Shadow of the King (69 page)

farm new pastures, establish new trade.

Or die fighting for it, and have for themselves a grave of British earth.

Two

Winifred was roused from deep sleep by her anxious maidservant

leaning over the bed, shaking at her arm. She carried a lamp that flick-

ered, highlighting the pale fear on her features, was dressed in undershift, her

hair loose and night-tangled.

“My lady!” Her voice came trembling, quick. “We are all to die!”

Impatient, irritated, Winifred shrugged the girl’s arm from her, rose from the

bed, flung a cloak across her shoulders. “What is it? What ails you?” She glanced

beyond the partially open door. “Jesu’s love, it is still night-dark outside!”

The girl stammered a few words, not making sense, something about men,

pirates, inside the gates. A second time Winifred glanced out the door. Her

private quarters gave direct view onto a little courtyard beside the abbey of

Venta Bulgarium, a building that had taken much gold to construct, much

effort to plan and enhance. Worth it all, for Winifred’s Holy Place of Venta

was known as the most magnificent in Britain; three storeys high, built of stone

and roofed with tiles—this was no wood and thatch hut, but a building of

substance, of worth and value.

“Nonsense, child!” Winifred was about to turn back for her bed, had her

hands to the cloak to remove it. The door crashed open, bringing a chill of

night air and a blaze of light as two men marched through, carrying flaring

torches which they set into the wall brackets. Broad-chested, fair-haired,

leather-armoured Saxon men. And behind them, a third.

“Hello, Mother.” Cerdic walked in, arrogantly selected the only chair, seated

himself. The girl attempted to duck past, to run from the room, but one of the

Saxons caught her, held her to him, impervious to her wriggling and kicking,

attempted to fasten his mouth over hers.

“Cerdic!” Winifred’s breathing had quickened with her surprise and a flutter

of alarm. Her hand was on the cloak, gathering it tighter. Cerdic? Here? The

questions coming into mind with an immediate third. Why?

4 1 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

He was one and twenty years, not as tall as his father but wider-built, more

deep-chested. Arthur had never carried bulk or any hint of running to fat.

Cerdic already had the makings of what would become a flabby belly paunch

in later years. He wore his hair—much darker than his companions—in the

Saxon way, loose, its slight curl touching the padded tunic that covered the

broadness of his shoulders. Above his lip, a moustache descended into a full-

bushed beard, the skin behind, wind-weathered, the eyes narrow, crinkled.

His clothing was expensive. The tunic, set beneath lavish, iron-ringed,

leather armour, was of a rich, verdant green, edged with three rows of gold

embroidery. Softened leather bracae, fine-made laced boots. The clasp of

his darker green, woollen cloak, fur-trimmed, winked the merit of its own

decoration of rubies and emeralds. A sword dangled from a baldric fastened

with a buckle of jewel-crusted gold, and a fine-made warrior’s axe, rested

through his belt.

Winifred’s heartbeat was racing, her throat had dried, constricted. God’s

breath, Cerdic, come here! Why? For what reason? She mastered the pounding

fear, a technique she had learned so early on in her life. Fear made others

despise you, fear was a weakness. Fear was not a permissible emotion, must, at

all cost, be controlled. Dear God, Cerdic!

Dignified, she seated herself on a stool. “There is a story Jesu told about a

prodigal son. Have you returned to me, then, or are you come to finish your

father?” There, control. Be the first to call the challenge.

Lazily, Cerdic stretched his legs before him, motioned for the second man to

fetch him wine. The oaf, for that was the only description Winifred could find

for this Saxon, ambled to a side table, poured wine from the flagon for Cerdic

and himself. Ignored the other man, whose hands and attention were full with

the handmaid. The delicate blue-glass goblet was absurdly incongruous in his

paw-sized hand. Nothing was offered to Winifred.

“I have come,” Cerdic answered, drawled, sipping at the wine, “to accept

the land you intend to give me.” He smiled, a malicious, gloating expres-

sion. He had the satisfaction of seeing his mother’s stiff tension, that flicker of

anxious uncertainty.

“What land? I have no land to give you. It is your father’s land you must take

for yourself if you wish to become king.” Rising from the stool and walking

to the table, she fetched herself wine. Easier to retain impassiveness when your

hands were busy. To the Saxon, in an acid tone as she passed, “Let my handmaid

alone! Paw at one of your own breed!”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 1 9

His hand over the girl’s exposed breast, he leered back at Winifred, showing

yellow, gapped teeth, a stink of stale breath wafting from him. The terrified girl

was sobbing, her eyes pleading at Winifred to help her as he ripped away the

torn remains of her nightshift. Naked, desperate, she tried to struggle free, to

cover herself with her hands.

“Cerdic!” Winifred rebuked. “Do you have no command over your filth?”

Cerdic pushed an embroidered cushion more comfortably into the small of

his back, sipped his wine, held the glass up against the light of the flickering

torch, examining the workmanship. He would have some of these fine things

for his own. Said, his eye on the goblet, “Oslac. If you need to rut so desper-

ately, I suggest you take the whore outside.”

Oslac grinned, nodded. Clasped a handful of the girl’s hair, began to haul her

from the chamber, her screams rising.

“Cerdic! I demand you stop this insult!”

The goblet emptied, Cerdic held it out for a refill. “Sigebert, when you have

finished scratching at your crotch, I would appreciate more wine.” Added, “You

may have your turn at her when Oslac is finished.” He turned his eye to his

mother. Small, skin-crinkled eyes, reminiscent of an ill-tempered boar, narrow

and calculating, hideously dangerous. “Unless,” he said, “as she protests so loudly

at the use of the little bitch, my mother would offer to take her place?”

Back straight, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap, Winifred settled herself

on a stool, closed her ears to the girl’s shrilling out beyond the door. He was

not jesting, Cerdic. And both of them knew it.

“Your father,” Winifred said disdainfully, “never held a liking for you. I now

see why.”

“Feelings run mutual regarding father and son, Mother.” Cerdic rolled

another mouthful of wine around in his mouth, swallowed it slowly, thought-

fully licked his lips, savouring the strong, red taste. The other man, Oslac,

returned, adjusting the lacing on his bracae, his grin leeringly expressive as

Sigebert hurried outside for his turn at the girl.

Winifred concentrated on steadying her breathing, willed her facial muscles

to relax, her fingers to remain still. She knew enough of hatred to recognise its

stench when it squatted, odious, before her. She could not allow her son to see

she was afraid—not of him, but of what he might, irrationally, do. There was

a difference, subtle, but all the same, a difference. Cerdic was spoilt, conceited,

and pretentious. As a boy she had endured his rages, his wilful tempers—

privately even admired them. He would need anger, determination, guts, to

4 2 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

face Arthur, to take Britain for himself. But it was one thing to smile secretly

at a little boy’s ragged tantrum, quite another to face one tossed maliciously,

intentionally, by a grown man. And she had seen that adult temper. Seen it

unleashed, vehemently, at Mathild. Winifred’s breath quickened. Why was he

here? It was not at her he ought to be setting loose this energy of will, but at

Arthur, at the kingdom. Cerdic’s rightful kingdom…hers.

“You have, then,” she was mocking him, “found your senses, have come to

destroy your father. It is time you showed your manhood!”

Cerdic rose to his feet, walked around the room. As he passed Oslac he

motioned his head at the door in a quick gesture, said something that Winifred

did not quite hear. Something about the men of her guard. Oslac—did that

loathsome grin never leave his smirking face?—ambled from the chamber.

“Nay,” Cerdic said, “I do not want anything from my father. It is your lands

I have come for.”

“My lands?” she echoed, incredulous, “Never!” For how many years had

she schemed and lied—aye, and murdered—to obtain all that was now hers?

Her established settlements, these rich buildings at Venta Bulgarium, her

founded churches and holy places? Land given her as divorce settlement by

Arthur, land entitled to her by will from her father and her grandsire. Her land,

her wealth. Hers!

She breathed deep, her nostrils flaring for air, steadied her rise of vehement

anger. “You could take all of Britain from your father, you could become

king—I can help you. “

Cerdic interrupted her. “I have come to Britain with barely one hundred

men, with us are women and children.”

She hastily stood, crossed the room and took his arm, her nails gripping

the padded tunic. “I can get you more men! An army! I have gold to pay

them, jewels…”

“I know you have,” he answered with a leer of greed. “It is that which I

have come for.”

Angry, stepping away from him, she spat, “You would steal from me? Is your

head, then, as empty as your balls!”

His axe, a lord’s bright-bladed, light-weighted weapon, came somehow into his

hands. He brought his arms back and with his ful weight behind the blow, brought

the blade crashing through the fine-made table, splintering the wood, shattering the

delicate glass goblets, a pitcher of wine, a fruit bowl that stood upon it.

Her hand and arm shielding her face, Winifred cowered into the wall,

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 2 1

stifling her scream, fearful of flying debris, lowered the protection as Cerdic

turned away, turned his back to her. She darted past him, pulled open the door,

shouted for her guards. Her son came behind her, caught her arm, and pulled

her back into the room, callous laughter twisting his face.

“There are no guards. We cut their throats as we came in. They dared bar

my entrance.” He stepped away from her, returned to the chair, sat. The axe he

laid across his lap, one hand resting lightly on its wooden shaft.

“They were English,” she said. “You have butchered your own kind?”

“As I will butcher anyone who stands in my path.” His eyes flickered to hers,

held them. “Anyone,” he repeated.

From somewhere, Winifred found the courage to laugh. There was a stool

beside her; though she was trembling, she made herself sit, seem relaxed.

“Even your father?”

Cerdic’s eyes held nothing of amusement, ignored her taunting. “You

hold land along the south coast, running against the Vectis Water.” Seated in

Winifred’s comfortable wicker-backed chair, he propped his boots on a low

footstool. “I have already made it my first settlement.”

Winifred was furious; she would not be treated as if she were some pox-

riddled gutter girl. How dare this whelp, this churlish pup, do this to her!

“After all I have done for you,” she sneered. “You ungrateful dog turd!”

“Hah!” Cerdic sprang to his feet, stood over her. “For me? What have you

ever done for me?” He thrust his face forward; she could smell his breath, feel

his spittle on her face. “You did nothing for me, Mother. You wanted it all

for yourself, everything. For me?
Ja
, you want me to take my father’s place as

king. Why? Because you intend to be the influence behind me, to dangle me

on your chain. ‘Do this, Cerdic, do that, Cerdic. Do it my way, Cerdic!’” He

kicked out at her stool, toppling it, sending her sprawling to the floor. “Your

way, always your way! Well, no more. I made that decision when I left you.

And now I have made other decisions, and my first is to take what is yours to

be mine!”

Shaken, her body quivering with rage, Winifred scrambled to her feet.

“While I live, you will not have my land.”

Cerdic dropped his gaze to the smooth wood of his axe shaft. It fitted into

the palm of his hand so neatly. Snug and comfortable. He looked up, slowly,

his heavy-lidded eyes opening wider and as slowly. He said nothing, merely

looked at her, lazily blinked, once.

Abruptly, Winifred closed her mouth, bit back the torrent of abusive words

4 2 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

that had been hovering. For a long, silent pause, she regarded him. Cerdic,

the son she had borne, tutored, nurtured, loved. Loved? Had she ever loved

him—had she ever loved anyone? It was not a word familiar to Winifred,

love. Yet she had, in her own, peculiar way, loved Arthur. Even if that love