Read Shadow of the King Online
Authors: Helen Hollick
Tags: #Contemporary, #British, #9781402218903, #Historical, #Genre Fiction, #Literature & Fiction
for a foot-hold, found a hand-hold for himself, then a low branch, and heaved.
Clutching hold of anything firm that held his weight, breathing hard, he worked
his way upward, thrusting the dog before him—and hands clasped at her, took
her, came again to grasp his hand, pull him up that last yard, and he lay panting,
winded, more than a few scratches on his face and hands.
Archfedd was crying. She rubbed at his hands, his back, not knowing what
to do for him, how to thank him. Feebly, he pointed at the dog. “I’m in one
piece, see to the dog,” he gasped.
I wonder sometimes
, he thought,
whether women are worth all the trouble they cause.
Then Archfedd was beside him again, her arms going around him, her head
burrowing into his shoulder. He put his hand on her hair, held her close, until
her trembling eased.
Aye, he answered his own thought, happen they are.
Twenty-Four
August 486
Caer Cadan, the king’s stronghold, was subdued without the
presence of Arthur and the others; Medraut even missed Archfedd.
At least her criticisms were offset by laughter and a love of life. Cywyllog’s
continuous censuring was melancholic, her character dismal. Even during the
celebration of their wedding she had barely smiled.
Why in the name of God had he wed her? What had possessed him? What
foolish idiocy had driven him to want her for his own?
Na
, that was not wholly
true. He had not pursued her. It had just happened, last winter it had been,
during the time of the Nativity Festival. As often before, Lord Geraint’s widow
and her family had come as guests—with her, Aurelius Caninus.
Caninus, grandson to Ambrosius Aurelianus, inheritor of all that noble man’s
estate, and kin to Arthur below Medraut and the whore-son Cerdic, his heir. He had
none of the honour of his father, Cadwy, or the gentleness of his mother, Ragnall.
That good woman who had, with her daughter, passed into God’s Kingdom from
the ravages of fever barely three months after Badon. Caninus was a lad new into
manhood, and overproud of it, he had an arrogant charm that drew the maids
like dul -painted moths to the bril iance of the flame. Young smiles did not see
behind the handsome mask of confident, carefree boastfulness. A girl could be so
easily flattered at exaggerated compliment and expansive attention. He danced, he
talked. Performed, Medraut thought, like a dressed actor playing a well-rehearsed
part of the bachelor lover. A vain coxcomb, with, as Medraut knew, a vile streak
of cruelty. Watching him prance and exhibit before the ladies even Arthur had
become exasperated by his swaggering. To the maids, however, he brought a
merriment of honeyed words and blatant adulation. More than one was lured into
the tumble of the stored hay while Caninus resided at Caer Cadan.
One declining. Cywyllog.
When Ambrosius died there had been difficulty over deciding where the
students of his school ought to go. Many opted to remain within the monastery
S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 0 7
of Ambrosium, but the younger ones, it was thought, would be better to go
to Brother Illtud at his new-founded school of Llan Fawr Illtud. The boys
Gildas and Maelgwyn went there, along with Davydd and Sampson. Caninus
went into Geraint’s household and Medraut returned with his father to Caer
Cadan—along with several of the noble-born young women who would take
position as handmaids to the queen.
Cywyllog was too sensible to listen to Caninus’s ridiculous flattery, too
practical to be taken in by his boasted prowess. And beside, she too knew of
his malicious streak—she wore the scar still, pale above her left temple, where
a stone meant for a litter of pups had cut deep.
Was Medraut impressed by this? Was it her stoic contempt that first drew
him to, as he thought, admire her? It must have been, for by the first budding
of early spring he had sought permission from his father to wed her. Arthur had
queried his choice, suggesting, although not outright, the girl was dour. And
now, these few months later? There was no passion, no warmth, and as for
love…Why had Cywyllog accepted him? The answer had come plain on the
night of their wedding. Vengeance.
She could not stab at Arthur, hurt him or his pride and manhood, but she
could hurt his son. Oh, there was enough to legitimise the marriage—Medraut
could not complain that she did not fulfil her duties, did not neglect him for any
need he might have, be it for a full belly of food or cleaned boots; a new-woven
cloak or the intimacies demanded by marriage. She was clever, Cywyllog. Too
late, Medraut had discovered that.
He would have liked to have ridden north to Gwynedd with his father, but
someone had to stay, someone need oversee the daily training of the war-horses,
listen to the complaints of the common people, make judgements, punish the
wrongdoers; take on the temporary responsibilities of a king. Medraut was not
king, but he was the king’s son, and deliberately Arthur had placed the burden
on his shoulders. In private, the Pendragon doubted the lad would have the
stamina or stomach to see the duty through. For that reason, he left others,
trusted, wiser men, to keep unobtrusive eye on him and the daily workings of
Caer Cadan, but like it or not, Medraut was his heir—unless he chose Caninus.
No, that was not an option Arthur would be tempted to consider.
Unexpected to them both, father and son, Medraut managed well, for he
had a good ear for listening, a knack for making sensible decision—save the
fool decision to wed with Cywyllog. Happen he had not inherited a talent
for the intricacies of battle and war, but the gift of the ability of organisation
5 0 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k
and administration did not go unnoticed by all within the Caer, nor by his
father, who was impressed by the sending of regular written, accurate reports
and accounts.
Two events happened on the same day at Caer Cadan. News reached them
that Archfedd had wed with Natanlius, and Bedwyr arrived home from his
years of journeying abroad. Both filled the Caer with an air of celebration and
joy, and Medraut ordered a feast to be prepared for that evening’s Gather.
He had barely met Bedwyr, and then as a child when first he had come to
Britain. He remembered the tall, deep-voiced man only vaguely, for he had
disappeared soon after the victory of Badon. Medraut had been too young to
wonder why, but he had heard enough in the intervening years to understand
the reason. Hard it must be for a man who had loved a woman, expected to
take her as wife, then to see her happy with another. Aye, even if that other
was her husband.
He found Bedwyr an easy man to befriend, was disappointed to learn he
intended to ride on, north, to join with the Pendragon.
“I have been too long absent,” Bedwyr explained, sharing a congenial flagon
of wine with Medraut in the privacy of what was Arthur’s own chamber—
Medraut’s, while his father was away. “I doubt the ladies—nor the king—will
forgive me, were I to languish here waiting for their return.”
Talk of the women reminded Medraut of his half-sister’s marriage. Bedwyr
was pleased at the news, although he expressed astonishment at how the years
had passed him by. “She was a child when I left!” he declared. He asked after
Natanlius, probing as to his background, his family; seemed eager to meet
with him.
The marriage delighted Medraut. A husband might quieten that quick
temper of hers! Too much to hope Arthur would grant them a stronghold
somewhere far distant from Caer Cadan. Ah, to be free of Archfedd’s barbed
sarcasm! Raising his goblet of wine, he proposed long health and happiness to
the couple, enthusiastically echoed by Bedwyr.
Was it then Medraut had his idea? Or later, when they prized open the
sealing wax from a third flagon of Arthur’s best wine?
“I can take a few days to be gone from here—the Caer will run smooth
without me. Why do I not ride part of the way with you? I have a fancy to
purchase some especial bridal gift for my sister—what do you suggest?”
And so they had talked, and decided. Medraut would leave with Bedwyr in
two days. They would ride northwest into the White Hills, Bedwyr going on,
S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 0 9
northward to Gwynedd, Medraut to the place where the silver was extracted
from the mined lead and cast into bowls and plates, spoons and goblets. He
would purchase his half-sister something beautiful and expensive for her new
life as wife to Natanlius.
Happen it would impress her enough to ease the taint of mistrust that had
been between them both through all these years.
Twenty-Five
With an escort of four men, Medraut and Bedwyr rode from the
Caer soon after dawn, when the clouds were gathering to the west,
boasting rain. It would be welcome, for the sun had blazed too hot, too long.
A steady jogged pace, the two men easy in their conversation, talking as
if they had known each other many years, not but a few days. Crickets chir-
ruped among the heat-dried grass of the Summer Land; a lark sang; further on,
another. The steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves, the creak of leather, jingle
of harness. He ought not think such thoughts, but oh, how joyous it was to be
riding away from his wife for three, happen four days!
Yns Witrin to their left, the dark cone of the Tor rising to meet the louring
sky. His mother had come from there, so his father had told him. Where was
the place of his own birthing, Medraut wondered? Beside the lake that even
in the hottest summer lay at the foot of that pagan, mystical hill—or away up
there on the summit, where the eye of the Goddess could have watched over
his mother’s labour? Had his mother sat, gasping through the birth pains with
her back pressed against the great Stone, the sacred symbol of oath and eternity.
He could see it clearly, bright, illuminated, as the early sunlight struck against
its granite surface. He asked Bedwyr if he knew how tall it was. The older man
confessed he had never climbed the Tor to find out.
“Ask your father,” he suggested. “He has been up there.”
Medraut had heard it was the height of a man, difficult to judge from this
distance. One day, he must go up there. He had never liked to though, for
Ambrosius and the monks had instilled into the boys the evilness of the old
ways, the pagan places and heathen gods. That was all an anomaly to Medraut.
If the non-Christian way was so bad, why was Arthur a good king? Why did
people follow him, love him? The Pendragon was no Christian. But then,
there were not over-many within the Church who held a fondness for him.
His mother must have. The questions came marching in again. Easy to think,
S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 1 1
to puzzle as you rode, to let the mind wander and sieve through the many
possible answers.
Where was she, his mother? Alive, dead? Did he care? Not really. He barely
remembered her. Gwenhwyfar had been more of a mother than his natural
one—even though she had an inclination towards indifference. Gwenhwyfar
had no love for him, why should she? At least she had, from the first, shown
him kindness, had seen he wore warm clothes, had a full belly. Nursed him
through illnesses. Did he remember Morgaine for that? He could not even
recall her face.
The road was a good one, well maintained—that was something they could
no longer lay at Arthur’s feet: the main roadways were all repaired. Holes filled,
drainage ditches redug, and not just here in the king’s own land, elsewhere also.
Roads constructed with the strength of Rome running to north, south, and
west. East, ah, that was Saex territory. Let them see to their own arrangements,
Arthur said.
Medraut parted amicably from Bedwyr, who turned to join the road that
would meet eventually with the eastern bank of the Hafren River, and the
north. The White Hills loomed grey and cloud-covered, an undulating cluster
of hills cut by the rift of the Great Gorge and pocked by natural caves and
man-dug mines. A lure for Rome when first she made decision to claim Britain
for herself. Corn, fine hunting dogs. Tin and lead, all these plentiful in Britain.
From these mines came the lead to line the great bath at Aquae Sulis, to bring
water along the aqueducts into towns and fortresses. Lead and its precious
extraction, silver. Lead for making pewter and coffins.
The mines within the White Hills were still operable, although not so busy
and economical as they were during the height of Rome. Nearby, a cluster
of settlements where the craftsmen gathered, and it was to here Medraut was
headed, where he passed two contented days selecting the stuff he wanted to
purchase, and watching, fascinated, as the silversmith created his beautiful ware.
For himself, he purchased a silver ring, detailed with the figure of a running