Shadow of the King (9 page)

“Why think you I buy her? To converse with over dinner?”

Arthur grimaced. He was no moralist, had no prudish censorship, but this

thing brought a sour taste to his mouth. The girl could be no more than nine

or eight and ten; Fat Man was in his sixth decade at least.

Arthur jiggled his fingers at the money pouch secured at his waist. He had

not much coin—bronze and silver was becoming rare, nothing had been minted

in Britain since Vortigern had died. Idly, casual, he took a ring from his finger,

tossed it in the air, caught it, saw the slave-master’s greedy eyes follow its move-

ment. Fat Man had stopped tugging at the rope, the girl ceased her shrieking.

Bedwyr tapped at his cousin’s arm. “Leave it, what want you with her?”

Arthur waved him silent. His eye had never left the slave-master. “As she says,

a noble-born, even a king, might be interested in her.”

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

The man laughed, derisive. “As much as such a profit would be pleasing, no

man of that rank would be seeking a bed-mate in this midden heap of a place!”

Raising one eyebrow higher, Arthur considered the situation. He had obvi-

ously not been recognised. On the two occasions he had visited this Forum

he had not lingered, the tavern he frequented was on the far side of town,

and the citizens of Juliomagus most certainly did not venture into his own

army encampment downriver. There was no reason, save for the quality of his

appearance, that he would be recognised. His cloak was fastened close, hiding

his sword and the royal torque around his neck. Save for the dragon ring on his

left hand there was nothing to show who he was.

“I may be interested in her, assuming she does not carry the cock-pox.”

Sensing a better deal Tadius answered quickly. “She’s clean, a maiden pure.”

The latter Arthur very much doubted. The girl was looking at him, kneeling

in the mire, her expression pleading—anything, anyone, rather than the fat

man. A maiden? Arthur studied her.
Na
, she had the look of the world-wise

about her, no naive innocence lingered behind those blue eyes.

Fat Man snorted his contempt, tightened his grip around the rope. He had

no intention of losing his bargain. “You are a bloody soldier, one of those

cursed British, as bad as any Saex or Goth! We did not invite you here. We

want you gone, want rid of you. You plunder us for food and whores and wine;

you brawl, make a nuisance of yourselves. Your poxed, bastard king promises

to pay, to settle all debts with us, the honest traders and merchant men—huh!

Aye, that he will, on the day pigs fly in the sky!”

Arthur stood very quiet, very still. Bedwyr, a step behind knowing his cousin

so very well, had his hand resting lightly on his sword pommel.

Tossing the ring once more, Arthur flipped it in the slave-master’s direction.

“That is good gold, the gem is small but a quality garnet, for all its lack of size.”

He indicated the purse of coins. “I doubt that will match my offer.”

The slave-master examined the ring. He doubted the garnet was real, glass

probably, and the gold would be poor quality, but it was of a higher value than

the other offer. He nodded acceptance, put the ring in his pouch, and reached

for the girl’s rope, tossing the coin pouch back to its owner, who ignored it,

let it fall.

With surprising speed, a dagger came into Fat Man’s hand. “You agreed the

deal Tadius. She is mine!”

Arthur’s hand had, even faster, clenched around the man’s pudgy neck—and

he was sailing forward, not far or high, but far enough for Arthur to laugh, “I’ll

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

be damned, a pig flying!” Then he had his sword out, the blade slicing through

the slave rope. He picked up the severed end, his blade hovering above Fat

Man’s groin. “I get the girl or your balls? Your choice.” A heartbeat pause, no

answer. Arthur grinned. “It seems I get the girl.” He grasped her hand, brought

her to her feet. “You’d better be woman-clean, girl. Riothamus, despite popular

opinion, may be a bastard but he’s not, yet, a poxed bastard.” Casually he

shrugged back the folds of his cloak, let the glimmer of his torque show, a coil of

twisted gold shaped like a dragon. Only one man wore such a thing.

“Come, Bedwyr, we are late for that meeting.” Holding the slave rope

as casually as if it were a dog’s lead, Arthur walked away, heading for the

northern exit from the Forum, the girl trotting obedient, wide-eyed, and silent

at his heel.

Tadius re-examined the garnet ring, ignoring the fat man, who, breathless,

was struggling to his feet. “God’s Fortune!” Tadius whistled aloud, “That was

the Pendragon; this is the real thing!”

Fat Man, at his shoulder, peered at the ring, unimpressed. “If he can

squander such things on a whore, happen it’s about time he paid some of us

honest townsfolk.”

Tadius laughed, put the ring safe away. “Honest folk? God’s balls! Honest?

Here? There be no such person!”

Fourteen

Sidonius Apollinaris welcomed the Pendragon, or Riothamus, as he

was titled in Less Britain and Gaul, with wide arms and a wider smile. If he

was annoyed at the late arrival of his guest, he made no mention of it. Instead,

he ushered Arthur and Bedwyr into the luxury of a private room at the rear

of the tavern, raising his eyebrow only slightly at the British king’s request

to have the bedraggled girl accompanying him sent to the kitchens for food

and a chance to dry her clothes and hair. Sidonius was a man who took the

unexpected in his stride—storing such glimmers of tantalising information away

in his brain for later, private reflection.

There was another man in the room, seated, sipping wine. He rose as Arthur

entered, bowed formally. A young man, bright-eyed, clear-skinned, tall, and

clean-shaven. He bounded forward, offered his hand to Arthur, not caring to

wait for formal introduction. “My lord, I am Ecdicius; my elder sister being

Sidonius’s good lady wife. I have heard much of you, am honoured to meet

you.” His hand was pumping Arthur’s arm, his grin broad and genuine. Sidonius,

Arthur noted, seemed slightly embarrassed at this reckless enthusiasm.

“My brother-by-law,” with a light laugh Sidonius explained, indicating his

guests be seated and offering them wine, “is an incurable romantic. He has a

notion of riding with you to sweep the Goths from Gaul forever, in one deft

charge.” He shook his head at the naivety of such an impossible idea, seated

himself on a cushioned chair arranging his body straight, small feet neatly placed

together. “He has an unfortunate disability not to be able to recognise the

realities of life.” His accompanying smile was sated with indulgent affection.

Sipping his wine—it was good stuff, the best he had tasted here in this

town—Arthur answered, “Given the men, horses, and financial backing I was

promised, more than a year since, I could do just that.” His false smile did little

to hide his annoyance. Sidonius, ordering the slaves to bring in food and more

wine, either did not hear or chose to ignore the comment.

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

Bedwyr, sitting beside Arthur asked eagerly, “Are you the Ecdicius who after

that disastrous harvest a few years past, fed all your estate tenants from your own

granaries through the entire winter?”

Ecdicius nodded assent. “Not just my tenants, the folk of the settlements

and their families also. About four thousand in all.” His beam of pride was

extravagant. Incredulous, Bedwyr encouraged him to tell more.

“I sent horses and carts to bring all those poor people onto my estate. I saved

them from starving.” Ecdicius flapped one hand dismissively. It was no large

thing, a simple matter of helping one’s neighbour.

Sidonius snorted. “Damn fool nigh on beggared himself! Used all his grain

surplus and a good deal of gold to buy in more to feed classless peasant farmers

and their whores and brats! Let them find their own way or go without, I say.

There’s always someone else to take over an empty farm.”

Ecdicius kept his smile but his retort was barbed, for all his outward pleas-

antness. “Aye, there is many a Goth who would like to get his hands on

good farm land.” He had been baited with this same line of contempt for his

generosity many times. “Is it not a lord’s duty to care for those less well off

in the time of need? By following my duty, I am assured of loyalty from my

tenants and servants.” There was mischief in his eyes as he added, looking

direct at Sidonius, “I do not constantly need to watch the shadows growing

larger behind my back.”

Sensing something more than family disagreement over the treatment of

servants and tenant farmers, Arthur searched for plausible reasons. Why would

a man need such a large, loyal following? He tried a blind stab at one. “Have

you, then, an ambition to become Emperor like your father, Avitus?”

Ecdicius laughed, head back, large hands slapping his thighs. He had a bold,

full-of-humour bellow. “What? And have a dagger plunged into my back a few

months later? No thank you my lord Riothamus! My father was foolish enough

to want to wear the purple; he held that dubious pleasure for less than a year.”

He sat at ease, spread his arms along the back of the couch. “I am content with

what I have. A wealthy estate, a loving wife, and an articulate brother-by-law

who is soon to become Bishop of Augustonemtum”

This was news to Arthur.

Sidonius shrugged modestly, though the flicker of annoyance and bitterness

was not lost to the Pendragon’s keen, watching eye. “It is an honour that has

been offered to me.” The modesty was false. “I have humbly decided to accept

the position.”

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

Polite, hiding his amusement—and satisfaction—Arthur offered congratula-

tions, while rapidly digesting the information. So, Sidonius was thought to

have been involved with that treasonous letter sent by Arvandus to Euric of the

Goths! Because of it, he had fallen from his high place of favour in Rome. That

Arthur knew already, though the reason had not been made clear. Nothing had

been openly said or declared, there was probably no evidence to support the

suspicions. But this sealed the lid to the coffin, did it not? To be forced into

accepting the oblivion of a bishopric! Hah! Happen there was justice in this

world after all.

“I hear,” Arthur decided to stir a few muddied puddles, “that Arvandus was

saved from execution by a sentence of exile instead. The man was your friend,

Sidonius, was he not?”

Quickly, too quickly, too hotly, Sidonius denied it. “He was a colleague,

nothing more. The man was foolish in not understanding the intricacies of

Roman law, that was all, was unfortunate enough to fall foul of others with

more evil intent than ever he could dream of.”

“So, plotting with Euric to destroy us British and then to overthrow all traces

of Roman rule in Gaul is not evil intent?” Bedwyr responded, not bothering to

hide the disgust in his voice.

“The episode was all a misunderstanding, I assure you.” Sidonius had to say

that, had to believe it, for he too had very nearly been lured into the plotting,

had only escaped by reason of his own eloquence and wit. Arvandus had been

his friend, they shared the same views, the same beliefs, knew the only hope

to rekindle prosperity and peace in Gaul was to let Euric become the legal and

only lord. Sidonius had attempted, discreetly, to give defence for the arrested

traitor—not expecting the idiot to trumpet his guilt all over Rome. Nothing

had been proven to involve Sidonius beyond a wrong-made friendship, but in

consequence he had lost his exalted position as Prefect of Rome and his lands

had been confiscated. Offered instead the binding chains of a bishopric! An

offer only a fool would refuse.

A slave was refilling Arthur’s goblet. He smiled at her, a pretty young thing.

That reminded him of the girl he had bought. What in the Bull’s name was he

do with her? He grinned to himself. Happen he could think of some use. He

sat back, relaxed, all the anger and frustrations of these long, slow passing weeks

suddenly evaporating.

What do you do with a dignitary against whom you cannot prove corruption

and treason? You bind his hands and silence his tongue, you bury him alive.

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

You make him a bishop. Raising his goblet, Arthur saluted his host. “A good

choice of career, my friend, I am sure you will make an admirable bishop.”

Ecdicius echoed Arthur’s toast. “Oh he will, my lord, my brother- by-law

has a taste for telling others what to do, as long as it causes no discomfort

for himself.”

Sidonius scowled, deeply regretting allowing his brother-by-law to accom-

pany him here to Juliomagus, and bitterly regretting the suggestion of this

meeting. It would be an idea to get to the business side and be gone. He cleared