Shadow of the King (74 page)

he yelled, yanking furiously at the tunic in his other hand. “Stop this! Break

it up, I say! Now!”

Breathing hard, snarling, eyes enraged, the two children came apart. The

boy Medraut, and Archfedd, blood trickling from her left nostril. Both of them

would sport bruises to face and body by next morning.

Enticed by the noise, several people were gathering around the door, a few

of the Artoriani, women, some more children, curious onlookers. Ider was

pushing his way sternly through, clearing a path none too gently, the commo-

tion at the private entrance to his king’s chamber alarming him. He reached

the threshold, stood, arms folded, grim-faced, watched Arthur shaking the two

children as if they were pups caught raiding the meat-store, relieved it was false

alarm, not some brutal murder attempt.

“What in all the gods’ names is going on?” Arthur was bellowing. “How dare

you brawl in the vicinity of my chamber!” With each angry word he shook

both of them; realised something wet was staining his left hand, he pulled away.

“Bull’s blood, Medraut, you have ink all down you!” He released Archfedd,

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 4 5

intending to inspect the state of the boy more closely. The girl flew past him

and began laying into the lad again with her feet and fists, beating at his chest,

kicking at his legs. Medraut cried out, tried to dodge behind Arthur.

The roar of rage from both the Pendragon and Ider, who lurched forward to

help separate them, could have been loud enough to raise a war-standard. Ider

took hold the boy, dragged him away, Arthur grasped the girl, his daughter,

trundled her like a beer barrel a few paces into the room. She struggled, arms

whirling, hair flying. Gods! For a ten-year-old, she possessed the strength of

a grown man! Her fist accidentally caught Arthur’s chin, knocking his head

upward, sending his brain reeling.

“Enough!” he roared, furious, pinning her arms to her side. Lifting her forc-

ibly off the floor, he strode across the room, flung her onto the bed. “Calm

yourself this instant, or I’ll take my belt to you here and now!”

Gwenhwyfar had risen and tugged a shift over her body, her hair falling loose

and tousled, her eyes soft with contentment. They had slept, Arthur and she, curled

together for more than an hour. Shameless! Love making during an afternoon—as

well they were married, else tongues would be wagging! This outrageous inter-

ruption had spoiled their tranquillity, destroyed the lazy pleasure.

Roughly, she took hold her daughter, steered her to a stool, sternly pointed

for her to sit, and sit still. Archfedd’s eyes were glowering, hot coals, her jaws

clamped into anger. Her hair was red, like her mother’s although darker,

perhaps not as curled. Most of it had escaped its braiding, for it tumbled, untidy,

dishevelled; her tunic was torn at the shoulder. She sat, reluctant, crunched into

her ball of tight fury.

Arthur dealt with the boy. “So?” he demanded curtly. “What is this about?”

Medraut was shaking, his fists clenched as rigid as Archfedd’s, his jaw as set,

though tears were rapidly welling in his eyes. Ider had him clamped firmly with

vice-like hands grasping his shoulders, and his voice trembled as he tried to

answer his father, a mixture of outrage, fright, and agitation. “She tore it,” he

stammered, “my parchment. She ripped it into pieces.” He was breathing hard,

clearly upset. “I was almost finished!”

Ider released the lad but stood ready to clutch hold should renewed fighting

between the two whelps seem imminent. Arthur hunkered to his heels. At ten,

he had been a tall lad. Medraut was still short, skinny, somehow managed to

convey the image of a poor-kept peasant’s boy, though he was well fed, well

clothed. Educated. Arthur rubbed his stubbled chin with his hand. Would these

two offspring of his not even try to become friends? Or at the very least, agree

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to differ! Five times in two weeks; bickering, squabbling. A blackened eye, a

scraped shin.

“Parchment is expensive stuff. From where did you get it?”

“He stole it from Father Cethrwm’s chamber!”

Arthur scowled at Archfedd, “I am speaking to the lad, not to you. Keep silent.”

“Stealing is a grave accusation, Archfedd!” Gwenhwyfar rapped at the same

instant. “You must have proof before you claim such things.”

“I have proof!” Archfedd bounced to her feet, her face tipped up to her

mother’s, her passion intense. “I saw him take it!” She flung her arm at the boy,

pointing, accusing. She did not think of him as her brother, for she despised him.

Thought him a coward, a liar; a mewling little runt. It was a mistake, on her

father’s part, to have brought him home from Gaul. He was not of Pendragon

blood, she was certain. Some beguiling whore had wrongly convinced her

father he was. “I was in the chapel and…”

“Be silent, girl!” Arthur commanded. Biting her lip, Archfedd sat, her hands

clasped in her lap. Would no one ever listen to her?

“Boy? Did you steal it?”

Medraut stared direct at his father. All he had wanted to do was write out

a psalm he had learnt last week, to keep it for himself, to be able to re-read it

whenever he fancied. He liked the psalms; he liked writing; but he never had

the courage to tell his father. Was never able to say he hated weapon-training,

sword practice, the daily drill of javelin-throwing. He could never hit a target;

always ended on the floor or with multiple bruises. Oh, Archfedd was good with

weapons—the little show-off! But could she read as well as he? Could she form

her letters as beautifully? All right, so she could ride a frisky horse without falling

off—so what? He preferred being in the quiet sanctuary of Father Cethrwm’s

chapel, reading the expensive books kept there. Reading the Bible. That pleased

the Father. He had said only last week he, Medraut, would have made a fine

scholar, had he not been born as a king’s son. Well, he did not want to be a

king’s son! He wanted to go to Ambrosius’s School of Learning. He wanted to

become a priest!

“Father Cethrwm would not mind me having it. He says my writing is

better than hers.” Medraut sneered over Arthur’s shoulder at Archfedd, realised,

too late, he had made an error. His father’s expression had darkened, his eyes

narrowed. Medraut was wary of his father; he knew his anger, his strength, had

seen it used against others, had felt the lash of Arthur’s belt across his back. So

had Archfedd, but Medraut conveniently forgot that.

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

Unable to take a step backwards, Medraut pushed his body harder against

Ider, standing behind him.

“Answer the question, boy!” Arthur’s admonishment snapped out, as fierce

as a wolf”s bite.

Defiant, attempting to hide the fact his heart was pounding and he desperately

needed to visit the latrine, Medraut lifted his chin. “I borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

For a long moment Medraut said nothing, staring eye to eye with Arthur.

He could never please his father, for he was useless with sword and spear, was

afraid of the horses, especially the stallions, and was clumsy, inept. He dropped

his gaze, hung his head. Could not even brave this out, as Archfedd would have

done. “Aye,” he whispered, meekly. “I stole it.”

Arthur stood, turned his attention to his daughter. Her chin was up, defiant;

she had done wrong and she knew it, but unlike Medraut she would not hide

from punishment. She would grow to be a lioness, Archfedd, like her mother.

“And you started a fight because of this?” Arthur asked her. What had he told

her, warned her two days past about fighting? Two days, for Mithras’s sake! “I

am most displeased with you, daughter.”

“He started fighting, not me!” she countered, hotly, bounding to her

feet. “I told him he had no right to use that parchment, and he said I was

a spoilt brat!”

“Only because she called me a pagan whore’s bastard!” Furious at her twisting

of the truth, Medraut rushed forward, fists swinging. Arthur made a grab for

him at the same moment as Ider, and Gwenhwyfar restrained Archfedd as the

girl prepared to lash out with her feet again.

“Gods’ blood!” Arthur cursed. “Have I sired a pair of demons?” He waved

his hand, dismissive, at Ider. “Take him to Cethrwm. It was his property, he

can deal with it. And as for you,” he swung to Archfedd, “you are confined to

the Hall for one week.”

“But Mam was taking me to Lindinis on the morrow!” The answering wail

of protest was fraught with disappointment.

Gwenhwyfar promptly retorted, “I will be taking you nowhere.”

“He was in the wrong! He ought be punished, not me!” Archfedd, spun

around, ran for the inner door, pausing as she fumbled at the latch to cry, “I

hate you, hate you both!”

Arthur stood, looking blandly at Gwenhwyfar who opened her arms, spread

her hands. There was a twinkle of laughter in her eyes as she exclaimed, “And

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she is barely ten. I dread to think what she will be like in another three years,

when her body begins to change!”

Arthur ambled to the outer door, shooed the last of the curious onlookers

away, kicked it shut with his foot. “Oh, I know just what she will be like.” He

turned around, grinned at his wife. “Just like you.”

Gwenhwyfar grinned back. “Oh dear,” she laughed. “We are heading for a

rough sea then!”

Eight

November 476

The onset of another winter. Chill, hostile winds; trees bare and

dejected against a drained, colourless landscape that lay ill-willed and

sullen beneath a bored, frowning sky.

Morgaine sat hunched, her arms clasped around her drawn-up knees, her

back pressing against the hard discomfort of the granary wall. She did not feel

the bite of the cold that ate into her numbed fingers and feet, did not care that

her dress was drab, torn, and faded. The building behind her was empty, save

for cobwebs, a scattering of mouldered ears of corn, and a few half-starved

rats. The steading was broken and shabby; fences and buildings, neglected and

untended. One goat, the last, thin and lice-scabbed, grazed for sustenance at

the remaining autumn straggle of weeds. The cattle, the hens, the sow had

gone long ago. The fields that had once harvested the smile of golden corn

and reaped sweet, rich hay had returned to wildness. Even the house-place was

half-tumbled, its roof rotten, fallen in at one end, with the door leaning on

sagging hinges.

Morgaine had slept poorly, tossing and quivering as the vivid dreams rode

rough through her troubled night. They were coming more frequently, the

previously occasional visitation haunting her almost nightly this past week.

Mayhap the dreary onset of winter had sent them hustling around her hearth-

fire. Or was it the past re-surging spiteful and insistent?

Her mother came in all the dreams. Morgause. The lurid vehemence of a red

sun always behind her, shadowing the sharp features of her face. But Morgaine

knew it was her. That arrogant, supercilious stance, that cruel, derisive laugh.

And Arthur was there also, behind, a little to the left, standing, sometimes with

his hands empty, hanging by his side, occasionally with a sword, jagged and

broken. And always, always, blood. Running, savage. Gaping, raw. From head,

from hands. Flowing, oozing. Always, the blood.

Morgaine’s forehead rested forward, touching her knees. She had her eyes

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open, for she dared not see again the pictures that lay behind them, dare not

re-conjure those images that had woken her, two hours past. She lifted her

head, stared without seeing, at the leaden sky. Her fault, her mistake, her

negligence.
Mea culpa. Mea culpa
. Who had she been to think she knew better?

What wisdom did she possess, what science, what knowing? None! She knew

nothing, had nothing! Her mother, while she lived in this existence, had almost

become the Goddess on Earth. Morgause had known everything that needed to

be known. And she was dead. Slaughtered, murdered. That darkened, unseen

face, haloed by the corn-gold of hair, blood soiled. Morgause would live, would

be queen, the all -powerful, the all-seeing, the all-knowing, had Morgaine, her

wretched daughter, not disobeyed her.

That was why the dreams came. Sent from Morgause, from the red darkness

of the Otherworld, sent to set right a wrong. Sent to show Morgaine the path

she must follow to undo the wickedness she, by disobeying her mother, had set

so terribly in motion.

Twice—twice!—she had allowed him life, when death should have brought

about his ending. Ah, she had been beguiled by the whisperings of those who

worked against the wisdom of the Goddess. Uncaring, she had listened to their

mischief, their malice, rather than the words, the command, of her mother.

Listened to the silliness of her heart, of the betraying image of love. Love? Hah!