Shadow of the King (75 page)

What was love? Pain, rejection, contempt, that was love! She had given love, she

had given life. And had received nothing save pain and contempt in return.

She stood, her bones and muscles stiff, her mind and body exhausted, for she

had sat a long while listening for what she must do. Inside the house-place she

collected her cloak, put several items in a coarse-woven drawstring bag, her

personal things. A whale-bone comb, a handful of ivory and silver hairpins, a

bronze mirror. The most useful of her dried and ground herbs. And a wooden

box. She could not face the trauma of sleep without the contents of that box, a

gift left to her by her friend, old Livia, who had taken the final journey to the

Otherworld as the last winter had rolled into spring. A precious gift. The warm,

safe, comfort of the poppy.

She took nothing else. It was not the time of year for travelling, but what use

staying here, where the demons of the dream could so easily find her? Better

to move on, go back.

Set things right, if she could, as they ought have been, as she had been

commanded. Eleven years past.

Nine

October 477

Thrust! It’s a spear you are using, not a damned swine-prod!”

Gwenhwyfar bellowed her reprimand across the practice ground, her

hands cupped around her mouth to carry the shouted words further. “Dear

gods,” she muttered, as the cast spear arced too flat, fell, bouncing and slith-

ering, along the dew-wet grass several yards ahead of the target. “Useless.”

She yanked her own spear from the ground before her, strode, long-legged,

impatient, the width of the field, glaring at the boy who stood, head down,

embarrassed, fingers fiddling with a leather pouch at his waist.

“Like this. You throw like this!” Gwenhwyfar came alongside him,

weighed the spear in her hand, and, taking aim with her eye, brought her

arm back, launched the weapon with strength from her legs, buttocks, and

shoulders. The spear sailed in its low trajectory—not too high, for the wind

was wilful this morning—and struck with a satisfactory thud just off-centre

of the red circle painted in the heart-place of the straw man dangling from

an upright post. The shaft quivered, jutted from its target. The one time

Medraut had managed to hit the man, his spear had glanced off the sacking,

fallen to the grass.

“The first volley of spears, after the archers have released their arrows,”

Gwenhwyfar lectured, curtly beckoning Medraut to walk with her as she strode

to retrieve the weapon, “must make their mark. Not that many kill, but enough

wound and disable. Enough are rammed into shields to render them useless.

The second volley follows quickly, inflicting more of the same. By then, the

horses are in full gallop.” She twisted the shaft, tugged the spear loose, pleased

it had sunk in deep. Were he real, the man would be dead.

Medraut had fetched his own spear, was holding it limply. Why did the

bloody thing never fly as straight for him? It did not help that he could not see

the target clearly from the distance across the practice ground. Closer, he was

better—and his sword-fighting was improving. At least, so he thought.

4 5 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

They returned to the throwing point. And he did try, but his foot twisted

as he brought his weight forward. The grass, damp from warm days and cold

nights, was slippery. It would have been a good throw, almost, for he had put

his strength behind the casting, but the aim was off, yards wide. The blade dug

into the grass.

“Well,” Gwenhwyfar announced with an audible sigh, “let us assume your

opponent also has a spear. He would have thrown by now. You,” she added

rather pointedly, “would now be dead, unless you had brought your shield

up.” She placed her fists on to each hip, stood, legs slightly apart, her blue cloak

hanging loosely from her shoulders, lifting gently in the wind. “However,” she

added scathingly, “seeing as you made a balls-mess of shield practice yesterday,

I am assuming you would have failed that simple defensive move also. It would

be kinder to slit your throat now, have a quick end to it. You are never going

to make a soldier.” She did not add the rest, the other words that automatically

ought to follow. You may be a king’s son, but you will never make a king.

It was disappointment that made Gwenhwyfar exasperated, disappointment

harnessed with regret. Her eldest-born son would have been two and twenty.

Would have fathered sons of his own by now…if Llacheu had lived, the

menace of Cerdic’s omnipresent shadow would have been nothing more than

the annoyance of harvest-flies on a hot summer’s day. If Llacheu had lived. Or

Gwydre. Or Amr. Arthur would have had a son to follow him, a son to be

proud of. Instead, he had Medraut.

She had accepted the boy, taken him into her household with barely a

murmur, though his presence was daily a reminder of her own loss. And of

Arthur’s infidelity. Why had she borne him a son who lived, who thrived?

Why her, why not Gwenhwyfar? She tried not to be harsh on him, not to let

the dismay taint her voice too openly. “Never mind.” She put her hand briefly

to his shoulder before walking away. “With more practice, who knows?” They

both knew it would take more than practice. Medraut could not see straight,

aim straight. He was clumsy, finger-fumbling, slow with his reaction in evasion

and attack. He was, as she had said, useless.

Medraut took the spear to the armoury, stacked it with the others of its kind.

It was a square, stone-built room, situated to the rear of the blacksmith’s bothy.

Spears of all lengths, some heavy, bold-bladed, others more lightweight, the

javelins; swords, daggers, a few shields. Leather-lined war caps stacked to one

corner; in another, the linked chain of mail tunics. He would have liked, one

day, to have worn some of that mailed armour. It seemed unlikely. If he could

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 5 3

not throw a spear straight, what hope had he of one day becoming one of the

Artoriani? Medraut was not hurt by Gwenhwyfar’s annoyance. How could he

be? She was right. Dismally, he left the armoury, trailed along a narrow and

rutted side-path that skirted behind this cluster of work-place buildings, found

himself at the chapel.

Again a small construction, erected as with all Christian places, in the form

of an equal-sided cross; its wattle walls white-plastered, the reed-thatch of the

roof new-repaired in places, golden-patched against weather-darkened brown.

As always, save on the coldest days when the wind blew direct inside, the door

stood propped open. Medraut entered, breathed deeply of the sweet scent of

beeswax candles, fresh-spread herbs, and the subtle air of peaceful contentment.

A posy of flowers stood in a pottery flagon on the stone altar, their bright

colours joyful and pleasing. He sat on the rearmost bench, studying the pictures

decorating the inside of the walls. They were probably not as marvellous as

the beautiful paintings Arthur’s cousin Bedwyr would no doubt be seeing in

Rome and Constantinople, but to Medraut they were wondrous. Each section

depicted a story about Christ’s time on earth—the feeding of the five thousand,

the healing of the sick, the crucifixion, and his favourite, Jesu calming the storm

on the sea of Galilee. Medraut sat facing that scene now. His stomach was

churning, the choke of tears burning his throat. His whole body felt battered,

bruised, and aching, as if he was out in the temper of that storm, buffeted by

that wicked wind, threatened by the oppressive mass of thunder clouds and

frightened of the great sweep of angry waves that tossed and plundered the

tiny, valiant boat. Steadfastly, he stared at the white-clad figure to the left of the

scene. The man standing so calmly at the edge of the water, arms outspread,

radiating his love and compassion.

The tears that had threatened to flood down Medraut’s cheeks dried, the

heart-thump eased and the pain sauntered away, left his body, left the chapel.

Calm. Acceptance. What was to be, had to be.

Father Cethrwm had painted the pictures, taking many months to complete

them to his satisfaction and Medraut had helped. He had mixed the bright

tinctures, carefully filled in the areas of colour that Cethrwm had indicated.

Part of his soul had entered these scenes, and to come here to look at them, the

deep reds, the vivid blues, the golden yellows, rekindled hope and quiet belief

in Medraut. There was something for him out there in the future. Something.

“What are you doing, skulking in here? I hope Father Cethrwm has his

things locked away.”

4 5 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Archfedd.

“I have as much right to be here as you. Go away.”

“No.” Archfedd flounced to the nearest bench intending to be deliberately

annoying. Medraut ignored her, even though she sat jangling her bracelets and

drumming her heels in a rhythmless beat against the bench leg.

“You will never be king, you know.”

She was in her eleventh year, her body already maturing to womanhood,

a capable child who knew her own mind. A smaller version of her mother,

so Arthur often said. Most things that Archfedd attempted, she excelled at.

Riding, sword-practice, running. She was not so good with people, not tactful

like her mother, not able to keep thoughts to herself, set safe away in her mind.

She was a girl loyal to her friends, intent against her enemies. She repeated what

she had said, with more animosity. “I said that you will never be king.”

Aye, he knew he would not. “If you have come to gloat, forget it. I know I’m

bastard-born and not much good with weapons. But,” and a sudden courage

came to him. Could it have come from the still peace of the chapel, or through

the bitterness of self-disappointment? He only wanted to please, to show his

father and Lady Gwenhwyfar he could, given the chance, be of value, be a son

worthy of the great Arthur Pendragon. He would please them one day. One

day they would be proud of him. He stood, regarded his half-sister addressed

her with conviction. “But remember this, Archfedd. I will not always be a boy

of eleven years old!”

He stalked out the door, pretended he did not hear her answer.

“And I’ll not always be a girl. One day I will be grown also, Medraut the

bastard-born.” She had come to the doorway, stood, one arm raised above

her head, learning on the timber frame watching him saunter away. Said the

one thing she knew would hurt him as surely as a plunged dagger blade. “I’m

legitimate born. I will be queen when my father is gone.”

Ten

The hut was still there, rough, wattle-built, crudely circular, set

beside the Yns Witrin road where the track crossed the log-laid causeway. It

was low country here, oozing with rivulets of water that overnight could raise the

quiet extent of willow-pocked marshes to a desolate landscape of floodwater.

A poor quarter of the country, an equally as poor hovel but, for what it was,

it had been kept well. The roof adequately thatched, the walls recently replas-

tered with daub made from animal blood and dung mixed with mud. Herbs

and medicinal plants grew strong and healthy in a walled garden to one side of

the stream, a tethered goat grazed a little beyond that. Clothing, washed that

day, stretched, almost dried, over a few scraggy shrubs of hawthorn. It ought to

be fetched in soon, for the autumn warmth of the day was giving ground to the

chill of evening. There would be a frost this night.

Morgaine was not hurrying. Through the months she had wandered across

Gaul, taking her own path, her own time, spending a few nights in a peas-

ant’s bothy, several weeks in towns along the way. Earning her keep, never

wanting for anything. She had a gift of healing, her remedies and potions

eagerly welcomed anywhere and everywhere. And she had herself to offer,

should there be the chance of higher payment. Morgaine paused before

stepping onto the raised pathway of logs, ran her hand through her hair,

pushing it back from her forehead. She was travel-grimed, weary; hoped

for a dry bed and a warm supper. She would get it here, at this hut, if the

occupier was not busy.

She was not. She came to the doorway, bucket in hand, intending to bring

the goat into the night-shelter of the lean-to bothy at the back of the dwelling,

to milk it. Stood instead, head cocked slight to one side, waiting for the woman

to approach nearer.

“Good greeting to you,” she called, “you travel late on the road, ’tis

nearing evening.”

4 5 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Morgaine crossed the log way, seated herself on a wooden bench set before

the hut, enjoying a chance to rest in the last of the day’s sunshine. “Not so late,”

she contradicted. “’Tis not yet darkening.”

The girl, for she could not have been more than ten and five years, licked her