Shadow of the King (99 page)

she could tell the truth of the thing. There was an old tumbledown goatherd’s

shed a mile or two to the north, he had passed several nights there already. It

would suit his purpose.

When she did wake, as evening dipped into the first stars of the night, she

was dazed and incoherent, drifting in and out of sleep. She would be missed

by now, the alarm raised. Only the one solution, take her to safer ground

and summon Arthur to fetch her, then talk with him, make him see his son

Medraut was no traitor. It seemed simple enough, especially once he had the

cart and was making way along the road northward.

The cart he left beside the lane, turned the mule loose with hobbles so it might

not stray too far. He carried Gwenhwyfar again, pushing through the tangle of

bush and high-grown bramble, disturbing the heady scent of the mayblossom

burst in clouds of pollen around him, making him sneeze, his eyes water, nasal

passages sting. Gwenhwyfar groaned as he lay her down beside the man-height

Stone at the very top of the hill. Her skin was cold, a light tinge disfiguring her

lips. He covered her with his own cloak, ragged though it was. The wind was

strong up here; he would need move her a little down the slope.

The Tor of Yns Witrin, where God had not placed His footstep, nor

caressed with His smile. Yns Witrin, silent, save for the song of the wind and

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 9 7

the mournful cry of the kestrel. The Summer Land lay spread like a patched

blanket beneath, the shadow of cloud skimming over the water-shining levels.

Was this what it was like to soar in the sky like a bird? To feel the wind lift

your hair, buffet around you? To be king over all in your sight! An immense

thrill of power unfolded around Medraut, a strength that swelled behind and

within him. The air was pure and light, the wind danced and twisted at his feet,

scurrying through the grass, rippling it into waves of motion, before hurrying

off up the valley leaving behind a half-breathed sigh.

Up here, Medraut felt both invulnerable but humble, brave but scared.

Wise, while knowing nothing. There was a presence here, on the height

of the Tor, a feeling that if you turned around quick enough you would see a

movement, lost out the corner of your eye. The swirl of a cloak, the shining

sun catching on a sword blade. Nothing tangible, but there all the same. The

laugh of a woman, the footstep of a man. The perfume of the Goddess; or the

hand of the god?

Yns Witrin, where he had come into being, where the Goddess, for whatever

reason, had breathed the touch of life into the making of a child. A son. Medraut.

Unexpected, a powerful clutch of grief stabbed into his stomach. He crumpled

to his knees, head bent into his hands the sobs shuddering through his body.

What a damned fool he had been, what a fool he still was!

“Oh God,” he cried, lifting his tear-streaked face to the cloud-mottled sky,

“I am a lost ship, drifting on an endless sea of despair. Is this my punishment

then, for the wrong of my birthing? How do I right that wrong? Lord, hear me!

Help me, show how I may prove to my father on earth I have love for only

him, that I would not betray him!”

Medraut leapt to his feet, his heart lurching in startled fear as a voice behind

him, said, scathingly. “I suggest you make a start by untethering me. I am not

a goat.”

Fifty-One

The courier rode into Caer Cadan a while after Arthur had ridden

out, heading north. They gave him a fresh horse, sent him on at the

gallop, his shouts reaching the ears of the King’s Guard at the same time as they

heard the drumming of hooves. Arthur reined Brenin in, the young animal

snorting contempt at the exciting pace being interrupted. Ider, riding beside

the king, clenched his jaw. What now? Already they had been delayed by the

blathering of the tavern-keeper whining about the loss of his mule and cart.

That this wretched beggar had stolen it seemed evident, and the identity of him

only a guessed conclusion, but one accepted by all within the Caer.

“My Lord!” The courier brought his lathered horse to a slithering halt, the

man as blown as the animal. Brenin tossed his head, side-stepped. “Sir, message

from Caer Morfa, from Lord Natanlius.”

Arthur heeled Brenin in a circle, cursed the animal’s impatience. “He believes

the Saxons are making ready to march. He requests the Artoriani, immediately.”

The stream of profanities from the Pendragon made even Ider, who was

no stranger to the crudities of language, raise an eyebrow. Arthur rode Brenin

away from the men, dismounted, stood a few yards distant, staring ahead across

the swift-shadowed levels of the Summer Land. The grass lay in its patched

carpet of variegated greens, spring-grown, lush, spreading between the small

copses and pockets of trees. Willow, ash, alder, the occasional elm. Hollows of

water lay in pools and runnels, dazzle-glistening beneath the brilliance of the

sun overhead, sailing the vastness of the wide, cloud-shuffling sky. The land

of seven rivers; sluggish streams which carried away the winter flooding. In

summer it smelt of silted marsh, drying grass and watermint. A kestrel hovered

half a mile ahead.

The Tor brooded in shadow against the clouding sky. Yns Witrin, where

Arthur had once started a life. And where, by all that was sacred and beloved of

him, this day he would end that same life!

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

He mounted, hauled Brenin around, decision made. “Ider, and you two

men”—he pointed—“will ride on with me. The rest of you return to the Caer.

You,” he ordered his Decurion forward, “issue my command to the officer of

the day. The Artoriani are to be ready to ride by noon.”

Four hours.

“Courier!”

“Sir?”

“Ride on to Aquae Sulis. Give my orders that Bedwyr and his escort are to

return immediately.”

“Aye, my Lord.”

They rode in silence, Ider, as before, beside the Pendragon, the two Artoriani

behind, their swords loose in the scabbard, eyes watchful, ears listening. One

crossed himself when a hare darted across the road, fled, ears laid along its back

as it sped away. A symbol of superstition, the hare, for it was the hare who

carried the souls of the dead into the Underworld. The kestrel again, away

to the left. When he plummeted downward there came the faint scream of

his capture. Not the hare. The soldier was glad, for the death of a hare meant

another soul was left to wander, desolate and aimless, lost in the painful world

of mortal men.

They found the cart and the mule, knew then they had come to the right

place. Arthur had never doubted it. The message Medraut had left him had

been plain.

The Pendragon rode further along the base of the Tor to where the lake lay,

calm and peaceful, crinkled by a few wind-brushed ripples, shadowed by the

reflection of the hill. He dismounted, gave the reins to one of the men with the

command they were to wait. Ider he beckoned to follow.

“Let us hope the paths have not altered,” Arthur said grimly as he stepped

into the water, a gasp of protest leaving one of the men waiting behind. Arthur

glared at him, made another step forward, the water level covering no higher

than his ankle. “I advise you to step where I do, Ider, else you are likely to be

up to your neck in it.”

Once, he made a wrong turn, floundered to his knee in water, Ider reaching

to grab hold his arm, pull him to safety. Easy enough to follow, the firm path

that meandered beneath the surface. Easy, if you knew where to look; the

twist of reeds, a scrawny bush, the lighter colour of water against dark. The

occasional glimpse of the silted path. Morgaine had shown him how, all those

years past.

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

At the far side within the cluster of trees was the skeleton of a dwelling-place,

one wall crumbled, the roof fallen in, no door; signs of where boar and other

animals had pushed a way in, searching for shelter or food. To the left, a patch

where once there might have been a garden.

Ider said nothing as they began to climb the height of the Tor. That the

dwelling had been the place of the Lady needed no confirming. How Arthur

had known his way across the mystery of the lake needed no asking. The climb

was steep and soon they were breathless, their bodies leaning forward, steps

short, boots digging into the slope and deer-grazed grass.

The wind hit them with the force of a thrown battleaxe. Arthur had expected

it, but not Ider, who staggered, slipped, his boot skidding his leg pulling from

under him. Arthur made no move to help him regain balance, for he had not

seen. His eyes were ahead, narrowed and angry. The Great Stone, darkened

from this angle, its shadow stretching like a pointing finger. Beside it, Medraut,

sitting, knees bent, head bowed, arms cradling. And before him, Gwenhwyfar,

standing, hair and cloak foaming about her. She lifted her head as Arthur

appeared over the edge of the Tor, her eyes meeting with his. Her smile, as

she saw him so beautiful. His relief and hers washing with the force of a full

spring-flood tide.

Fifty-Two

For a moment, the discovery that Gwenhwyfar was well and unharmed

was so intense Arthur felt nothing beyond the gladness of thankful relief.

He whispered a brief prayer to whatever god had protected her, and acknowl-

edged the presence of the caring Goddess. And then Medraut moved. A small

movement, he raised his head, but it was enough to shatter the benign feeling

of goodwill. Arthur hurtled forward, roaring, Ider coming a pace behind.

Gwenhwyfar screamed for them to stop; Medraut scrambled to his feet, unde-

cided whether to run or face the fury bearing down on him. He opted to run,

but it was too late, Arthur was upon him.

The brawl was swift and furious, the blows mostly coming from Arthur,

Medraut swung a few punches but as his father was the stronger, better man,

he resorted to ducking and protecting, as well he could, his head and face.

Blood was already splashing from his nose. Gwenhwyfar attempted to wrestle

Arthur away, clinging to his arm, hauling at him, shrieking for him to stop, but

so great was his anger he barely heard, and tossed her aside. With Ider she had

more influence; the big man, about to hit out at Medraut, responded to her

bawled command to leave it, stand down. Expression a mask of taut passion,

his fists clenching, limbs quivering. Difficult to obey but, breathing hard, he

backed away.

Gwenhwyfar yanked his sword from its scabbard, laid it about Arthur using

the flat of the blade, beating at his back, his legs.

“Stop it!” she screamed. “For my sake, damn you, leave him!”

Arthur’s fist connected with Medraut’s jaw, sending him spinning. Dazed,

the younger man fell, tumbled, rolled a few yards down the slope where he

lay, sprawled like a squashed spider, winded and fearful, expecting the barrage

of blows to continue. The Pendragon was leaping after him, found himself

toppling, Ider’s sword in Gwenhwyfar’s capable hands tripping him. She thrust

her body on top of his as he rolled to his back and, dropping the sword, put all

6 0 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

her weight into pressing his shoulders into the grass with her hands. “Stop it

Arthur!” she commanded. “Do as I say!”

His nostrils were flaring, breath coming in great, unsteady gasps. Blood

trickled from his mouth. Fury spurred, red hot, from his eyes.

“Aside a headache, I am unharmed. This has been all a mistake.” Gwenhwyfar

dug her nails into Arthur’s shoulder, denting the leather of his tunic. “Arthur,

listen to me!”

The Pendragon shut his eyes, filled his lungs with air, let the shuddering

breath ease from his pounding body. With a groan he raised his arms, encircled

Gwenhwyfar, bringing her close, holding her tight, so very tight; his face in her

hair savouring her nearness, her scent, her life. As she returned that embrace of

possessive relief, she felt his body judder, relax.

The fighting was over. Now would come the accusation and the shouting,

unless she intervened.

“I have come to no harm,” she said, again reassuring him. “Medraut needed

to speak with you. Things,” she pulled away, sat astride him, “became out of

control.” As she wiped at the blood on his chin with her fingers, she explained

briefly and in concise words Medraut’s muddled and desperate reasons for

bringing her here. She opened Arthur’s mouth to inspect from where the blood

came. “He wanted to warn you of Cerdic, but did not know how to go about

approaching you. You have lost a tooth.” She smiled, added, “It is a sad day

when a son cannot speak with his father because the father has too much anger

to listen. We are all too hasty to accept the first-made conclusions, no matter

how wrong they are. Too slow to consider an alternative explanation.”

Raising his hand to investigate his gum, Arthur swore. He rolled Gwenhwyfar