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‘Let
her go.’ It crossed Arthur’s mind, as he stood there with the tip of his sword
pricking a trickle of bright blood along the man’s craggy-skinned throat, that
he was behaving absurdly.
The girl was in a
tavern, what was she to expect? Except she was
a slave, had no choice in the matter, and somehow, after all
that
bellyaching and demanding from his Council, freedom of choice seemed suddenly
very important. ‘Let her go.’ Arthur was aware of the other two men reaching
for their daggers, and a disturbance at the open doorway; the tramp of feet,
the smell and sound of men, the chink of armour and the
grate of a sword as it was drawn from its scabbard. The
Pendragon stood his ground, his sword pressing upon
Moustache’s windpipe, he would kill
this one first, then tend to
these newcomers behind him.

But
he did not have to. ‘Officers of the Watch! Put up your weapon!’
Lazily, the sword not moving, Arthur turned his
cool,
piercing eyes to the nearest officer in the doorway. Calmly, he
ordered, ‘Arrest this man and have him flogged for
insulting
and threatening behaviour.’ The officer laughed, raised his
own sword — and Arthur’s blade whistled, sliced through his cheek. The second
officer gasped, plunged forward, shoving his bleeding comrade aside. ‘Jesu Christ,
it’s the Pendragon!’
Even the man with the
moustache became still, mouth
gaping. Arthur bent down, picked up the
rag that the girl had been using for cleaning the tables, and wiped his sword
blade
before sheathing the weapon. He
drained his wine, took the
girl’s arm
and started to leave the tavern. Almost as an
afterthought he turned back, said with a malicious smile,
‘When you see her, tell Lady Winifred of this. She’ll
be
interested to hear of my Northern slave.’ He nodded to the two Watch
officers, flipped three coins to the barman, hovering behind them. ‘For the
girl. She’s mine now.’ And left.

June 460

§ XI

Arthur
had gone north, essentially to see to Lot and his wife, Morgause, also to buy
horses. Those he had purchased he had sent south to begin their training.

Straightening
from feeling the colt’s forelegs for signs of
lameness,
Gwenhwyfar retained her impassive expression.
Horse traders were known for their hard bargaining and
dishonesty. These colts were poor, half-starved,
pathetic
creatures. Except for this
bay – he had breeding in him, beneath
the matted coat and staring ribs.
Gwenhwyfar chewed her lip, shook her head as she critically walked around the
animal.
‘They’ll need feeding up before they’re
of any use to the
Artoriani.’

‘It’s
a long way down from beyond the Wall, Lady. Horses lose weight on a long trek.’
The trader spread his hands, rolled his eyes slightly, stating the obvious.

Gwenhwyfar ran her hand along from the bay’s withers to
his
rump.
Weight loss would occur with an excessive, persistent
pace, but not to this extent. These horses had been pushed hard
and
ill kept, long before being brought south to Winta Ingas Ham. ‘Been backed has
he, this one?’ she asked.

Patiently, the trader spread his arms wider. ‘He’s only
two! Of
course not!’
Gwenhwyfar
had heard enough. Who did this imbecile think
he was? When Arthur bought
horses he purchased healthy, worthwhile stock, not creatures such as this mangy
bunch fit only for sausage-meat. ‘You,’ she said, coming around the colt and
poking the man hard in the chest, ‘are a cheat and a liar.’ She shoved him
again, thrusting him backwards two paces. ‘These are not the horses the
Pendragon would have seen.’ She raised her hand to stop the contradictory
protest. ‘My husband
buys and breeds the
best.’ She thrust her face closer to the
man’s. ‘These are most
certainly not the best.’ A crowd of English onlookers had gathered to watch and
offer advice on the horses with the children of the settlement worming their
way to the front. Llacheu beamed pride as his
mother
effectively put this Northern scum in his place. ‘There
is one good horse among thirty decrepit nags. One.
Not
backed? Has carried no rider or saddle?’ Gwenhwyfar gripped
hold of the startled man’s arm, dragged him
forward, pointed to the white patches of hair on the bay’s withers and back. ‘Saddle
sores! How can a two-year-old be
riddled with saddle sores if he
has not been backed?’ Angrily she pushed
the man from her, deliberately hard. ‘Go
back
to the Northern whore who spawned you, these are not
the horses my husband asked to be brought south.’
She drew her
dagger. ‘Cheat the king
would you? You dog-turd, get from my
sight!’ The man backed away,
slipped on the wet, muddied grass of the river bank, scrabbled for footing and
fell, tumbling into the water. Plunging after him, Gwenhwyfar caught hold of
him. ‘Get on your own horse, now, and ride away before I slit your
throat for the cheat you are.’ She gripped the
collar of his tunic,
thrust him up the bank, where several of the
English, laughing
their approval, caught his
arms, unceremoniously helped him
to
his horse and began to lead it across the fording place that was
only
accessible during low tide.

‘Cheat
is it?’ he yelled, squirming around to raise his fist at the woman standing,
arms folded, on the bank behind him. ‘What of my other horses, send them with
me or pay me for them!’

‘
I would wager someone has already paid you a high
price for
the horses you were supposed to have brought.’

‘Damn
you, woman! This is an insult!’
Winta had come
from his Hall, interested at the rise of
laughter and jeering, had
caught the last heated exchange. He
strode
to the edge of the ford. ‘Insult is it?’ he roared. ‘And what
of the insult to my Lady Pendragon and to the
king? Be off with
you! Regard the fact that you still have your head as
adequate payment!’
Along
the bank, a younger man, dressed in the same style of woollen bracae and tunic
as the horse trader, hurriedly kissed
the
girl he was with goodbye, and ran for his horse. Scrabbling
into the saddle,
he kicked the mare to a canter, urging her into the mud-coloured water, raced
to catch up with his father.

Gwenhwyfar regarded the girl he had been talking to.
Nessa,
the
slave Arthur had brought from Aquae Sulis. She patted the bay colt
thoughtfully. Fed with corn, handled gently and given the chance of a long
summer’s rest, the horse’s vitality and sleekness would return. Some of the
others would pull through too, but Arthur needed horses that could begin their
training
now. Good, well-bred horses that
could take the pace needed of
a war-horse.

‘
Turn these animals out to pasture,’ Gwenhwyfar
ordered,
‘we will give them a few days to rest, then see which are worth
the keeping.’ She beckoned Nessa to her. Like the horses, the girl had been
thin and neglected, lice-ridden and frightened. Good food and kindness paid
well for humans also.

‘
Did
you bed with her?’
Gwenhwyfar had asked
Arthur, that
first night when he had
returned, still nursing his anger at Emrys
and the Council. They were
lying together after the sharing of love, and Gwenhwyfar had regretted the
question for fear of
being answered with a
lie, or the truth. ‘No,’ he had said, and
she had believed him. Almost.

‘You
seem to know that young man,’ Gwenhwyfar said to Nessa. ‘Like them, you are
from the north-west are you not?’ Nessa bobbed a reverence to her mistress. It
had all been so
different here, so calm and
unhurried, people, even her
mistress,
treating her kindly. She was not for men to use as they
pleased, nor to
be dealt harsh words or blows.

‘Aye,
Lady, I come from the west coast, near Alclud. Those two,’ she nodded at the
men, ‘often passed through our village with their horses.’ She looked wistfully
after them, and
Gwenhwyfar could see there
was more than two departing riders
in her mind.

‘You
think of the north,’ she said, ‘your home?’ Gwenhwyfar
knew what it was to long for the place of your birth, your family
and friends. ‘There was a while when I was in
exile. They were
kind to me in Less Britain, but it was not my home.’
She touched the girl’s arm. ‘Would you be riding with those two were you free
to go with them?’ Nessa shrugged her shoulders, turned away, so that her back
was to the riders. ‘But I am not free. I was taken
three years past
by Scotti
sea-raiders, and sold into slavery. When I became ill I was sold again to work
as a slut in a stinking hovel of a tavern.
The men used me and I hated
it, hated their touch and their bawdy laughter. And then I was bought by a
king. For what reason, I know not.’ He had spoken the truth then, for Nessa’s
honesty was too
plain spoken. She had
expected to be Arthur’s whore, was
puzzled
that she had not been so used. They were almost across
the river now, those two men, the first horse
struggling,
dripping and blowing, up
the far bank. Gwenhwyfar asked, ‘If I
were
to grant your freedom, Nessa — I could ask Lord Winta to
witness it —
would you wish to go home?’ Tempted, Nessa smiled, shook her head. ‘Return to
what?
Even there I was no more than a
slave. You treat me with more
respect
than my own mother did.’ She smiled, raised her
shoulders, let them
drop, decision made. ‘I would stay.’ The horse trader had halted on the far
side, was shaking his fist in a tormented rage. Absently, to the wind and the
rise of birds that were shifting before the flooding tide, Gwenhwyfar stated, ‘1
would like to know what happened to the original horses that Arthur bought.
Where were they exchanged for this mange-bitten bunch I wonder?’

‘Oh
I know that,’ Nessa said, flapping her hand as if it were common knowledge. ‘Nechtan
told me. Showing off! He was always one for that. They were sold to Morgause,
the woman who thinks herself Queen of the North.’

§XII

Possessive, and with swollen pride, Lot kissed his wife
goodbye.
She was the most beautiful woman
alive and he, Lot, had her as
his own! He
patted her belly, the bulge that was the baby. ‘Take
care of my
son, he will be here by the time I return.’ He said it
wistfully, for he did not want to go west across the hills to meet
with
Arthur at AIclud. He was afraid of the Pendragon, but someone had to respond to
his demanding summons, and
Morgause could
not go, not so near her time. Nor could he seem
so weak as to prefer to see the birth of his son over meeting with
the
man who styled himself Supreme King.

‘Our
daughter,’ Morgause chided, pinning his cloak a little
tighter around his shoulders. ‘I have told you, I carry a girl-
child.’
Patiently, Lot agreed with her. They had held this disagree
ment throughout the pregnancy; he supposed women
knew
about these things more than
men, but he so wanted a son!
Daily he prayed to whatever god was
listening that his wife would be wrong, that she would bear him a boy. He
kissed her again, prepared to mount. It was not easy having an acclaimed
priestess to the Great Mother as your woman; so many other things seemed to
take precedence over the natural everyday things of being husband and wife.

This obsession of hers for irritating Arthur for one. If
she had
not acted quite so angrily when those
messengers had come
early this spring ... ah, but the
thing had been done, and now Arthur himself had come up above the Wall, and had
sent four whole Turmae to fetch Lot to explain why Morgause had murdered two of
his Artoriani. Over one hundred of those
fine-mounted,
disciplined Cavalry. There was no way to refuse,
he had to go.

‘
What
do I do?
What do I
say?’
Lot had panicked when he realised he would
have to face Arthur alone. Morgause was so
much
better at these things, she always knew what words to use
and how to use
them to best effect.

‘
Humble
yourself
before
him,
beg of him — anything. Tell
him
his
men disrespected
my honour. There
should be no
punishment
for a
man who was
justifiably
protecting
his wife
from rape.’ It was a lie of
course, and Lot was not so good at lying. She could not have let
those
messengers of Arthur’s live, not let them go back tattling
that Ebba son of Drust of the Picti was welcome at
her hearth —
and in her bed, but even Lot had not the knowing of that!
Happen she ought have had them quietly dealt
with. Curse that
whore-son Pendragon, she had lost her temper, had
ordered them slain and sent back without thinking twice of the consequences.