Shadow of the King (88 page)

no other sound, but the trembling was visible.

Arthur shifted the grip of his weapon, stepped forward across the four paces

of the room, brought the sword-point, with deliberate leisure, into the hollow

of the Saxon’s throat. Except for the flicker of fear in the eyes and the slow,

uncomfortable swallow, the man did not move. He was sitting on the edge of

the bed, birth-naked. Wickedly, Arthur brought the sword lower to point at

the private parts, a sneered smile coming to his mouth at the Saxon’s hastily

stifled, indrawn breath.

“Father, I…” Medraut had to say something, had to explain.

“Do not beg, boy. Not of me.”

Medraut hesitated; the viciousness in that retort was acid sharp. He knew

his father’s potential for anger—had witnessed it often enough—but could not

place why he was so enraged over this. Was it so unreasonable for him to be

here? Aye, he had a wife—but then, so did his father. Could that be it? Arthur

did not want others to know he was visiting a…Medraut could not bring

himself to think of that word about his mother. No, no that could not be it.

5 3 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Why bring Gweir if that was so? Unless…was the anger for the same reason

as his own?

That last time Medraut had come here, unsuspecting, tricked by the men…

What if his father had stumbled on the knowing about Morgaine just this

moment, as unsuspecting? What if his father had not known the woman here

to be Morgaine? Expected to find a healing woman, as he, Medraut, had? To

come in innocence to find her here. Could his father be shocked and enraged

for that reason?

“I—Father—” he blurted, trying to ease the pain he was certain was also

coursing through his father. “It, this, is not what you think!”

Arthur did not take his slit eyes from the Saxon, said to his son, “I would like

to believe the pair of you had lured this turd here for my benefit, but knowing

this bitch as I do, I doubt it.”

“Medraut,” the Saxon said, hiding his fear by pretending arrogance, “could

not lure a starving hawk to the bait. He is too incompetent even to clean his

own arse.”

“Well, you would know all about arse-wiping, wouldn’t you, Cerdic?”

Medraut gasped, lurched forward, skin draining pale. Bile was rising in his

throat. Cerdic? Had his father said the name Cerdic?

Arthur flicked his gaze, briefly, to Morgaine. Her head had dropped forward,

tears were splashing, matting the fur. “And you? You thought this would never

be discovered?”

“Took you many years,” Cerdic chuckled. “I think we had a good sailing!”

Arthur jabbed with the sword, and Cerdic winced, edged backward.

For how long then has my mother been here?
Medraut was thinking,
For how long

has she been a whore to this Saxon? This Saxon, my own half-brother?
He fell to his

knees, vomited profusely. No one paid him heed.

“Who else is in this?” Arthur snarled. “Someone must be bringing the

trade in? Who supplies the weaponry? The arrows, the swords, the spears?”

Bull’s blood, they had been such blind fools! For all these years they had

known of a Whore of the Hills—there was even a lewd song circulating

about her—but no one had known her to be Morgaine, Medraut’s mother,

the Pendragon’s…what? What had she been? What she was now? And why

should they know? She did not use the name, Morgaine. None other, save

himself and Gweir—ah, and Medraut—and Cerdic, knew her for who she

truly was. God’s blood! Under the scent of their noses she had been the

means of that dreadful trade, a whore’s house where none would suspect

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 3 1

the visits of men, British or Saxon, where none would question a wagon

waiting outside.

“Gweir,” Arthur ordered, “search outside. If it is not already loaded, there

will be weaponry somewhere.” Gweir nodded, made to leave, paused as Arthur

added, “While you are out there, make an end of the scum secured to that tree.”

To Cerdic, “You ought choose a more competent guard. Yours were asleep.”

There was only the one scream. The driver. The other two at least had the

honour to die silently.

“They made me do it.” Morgaine lifted her tear-swollen eyes at the sound.

“They forced me, I had no choice. I came to Britain because I wanted to see

you, to see my son.” She shrieked as Arthur lurched forward, grabbed her by

the hair, and dragged her from the bed. “Who?” he bellowed, “Who forced

you? Certainly not Cerdic; he might have visited you here, but he could not

have set this little treachery into motion! Who?” She was on the floor, and he

was shaking her, kicking her. The memory of all those dead at Llongborth—all

those British men slaughtered by weaponry provided by a traitor, a British

traitor. Enraged, he had no mercy for her.

Medraut stumbled to his feet, lurched against his father, attempting to stop

him. Cerdic seized the opportunity to run. Like he had always maintained,

Arthur was a fool. Had the position been reversed, he would have not hesitated:

Arthur would be dead, instantly run through. Kill first, then think about the

situation. That was Cerdic’s policy.

As Medraut frantically hauled at the Pendragon’s arm, Cerdic edged for the

door. One, two, three paces. Four—and he was outside, running for the sheer

terror of survival. He saw the horse, Medraut’s, scrabbled into the saddle, heeled

it into a gallop, ducked as a thrown dagger whistled past his shoulder, yelled

for the lazy brute of an animal to move faster. Gweir, running from behind

the bothy tried to launch himself forward, to grab at the bridle, but the horse

swerved, was into the trees, away.

Swearing, Gweir turned to Arthur who cursed more vehemently and more

explicitly. “Shall I run for the horses? Do we track him?”

“To what point? There will be a craft waiting for him somewhere downriver.

He’ll be away, out to sea.” With the first person he should meet, dead, either

for his clothes or for sniggering at a naked man riding a horse. “I hope your

balls get chafed, you dog turd!” Arthur bellowed into the trees, to where the

horse had disappeared. He swung around as a flurry of movement swept from

the doorway. Morgaine! Mithras, he needed her, needed her to talk!

5 3 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Hurtling after her, he shouted for Gweir to head her off, but Morgaine had

always been slender, quick on her feet, and she had only the few yards to go.

Desperately, she threw herself into the cave, ran into the darkness, splashing into

the torrent of the river. It was high, running swollen from the rains, coming

up almost to her thighs, the current strong. The first cave, too, was wetter than

usual, water running down the rock walls, dripping into puddles, small pools.

Thrusting her body into half-swim, half-run, she followed the water course.

She had no light, but needed to go further in, hide herself. She ducked under

the water, again tried to swim, but had to claw her way to the surface, grasp at

an overhang of rock to gasp for breath.

Sobbing, she realised this day, this one time when she desperately needed it,

her route of safety could not help her. The water was too high, too strong a

current. Swallowing tears and river, bruised from a battering against rocks and

boulders and fighting for breath, she hauled herself out. The ground was drier

here, the air warmer. These inner caves were almost a constant temperature,

warm for such heavy darkness. She felt along the walls, fumbled for a niche

between the rock that she could press herself into. This was a cave she knew,

but not so well as to be able to move freely about without light. She pressed her

nakedness against the solidity of the rock, was surprised to feel it wet in places,

trickling water, forced herself to be still. To hide. It would be the only way to

remain alive, for Arthur if he found her, she knew, would have her killed.

Thirty-One

Arthur stood one pace inside the darkness, groaned. He could not

go in there. Knew he would have to. Gweir fetched light: two lamps and

a bundle of tallow candles from the bothy. They took a lamp each, sheltered

the flame with their hands, and stepped out into the darkness. The feeble glow

was a pathetic glimmer, overpowered by the immensity of the surrounding

nothingness, the strident awe of complete blackness. Arthur raised his to head

height, attempting to widen the pool, choked down fear as menacing shadows

leapt and danced, exaggerated the cracks and crannies into ominous chasms.

Where in Mithras’s name was the ceiling? The walls trickled with moisture.

Ferns and mosses grew on the rocks, on the walls the light sparked colour,

seeming to make everything move as it swayed, making shadows flicker. Icicles

of rock, thrusting from the floor, dangling from above. Did the floor heave?

“My lord?” Gweir had served the Pendragon long enough to know this fear

of confined spaces. “Sir, I will go in. You wait here.”

“Sod off.” Determined, Arthur strode ahead, holding the lamp as high

as he dared against the drip of water. A maze of tunnels, gape-mouthed, or

low, narrow, and menacing. He followed the river, stepping cautiously over

tumbles of rock, runnels of water, his boot crunching once on a scatter of

bones. He dipped the lamp downward, closing his mind to the sudden sway of

rearing shadow and darkness, shuddered. There was nothing to show they were

human, could well have been the remains of a wolf s or bear’s dinner. But there

again…he swallowed hard, ignored the heavy hammering of his heartbeat, tried

to shove the fear from his mind. The walls were pressing inward, the ceiling

squeezing downward. There must be a ceiling somewhere, just beyond the

reach of light.

No sunlight came here, no sweet bird song or hiss of rain. The ferns and

mosses that adorned the first entrance cave could not grow here, nothing here,

only rock and blackness. No sound beyond the eerie, monotonous drip of

5 3 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

water. No point in calling out. Morgaine would not answer. He did, though,

just to break that oppressive silence. Was rewarded by a battering of his own

voice, hurling and bouncing from one wall to another, around and around,

echoing, repeating. Mocking.

There were shelves and pockets lodged among the rock, darker spaces

beyond…other caves, other paths. She could be anywhere.

They stayed with the run of the river, to guide them back, as much as to

go forward, searched for what, in the stark confine of this darkness, seemed an

hour or more, but was less than a score of minutes. Arthur was shaking and

sweating, his breathing rasping.

“We would be better to set a guard outside,” Gweir suggested, anxious, for

Arthur’s breathing was becoming as uneasy in this underground world. “We

will not find her in here, and she must come out, eventually.” Practical, he

added, “She may have already ducked behind us.”

Gods! Arthur had not thought of that. “Could she seal the entrance?” he

gasped, “Shut us in?” Never to see daylight again, to die in here confined, in

the evil of blackness…

Gweir assured him not.

This was ridiculous! Arthur lifted his lamp high, swung it in a circle, illumi-

nating the path, narrow here, wetter than other places with water seeping along

the walls, puddling at their feet, running into the flow of the river. Gweir was

not afraid, so why was he? He forced several deep, calming breaths. He would

have to conquer this thing, damn it! Would have to! He banged his hand, hard,

against an overhang of rock, ran the palm against the surface, wrinkling his nose

at the cold feel beneath his hot skin. Screamed as the solidity began to give way,

to topple forward.

Gweir, without the cramped restriction of fear, acted faster than his lord.

Dropping his lamp, he pitched forward, hauled at Arthur, hurling him away,

downward, into the river. The wall ahead crumpled with an enraged roar, a

sound louder than anything Gweir had ever heard. Louder than the clash of

battle, louder than the howl of a winter-raged wind or the crash of overhead

thunder. Rocks fell and rolled, hitting against his legs, his shoulders. Rocks that

shouted and bellowed as they fell in their might of anger, water gushing into

the holes and crannies left behind.

And then there was silence, a dreadful stillness, where only the water dripped,

and the river drifted.

Thirty-Two

Medraut had waited outside the cave, too distraught to follow

his father, attempt to find his mother. It was unseemly for a man to

weep. God’s mercy, but how Cywyllog would lash him for this weakness were

she to know! At this moment he cared not one grain for what she would

think; he sat, knees bent beneath him on the rain-sodden grass, weeping like an

abandoned child. He had ached for so long over the decision whether to come

here again. Or did he forget the woman who had birthed him? Set behind him,

the knowing she lived as a whore to the traders of the lead mines. A whore to