Shadow of the King (94 page)

her head crunching on the support beam.

Amlawdd truly believed at that moment the gods were on his side and he

had a chance of making Caninus king. He clawed his way deeper into the press

of fighting, bellowing as he made passage with boot, knee, elbow, and dagger.

“Traitor!” he roared, “Whore!” and for good measure, added the cry, “Murder!”

Women were screaming, clawing their way to the sides of the Hall, away

from the danger. Blood was spilling onto the timbers of the floor, benches were

turned over, a torch was knocked from its sconce, the flames exploring the edge

of a torn tapestry.

Bedwyr was grappling with Medraut, was the one on top now. He had hold

his hair, was thumping his head to the floor, felt the hot scythe of pain swarm

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 6 7

across his shoulder, down his arm, saw the blood gush in a stream of red.
Jesu

Christ
, he thought, desperately attempting to stem the flow with one hand,

keep Medraut away from his throat with the other
. Jesu! Medraut is with them!

Forty-Two

Amlawdd struck out with his sword, laying it about him, left and

right, his men cheering and shouting, the fight exhilarating. He heard

Caninus squeal, glanced to his left to see him kneeling, clutching at blood

soaking from his thigh. It ought to be over soon, for his men were armed

and defence of the Caer well under strength, and the surprise unguessed.

He parried a sword, hissed as the blade came too close to his face. Ought to

be over…yet too many of Arthur’s men also had daggers and swords. Five

and ten minutes, slightly longer. Still the fighting, Amlawdd’s men bunching

together, grouping tighter, several back to back, the free use of weapons

hampered by a neighbor’s arm.

Gradually, with slow dawning, certain things began to register. The few

burning tapestries had been torn from their hangings, the smell of damp smoke

and wettened oak permeating over the stink of sweat and blood. The Hall was

crowded with men. Arthur’s men. The fighting was fading, one or two swords

jabbing here and there, a grunt as a man lunged forward with foot or fist. Flaring

nostrils, breath rasping. The glisten of sweat. Too many men. Artoriani.

Amlawdd lowered his sword, glowered as an officer of Arthur’s elite force

took the weapon from him. Someone was sobbing, gasping against the pain,

curled on the floor. Contemptuous, Amlawdd spat at Caninus. One by one, his

men were disarmed, herded together, surrounded by Artoriani.

“Did you think, Amlawdd, that we would trust you?” Bedwyr emerged from

the chamber, holding a rough linen pad tight against his bleeding shoulder, his

face grey, eyes blazing. Behind him, Gwenhwyfar, a cloak flung around her

shoulders, a wine stain down the front panels of her undershift. At her side,

Ider, breathing hard, blood on his sword. She leant heavily on his arm, her

fingers pressed to the back of her head.

Thank God for Ider and his men, who had burst into her room from the

courtyard…and for the wisdom of Arthur’s men.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 6 9

Gathering her strength and dignity, she lightly pushed Ider’s support aside,

walked towards Amlawdd. Taking a dagger from one of the Artoriani, she held

the blade to his throat.

“Did you also think we would be such fools? That we would allow the Caer

to fall to half strength?” She indicated the crowd of Artoriani in the Hall, all of

them full-armed, full-dressed in war gear. “That we were not close watching as

each of your men picked a blade from out of a barrel? The Artoriani rode but

the few miles, circled around, crept back through the gates while you swilled

your wine and filled your belly with flatulence.” She pressed the dagger tip into

his skin. “Were my husband here,” she said, her voice level, menacing, “he

would have you executed, here and now. But he is not.”

“
Na
!” Amlawdd writhed in the grasp of the two men holding him. “If he

were, you would not be bedding with Bedwyr!”

She stared at him, long and cold and hard. “I am the Lady of Caer Cadan

while he is gone.” Added, “Therefore I must do it.” Fast, she brought the blade

round, slashed it through Amlawdd’s throat, cutting through flesh and sinew.

His eyes widened in disbelief as he gasped for air.
She has killed me
, he thought,

gods, she has…

No more thoughts, not in this world.

Caninus vomited.

Immediate, Gwenhwyfar turned to Medraut. Like Amlawdd, he was held

between two men, his head hanging, body slumped. She stepped up to him,

grasped his hair, lifted his head, the bloodied blade going to his throat also.

“Your father brought you here, raised you. He could have left you to the

mercy of the whore who was your mother, but he did not. And this is how

you repay him?”

Medraut could not meet her eyes. The shame in him felt as heavy as the

lead mined from within the White Hills.
Kill me
, he thought.
End it for me,

end this misery
. Knew she would not, for whatever else he was, he was also

Arthur’s son.

Forty-Three

May 488

Natanlius held the babe close, the child’s tiny hand clamped around

his own index finger. He was beautiful, perfect. Another son, a brother

to Constantine, who was himself two months away from the year old. It was

good for brothers to be born and grow together, as he had with his. He missed

them, for they had been a close family; it was hard to be alone, the only brother

to survive.

He smiled down at Archfedd, who looked exhausted. At least he had her

with him now, and two sons. Together they countered the loss of brothers.

“Is he not a fine boy?” she asked.

Handing the child carefully back to her, Natanlius bent forward, kissed her

forehead. “Of course, but then he has a fine mother.”

The women were bustling about the room, clearing away the remains of the

disruption that always seemed to accompany birthing. Bowls, linen, unguents,

and oils. The last of them bobbed a curtsey, left the room. Archfedd cradled her

sleeping son. He was warm and content in this new-come world, his small face,

tiny lips, closed eyes. The soft down of fair, curled hair.

“Father will be proud,” she said. “Two grandsons to follow his name, to hold

Britain when they are grown.”

“Let us hope there is a Britain to be held,” her husband replied gravely.

They had heard the news, a week past, that Amlawdd had attempted to

overthrow the Pendragon, had failed. The poor fool, they all said, could he not

see he had walked into Arthur’s baited trap?

To Archfedd’s anger, of the three leading traitors only Amlawdd had paid

for it with his life. That pathetic whimpering stoat, Caninus, her father had

allowed go free—had even given him Amlawdd’s stronghold! The Pendragon’s

rage had been as boiling as a winter-churned sea, they had heard. Amlawdd’s

men had waited, miserable and in fear, held in chains, given no food, little

water, until the king had returned, riding home hard and fast from Powys. Most

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 7 1

of them he had ordered hung. Their heads, so Archfedd was pleased to hear,

adorned the gate towers of Caer Cadan, a stark reminder of what would befall

those who went against their king. Of the third, Medraut, there was no word

save he had fled.

“Have you sent my father word of the child?” she asked, her green eyes glancing

suddenly up at him. Natanlius seated himself on the side of the bed, tucked the

shawl the tighter around his son’s small, dimpled chin, took her hand.

“Of course. I sent a courier on my fastest horse.” Teasing, added, “Expect

your mother here by dawn!”

“Fool!” Archfedd answered, lifting her head so he might kiss her again,

knowing not even her mother, for whatever reason, could ride so far so fast.

She was much like Gwenhwyfar, Archfedd. The same flashing eyes and

unruly hair, though its copper shading had darkened as she grew older, was not

so curled. Her face had shadows of her father in the features, though, in the

shape of the chin, slant of the eyes, the higher cheek-bones. Her temper, too,

was his. Nor was she the capable woman her mother was. Oh, Archfedd knew

how to use sword or spear or dagger as efficiently as any man—yet she did

not possess the cunning Gwenhwyfar had for a fight. Facing an opponent and

coming away alive was more than being able to slash and parry with a blade.

You needed to think quick, watch, wait, strike at the right moment, move

fast. Move hard. Archfedd did not care for fighting; she was, perhaps, more

the woman than Gwenhwyfar when it came to the things of the household.

Sewing, weaving, the overseeing and preparing or preserving of foods; brewing

ale, pressing wine. For Gwenhwyfar, her delight was a sword in her hand, or a

horse beneath her, riding beside her lord husband. For Archfedd, her happiness

lay in her sons and her home.

“If my father cannot visit us soon,” she said, “we must take our sons to him,

at Caer Cadan, so he may see for himself how handsome and strong they are.”

The smile dropped from her face, a look of hardness taking its place. “He must

declare Constantine his heir,” she stated. “You as regent, until he is grown.”

Indulgent, Natanlius patted her hand as he rose from the bed. She ought rest,

restore her strength. Her labour had not been long for this, the second child,

but birthing was always a difficult business. He tucked the bed-furs around her,

told her to sleep, let himself from the room.

Outside, he elected to tour the rampart walkways. Saxon ships had been seen

again recently, coming close to shore. One of his men swore there were signs

that one might have moored.

5 7 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

He was a strong-hearted man, Natanlius, happen a little on the quiet, serious

side; the amusement of a jest chortling in his mind rather than coming out as

a guffaw. His feet to be stretched towards a warm fire, a bowl of venison stew

between his hands—his idea of contentment. He enjoyed watching his wife at

her loom, or playing with their first-born, took pride in her prettiness, her love.

Would dread the day he would ever need do anything to hurt her.

Took as much pride in his stronghold. And there he found the difficulty.

Caer Morfa was his to protect and cherish so he might pass it on to his sons, as

his father had. He understood and accepted that Arthur, the Pendragon, might

need one day soon to proclaim the eldest, Constantine as his heir, but liked it

not. Too much sadness had already befallen the male seed of Arthur. He did not

want its black shadow to reach out and touch the daughter or her sons also.

As it would. Neither of those two living sons, Archfedd’s poisonous half-

brothers, would allow children declared as heirs to grow into manhood.

Medraut, who had turned traitor and fled Caer Cadan, to who knew where.

He was bastard-born, but had the right to become king.

And Cerdic. Ah, Cerdic would allow no one to stand in his way once he

came full into his strength. Many believed, after all these years of peace, that

there would not come a war between father and son. Cerdic wanted them to

believe that, wanted them to pass year upon year looking to the horizon and

seeing nothing save the smile of ripening corn and cattle, grazing fat. For when

you looked long enough and saw the same thing again and again, eventually

you stopped looking.

And failed to see the storm until it lashed, wicked, at your door.

Forty-Four

October 488

Twice, Medraut almost turned back. Only the presence of other

travellers on the road kept him pressing onward. An old Roman road—the

Saxons called them streets—running south, direct for the open mouth of the

gates into Cerdicesora. A busy town by the outward look of the place, with a

bustle of people coming and going, ox-wagons, donkey-carts, men and women

on foot. Bales, bundles, and barrels. A lively chatter of conversation, in a variety

of tongues; an aroma of scents, pleasant and odious. Medraut’s mule plodded

patient at his side, the saddle-bags weighted with its cargo of silverware—not

fine stuff, but good enough to sell. An inspired idea, it had seemed at the outset,

this disguise as a silver-trader, for merchants were welcome anywhere, within

Saxon or British habitation, and he had purchased a few finer pieces to make

his plausibility the more creditable. It had cost him the last of his gold, those

few pieces that Gwenhwyfar had given him, along with a warm cloak and a

bundle of food. Three days he had sat, chained, in that cell, wretched in his

deep misery. What a damned, idiot fool he had been! And then she had come,

with Ider and two more of her guard, had him unchained and ordered him

thrown from the Caer.

“I ought have you dead, as Amlawdd is dead,” she had said, her voice indifferent,

with no care or feeling, as if she were addressing a stranger, not the boy she had