Shadow of the King (87 page)

here, where the trees grew higher and thicker. The rain had fallen almost inces-

santly these past three days, with no promise of it easing, judging by the dark

hang of the sky and the distant rumble of thunder. Spring this year had ventured

late, tottering pathetically after a dismal winter, bringing with it cold winds

and squalls of rain. June had fared somewhat better, with pale, half-hearted

sunshine, but those winds had persisted. Much of the Summer Land remained

underwater, isolated lakes and swollen, overflowing rivers and streams. Arthur

was not alone in being sick of damp clothes and wet boots.

The grumblings at the lead mines—involving the legality and authentication

of the various official stamps used in marking the pigs of lead—had rumbled

on through the months, with one useless procurator replaced by another, and a

series of officials sent to attempt to sort the muddle of bureaucracy, resulting in

the ultimate need for Arthur himself finally to intervene. Too much lead—and

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more important, extracted silver—was going amiss; only the king’s authority, it

seemed, would get to the bottom of the problem.

The road that ran beside the rise of hills had fallen quieter as late afternoon

dwindled into an early-arrived evening. Wagons and travellers with any sense

would have already been seeking shelter for the night. Those last few on

the road were hurrying to a final destination, not eager to make another,

unnecessary stop.

Ahead, by five miles or more, lay the Great Gorge, limestone cliffs that towered

several hundred feet above a winding pass that cut like a vicious sword wound

into the side of the Hills. Arthur hated the place. The precarious track ran, slip-

pery and muddied, beside the gurgling run of the river. The small slit of sky so

high and distant above, cliffs to either side rising sheer, dominating, brooding.

Trapping. He would rather not ride up that gorge, but his business lay with this

latest appointed procurator who resided at the largest mine, at the head of it. He

could go the other route, up and over the top, the longer, exposed road. In this

rain? Adding almost a whole day to the journey?
Na
, he would brave the gorge.

Ahead, an ox-wagon had turned to make the ascent of a narrow side-track,

the Saxon driver whipping the beasts to pull against the cloy of mud, shouting

abuse as a wheel lodged in a rut. The stone roads were bad enough for wagon

haulage. Idiots to travel the lesser roads, Arthur thought absently, giving only a

passing glance at the cart as he rode past the junction. A man, mounted, flanked

by two body-guards respectfully, if somewhat slowly, moved aside from the

road, their heads dipped in acknowledgement of rank. Well-dressed, a man of

some wealth. A merchant-man. Saxon.

Arthur ignored him.

Behind, the Pendragon guard sniggered muted laughter. “What is the jest?”

he asked Gweir, riding beside him.

“That fat Saxon has taken the track after the ox-cart.”

They would stop soon, make camp. Arthur edged Onager into a jog-trot,

pushing the pace slightly faster. They would camp this side of the gorge, ride

through at first light. “And what is comical about that?” he had to ask, having

decided on no rational explanation for himself. The Saxons were certainly fools to

travel a rough track so close to nightfal , but no merchant cared about the welfare

of man or beast. Trade and payment their sole concern. Where was the jest then?

“The whore lives up there.”

The whore. What whore? Whores spread their wares along any track a man

might travel. These roads around the mines would provide ample trade.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 2 5

The hills were deep misted with the rain, trees dripping, the dampness

seeping upward. It was cold, the light fading, so depressing, hills, in the rain. At

Caer Cadan they would be huddled around the hearth-fires, filling their bellies

with hot food and warming wine.

Gweir rode his beloved dun. Arthur regarded him, one eye half-closed,

other eyebrow raised, his expression questioning. “The whore. The Lady of the

White Hills,” Gweir explained. “You must, surely, have heard of her?” Arthur

had, but had not realised it was to this side of the hills she dwelt, thinking her

further to the north.

Gweir then added, “She was the one Medraut visited.”

Ah, he could see reason for the laughter now. “When was that?”

Gweir shrugged, wiped at rain trickling uncomfortable down his neck. When?

How did he know when? He pulled his dun to a walk, set in beside one of the

men, questioned him, kicked into a trot to catch up with the Pendragon.

“Last year, while you were in Gwynedd. Antonius was one of the escort.”

Again,
ah.

“The tale is well known among the men,” Gweir continued. “Medraut came

running down the hill as if the hounds of Hades were after him. The men

reckon either her price was too high for the lad or her legs too long for him

to reach into the important parts!” Gweir chuckled. Poor Medraut, with the

misery of such a sullen wife, the ideal butt of many a jest.

It was wrong to make mockery of the king’s bastard son, of course, but

with him away these last two months, visiting at Llan Illtud, the old stories had

naturally resurfaced, safe in the knowing he would not hear.

“You seen her, this whore?” Arthur asked, casually.

“Me? When I need a woman, I go for one a little nearer home!”

“That,” Arthur answered with a broad grin, “is because you have no need to

hide your habits from a wife!”

Ahead, a suitable sheltered place to make camp. Arthur ordered a halt. He

had a prickly, uncomfortable feeling rising along the nape of his neck. It had

been there since that ox-wagon had lumbered into view. More precise, the

merchant travelling with it. What was the familiarity about him? There was

many a Saxon trader Arthur had met in passing or spoken with along this route,

why this unease?

It hit him with the force of an axe blade, while the world, save for the

night creatures and the watch guard, slept beneath the canopy of darkness.

Had it come to him in a dream, or was it merely that thoughts came clearer

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when there was not the distraction of daylight? Whatever, he had been sound

sleeping, curled beneath the thickness of his cloak oblivious to the patter of

rain. He sat up, arrow straight, eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

That man, that Saxon, turning off onto the whore’s track. There were easier

paths to the nearest mine. Why would he take the wagon with him to pay visit

to a whore?

And more important, why had he been so intent to hide his face?

Thirty

With the horses secured, Arthur and Gweir walked the last mile.

Away from the track, the going was easier. They walked carefully,

aware of the need to make as little noise as possible, but the rain drizzling from

the canopy of the trees, and the soft ground, absorbed small, unavoidably made

sounds. At the edge of the trees, they hunkered to their heels, observing the

bothy that squatted before the dark opening of a cave. With the rain falling,

dawn would come late, the sky lightening with reluctance from darkness to

slate-grey. No glory of a welcome, golden sunburst this morning!

Arthur was wet and in sour mood. The ride yesterday had been dispiriting,

his sleep non-existent. And that black, predatory hole of a cave entrance exag-

gerated his bad temper. Gweir had assured him the whore lived in the bothy,

but what if they had to go in there, into the caves? The sweat on Arthur’s

forehead and upper lip was not from the exertion of walking. Gweir would

have to go in. He most certainly would not.

Three horses, unsaddled, were tethered to the lee side of the bothy, each

standing with a hind leg resting, head drooping. Two men dozed beneath the

makeshift protection of the ox-cart, the ox himself grazing unconcerned at the

weather, over to the left. The driver, presumably, was the bundle beneath a

sodden cloak huddled beside what had been a pathetic attempt at lighting a fire.

The Saxon merchant-man? Assuming the two beneath the wagon were his

bodyguard, he could only be inside with the woman.

The decision. Whether to disarm these three outside or kill them. There was

no cause, outside Arthur’s suspicions, that they were about any wrongdoing.

Even Saxons were permitted to rut with a whore! He glanced at Gweir, who

mimed binding hands together, nodded his agreement. To kill them would be

murder. Aside, their tongues may be useful.

They went for the two under the wagon first, assuming they would be the better

armed, the more dangerous. Drivers were often slaves and simple-minded: you had

5 2 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

to be to keep sane, as oxen were such stupid creatures. Within a few short moments,

the two were secured and gagged several yards down the track: one unconscious, the

other too dazed to make a sound, with more than a few bruises and aching bones

between them. Gweir dragged the third man from his sleeping place, his frightened

whimpering silenced by a crack to the temple from Arthur’s boot.

When the daylight finally came, miserable and slovenly, Arthur indicated

he was going into the bothy. Gweir nodded, grinned, whispered, “If she’s any

good, let me have a turn at her before we leave?”

“You are welcome to all of her. No damn whore is worth all this effort!”

Arthur drew his sword from its sheath, instinctively running the pad of his

thumb along its sharpness. He stepped out from the cover of the trees, shoulders

hunched, head bent low—was about to run the twenty or so yards to the closed

doorway—froze, tumbled back into the shelter of the trees, heart pumping,

cursing colourfully beneath his breath.

Gweir, with his own sword drawn, had heard it also. A horse, coming up

the track. As stealthily as if he were approaching a nervous buck, he made his

way to Arthur, exchanged a curious glance. They watched. The horse was

a bay, four white feet, white face. He was muddied, tired, had been ridden

through most the night by the look of him. His rider, cloak hood pulled well

forward against the rain, dismounted, circled the ox-wagon, walked to the

tethered horses, inspected them, examining their quality, looking for any

brand or distinguishing mark. Stood a moment, considering the implication

of their presence. Decision made, he marched for the closed door, his left

hand stretching forward to thrust it open. His hood falling back, exposing

his face.

Gweir reacted as swiftly as Arthur grasped his arm, gripped hard, for the

Pendragon had risen with a startled, angry gasp, was about to step from the

trees. Gweir pulled his lord downward. “No!” he hissed. “If you had a wife like

his, would you not be secretly visiting places like this?”

Annoyed, Arthur shook the restraining hand off, but he hunkered down

again, his sword lying exposed across his thighs. With a wife like Gwenhwyfar,

he had already visited such places—but never while a wealthy Saxon was taking

his pleasure.

They watched Medraut enter, waited for the shout and the flurry of activity

bound to follow. It was normal, if a whore was busy, either to wait your turn

or find yourself alternative arrangements. One minute passed. Two, three. No

sound from that bothy. Nothing, no disturbance, no clatter or indication of

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 2 9

fighting. No woman’s scream, no reopening of the door with an embarrassed

or grieved customer scuttling through. No man who valued his balls would

deliberately walk in and disrupt another’s purchased entertainment. Not unless

the thing was arranged.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, his knuckles whitening against the grip on the sword

pommel. Arranged. Organised. Deliberate. He spoke low, the control over

his fury menacing. “That bloody whore-son is not here for the woman, he is

meeting with the Saex.”

“We do not know that.” But Gweir’s protest fell on closed ears. Arthur was

already running for the bothy. Gweir had no option. He followed.

Slamming into the door, kicking it open with his boot, Arthur was through,

rolling with the impact, instantly up on his feet, nostrils flaring, sword ready

to strike if necessary. Gweir silhouetted against the daylight in the doorway.

Froze, both stood quite still, stunned. This, neither had expected. The implica-

tions began to slither into Arthur’s brain. The answers to so many uneasy,

puzzling, questions.

Medraut’s expression was a mixture of horror and embarrassment. He stood

pressing his back against the far wall. Morgaine, Arthur recognised immediately.

She was hunched at the end of the tumbled bed, a fur loosely covering her

nakedness, her hair unbound, uncombed. Her head had jolted up as Arthur had

roughly entered, her eyes widening in fear, a gasp escaping her lips. She made