Shadow of the King (79 page)

down the track after he had enjoyed her services but had hidden, deciding

to watch her a while. She had come out the bothy and gone into the caves.

Curiosity had overcome his fear. Scuttling into her dwelling, he had found for

himself a lamp and some candles, had run after her, heart beating that she had

already vanished, but he could see the distant pool of light from the flaring

torch she carried and followed her, not knowing Morgaine was full aware

of his noisy-footed, clumsy presence. He had then seen her, this courageous,

or foolish, man, had seen the goddess herself walk naked into the water of

the Underworld, had seen her black, raven hair streaming like rippling weeds

against the darkness of the lake, her skin white and smooth. He had watched as

she sank below the surface and did not appear again.

Yet she was there, out in the sunlight the next day. That same woman, with

the black hair, pale skin. There for him when he came to pay for her again.

He could not have known she had found, quite by accident, that by taking

a lungfull of air and swimming fast beneath the surface, she would come up

into another cave, another black, empty space, that she could only feel, not

see. Only a sense of vast emptiness told her she stood at the edge of another

cavern. She dared not move from out of the water here, for fear she would be

swallowed up into the hollow of nothingness. Only occasionally did she go

there, to prove she was more powerful than the god of the dark. For when she

went, she would always come back; he could never hold her, take her for his

own into his Underworld realm.

She never allowed anyone else to follow her into her private world—but that

one man had proven useful, for he had spread word among the many who used

the Lead Road. Word of a Goddess from the Lake of the Underworld.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 7 5

Most days, more than one man would come. Occasionally, they came in

small groups, twos or threes. Usually, she would oblige them with what they

wanted; always, if they were not of British blood.

For the Saex came along the Lead Road. Saxon traders, to buy the lead, cart

it on lumbering ox-wagons back to the coast and their waiting ships. British

lead to use or to trade for high profit. The difficulty of the journey made much

more rewarding by a visit to the Lady. Who had more than her body to sell.

In secret, Amlawdd sent weapons to Morgaine’s caves. Swords, shields,

daggers, and spears. Quietly they were pushed in among the pigs of lead, hidden,

transported, safe. And the Saxons paid well for this extra, illegal trade.

Especially Cerdic.

It was Morgaine’s greatest thrill when he came himself, dressed moderately

as an overseer, or a rich buyer. To entertain Cerdic in the way she knew best!

To tell him all Amlawdd deliberately, and others unintentionally, passed to her

listening ears. To tell him of Arthur. To know she was undoing the mistake of

the past, that she was stirring the potion that would one day put an end, as her

mother had wished, to the Pendragon.

And doing it by using his own son. Her nephew.

Sixteen

July 478

Gildas was five years old, a quiet, serious little boy. He loved

listening to the stories of Jesu and adored the man Ambrosius Aurelianus,

who had brought him to this wonderful place of Ambrosium. His other home,

the stronghold of Caer Rhuthun, he had hated for its dark gloom and stench of

drenching blood covering everything that could be seen or touched. His sister,

Cywyllog, was happier here also; she would often sing to him, take him for

walks along by the river or through the cool shading of the woods. Never had

she done so in Gwynedd. There had always been a clutching of fear and danger

there, never much happiness or laughter. Gildas was too young to understand

why. Caw, his father, had been a man with strong discipline for obedience

to his will. No one had said no to Caw, save for his eldest son Hueil, and the

Pendragon. A man who had put his own purpose before the need of others,

who sought his own pleasure, protected by the belief that he followed the will

of God.

It had been easy for Hueil to take Alclud from him, to make himself lord in

his father’s place. As easy to rally the North to his voice, not so easy to defeat

Arthur. Gildas did not understand any of his family history either. All he knew was

Arthur had killed his brother. Through the law of family rights of blood-tie, the

Pendragon and all his kindred were to be mistrusted and regarded as an enemy.

That was the difficulty. Ambrosius Aurelianus was kin to the Pendragon, but

he was a good and holy man, to be loved and respected. Medraut was Arthur’s

son. Gildas liked him, too. Medraut was in his twelfth year, almost man-grown,

yet he had time for the younger boys, enjoyed playing with them, reading the

scriptures to them, telling stories, patching up scraped knees and cut elbows

with soothing salves and honey words.

Cywyllog said Arthur had murdered Hueil. It was true, Gildas knew, for the

blood, to his mind, was still there on that stone in the courtyard at Rhuthun.

Medraut, though, had told him another version of that same story.

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

“After the battle, which was terrible and bloody and where many men from

both armies died terrible deaths,” Medraut had said, using the sing-song voice

of the story-teller, “Hueil fled, riding his horse without mercy, for Arthur’s son,

his last remaining son, had been killed.”

“But you are his son,” Gildas had queried.

“This was another son. I was not born then and my mother is not Queen

Gwenhwyfar. Hueil rode to Rhuthun where lived his father, a Christian man

who would surely forgive him and take him, as the eldest son, into the sanctuary

of protection.”

“My father loved all his sons.”

“Stop interrupting! He took Hueil into his stronghold, but only until a court

of law could be arranged to try him, legally, against the accusation of treason.

That was the Roman way, the established way of law and justice.”

“Ambrosius’s way?”

“But not the Pendragon’s. Arthur, my father, followed hard on Hueil’s heels

and demanded he be given over for execution as a traitor and murderer. Caw

and Ambrosius and others argued for things to be done in the correct way,

and in the end Arthur agreed. What men were there—and there were many,

for Arthur had chieftains and nobles in his army—formed a court. Hueil was

summoned to state his case before them. He came out from where he had taken

shelter in your father’s chapel. As king and the highest of judges, save for Christ

Jesu and God the Father, Arthur stood by the sacred stone, one hand, his left,

placed upon it. Hueil came up to him, giving the impression of humble repen-

tance. He made to kneel before Arthur, but instead leapt forward, a dagger in

his hand! He plunged it at the Pendragon, striking for the throat! Arthur was a

soldier, a man swift with weapons and fighting. He struggled, his fingers found

the hilt of his sword, he broke free, knocked Hueil aside. Hueil stumbled, fell

across the stone. Arthur raised his sword—and struck Hueil’s head from his

neck. The blood ran thick across the sacred stone and all agreed, save for Caw

and the kindred of Hueil who mourned his passing, justice had been done.”

Gildas had asked Ambrosius whether this telling was more true than the

one his sister told. It was, Ambrosius had said. Medraut’s version was the

more accurate.

It was a puzzling thing for a boy of five years to fathom. Why had his sister

lied to him?

He was wandering through the complex of alleyways that snaked between

various essential buildings of the monastery, the rear of Ambrosius’s bathhouse,

4 7 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

the stables, cow-byre, pig-pens, and kennels where the hunting hounds were

kept. Ambrosius would not allow them in his living quarters for his house, he

said, was for God’s servants not flea-ridden creatures.

The door to the kennels was shut. Unusual for midday but one of the bitches

had whelped yesterday, happen that was why. A yelp, anguished, pitiful, and

laughter, malicious, wicked. Then a scream. Gildas recognised it, the tone, the

pitch. His sister!

He pulled at the heavy door, panting hard as it refused to give. Ran along

the narrow walkway around the back where he knew there to be a window.

Climbed to a barrel, peered through, sobbing as the sounds inside increased. A

group of boys, six of them, the eldest two almost four and ten years of age, with

the youngest, Maelgwyn, his own age, and Caninus, eight. Now there was a

boy to hate! They were all throwing stones, had a basket full of them, aiming

at the bitch and her new pups—and at Cywyllog who was cowering over the

litter trying desperately to protect them with her own body.

Gildas gasped, shrieked. There was a pause inside, then a stone whistled

through the window opening, caught Gildas on the forehead. He tumbled back-

ward, fell, scrambled up, his arm hurting, his head aching. He must get help!

It was the hottest hour of the day, the heat had been unbearable this past

week. Everyone was inside resting until the midday sun eased. He ran, calling

for help, rounded a corner, was in the main courtyard—and there was Medraut,

squatting in the shadows of Ambrosius’s carefully tended line of ornamental

trees, reading.

Medraut looked up at the boy’s frightened shout, leapt to his feet, the scroll

falling, abandoned; ran, concerned, for blood trickled from a cut to the lad’s

head. “You are hurt! What has happened?”

Gildas explained, his words tumbling almost nonsensically but Medraut

understood. It needed only three words. Caninus. Stones. Pups. “Fetch others,

an adult,” he ordered. “Brother Illtud is in the scriptorium.”

Medraut ran. He never knew what made him take up the broken hunting

spear that had been carelessly left laying against the kennel wall. He saw it,

took it up. Taller, stronger than Gildas, he had the kennel door open, was

inside his eyes for a moment blinded by the darkness contrasting with the

bright sun outside.

The bitch was bleeding. Two of her pups lay dead, their small, delicate heads

smashed. Cywyllog was sobbing, blood soaking her tunic, her arm hanging

limp. And Medraut was so angry. So very, very angry.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 7 9

Everything he had been taught came to him. He heard Gwenhwyfar’s voice

in his head. “Calm and controlled when you face an enemy. Keep your feet

light, your body balanced. Go for disabling if you cannot kill.”

The spear’s blade was loose, but he had no need of it, used the shaft instead

as a staff, lunging forward to strike at the nearest boy’s legs, catching three of

them, one after the other, not expecting his intention. He continued with the

momentum, brought his weapon up, laid it hard to the left, across the shoulders

of another, swung it immediately right catching Caninus across the jaw. The

boy screamed, fell back, blood pouring from his mouth. The others fled.

A few moments only, a mere handful of heartbeats. Medraut was breathing

hard, was shaking. His first battle, his first fight.

Men were crowding in, Brother Illtud, Brother Paulus. Their anger as great

as Medraut’s at the senseless, wicked cruelty.

Gildas’s head throbbed through most that night, his puzzlement over family

loyalty even more compounded. “Medraut,” his sister said from her bed in the

infirmary, when Gildas went to see her before supper, “may be the son of the

Pendragon, but he has courage in his blood.”

Did that mean it was all right for Gildas to like him now? Or were his sister’s

injuries affecting her reasoning? One thing for certain, Gildas would never

speak a good word for Caninus and those other boys as long as he lived!

And with his jaw broken, it was doubtful Caninus would, through future

years, think with any fondness of Medraut.

Seventeen

Arthur was appalled at Ambrosius’s condition. Regretted not

coming earlier. He had not always agreed with his uncle—more often

than not outright opposed him. Most of the time they did not even like each

other, although there had been the odd occasion when mutual need had

brought them together to ride the one path. And he had been ill on and off

for so long they had all become accustomed to his need occasionally to take to

his bed and to the thin, sallow face, the tired eyes, the discreet, painful cough.

But not this! Ambrosius was nothing more than a living skeleton. Sitting rigid,

self-conscious on a stool beside the bed, Arthur could count every bone in his

uncle’s limp, gnarled hand. He was not old, Ambrosius—Mithras, not much

older than he himself! A handful of years older—eight, nine? Death in battle

was one thing, but this, this wasting away, this slow, painful death-in-life!

Arthur put his hand over his eyes, brought the fingers down over his nose,