Shadow of the King (8 page)

He slowed, unable to keep up, turned back down the slope. He would need to

take the easier track up the east side, not this steep, grass way.

His father was near the top, pausing to say something to the men stone-facing

the highest rampart. Another bitter thought, best kept secure to himself. When

the fight eventually came between Arthur and his father, Cadwy so hoped it

would be the Pendragon to win.

Twelve

The Mass of the Nativity, for all its meaning of birth and celebration,

was, for two particular people in the congregation, a solemn, reflective

occasion. For them, the service was poignant, a reminder of their own born

sons. The joy of the birth of the Christ child being over-shadowed by disil-

lusionment and regret.

The splendid holy building at Venta Bulgarium. Winifred and Ambrosius

Aurelianus sat, each in shadowed isolation upon their privileged seating of

high-backed, cushioned, ornately carved chairs. The Bishop was intoning his

sermon. Several of the nobility arrayed on the front rows of hard, wooden

benches had their chins tucked well into their chests, though only one had the

indecency to snore.

Venta was one of the few towns that could still boast a bishop. Aquae Sulis had

old Justinian, a frail man who had to be carried everywhere by litter and often

stank of the bowl flux; Gwynedd had Bishop Cynan, firmly installed as shep-

herd of men at the wondrous recently built chapel of Valle Crucis—Winifred

intended to travel there one day, to see if it really was more splendid than

this, her church. Eboracum was a deserted town now, save for the Saex who

seemed not to mind the annual flooding. Durovernum was partially destroyed,

its crumbling stone walls protecting the establishment of Aesc’s Jute settlement,

Canta Byrig, his capital town.

Deva, Caer Gloui, and Caer Lueil, the minor towns that had once seen the

wealth of Rome, had never quite recovered from various tragedies of flood or

assault, or abandonment. Only Venta Bulgarium flourished because Winifred

sank much of her wealth into it, and Ambrosius, Governor of Britain, patronised

its church.

Compared to the simple standards of the period, the building was a superb

place. Twice the size of any other known British church and built in the style

of an equal-sided cross. A single narrow, green and blue glass window was set

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

in the eastern wall, solid-built of stone. Above, a slate roof, not straw or reed-

thatched, topped the vaulted, carving-encrusted rafters. Standing on the linen

altar cloth were a golden crucifix the height of a man’s forearm, two chalices,

and a silver salver.

Winifred had financed much of the construction and decoration, bringing in

the best Roman architects, the best masons and carpenters. It was intended to

be grander than the wattle-built shacks that normally served as church or chapel,

a place where pilgrims would come to worship the Christian God. A place to

generate wealth for the Church—and Winifred. Travellers needed somewhere

to sleep and eat. Farmers came to sell goats and cattle in the wide-spaced forum,

traders brought their pottery, jewellery, cloth. The Church—the Bishop—or

Winifred, owned between them the taverns and open-fronted shops, collected

rent for the stalls. Were doing very nicely out of her investment.

Winifred fingered the crucifix dangling from her corded waist-belt, feeling

its shape, its smoothness, trying to feel its meaning and comfort, finding instead

only the cold of emptiness. Arthur had mocked her devotion to the Christian

faith, accusing her of using religion to further her own gain. To a point, happen

she had, but she did believe, that was not faked. Believed, but found no comfort.

God had deserted her, had allowed her son to turn on her. She knew she ought

regard this as some sign of testing her faith, of her true love of God; but she

could not find the strength, the willingness. God and the Christ she loved, but

not above her son, Cerdic.

And Ambrosius, sitting opposite her on the spear side of the aisle, chased

similar thoughts in a crazy whirl around his mind. He ought to be listening

to the Bishop’s words, ought to focus his attention on God, not Cadwy, his

misshapen, useless son. The doubts and bitterness had been encroaching stronger

of late. The questions, the asking why. Why, if God favoured him to become

the sole lord of Britain, had He not blessed him with a strong, capable son?

A son able to command an army, able to ensure the taking of what had been

Arthur’s? To follow, as his heir.

Cerdic had turned his back on his mother and her oppressive Christianity,

had returned, with determination of will, to the people and pagan beliefs of

his stepfather. Cadwy felt no love for this Christian God who was supposed to

offer love and comfort. Where was the comfort in knowing your earthly father

despised you?

The nativity, an adaptation of the pagan celebration of life and rebirth.

Winifred, as the Bishop finished his monotonous diatribe at last, felt a tear

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

slide down her cheek. All she had fought for, lied, cheated and even killed for.

All she had built and sown and harvested. All had been for Cerdic. He had

to become king after Arthur, for without him as supreme, what was left for

herself? Nothing, save the loneliness of an unwanted, set-aside ex-wife.

Ambrosius mouthed the words of the chant, reciting by rote of habit. What

was there for him after he had taken what was offered, now that Arthur was

away, unlikely to come back? If there was no one to pass his gain to, no one

to ensure the continuation of all he had worked and struggled to achieve, what

was the point of gaining it?

The Bishop offered the Blessing, took up his mitre and crosier, and, with his

retinue pacing in solemn splendour, proceeded down the central aisle, his soft

doeskin boots scuffing on the bright colouring of the intricate, patterned mosaic

flooring. He had his own thoughts, his own ambitions.

The position of archbishop had never been refilled after the tragic massacre

of so many of the Church a few years past at Eboracum. Both Ambrosius

Aurelianus and the Lady Winifred were sure to have been impressed by the

splendid sermon of his today. He smiled benignly at the poorer people of his

flock huddled towards the rear of the grand church. Archbishop. The title sat

well in his ambitious thoughts.

Thirteen

February 469

It was raining. Not the soft drizzle of a British early springtime

shower, but a harsh, wind-blustering swathe of winter, stinging needles that

pulsed in from the wave-tossed river. Juliomagus was sodden. Water cascaded

from low-hung eaves and cracked, broken gutters. The street drains, unre-

paired for years, were blocked beyond use; consequently the mud seethed with

sewage, foetid and stinking. The heavy wheels of ox-carts became stuck; people

were truculent and irritable as they hurried about their business, heads dipped,

shoulders hunched. At the Forum, where the market traders had set their stalls,

requirements were bartered for quickly, no one caring to browse or chat.

Arthur, however, was in no hurry. Several citizens, scuttling, bent against

the rain, knocked into him, cursed as he strolled along the Via Apollo. He

was talking, hands animated, to Bedwyr, expressing personal preference for the

town’s selection of wines. In turn, Bedwyr was challenging his cousin’s choice,

both men heedless of the discomfort of rain.

“The Red Bull,” Bedwyr insisted, “serves the best Greek. Your nomination

of the Grape cannot hold a candle to it!”

“Nonsense, the Grape’s wine is stored the better, their amphorae are kept in

cool cellars, the Bull’s stores are nigh on in full sun!”

Bedwyr was having none of it. He pointed at the sky. “Sun? Do they get sun

in this dull place?” The disagreement colourfully continued as they strolled the

length of the next street and around the corner. They had reached the eastern

corner of the Forum.

Normally crowded, the wide, square market-place was woefully empty.

Traders’ stalls dripped sorrowfully, displayed wares looking soggy and unex-

citing. Foodstuffs, clothes, and the like were ruined, although the sellers would

undoubtedly find some way of making a financial gain.

“The Grape has one unquestionable advantage though, cousin!”

“Which is?” Bedwyr queried.

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

“The dark-eyed Diana!”

Bedwyr laughed. Aye, he had to concede that point. Diana was indeed a

most enticing serving lass.

The Pendragon’s eyes were skimming across the expanse of the mud-puddled,

cobbled square, roving to the opposite side in the direction of a huddled group

of slaves squatting miserably beside the inadequate shelter of a tavern wall. They

sat dismally hunched against the wet as best they could, movement restricted by

the ropes that tethered them to wooden slave-posts. Always a depressing corner

of any Forum, the slave market. Arthur usually avoided them. He had his own

slaves—what man did not? But those on sale in decaying towns such as this

were frequently a sad lot. Today’s offerings were probably no exception; the

usual selection of old men; women past their prime; skinny, scabby children.

Saxon most of them, the occasional Frank or Burgundian.

He was supposed to be making his way to a designated meeting with Sidonius

Apollinaris, one-time Ambassador of Gaul and Prefect of Rome, a man now

somewhat discredited by his friend’s treasonable letter, an incitement against

peace. There was no hurry; let the intrusive little turd wait. Arthur and his men

had been kept waiting these long months, all damn summer and winter. One

promise and assurance after another delayed or set aside. Sidonius had requested

this meeting to explain the latest set of excuses for keeping the Britons encamped

with nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to fight with or against—and aye,

there was a degree of explaining to do! Having a few bones of his own to pick

over, Arthur had agreed to meet—aside, there was little else to do in this town,

especially on such a miserable, wet morning.

“Now, Diana might be alluring, but what of that fair-skinned beauty?”

Making his way obliquely across the Forum, Arthur pointed at a girl, her hands

bound, tethered from a neck ring to the slave-posts by a rope. She was standing,

dressed well for a slave, arguing fiercely with the slave-master, her head tossing,

foot stamping. A second man, fat-bellied and porcine in appearance, was joining

in, a goatskin was dropped in the mud at his feet, in one hand he held out a

leather pouch which jingled a few coins. The other hand made a grab for the

girl, who darted nimbly aside while pouring more complaint at her master.

Intrigued, Arthur, with Bedwyr at heel, wandered closer.

“I am not worth that piddling amount!” she was declaring heatedly. “A few

bronze coins and a stinking goatskin? Woden’s breath, I am a noblewoman’s

daughter, you cannot sell me for the price of a,” she spat at the man attempting

to purchase her, “for the price of a piss pot!”

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

Arthur folded his arms, grinning. A slave negotiating her own payment? He

had never seen or heard such a thing! “Take my offer or go without, Tadius!”

the fat man protested. “It is a good offer; you’ll not sell such a shrew for better

in this town!”

Tadius obviously agreed, for he took the leather pouch. The girl shrieked her

rage. “My mother was the sister of a thegn—of Leofric of the Elbe! She was

wife to one of Odovacer’s trusted generals! I am related to royal birth, damn it!”

Tadius was ignoring her, unfastening her tether. “By the Hammer!” she cursed,

“I am related by marriage to the king of Britain, to Riothamus himself—I

ought be valued as a royal concubine, nothing less!” She fell forward to her

knees as the slave-master jerked her rope, breath knocking from her.

“You’re a tongue-shrilling damn nuisance!” The man countered. “No

wonder I was offered you so cheap—Odovacer, the Saxon warlord, probably

sold you into slavery himself to be rid of you from his encampment!”

“I was abducted by the stinking Gauls, as you well know, you bastard!”

Standing with his familiar expression of one eyebrow raised, the other eye

half shut, Arthur’s interest had heightened. Leofric of the Elbe? Winifred’s

deceased husband? Surely there would not be two of the same name and title?

The fat man had hold of the rope, was jerking it to encourage the girl to

stand, succeeding only in dragging her forward. Panic was behind her eyes,

although she was masking her fear well.

“There are some men who enjoy a bit of spirit in their bed,” the Pendragon said,

to no one in particular. “’Tis easy enough to stop a tongue from clacking.”

The fat man hauled the rope harder, causing the girl to gasp as the other end

choked at her neck. He was grinning, jowls flapping, an ugly, insidious man.