Shadow of the King (63 page)

Aye, to king himself. Desertion. A deliberate leaving, a conscious thought not to

return. One man in ten? Happen, he ought be the first.

They were celebrating down in the Hall, unaware of his torment, this torrent

of crazed, mixed emotions. They rejoiced at his homecoming, their saving,

as they saw it. They were swilling beer, draining wine, and devouring pork,

venison, beef, and fowl as if the morrow was to bring a judgement from the

gods and the world would end for all time. As well it might, considering the

news brought in not one hour since.

Arthur closed his eyes, lifted his hot face to the cold caress of the night

wind. Too many were in that Hall. The stench of human bodies, male sweat,

wine-sopped breath, and passed wind mingling with the pleasanter aromas of

roasting meats, hearth-smoke, honey-sweetened mead, the apple perfume of

cider, and the odour of fresh-fermented beer. He had never felt comfortable in

confined spaces, never settled at ease within the enclosure of walls. God’s truth!

They wanted him to fight, to lead them! He swallowed, forcing down that hard

lump of gathering fear.

What had he expected, for Mithras’s sake? To come home unnoticed? To

ride up to Caer Cadan, pull off his boots, and sit quietly before his hearth for the

rest of his days? He had hoped, perhaps, for a few cheerfully called greetings, a

few slaps on the shoulder. One or two might have expressed a notion he would

take up where he had left off, a suggestion he would quickly have parried. A

few, a foolish handful, may even have wanted to fight with him again. He had

not expected so many to be so eagerly waiting for him. And more would come,

Bedwyr had informed him, when they knew he was once again their king;

more, many more would come.

King! How could he dare take up that privilege again? Had he not aban-

doned that right when he remained in Gaul? And why would men want to

fight beneath him now? Now he had so irresponsibly slaughtered his own, had

so horribly shown that he could fail?

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 8 1

Horses were coming up through the town from the outer gates, passing

through the gateway below and to Arthur’s left. Too dark to see the riders

muffled in thick winter cloaks, Arthur too deep in his own fear-bounding

thoughts to attempt an identification. Probably more fool men come to give

thanks for his return, men who had heard the news that was spreading as rapidly

and widely as ripples on a calm pond.

Give thanks! Did the imbeciles not see? Did they not understand? Even if

the Saxon army was marching for the Ridge Way fortresses, what could he

do about it? Lead the British? He was no longer a leader, did not have the

credibility to expect men to follow him. Fight with them? Hah! He was too

damned scared ever to fight again.

Sounds in the town had been subtly altering, daytime folk giving way to

prowling night-users, young, adventurous men seeking the taverns or a whore.

Both. Cut-purses and thieves seeking the bleary-eyed and wine-sodden. Arthur

was cold, the chill in the strengthening wind biting at his hands, face, and body, but

he stood looking out into the darkness, hands clutching that rampart palisade.

The new-arrived horses had been led away; he had heard the distinctive

clatter of their shod hooves going in the direction of the stables. From the

Hall, the talk and laughter had faltered, then risen again as the newcomers,

whoever they were, obtained momentary attention. He ought go down, see

who they were, greet them. Why? Who would they be? Misguided men

hoping to follow the Dragon Banner? More men blindly not seeing that to

follow Arthur meant to meet a certain end? As those others had met death at

the marshes near Vicus Dolensis.

One quarter of an hour passed, creeping to the half. Foot-treads on the

wooden stairway, two voices, female, met by the barked challenge of the night

watch. Gwenhwyfar’s polite, identifying answer followed by belligerent anger

as she spoke to the one accompanying her. A woman’s retort, stubborn and

haughty. Arthur’s breath quickened. He did not turn around.

“So!” The second woman was behind him, standing close, he could smell

her perfume, her natural female odour heightened by artificial elegance. “So,”

she announced again, “it is you. You are not worm-meat as we all believed.”

“As they believed. I understand you knew different some while since,

Winifred.” He turned, slowly and with deliberate indifference. Gwenhwyfar

casually manoeuvred herself to be beside him, should he need her support. In

whatever form. She alone understood the disquiet that was rocking his self-

belief. She had always understood Arthur, not needing to hear the words or

3 8 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

discuss the cause. Her own belief had been shaken, almost destroyed when

he had not returned to her, but that was behind her, set aside, for she now

understood why. Without someone to stretch a hand into the darkness, the

pit of despair was a fearful place. And he had been there alone, with no one,

nothing, to comfort him or offer hope.

Winifred feigned amusement at his caustic accusation. “I? How could I

know you were not dead? The discovery of it came as a great shock, I can

assure you.”

“I wager it did!” Arthur offered his arm to his wife, Gwenhwyfar thread her

own through it. Her perfume was more subtle than Winifred’s, more natural.

“How,” Arthur added cynically, “I have no idea, but someone with your name

attempted to ensure that belief remained.”

Winifred laid her palm on his upper arm, leant forward, ignoring Gwenhwyfar’s

strident glower, placed a light, mildly affectionate, kiss to his cheek. “Nonsense!

I am pleased,
na
, relieved, to have you so wonderfully alive!”

Arthur laughed outright, some of his old confidence and trust in his own

judgement returning like the welcome embrace of a good friend.

“You paid handsomely to have us killed.” Gwenhwyfar did not echo her

husband’s lighthearted acceptance of attempted murder. “Put your gold to

better use another time, Winifred,” she suggested.

Prepared and waiting for them, Ider and her guard had made short work of those

hired scum in Gaul; a swift skirmish, puddles of blood on the road three miles from

Antessiodurum and, left behind, a shallow, unmarked grave. Killers dealt with

dispassionately, brutally. Hired mercenaries who would murder no more.

At least Winifred had the grace to appear genuinely affronted by the accusa-

tion. She did not make enough protest for proof of it, however, as any innocent

would have instantly demanded. Instead, indignant, she quivered, “I have ridden

with all speed to give you greeting, Arthur.” Huffily, she folded her hands regally

into the drape of her cloak. “And this is the welcome I receive!” She tossed

her head, Arthur noting how her hair was as sleekly golden as he remembered.

He smiled, scornful, to himself. Morgaine had coloured her hair so often with

roots and powders; it had never before occurred to him that so many women

pandered so brutally to their appearance. He glanced at Gwenhwyfar, at her

copper-gold torrent of mane, bound relatively disciplined into two braids. The

light was poor here, the only glow emanating from the stairwell, but even with

so little to see by he noticed the lighter streaks, the subtle, shadowed differences,

the silvered-grey strands nestling comfortable among that tumble of curls. He

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 8 3

was glad she had no care of showing her increased age, that Gwenhwyfar had no

concern for concealing the truth. Suddenly, he loved her so much: felt a deep

longing, an overwhelming need, to have her always with him. Gwenhwyfar

thought of more important things than the necessity to colour her hair, to paint

her eyes and lips, or to lighten her skin with chalk and ground lead, to fool

others into believing she was something she was not.

He moved his arm around her waist. “It grows cold up here, we ought

return into Geraint’s hospitality.”

Winifred blocked his path. “There is much uncertain talk down there. It is

not right that you spend time up here, musing, while Ambrosius is in urgent

need. When do you ride to his aid? Soon, the morrow, I trust?”

Arthur stared at her. Breath of all the gods! Not her also! His heart was racing

again, his throat running dry, hoofbeats pounding in his brain.

“My uncle has done well for himself so far,” he heard himself say. Even

Gwenhwyfar looked up, startled, at that. “I have been home but three days.”

“Aye!” Winifred actually stamped her foot, a child’s tempered reaction,

“Three wasted days! My uncle is apparently swarming up the Cuneito Valley.”

Tartly she glared at Gwenhwyfar. “Are you not concerned it may be your

fortress, Badon, to fall in their path first? Do you not care that Cadwy and

Ragnall and their childer would most certainly have perished?” She paused for

effect, enjoying the satisfaction of bluntness.

For Arthur, the ground seemed to rise and fall, the torchlight dim and blur.

A rush of blood swooping through his brain; his vision, senses, darkening and

screaming. The word
no!
swelled in his throat, pushing and heaving to break out.

Sweat glistened on his face, trickled, uncomfortable, down his back. If his legs had

not felt so heavy, had not been weighted by lead, he would have run, would have

bolted down those stairs, raced for the safety of the private chamber allotted him,

slammed and barred the door. He could not lead those men, Mithras help him, he

could not! He met Winifred’s intense gaze, his answer coming, surely, from some

other man’s mouth. “I ride on the morrow, as soon as may be, with any who should

care to join me.” He was shaking, his hands and legs almost uncontrollable.

“Thank you,” Winifred said, with direct sincerity. “It is a relief to hear you

say it.”

Gwenhwyfar snorted. What nonsense was this! What obscene game was

Winifred pursuing now?

Arthur patted her hand; the shaking was easing, the control returning. He

indicated for Winifred to go ahead of them, said to Gwenhwyfar, loud enough

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

for his first wife to plainly hear, “She speaks truth, Cymraes; she is genuinely

relieved I am returned to become king again, for she almost made another

of her mistakes.” He was openly grinning again as Winifred spun around to

glower at his deliberate sarcasm.

Gwenhwyfar’s query as to what he meant was made with her eyes, her

expression. His answering squeeze was reassuring. He explained as he walked

her past Winifred, began descending the stairs down to the bright friendliness

of the torch-lit courtyard. “She miscalculated, did not reckon on those Saxons

already here making plans for the taking of land she has marked for Cerdic.”

Gathering her skirts, Winifred swept past them both, head carried high, feet

quick-tapping as she walked, proud, offended, for the sanctuary of hospitality

within Geraint’s noisy Hall.

“Cerdic,” Arthur continued, raising his voice so she might hear, “ought have

challenged Ambrosius, but for his own cowardly reasons did not. He may well

decide to try again when next time I am believed dead.” He chuckled, louder,

“Unfortunately, unless I stop his mother’s uncle and Aelle of the South Saxons

now, there will be nothing for him to try for when I am gone. Will there,

Winifred? With me dead, all hope for Cerdic would be lost.” His laugh echoed

around the square of the courtyard, several guards and men seeking the latrine

turning to look speculatively at him.

Winifred, entering the Hall, repeated Arthur’s announcement. Men were

coming to their feet, anxious, excited, begging to collect weapons, leaving to

see to their horses. Bedwyr was standing alongside Geraint, grinning. Earlier,

someone had brought in the Dragon Banner, had lain it across the table before

the lord of this Hall. He lifted it as Arthur entered, yodelled the war cry of the

Artoriani. “Pendragon!” he roared, “Pen-dragon!”

The men wanted to ride, wanted Arthur to be their king again. They took up

the shout, lifting it to the rafters and beyond, through the smoke hole, through

the thatch. The shout, “Pendragon, Pendragon!” raced upward to the grey

cloud, pierced its cold blanket, and thrust on, outward. Even mighty Jupiter and

congenial Saturn must have heard the acclaim that night in Geraint’s Hall!

Arthur ambled into their midst, enduring the slaps to his shoulders, the

grasping and shaking of his hand, the great, vigorous burst of cheers and jubila-

tion.
Blood of the White Bull
, he thought,
I am committed to fight because I could

not admit to the bitch who was once my wife that with this fear I could piss myself with

enough water to put out a fire the size of Nero’s burning Rome.
He reached the raised