Shadow of the King (81 page)

laughter. Arthur fell into step beside him as Geraint paced back to the light and

noise emanating from the Hall, slapped his arm around his cousin’s shoulder.

“Pay no mind, our boots will all be squelching come a few days. The marshes

around Llongborth are wetter than a babe’s night napkin, so I hear.”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 8 7

“You talk for yourself,” Geraint jibed back. “I have no intention of removing my

backside from my horse. If you want to paddle around up to your arse in sea-water

and bog that is up to you.” They ducked through the low door, the rear entrance,

stood a moment inside mutually surveying the scene of wild celebration.

The eating had finished, with the trestle tables cleared away the dancing

and entertainment begun. Mixing with Geraint’s men, the Artoriani, the elite

cavalry—though it had taken this while to rebuild the numbers, find the horses,

train them, drill in the rules of discipline. Were they as good as before? So many

had died in Gaul.

“We British? Fight on foot as the Saex do?” Arthur retorted, scornful. “What,

when we have chance to keep our feet dry?”

Geraint chuckled. “Unless another bloody sow should scare the piss out

of us?” The two men laughed at the shared jest, made their way companion-

ably together through the crowd, heading for their place of honour beside the

warmth of the hearth.

A girl swung by, head back, hair tossing, her mouth open with enjoyment,

saw Arthur. She stepped aside from the group, slid her arm through his. “Come!

Dance with me?” she carolled, guiding him into the whirl.

“What? These old bones get giddy. I’d not last a heartbeat!” But for all the

protest, Arthur swept his arm around her waist, took hold of a hand in the line

and joined in the reel.

She was lovely, her hair gleaming as bright as her eyes, her figure lithe as it

bent and twirled with the exotic pace and step of the dance. She was dressed

in a loose tunic of spring green, a thin gold and silver torque at her throat,

silver earrings, gold bangles on her bare arms, sandals of narrow gold thread.

More than one young man—and aye, those not so young—watched her,

Arthur noticed.

“You will have my wife reprimand me for dancing with so beautiful a girl,

you know,” he chided as a couple twirled down between the formed parallel

lines of fellow dancers who clapped the beat.

“Would she much mind?” the girl answered, as they joined hands to swing

each other around.

“She can be a jealous woman.”

“I could always dance with someone else.”

“Then I would be jealous. And as I am the king you dare not offend me.”

They were at the head of the dance, their turn to go down the line, two hands

together, swirling around and around.

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

Breathless, hand on chest, panting and dripping sweat, the dance ended,

Arthur drew the girl aside. She placed a kiss, light, on his cheek; he touched

her hair with his hand. The enjoyment of celebration left her eyes, and she put

her fingers over his hand.

“How do we, the women left behind, bear it when you all go off to war?

How do we not dwell on the knowing you might not be coming back?”

Arthur quirked the side of his lips into a slight smile. “So many questions!”

He took her fingers, squeezed them. “I would ask your mother, for I have no

answer for you.”

Archfedd withdrew her hand, a temperamental pout forming on her mouth.

It was no good asking her. “She rides with you.”

Nodding once Arthur affirmed that she did. “Gwenhwyfar comes with us on

the morrow, aye. It is her wish, and mine.”

About to blurt some harsh word of disgust, Arthur stopped his daughter

answering by placing a finger to her lips. “Do not say it, Archfedd. Do not form

what is in your mind into voiced word. Your mother comes with me because I

need her.” He held the finger up, reinforcing her silence. “And no, you cannot

come. Not because you are woman-born, but because you are my daughter.”

Because, unlike your mother, you have no experience of war; because you are six and

ten years of age, at the dawn of your life; because if Cerdic wins you will only be safe

here, within Geraint’s stronghold.
He kept all that to himself, especially the last,

which even he recoiled from thinking about. If Cerdic was somehow to take

the victory when they met, what would he do to Archfedd? Arthur swallowed

a rise of foul-tasting bile. No, of that he could not, would not, think.

“A man asked if he could marry with you a while past,” Arthur said, casually.

“Oh?” Archfedd attempted not to look interested, but the flattery was obvious.

Her mother had promised she would have say in the choice of husband, and as

yet there was no acceptable contender. “Who?” she asked, several faces flitting

through her mind. Handsome and courageous men.

“Amlawdd.”

“What! That ill-mannered, lecherous, toad-foot?” Archfedd’s wrinkled nose

and expression of disgust replaced any need for further word.

“I had a feeling that would be your answer.” There was laughter in her

father’s voice.

“You are teasing me!” Archfedd complained, flouncing slightly away

from him.

“About Amlawdd’s asking?
Na
, I am not.”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 8 9

Arthur relented as the alarm spread over her face, he put a finger under her

chin. “Do not fret, my answer was similar to yours, only the language was

somewhat coarser.”

Her relief was extensive.

“When I return,” Arthur altered direction, “we must consider finding you

someone suitable.” She would not be safe from scum such as Amlawdd until

she had a husband of her own. Not now she was of an age ready for marriage.

And grandsons could be as useful as sons.

Archfedd tossed her head, her contempt acute. “No old goats or unwhelped

pups. If I agree to marry, I’ll not wed any but the strongest warrior!”

Her father gathered her to him, held her possessively close, protective, urgent.

Love of Mithras, she was so much like her mother!

A sudden thought, unexpected, from the past. “
If I marry, I will only wed with

the strongest leader, a man who will unite Britain and drive out our enemies
.” He had

been a lad when Gwenhwyfar had boasted that. A bastard-born lad who had

not known his father, had not known the great Uthr Pendragon was his sire.

Later, when he had known, after Uthr’s death, when Cunedda had told him the

truth of it, she had again said she would not wed with any but the best. “
Would

you consider a Pendragon the best
?” he had asked.

Obviously Gwenhwyfar had, although how she came to that conclusion

Arthur had often, since, wondered. Him, the best? Aye, the best liar, the best

whore-layer, the best…the list rolled on.

At that moment, Arthur glanced up across a cleared space where three jugglers

were amusing onlookers with their skilled craft. She was there, enthralled,

admiring; the rich, warm light from the torches burnishing her hair into the

colour of beaten copper, the gold tips of hairpins glinting as she moved to

applaud their talent enthusiastically. Whatever happened between them, what-

ever Arthur did, whatever flurried argument sprang up, there was always this

thing, their shared love, to draw the securing thread between them tight again.

He loved her, his Gwenhwyfar.

She lifted her head, saw Arthur cradling Archfedd to him. Watching her

daughter, Gwenhwyfar smiled. She would know, almost, what he was thinking,

for she knew her husband, knew his thoughts, his hopes. His fears.

Knew as well as he what Cerdic would do to Archfedd if ever he managed

the unthinkable. To beat his father in battle.

Twenty

Llongborth, the ship port where once the galleons of the Roman sea

legions, the navy, put into harbour. The elite of shipping, the triremes,

the quinqueremes, with their multi-banks of oars, their ability to manoeuvre

with breathtaking skill; to turn within their own length, disabling the enemy

by ramming or by smashing through the oars. Magnificent craft that could set

fear scudding in the heart.

They were gone, those awesome ships with their skilled oarsmen and

superb ability. The harbour had succumbed to the sole use of traders, even

before Vortigern’s time. With Saex pirates on the prowl from along the

coast, even that use had dwindled. The wharves were no longer kept in

good repair, the lighthouse not maintained. Llongborth was the eastward

boundary of Geraint’s territory; to here, the ships that had carried Arthur

and his men to Gaul had come, for the especially designed quays—even in

poor repair—were better suited to load horses and cargo efficiently, without

excess fuss.

The inlets and marshland creeks dominating this stretch of the southern

coast were impossible to patrol. With Saxon settlements established to the

east and Cerdic entrenching himself on the west, this pocket of land, with its

puzzle of waterways to the north of Vectis, was a last stronghold of British

command. Cerdic had the temerity to offer part of it to his new allies, Port

and his two sons.

Scattered, isolated settlements sprining up along the empty, windswept, and

desolate stretches of the coast could be overlooked. Natural, uninhabited inlets

that were being transformed into Saxon harbours could be tolerated.

The giving of what was not yours to give, could not.

Llongborth, with its past status, its potential for rebuilding and regrowth.

Llongborth, with its position for trade, for the building of new craft and the

safe sheltering of old, made it a prize worth the having. Both Geraint and

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

Arthur had known that it was only a matter of time before the Saxons tried for

Llongborth. The only surprise was that it had taken Cerdic so long.

Marsh. The emptiness of rippling water, wind-brushed reeds, and the

mournful cry of the curlew. The ceaseless, steady pulse of the tide, the smell

of mud, seaweed, and the sea. A mist-hazed blue morning. The sun climbing,

golden, to the east, trailing fingers of shadow over the emptiness. Two miles

distant the human encroachment, the wharves, and half-derelict buildings of

Llongborth itself. Just ahead, the mast of a single ship, her broken keel aslant on

a sandbar, abandoned to the tide, the wind and the barnacles. Left to rot. As, at

the end of this day, would be the bones of the dead.

The shield-wall of Saxons, ranked bright-coloured and solid. Spear tips,

helmets, swords catching the first cast light of the sun. The banners and stan-

dards lifting lazily as an offshore wind sauntered past.

The British horses, grey, bay, chestnut, and dun. Harness jingling as heads

tossed, feet stamped. The snort of excitement through distended nostrils, a shrill

whinny, an impatient kick. Grass-stained foam flecking from the bit. Restless

shifting. Ears flicking. Muscles firm and strong, beneath coats that rippled with

the gloss of fine condition. Horses with stamina and strength. Corn-fed, bold-

eyed, strong-hearted.

Between the two armies a careless silence. The sigh of the wind, a cry of a

bird. Nothing more.

The Saxon line, a blur of indistinguishable colour and shape. The horses

walked, pranced, side-stepped; reins curbing the tension, the will to go.

Forward. Legs swishing through the marram grass. Ahead, the archers, bows

strung, the first arrow knocked ready.

The Saxons. Standing. Shield linked against shield. Immobile, immovable.

Individual thought of fear, expectation, and elation. A quickened heartbeat, a

muttered prayer. Incongruous thoughts. The remembered taste of a good wine, a

potent beer. The smile on a child’s face, the loving caress of a woman. The cry of the

wolf on a winter wind, or the joyful, soaring song of a lapwing on a summer’s day.

The archers. In line. Halted. Bows raised. Eyes to the side, to their lord,

sitting on his horse, a chestnut, as red as a setting sun. Geraint.

The horses. Their paced, measured walk, a few yards behind. Arthur’s arm

fell. Geraint raised his spear—and the sky was black with the skimming, fearful

hiss of death. One arrow, two, three. Archers, men who knew their craft. The

arrows waiting, tips pinned into the soft mud, easily lifted, fitted, shot. Again

and again and again.

4 9 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

The horses came on, side-stepping around the archers, walking, still walking.

Waiting for that moment when the terrible rain of death would end. The

sound, as it shushed above the horse’s ears, tossing their heads, shortening their

pent, tight-held stride. They knew what was coming. Man and beast knew

what lay ahead.

Eyes to the left, to Arthur now. To the Dragon Banner, fluttering white, red.

The glint of spur, the flash of a sword. Quiet beneath the arrows, horses’ hooves