Shadow of the King (92 page)

room to face him across her husband’s desk. “Arthur will be furious with us

for this!”

Patience wearing thin, Bedwyr slammed his chair forward, barked, “It was

Arthur’s bloody suggestion!”

Incredulous, Gwenhwyfar stood, her palms laid flat on the desk top, staring

at the man before her.

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

“He suggested it when he was at Amlawdd’s stronghold. It is all a part of

his strategy.”

“What strategy?” Gwenhwyfar asked coldly. “And why did he not tell me

of it?”

Opening his mouth to yell some equally belligerent answer, Bedwyr paused,

said instead, “I do not know why, I think because he did not want us to give

the wrong reactions. He is rather hoping Amlawdd may do something rash on

the morrow.”

Gwenhwyfar let her head drop forward, closed her eyes. She was tired, had

been awake for most the night and through the morning. “Arthur is taking a risk

with this,” she said, looking up, her eyes holding a slight, questioning glance.

“To hunt, you need release your hawk,” Bedwyr answered. “There is always

the risk she will fly free and not return.”

“And Arthur hopes Amlawdd and the boy will try for freedom?”

Bedwyr could only shrug, spread his hands.

“And us?” Gwenhwyfar asked. “Has he thought we too may fly free, were

he to unleash our tether?”

Thirty-Eight

Medraut squatted before the hearth-place, one hand clasped

around yet another goblet of wine, the other idly poking the dull glow

of the fire into more cheering bursts of flame. An hour yet until the evening

Gather, the feasting of Amlawdd’s birthing day. He took two gulps of wine.

Sighed. He was bored.

“You would do better to find useful employment rather than be under my

feet,” Cywyllog admonished, threading a new colour of wool onto her shuttle.

Medraut made no answer. He had long since ceased responding to his wife.

On his mind, a persistent question. Why did his father allow him to stay here at

Caer Cadan? Because he was his heir? But he would never become king. He was

too stupid, too afraid. It would have to be Archfedd’s boy, Constantine, who

followed the Pendragon. Natanlius was capable to rule as regent until the lad

came of age. So why else did Arthur tolerate his continuing presence here? He

was of no use to anyone, did nothing save sleep and drink and avoid his wife.

There was only the one answer. No other had come, not in all these past

weeks of thinking. He was here because his father did not trust him.

So many times had he wanted to explain about that awful day with his

mother in that bothy; how he had come to be there, that he had not known

about Cerdic—had not even known the man to be Cerdic. Gods! The thought

of his mother and…his stomach again turned, nauseated. That was why he

had so badly abused Gwenhwyfar, of course. Because he was hurting at what

his mother had so ashamedly become. Those words had hurt, had rubbed salt

deep into the wound, and he had lashed out, screaming from the pain of it. He

jabbed the stick into the fire. How he hoped the bitch who had birthed him

was roasting in the flames of Hell!

“If you had any sense, not that you have…” What was Cywyllog scolding

now? “You would be more civil to Lord Caninus. You would fare better under

his service than wasting your days here. God’s truth, why ever I wed with you

5 5 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

I will never understand!” She hustled the shuttle through the warp threads.

“Does your father treat you with the respect you deserve?
Na
, he does not.

Does he give you the authority you ought have? Hah! He ignores his own son

and gives responsibility of the Caer to that womaniser, Bedwyr! Why? Because

you are useless, fit for nothing.”

Turning his head, Medraut regarded his wife. How could a woman be so

consistently spiteful?

Impatient with him, she dropped the shuttle, swung away from the loom, her

skirt brushing the hang of the stone weights, setting them swaying and bobbing,

clicking against each other. “Caninus will be the Pendragon’s successor, not

you. As much I am saddled with a dumb ox for a husband, I have no wish for

widowhood. Expect death when he takes the royal torque as his own or make

alliance with him now. Without it, he cannot let you live.”

Medraut stared at her, made no answer.
Had she been pretty once?
he wondered.

Curiously, he could not remember. He did not even recall liking her when

he was a child at Ambrosius’s school. He tried to conjure images of the past.

Gildas, her youngest brother, came easily to mind; his small, serious face, those

incessant questions of his, concerning death and murder. That was linked to

his brother Hueil, although Medraut did not realise it at the time. Cywyllog

had deliberately poisoned the boy’s mind. Was that where the rot had started

festering in her? With Hueil’s execution?

Years of scowling had puckered Cywyllog’s mouth and nose, had narrowed

her eyes. Her hair she swept back into a tight coil; at night she kept it braided; he

had never seen it swing loose and lovely, like Gwenhwyfar’s, or his mother’s.

“Ask yourself why Amlawdd is here with the lad.”

The answer slipped from Medraut’s mouth. “Because he is a whore-son

bastard who would delight in placing Caninus as king now, rather than politely

wait for my father to die?” He had meant it as sarcasm, but Cywyllog darted

forward, grasped his arm, her face thrusting near his own, pointed, shrew-like.

“Exactly! And if we are to survive the coming slaughter, then we must show

our support for Caninus now!”

Shrugging off her clasping fingers, Medraut slowly rose to his feet. “What

slaughter?” he asked, suspicion meandering into his wine-dulled brain.

Aware she had let her tongue over-loose, Cywyllog covered her blunder. “It

is common speculation. Caninus will try for the kingdom one day. When he

does, it would be better were you to ride with him. He may even parcel some

of it out to you. That is more than you can expect from your father!”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 5 7

Medraut drained the wine, ambled to the small table, refilled his goblet from

the flagon. “You could have a good point, wife,” he said.

Cywyllog closed her eyes, relaxed. Almost, she had said too much too soon.

Yet she had to make this fool man agree with Caninus, and had to make him

see sense before tonight!

Turning around, Medraut propped his backside against the table edge. “You

are forgetting two things, though. One, I will never willingly betray my father,

and two, Cerdic is unlikely to allow a whelp like Caninus to steal what he

regards as his.”

Thirty-Nine

The prospect of celebration and feasting would normally be greeted

with enthusiasm and good cheer, but few within Caer Cadan held an

eagerness to drink Amlawdd’s good health. Reluctance heightened during the

passing of the day with the arrival of several dozen of Amlawdd’s swaggering

men, acting as generously donated escort to the few invited merchant-men and

traders from the scattered settlements along the busy coast and Hafren estuary.

“There are too many men in this Hall I do not know,” Gwenhwyfar

whispered. Bedwyr agreed, but said nothing, his unease amplifying as each

half-hour passed. The Hall was crowded with the followers and supporters of

both Amlawdd and Caninus, men from the settlements held under Amlawdd’s

lordship, strong men, fighting men. Strategically picked for escort duty.

There appeared nothing sinister about Amlawdd’s attitude. He was eating,

drinking, and making merry with the rest of them; roaring for the harper to

play a tune, laughing often with the eight and ten year old lad, Caninus, who

sat beside him in the place of honour at the high table, Gwenhwyfar’s graceful

gesture. “Today is for your honour, not mine. Please, you and your chosen

guests be seated at the high table.”

She and Bedwyr sat, content, at a lower, quieter table. Mind, she had ensured

Arthur’s carved, oak chair be removed from the public Hall. He might sit at

Arthur’s table but most certainly Amlawdd would not have Arthur’s chair!

His men were drinking with no immoderate care, voices growing louder

with the rise of laughter and jesting banter. Those from the Caer were to drink

with care. Mind and reaction were too easily muddled by the effect of a strong

brew. Keep a clear head this night, by order of the queen. Bedwyr had seen to

it that word had spread. In Gwenhwyfar’s name, it would be obeyed.

No objection had been raised by any of Amlawdd’s men—not even by

Caninus—to the search for secreted weapons as each guest had entered the

Hall. It was customary for swords and daggers to be left outside the main door

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

when entering, only an eating knife was permissible and the king could carry

his sword. Amlawdd himself had made an expressive show of leaving his sword

with the door-keeper, of there being nothing hidden in his boot, under his

tunic. “We want no unpleasantness on this special day, do we?” His voice had

boomed laughter right up into the smoke-wreathed roof-beams.

With the main feasting ended, the trestle tables were cleared, the benches

pushed to the sides of the Hall, and the dancing and entertainment begun.

Making polite withdrawal to Amlawdd, Gwenhwyfar left the Hall, as was her

right if she so chose. Bedwyr sat alone at a table in one corner, nursing a goblet.

Watching. Trouble was coming, he was certain. It was as recognisable as a

thunderstorm gathering along the horizon. The difficulty here, to judge from

which direction and in what form. And when.

The young men of Caninus’s admiring group of friends had already singled

out the prettier young girls of the Caer for themselves, their fumbling hands

becoming more intimate with the progression of each whirling, breathless

dance and the consumption of more of the fine wine and ale. Amlawdd, also,

had secured for himself a pretty redhead. To Cywyllog’s annoyance. She had

done all as he had asked, hidden the daggers in those empty barrels over near

the latrines. None suspected, none would realise, as each man went out weap-

onless, he returned with a hidden blade.

A while since, Amlawdd had gone to relieve himself. Cywyllog, serving ale

to a group of loud-laughing men, saw him re-enter, the red-haired serving girl

clinging to his arm. Both were rumpled, the girl’s tunic partially unfastened.

With quick steps, Cywyllog made her way through the press of the crowd,

snatched a tankard up from a table as she passed.

“Ale, my lord?” she said, thrusting the tankard into his hand, as she neatly

elbowed the red-hair aside. “When?” she hissed into Amlawdd’s ear. “You

leave things too late!”

“On the contrary.” He leered drunkenly into her face, spewing fumes of

wine and beer, his speech slurred. He patted the girl on the buttocks, indicated

she was to lose herself. She scowled, lingered a moment, for she had hoped for

good payment. At Amlawdd’s growl, she trotted off to find reward elsewhere.

“It will begin soon,” Amlawdd said to Cywyllog. “Rest easy. Bedwyr seems

sufficiently bored; happen we can liven the celebration up for him in a while,

eh?” Amlawdd laughed, pressed his hand over her breast. “You’ve fine teats,

woman, hope your man appreciates them as much as he appreciates what you’re

doing for him!”

5 6 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Cywyllog scraped his paw from her body, held on to his wrist. “I do this for

myself and my murdered brother,” she snapped. “I have been long and patient

in the waiting for it!” She jerked her hand away from his arm. “Just make sure

you and Caninus remember what I have done for you when the time comes

for remembering!” Tossing her head, she whirled away from him, slammed the

ale flagon into the hands of a passing serving girl, and withdrew from the Hall,

head pert, steps quick-tapping on the wooden floor.

Out in the fresh air she leant against the wall, her eyes shut, savouring the

coolness that fell on her face, swirled around her sweating body. She had been

trembling as she had left the Hall, trembling because she had done it at last! Had

taken her revenge on the Pendragon. By morning his wife and companions

would all be dead, and Caer Cadan would be in the hands of Amlawdd and

Aurelius Caninus.

Forty

Aiding Cerdic, Amlawdd had decided, was wasted effort. He could

wait until the Day of Judgement before that one decided to make a move.

But then, why worry? After all, he had a foot planted either side of the stream.

His second intention was to supplant Arthur with Aurelius Caninus. When

the Pendragon had vaguely suggested he spend a while as guest at Caer Cadan,

Amlawdd had leapt at the invitation like a cat catching a rat. Now was his

chance to begin the Pendragon’s downfall!

His plan: Caninus was to goad Bedwyr into a brawl. Most of the Artoriani