Shadow of the King (57 page)

Eagerly enthusiastic about the horse in the byre, he had been chattering

happily about the animal, unaware of his mother’s tight-lipped silence. Tucking

a blanket around him, her patience finally snapped.

“No more of this! You are to stay away from the creature,” she commanded.

Wildly alarmed, the boy protested. “But I am to help Da make him better!

I promised I would!”

Morgaine snatched hold of the boy’s shoulder, her fingernails pinching

cruelly into the delicate skin. “If I catch you near that beast, I will whip you!”

And added, her face pressing vindictively close to the boy’s, “And I shall whip

the horse, too!”

Medraut dug his teeth into his lip, held his tears until she had gone with the

lamp, leaving him alone under the roof beams in the darkness. He could hear

her moving about down below, preparing supper for herself and his Da. One

solitary tear trickled from beneath his lashes, then another.

He turned his face into the bracken-filled pallet so not even the night spirits

would see him weep.

Fifty-Eight

Arthur was disappointed that the boy did not come to help with

Onager. He had seemed so eager at the outset, but that was children for

you. Full of boundless enthusiasm the one moment, off with their friends,

fishing or swimming the next. He supposed he had been inclined the same

as a boy, except, as a bastard child he had had few friends, and always, had

chosen the company of the Pendragon above other things. Although he had

not known Uthr to be his father, then.

Medraut was down by the lake, over to where a large cluster of dwellings

huddled beneath the shaded slope of trees. The morning had been overcast

and the wind chill, but by early afternoon the temperature was picking up.

Naturally the pack of boys had headed for the lure of the water. Arthur could

hear their shouted, excited voices floating on the wind, could imagine them

romping and splashing at the lake edge. He might walk Onager down there

later, lead him along the shore, let him graze the succulent grass that abounded

there. He forked a pile of dung from the horse’s bed, rested his shoulders and

back against the partition wall. Closed his eyes. He was so tired. Had no energy,

no enthusiasm for anything.

Morgaine had nursed a temper, although not one that could ever have

matched her mother’s. Morgaine was not as clever as her, nor as subtle or

vindictive. Why she should be so upset about the horse, Arthur could not

imagine, nor did he care enough to enquire.

Yesterday, she had changed tactics, had brought him a breakfast out to the

byre where he was sleeping; fresh-baked wheat bread smeared liberally with

honey, a tankard of barley ale. Had she guessed to where he had gone? On

several occasions yesterday he had almost told her. “
I went to see my wife and she

was more beautiful than ever I remembered.
”

She would have gone now, Gwenhwyfar, saddled the horses and be heading

home. Disappointed? Angry? He had no way of knowing.

3 4 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Arthur wiped his hand over his face. The palm was sweaty, the fingers

shaking, blurring before his vision. He sighed. So tired.

The goats would need milking soon, and the sow’s pen cleaning. He placed

an affectionate smack on Onager’s rump, the horse’s ears flicking backwards

with the sound. At least the animal was improving; he had eaten a feed mixed

with a generous handful of healing, dried nettles, was chewing at hay stacked in

the manger. The pus had stopped oozing. Onager had been lucky, a mild dose

of the illness it seemed. A few good feeds, a few days of grazing in the summer

sun, and he would soon recover. What in all the gods’ names was Arthur going

to do with a war-horse? Onager would never pull a plough or wagon; Mithras’s

love, what had made Arthur bring him here?

He could hear Morgaine singing as she worked at her loom, some song he

did not recognise. He put the wooden fork with the stable tools that leant

against the stack of the woodpile, cursed as it fell, his fingers fumbling to

stand it upright. Why were his hands so clumsy? Damn it, why was Morgaine

so happy? He could feel this black mood of despair engulfing him, cramping

its tentacles around him, feel the darkness seeping deeper and thicker. A

great pit opening before him, going down and down. All he had to do was

look up, reach out for the light, summon the courage, go after Gwenhwyfar

and say he was sorry, beg her forgiveness; but he was too tired. So much

easier to step into that hole and drift…He wanted to sleep, fought against

it, for the darkness would surely come, swallow him for ever if he drowsed

into sleep.

He had dreamt last night. Dreamt of home, of Caer Cadan and, strangely, of

Yns Witrin, the Tor that rose proud above the flat levels of the Summer Land.

His Summer Land, the land of the seven rivers, summer-sluggish, that swelled

and flooded in spring from the run-off from the surrounding rounded hills. Flat

pasture, willow-bordered, spongy beneath your feet even in the hottest, driest

summer. In winter, a constant movement of birds, for the levels swarmed with

lapwings, golden plover, redwing, snipe, rook, and gull. Hawk and kestrel.

In his dream, a light, golden evening was settling after what must have been

a brilliant day. Late summer, for the grass was sun-browned, the lake not as

high as it would be in the dazzling green of early spring. A boat, coming across

the lake from the Tor, one person paddling, a woman, brown-cloaked, hood

pulled forward. Two other women waited on the shore, both with their backs

to him, waiting for the boat. He knew who they were, the one dressed as a

Christian woman, with her dark gown and white veil, her gold crucifix glinting

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 4 7

in the evening sunlight, and the other woman, with her plaid, a rich red cloak.

Her tumble of copper hair.

He had tried to call, attract their attention, but they were intent on watching

the boat. And then Gwenhwyfar had turned, but she had not seen him, was

unaware he was there. His sword was in her hand—and then she and Winifred

and the boat that carried Morgaine were gone. Only the sword remained, the

blade quivering in the grass as the wind, dancing down from the height of the

Tor, whispered past.

Arthur gasped, found he was on his knees, his head bent forward, his vision

reeling and spinning, an ache hammering against the side of his skull. Sweat

slithered down his spine, from beneath his armpits. He saw the shadow move

at the doorway, heard the rush of movement, the dagger scything downward,

and he rolled, head ducked, back curved, rolled over and up onto his feet,

crouching low, hands spread, his movements slow, clumsy.

There were two of them, two men. Saxons, blonde-haired, drooping mous-

taches, blue, cold eyes. One man with blurred senses against two intent killers.

Arthur’s fingers fumbled at his waist for his dagger, dropped it. He leapt

backward as one man came again with his short sword, the Saex, the blade

whistling as it sliced the air, missing Arthur’s midriff by the width of a hair.

Arthur stumbled, sending the stable tools, a bucket and several other items

tumbling and rolling, part of the woodpile crashing as his hand grappled for a

hold to steady himself.

He needed a weapon! His hand closed around the stable fork; he jabbed the

prongs at the nearest man, swung forward to drive the second backward, but

that first man’s sword had an edge like a midwinter’s night. The blade sliced

through the wooden shaft, leaving Arthur holding a next to useless stump of

stick. He used it haphazardly as a defence, waving it before him to keep the

attackers away while he manoeuvred around, closer to the woodpile. He slid

the stick into his left hand, felt frantically with his right among the stacked logs.

The two men stood, side by side, their grins widening, one shifting his blade,

menacing, from hand to hand as they closed in, their breaths strong and foul

from an excess of stale wine and strong cheese. Desperate, Arthur side-stepped a

pace, his fingers still scrabbling between the crevices of the stacked logs—blood

of Mithras, where in all hell was it? Where was his sword?

He heard a woman screaming, a man laughing; ducked and twisted as both

men lunged forward. Head-butting one, his fist pounded into the chin of the

other. The first doubled over, winded, his arms going around his stomach,

3 4 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

sword falling to the earthen floor. The second reeled, but lurched forward,

mouth drawn into a snarl that showed a row of blackened, decayed teeth.

Arthur again rolled, coming up with the dropped short sword in his hand,

driving it upward, within the same moment as the man raised his own weapon,

and pushed it in through the abdomen.

No time to take a breath, to gloat at the one’s death, for the first man was

again on his feet, a log of wood firm in his hand, coming hard at Arthur,

enraged at the death of his companion. Arthur had his back to Onager, the

horse shifting nervously in his stall, ears back, eyes rolling. Simple to manoeuvre

around, reverse the positions. As easy to lunge forward, drive the Saxon back

a step. Onager’s hind foot lashed out, trumping against the Saxon’s thigh. The

sound of the bone shattering and the scream, ricocheted around the byre.

Shaking his head to clear the muzziness and blurred vision, Arthur ran outside.

Three men were coming through the gateway, swords drawn. Another had

been searching inside the grain-barn. Saxons, everywhere. Why? What were

Saex doing this far into Gaul? No time to think, to reason, the man from the

granary was entering the house-place, the eyes of the others swivelling in that

direction also as Morgaine’s screams were rising against the excited roar of male

laughter. Saex-sword raised, Arthur hurtled across the small, square yard. He

would rather have had the secure feel of his own cavalry sword in his grasp, with

its greater length and stronger bite, but all Arthur had was this bloodied one. He

ran, foot-kicked the door wide, sending one man sprawling face forward as it

back-slammed, killing another almost within the same instant with a side-thrust

of the blade, ripping it double-handed, through his ribs and lungs.

Morgaine was on the floor, her skirt pushed up over her head, a heavy-

built Saxon grunting on top of her, another hauling at his shoulder, urging

him to hurry, make way. Arthur’s sword slammed between the waiting man’s

shoulders, slamming in to the hilt. Blood spewed from the dying man’s mouth,

choking off the startled death-cry. Two-handed, Arthur attempted to pull the

short-bladed sword out, had to leave it, turn, bending low, as a man flew at

him from behind. Arms grabbed him, a fist thudded into his abdomen, under

his jaw.

Morgaine was still screaming, the man on top of her urgently finishing what

he was doing. Arthur toppled forward, dizzying into semi consciousness.

Fifty-Nine

Gwenhwyfar did not look back, not once, not even when they

passed by the track that trailed southward, following down into the

Avallon Valley and to the lake where the community of pagan women squatted

between the shoulder of the hills and the shore. There was a dwelling-place

there which housed a woman, her son, and a man who had once been so

splendid a king. She shut them from her mind. Angry, so disappointed.

She rode ahead, her horse picking its way, sure-footed, across roots and

tangled overgrowth. They would meet the main Via Agrippa some time soon,

ride onward through the night, for a full moon and clear skies were expected

to light the way.

They ought to have left the same day as he had. No, she refused to think

of that, think of him. They ought to have left, but had not, the excuse being

that Gweir had not yet returned, but by this mid-morning she had decided not

to wait longer, ordered the men to saddle the horses. They rode slowly, in no

great hurry, following the valley up the steep winding track that Gweir had

ridden to find…

Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes, let the horse pick his own way along this

narrow, faint-marked trail.

“
The two Saxons have moved
,” Gweir had reported, that afternoon after Arthur

had come, and gone. “
They have split: one waits among the lower trees, the other has

ridden hard in the direction of Antessiodurum. There is mischief in mind, I am sure.
”

Mischief indeed if Gweir were not to return! He would catch up, knew the

direction they headed, the quicker way home, straight up the Roman Road to

the coast and a ship to take them back to…to what? She had promised herself

she would not cry. No more weeping, no more tears.

Gwenhwyfar rode alone, ahead of her men so that they would not witness