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She
returned Lot’s goodbye kiss, a fond farewell before the gathered people of the
settlement. With the Mother’s blessing,
Arthur
would be angry enough at Lot to hack off his stupid head
and save her
the eventual doing of it! Her plans were going well, were taking shape after
all these
years of convincing talk, bribes
in the right places and granting
favours
where they would be most effective. But they were not yet
ready, she and Ebba, not full ready to unite the
northern British men with the Picti nation and rise against this upstart king
from the South, not yet. Soon. When she had this daughter, a child of
the Mother Goddess to present to the Picti; when
Ebba persuaded
them that it was
right to unite the new way of a son following a
father with the old of
following down through a female line. When his mother, the woman who controlled
the Picti, finally
gave in to old age and
joined her husband who had died last year.
When Ebba married with
Morgause’s soon to be born daughter ... when all that happened, the North would
see this Pendragon boy beaten to his knees! Morgause waved to her husband as he
rode, reluctantly, out through the gates of Dun Pelidr, her loving smile so
believably
genuine. The Picti held the
queen to be highest in their esteem,
it
was for her to choose the man who was to be her husband and
their king.
Drust had been a powerful man, he had almost outmanoeuvred the old hag into
becoming supreme over her, almost, but not quite. Unfortunate that between them
they had
only produced the one living son,
Ebba. The Picti would need a
new woman as their queen. And Morgause so
wanted to be the most powerful of all queens! Soon, ah, soon! When the Picti
accepted this new babe as the child of the
Mother
Goddess, when they took her to be their next queen
and agreed for Ebba to be her consort, Morgause
would,
naturally, travel north with the baby – and take her daughter’s
place with the chosen king until the bride became of an age to be a wife.

Morgause laid her hand on the bulge, that false, loving
smile
becoming a gloat of scheming reaching fruition. The baby
would
never reach maturity. Morgause would see to that.

With the pain so unbearable, Morgause remembered why she
so
rarely
allowed her womb to conceive, names of the gods, was
this suffering worth it? She screamed as another labour pain tore
through her body, cursed with vivid embellishment
all she
would do to the next man who touched her – and the babe was
born. The two women attending lifted the mewling
child, put it
to Morgause’s breast,
twittering and cooing their inane
pleasure.

Morgause wrinkled her nose, the thing was bloodied and
wet,
looked
like a puckered, withered old apple core. She turned it over, screeched her
revulsion and threw it from her, the baby
tumbled,
yelling its fury and pain, to the floor, one of the
women darted to help it, froze as Morgause spat
orders to leave
it be.

‘But
my lady, your son ...’

‘I
needed to birth a girl-child, not a disgusting brat. Dispose
of it. And you,’ she flicked her fingers, long,
slender fingers
with fine-kept nails, at the other woman. ‘There is a
purse of
gold in that chest. Get you out
into the settlement and buy me a
girl-born child. Not too old, I want no
one to suspect.’ Both
women scuttled from
the room, the one clutching the child, the
other the gold. Both would do
as they were bid, for none dared disobey Morgause.

Sweating, her body aching, Morgause hauled herself from
the birthing stool. Her head swam, her eyes blurred. She
staggered
to the bed, lay down, her breath coming in gasps. A
boy! By all the mockery of the gods, she had birthed a damned,
whoring
boy!

October
460

§
XIII

The
trees were wearing their autumn finery, bright red and
orange, gold and bronze. Winter was beyond the horizon,
waiting
to come in. The year had passed at Winta’s settlement among the laughter of joy
and the occasional sorrow; a year of
telling
tales around the night-fires, of sharing dreams and
hopes, all
interwined with the free-given exchange of knowledge and friendship. A year
that had travelled too swiftly for
Gwenhwyfar.
The weeks and months had scuttled by like
clouds running before a fresh-paced wind. Arthur had come and
gone
about his business, controlling the kingdom through a
mixture of diplomacy and force, spending time with her and the
boys.
But as the nights grew longer and a touch of white was
beginning to rim the grass at dawn, Arthur returned to say they
had
to leave. Llacheu sobbed, and Gwenhwyfar found it hard not to weep with him. To
leave new friends was hard enough, but to return to Lindum ... ah, the prospect
was dismal. They needed to find their own place, a stronghold, a King’s Hall,
but where was the time, the opportunity, to find and build such a place? Seated
on the rise of high ground, like a brooding eagle perched on its eerie, Lindum
Colonia dominated the sparse sweep of marshland. From a distance, and in the
dim light of a
grey, overcast day, the
cracked walls and broken gateways were
indistinguishable, a pall of
hearth-fire and cooking smoke balanced above the walls. Gwenhwyfar felt a
niggle of doubt about returning into this decaying Roman town. Rome? The province of Britain had been abandoned to fend for herself, for the great power
that had for four hundred years dominated an Empire was dying; but in Britain,
a few influential men still clung obstinately to the security of Rome’s
tattered skirts, refusing to believe that a way of life was over, finished, and
a new about to begin.

Walking their horses towards the nearing walls,
Gwenhwyfar
was reminded of a trader’s ship she had seen as a girl.
Coming
over-fast towards the shore it had
been swept aside by the run of
the
current and a rising storm wind. With a rending crash it had
hit the
rocks, and sunk below an angry sea that cared not a
handful of white-tossed foam for the splintering of wood and the
cries
of drowning men. Rome was like that ship, proud and gold-laden one moment,
struggling and gasping against the darkness of death the next. Rome’s rule over
Britain was in the past. The English, men like Winta and Icel and Hengest,
were part of the new, the growing and the living. Was that why they were so
hated by the British, these English? The British were a
people who could only clutch in despair at torn spars and empty
air, cry for help that would not come. The dying,
envious of the
new-born, the alive? Gwenhwyfar feeling a small surge of
hope, smiled, leant
across the narrow gap
between the horses to take Arthur’s hand in her own, glad to be one of those
alive and looking to a bright
future
not mouldering behind crumbling walls wishing for a life
that was gone.

At the dark arch of the northern gateway, she looked
behind.
A year ago she had hated the
emptiness that was broken only by
scattered, wind-twisted stumped trees,
whistling reeds and
singing marsh-grass. The
dizzying void of sky had filled her with
dread, Gwenhwyfar was mountain
bred, her father had been Lord of the high reaches of Gwynedd, Lord over sky-touching
mountains that swept fierce down to the
sea. For Gwenhwyfar,
flat land was hostile, but Hild had changed her,
had shown the patterns of the sky, its moods, tempers and unending beauty;
shown Gwenhwyfar to appreciate that vault of blue or grey or
moonlit silver. As a girl, the mountains had sung
to her, shown her the change of season and weather. Now Gwenhwyfar knew
the sky, too, could sing. She took one last look
at that sky
before her mare trotted beneath the arch.

Was
it this confine of Lindum that troubled her? The cracks in the aqueduct were
longer than she remembered, the rubble accumulating at the base of the walls
higher, and the discarded refuse littering the stinking, narrow streets deeper.
Thechildren had a lean look about their faces, and the hollows in
the cheeks of men and women were more pronounced.
Lindum,
like the Empire of Rome, was dying. But Winta’s Humbrenses
people brought new prospects for these townsfolk:
mutual trade
was picking up, a better life was on the horizon. For that,
the
people were grateful — how different
from a year ago when the
mob had shouted and chanted through the
streets! As Arthur entered beneath the gates and rode with his wife, sons, and
a handful of men, the cheering and shouted blessings rang clear with enthusiasm
and pride.

The
official welcome was less jubilant. The Governor of Lindum awaited them on the
bird-dropping-plastered steps of his shabby basilica. His wife, with her
perpetual scowling expression, stood dignified at his side. Several members of
Council were grouped behind them, their frowns as prominent as the cracks along
the basilica walls. Ordinary people forgot
the
anger and doubts with the onset of peace, but not these men
of politics.
Men of power were not so fickle minded. Resentment cemented distrust.

Jostling forward, the people lining the streets strained
to
touch Arthur’s legs and arms, their hands stretching out
to clasp
his, to touch him, to take some of his luck, his wonder.
Arthur
had brought them peace, and peace
brought trade and
prosperity. There was still far to go, but at least
the path was
there, opened, and set before
them. Young women tossed
fading rose
petals over him and his lady, autumn-coloured
leaves were strewn before
the horses’ hooves. Someone took
Hasta’s
reins, lead the stallion in triumph up towards the
basilica steps — the ordinary people had no care
for this squabble
of politics or the shuffle for supremacy; saw only the
now and
the here. Trade and peace was their
demand and the Pendragon
had
fulfilled their asking. They forgot that a year past they were
baying for his blood. That would stay forgotten,
unless it suited
them to remember.

Before
he dismounted, Arthur surveyed the swathe of faces
crowding the forum. He lifted his hand, spoke with words
strong enough to reach those further back. To the
north and
east and south, the Saex-kind bow their heads to me, the Pendragon.
You, are their overlords. To you they must look to trade for their metals and
grain and pottery. To you, they look for the sharing of a comfortable life, and
you guide the reins of that life!’ Cheering, whistling, much laughter. For now,
Arthur fared well among these ordinary people of Lindum.

Coming
down the steps, the Governor welcomed the King with traditional words, putting
scant feeling behind them. His
customary
embrace after Arthur dismounted was stiff, wooden,
when Gwenhwyfar also dismounted he turned away, a
deliberate
insult. She busied herself with passing Llacheu into
Enid
’s care. So, that was
how the wind blew! Had she expected
ought else?
Arthur and his Queen advanced up the steps. The
Pendragon’s
personal bodyguard had made formation, their spears crashing across their
shields in salute; silver and bronze
buckles
of their leather and chain-linked parade armour
glinting in the
afternoon sunlight.

Waiting
on the top step, slightly to one side, stood Emrys,
youngest brother to Arthur’s dead father Uthr. As different
from
that proud war-lord as cheese is from chalk. He stood sullen-faced, his arms
folded within the long sleeves of his
Christian
monk-like robe. His stern eyes glared disapprovingly
down the length of his nose. Gwenhwyfar had once
remarked to
Arthur that on the day
when God had created smiles, Emrys
had been elsewhere.

‘Council
is in a sour mood,’ Emrys announced as he coolly greeted his nephew.

Arthur
shrugged one shoulder, indifferent. ‘When are they not?’
The returned frown on Emrys’s face deepened. ‘Can
you
never regard anything as serious,
boy? The Council has
convened to discuss your decision of ...’ Arthur
cut the older man short. ‘I hold supreme authority. Whether Council agrees with
my decisions or not is of little consequence.’ He turned to thread Gwenhwyfar’s
arm through his own before entering the public building.

‘
I oft-times wonder,’ he whispered to
her, ‘whose side my uncle is on.’
Feigning astonishment, she answered, ‘Emrys? On
the side of
truth and justice.’ A
rthur
grinned, squeezed her hand as they passed through
the doorway into the
dull gloom of the basilica’s interior. ‘Ah. Not on mine then.’
Tossing her braided hair, Gwenhwyfar laughed with
him, the
sound trickling behind, out into the bright autumn sunshine.