Shadow of the King (62 page)

back? Was not going to return?

Two months since, a rider had galloped up to Geraint’s Hall of Durnovaria, his

horse lathered, ridden hard the distance from the port of Llongborth, the man come

from across the sea, one of those who had accompanied Lady Gwenhwyfar.

“The Pendragon is found! He is alive!”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 7 5

How that joyful, and so expectant, news had then travelled! Despite the

hushed warning it was to be kept tongue-locked within their own knowing.

Two months past. And still the Pendragon had not come.

“It is my belief it was false news, Bedwyr.” Geraint pushed himself wearily to his

feet. “We must face the fact of our own eyes, our own sense. Something—some

tragedy, illness, treachery, I do not know what—something has befallen them.

Him. Whatever it was that had prevented the Pendragon’s return three years

past is still as prevalent now. If Arthur could have returned, he would have done

so. If not…” He eased a second sigh. “We must accept, Bedwyr. We are—for

all our hopes, our ambitions and dreams, God help us—on our own.”

Bedwyr remained at the table, leaning on his arms, his lips as tight folded.

“The men are here, Geraint, waiting to fight. To fight against the Saex. To fight

for Arthur and Britain.” He lifted his eyes and face, his chin, lightly stubbled

with beard-growth, jutting determined. “They strain at the leash, anxious to

fight this Saxon army, but they will not do so, not under Ambrosius’s banner.

They will not follow a man who ordered the murder of old men, of women

and children. Of those who farm, are settled, and live at peace with Britain.”

He unfolded his arms, lay his palms flat on the rough surface of the wooden

trestle table, pushed himself up, as wearily as Geraint had done. Taking his cloak

from where it lay over a bench, he swung it around his shoulders, fastened the

ornate pin. “This garment,” he said, settling the folds of the cloak comfortably

around him, “is the red of the Artoriani. Beneath, I wear the white tunic.

We,” he idled his hand in a general direction of the outside, “those of us who

knew Arthur, who rode with and loved the Pendragon, have faith that if he can

return to lead us into victory—and restore the peace that victory brings—if he

can return, he will.” He ambled to the door, lifted its latch. “If we must ride

against the Saex, then we ride under someone who will preserve all that Arthur

stood for. We’ll ride as Artoriani, Geraint.” He half-turned, his eyes pleading to

be understood, pleading for some unknown god to be listening and take pity.

“We’ll ride under Arthur, when he returns to lead us.”

He left the room, the door closing with a quiet thud.

Geraint stood before the brazier, warming himself. His bottom lip was tucked

between his teeth, and his head shook, slowly, from side to side. Dreams and

hopes were one thing. The realities, another entirely.

Sixty-Nine

Deep into the mead, Aesc, self-styled king of the Cantii Saxons, was

morose. This whole venture went against the grain of al sense. Why face

degradation, blood, and pain for the sake of obtaining land when he already had

sufficient lordship over land enough? Talked into this fool thing by a honey-

tongued ambition chaser! Ach, Aelle of the South Saxons had much to gain,

little to loose, but he, Aesc? Curse the idle god who had allowed him to slip,

unsuspecting, into this damn situation! He drained his tankard, slopped more

mead into it, drank again. What, in all the power of Woden’s thunder, had

possessed him? He had lost men, good fighting men. Could lose so much more!

His wife, his sons, his land, his wealth. As mead dribbled from his mouth, he

rested his forehead against the rim of the drinking vessel, groaned. He ought have

stayed at Canta Byrig, stayed in his own land, remained lord of his own future!

A hand, thick-wristed, muscle-armed, slapped onto his shoulder, a chortling

laugh sounding behind. “My friend! More mead? This is excellent stuff, is it not?

Something else we do better than the poxed British, ferment a fine brew!” As he

spoke, Aelle’s other hand gripped firm around the mead-jar, poured a generous

measure for the seated Cantii king, and set the jug down again. Aelle placed

himself next to his fellow Saxon, his tactfully appointed joint commander. “Have

you thought on what I asked of you? Do you join us when we march on the

morrow?” The joviality was, perhaps, a little false, a little too extreme, too hearty.

Aesc, if he realised it, made no move or comment against that grand, extravagant

show of friendship. The South Saxons needed the Cantii in this thing as much as

the other way around. Without either side backing the other, the whole uprising

would crumble into scattered pockets of weak-minded, weak-armed rebellion.

Soon crushed, soon ended. Together, they almost stood a chance of succeeding.

“You could have more than that insubstantial corner of Britain.” Aelle’s arm

was gripping firmer around Aesc’s shoulders, his lips close to his ear. “Much

more. All yours, and mine, for the sake of one more effort, one last fight!”

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

The mead tankard thudded to the table, slopping the rich, dark drink over

the side. Aesc half-turned, his surly, drink-sodden features growling behind the

cragged, grimed skin, puckering beneath the unkempt, mead-stained beard and

moustache. Why in Woden’s name was he still here at Radingas? Why in all

the gods’ names had he not gathered together his men and arms and returned

home? There was nothing here, save defeat and shame. And a sore head to face

come morning.

“Fight?” He sneered. “Fight? As we fought ten days past, do you mean? Do

we, then, chase a second opportunity to piss our breeches and run?”

The control to retain the good humour came with well-schooled patience.

That was why Aelle had attained the position of Bretwalda—overlord, Supreme

King—among the Saxon peoples. Aelle, not any other king or princeling. He

was a large-built, sturdy man, strong-muscled in arm and thigh and brain. A

man who could think as efficiently as he could fight.

“Ah,” he said, batting the air derisively, “that was a mere skirmish, a battle of

no significance, save to test our strength against theirs. Let us be magnanimous

about it, allow the British to make merry and crow loud about their poxed little

victory. His fingers returned to grip, claw-like into Aesc’s flesh, the bite hard,

even through the padding of cloak and tunic. “Let them win a small battle. We,

my comrade, shall win the war!”

Almost insolent, Aesc picked at the clasping fingers, setting them loose,

pushed the hand aside. “War? Why did I get myself embroiled in your farting

war? This is your need, not mine!”

Assessing the hostility, Aelle moved himself a fraction along the bench. He

must take care, for as mule-minded as Aesc could be, he was an essential ally.

They must fight together! Together, they had strength and determination;

together, the British could be defeated. “Agreed, it is I who require the more

land, to enlarge that which I have already laid claim to, but it is we, my friend,

we who can drive the British into the hills, we who can send them scurrying

across the sea to their God-mumbling sanctuaries in Less Britain. It may take

us a while, may take the spilling of much of our blood. The losing of many

battles.” He leant slightly more forward, more intimidating, more sincere. “But

I say again, you and I with our unity can win!”

Aesc growled something inaudible and Aelle knew he had him, had his alli-

ance again. Quickly, he moved on. “I have learnt that the British remain at

the place they call Badon. ’Tis a fortress guarding the Ridge Way—
ja
, as you

rightly say, you know this.”

3 7 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Aesc had grunted his indignation at being told what even a babe in arms

ought know. Protested, “I know more of the British defences than do you

South Saxons! My father, Hengest, rode with a British king, remember? My

sister married him. My niece, Winifred, married another!”

Calming, talking easily, low-voiced, unhurried, Aelle skirted the rebuke,

continued. He must make certain Aesc would march with them come the

morrow! He must! “Forgive me, I do not tell you what you know, merely sort

my own thoughts aloud so we may compare our strategies.” Tactfully, neatly

done! “Badon is a fortress formidable on the north side, easier to take from the

more gentle sloping south. We need to swing around, secure the British, then

attack.” Added, almost as an after-thought, “Ambrosius is again ill, I hear.” His

excitement and enthusiasm increased as if urging an already running horse into

a flat gallop. “We could take them so easily, Aesc! From the south, we could

take them as if they were poisoned rats sealed in a nest-hole!”

The Canti conceded. What Aelle said was the truth. “Do we have the time

to lay siege?”

“La! We do!”

“What of Geraint? What if he comes riding hard from the south?”

“Is that now likely? All this while and he has not made a move. ’Tis obvious he

has sided with Bedwyr. They are waiting for us to finish Ambrosius, then…”

Impatient, curt, Aesc interrupted. “Then we will need start a new fight! I knew

singing the praises of a short, sharp war was a mead-soaked exaggeration!”

The other man chuckled a gust of amusement. “Since when, friend, did a

warrior not exaggerate the course of battle!”

The sour retort. “Since he discovered his hair was becoming thinned and

grizzled, his back and bum ached from lying on damp, hard ground, and the

delights of a wife’s teats, the warmth of her bed, and the knowing he could

savour the same enjoyment the next night uninterrupted began appealing to

him more than the possibility of having his balls hacked off by some raw

British recruit!”

Aelle roared amusement. “You are right! Of course, you are so right!” Shoving

the empty mead-jug from him, Aesc swivelled to full face his Bretwalda. Asked

one, earnest, sober question.

“So, Ambrosius is ill. Geraint will not aid him. What, then, my overlord, do

we do if the other rumour proves to be truth?” He belched, wiped the back of

his hand across his mouth. “What if Arthur truly is returned?

Seventy

Arthur gripped the top lip of the palisade fencing, the knuckles of

both hands whitening under the tension of that anxious grasp. Below,

slaves were lighting the torches and braziers. The cobbled courtyard of Geraint’s

inner, private sanctuary of royal dwellings leapt with the dance of illuminated

shadow, the uneasy proximity of a winter’s evening recoiling, while beyond the

wooden palisade, the darkening sky pressed closer, leaning its cold breath up

against the outer walls of Durnovaria. There were no stars. No moon. January

had been a dull-weathered month, encased in louring grey cloud that refused

to scud or billow into anything more than an omnipresent weight. If snow or

frost touched a more northerly part of Britain, it had not dared to ride here to

this milder, more southerly, climate.

Durnovaria, the town beyond the royal enclosure, rustled into the casual

stroll of a typical evening routine. Shops and bothies were closing, taverns

filling with those seeking warmth, food, and drink after a day’s laborious toil;

streets emptying of daytime traffic, mothers calling their young children in from

play, husbands returning home. Doors and window shutters bolted, the chill

of night closed firmly out. The day ended so soon after it had begun this time

of year.

A wind was stirring, becoming attentive to the banner flying from the roof of

the northern guard tower and scuffing at Arthur’s cloak. It smelt different. Here

in Britain, the wind carried a heady scent of damp soil and mouldering autumn

leaves, mixing with the saline tang of the sea and sheep-grazed upland grasses.

Always, the tantalising promise of distant summer and optimistic hope.

Three days had he been back. Three long, never-ending days of heart-racing,

unnerved panic. He had come up here onto the rampart walkway to escape the

loud press of people in Geraint’s Hall, their swell of excited talk and heated debate:

They had been feasting, the men, Geraint’s loyal, warrior-class followers, and his

own Artoriani. A handful more than three hundred men, where once he could

3 8 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

have boasted three times that number. They were men who had remained loyal to

his memory, his name, men who had ridden with Bedwyr rather than go against

all they had previously fought for. Men who, whatever way you cared to look at it,

had deserted Ambrosius and their country, leaving both to God’s mercy and their

fate. By Arthur’s law, and the law of soldiering laid down by Rome—and even

before that, by the law of tribal honour—one in every ten of those men ought be

stoned or clubbed to death. Desertion was the greatest sin for any fighting man,

from the humblest shield-bearer to king himself. Arthur’s fingers gripped tighter.