

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“The one riding a dun horse. We were coming down the hill; we saw him

riding away.”

“Oh. He was seeking directions, had taken the wrong track.”

Medraut was only a child. Morgaine, his mother, would have caught the rise

of inflection in Arthur’s voice, would have heard the catch in his throat and

seen the quick rise of breath on his chest. Being a boy, Medraut had no reason

to doubt his father’s answer.

Fifty-Three

The horse held his head out stiffly, easing the discomfort of the

swollen, misshapen glands beneath his jaw. Onager was ill. He was off

his feed, his body slumped, eyes dull and disinterested. The nasal discharge had

altered from a clear trickle to the thick, opaque flux common to the strangling

disease, an illness that spread from horse to horse with rapacious speed—the

young were the most vulnerable, together with the unfit and the old. Onager

was a good horse, in his prime, well-fed, well-groomed, but as a colt he had

not contracted a dose of this wretched illness, was paying for that earlier

escape now.

The jaw abscess was hardening, was ready to burst, the danger being that

it would burst internally, would drain inward. Gwenhwyfar stroked her hand

sympathetically along his neck, his coat harsh and rough beneath her finger-

touch; her misery was compounded by a combination of lack of sleep, profound

disappointment, and anxiety. She was regretting the impulsive decision to bring

Onager. Was regretting coming at all. What a fool she had been!

To know he was alive. Is that what she had told herself all these weeks, these

months? Just to know he was alive? Was she a fool, born under the madness of

a red moon? She wanted him back—had assumed he would come back to her,

with her. Fool! Her soothing fingers had wandered to the hard lump beneath

Onager’s jaw. It would need lancing to ensure the pus drained away correctly,

a task she detested. A foul, messy job. Do it now, or leave it another day?

Two days past Gweir had ridden out of the valley, had said little on his return.

“Did you see him?” Gwenhwyfar had asked, flushed, breathless.

“I saw him.”

“And?”

“And I left his sword with him, as you asked.”

That first night had passed slowly, hot and airless, with Gwenhwyfar unable

to sleep. She had prowled her room, lain down, got up. Told herself the

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agitation was for Onager, ill in the stables. Knew it for the excuse it was.

Tomorrow Arthur would come, they would wait for Onager to recover, and

then go home. Oh, would tomorrow never come?

The day came, but Arthur did not. Another dawn. Sun-up, midday. Evening,

a haze of dark clouds gathering into another grumbling storm.

“You told him I was here?” She had asked Gweir several times.

He had bitten his lip, tried to avoid meeting her eyes. He had nodded. “I told

him.” But how could he tell her Arthur’s last words? “I have for myself another

life, another home.”

The stables were lit by only two lamps for the night. More were unnecessary.

The men had gone to their beds, although Ider would not be far away, prob-

ably having a last drink with the tavern-keeper. The gates to the convent would

have been locked more than two hours past. She would sleep near Onager this

night. Rain pattered lightly on the stable roof. Again, Gwenhwyfar fingered

that ripening swelling.

Footsteps beyond the door. Ider had said he would come to see all was well

before he slept. The lamps flickered briefly as it opened and closed, chivvying

a draught. “We must make decision on this tomorrow,” Gwenhwyfar said, her

head tilted, peering closely at the abscess. “We cannot afford to leave its lancing

over-late.”

The aisle between the stalls was long and narrow, much of it in darkness. The

man’s boots clattered on the cobbling, a smell of a rain-wet cloak. He lifted the

lighted lamp as he came abreast of it, carrying it high, stretched forward, felt the

hard lump, ran his hand affectionately down the horse’s neck. The animal lifted

his head, ears pricking, attempted a soft whicker of greeting.

“Ah, my handsome lad, I can see you are not well, but we will get you better.”

Gwenhwyfar stood very still, her fingers remaining on Onager’s crest, her

heart pounding, mouth dry, lost for the right words to say.

Arthur set the lamp safe into a niche high in the wall, placed his fingers

lightly over hers. His hand was cold, the skin sun-browned. He was thinner

than she remembered, his cheeks hollowed, eyes tired. His hair needed cleaning

and combing, a shave, too, for the stubble was thick on his face. An uneasy,

embarrassed silence. “You would have been thinking I was not going to come,”

he said, his voice so familiar.

“I was starting to think that.”

For want of something more to say, he touched Onager again. “This needs

lancing. Tonight.”

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“It will go another day.”

“No, it will not!” he said it wildly, with more aggression than he had