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There
were no lamps lit, and beyond the firm-shut door the
wind howled like a hungry wolf-pack. It was probably snowing
again.
Let it! Let it snow and snow! She could not leave here until the snow thawed,
and she did not want to leave, not yet.

When she did, it would be to begin the slow spreading of the
word of a
war-hosting. Not yet, happen not until a summer and a
winter passed,
but the men would gather, men of Lot’s Northern
British and Ebba’s Eastern Picti. If they were lucky, the
other
tribes of the Picti would join them
also — and then they would head
south, down across the Wall. And meet
with Arthur and his damned Artoriani and wipe them — him — from the world!
She lay, watching the movement of the flames while Ebba
slept. Witch-woman many called her, a title she fostered, for it brought fear
into the hearts of those who served her, and fear brought loyalty. None would
disobey Morgause. Not Lot, for the imbecile loved her and feared to lose her;
not Ebba, for he
wanted her as his own, and
feared he might not get her, but that
was
a different fear. The peasants and farmers feared her for her
knowledge and her power ... even the King, Arthur,
feared
her. Hah, although he tried to hide it! Her smile was lazy, smug.
Witch-woman? It took little to make simple people believe in the nonsense of
magic. A
knowledge of healing herbs — aye
and their destructive uses — a
knowing how to write in a neat, straight
hand, to read without
moving your lips or
speaking the words aloud; how to recognise
the signs of the weather, or how a man thought by the
movement of his eyes and hands. How to ensure you
conceived
no baby, or to change a boy into a girl! She laughed quietly
to
herself. Easily done. All it had needed
was two cups of poisoned
wine, a
purse of gold and a day later, a side of pork as poisoned as
the wine. The wine had been for the birthing women.
They
died quickly, quietly, no fuss,
no suspicion. The pork? Meat was
so often contaminated. She had
lingered, the mother of the girl Lot thought to be his own, but even if she had
talked, she had not known of who had wanted her daughter, or why.

And that left
Arthur to be dealt with.

March 461

§
XVII

Winifred
regarded her brother with a mixture of hatred and jealousy. Eight years old,
arrived here only a few weeks past, and already the darling of the monks. Even
the Archbishop,
coming from the far end of
the cloister, thought Vitolinus to be
a model noviciate. She forced a
bright smile for Patricius, said
as he
approached, ‘My brother seems happy enough here at our
holy place, I am
glad.’

‘Greetings,
my Lady,’ the Archbishop puffed, slightly short of breath through hurrying. She
had arrived unannounced, unexpected. As she had an irritating tendency to do. ‘You
are
well recovered from your slight illness?’
He smiled pleasantly as
Winifred nodded assent. ‘Good, good.’ He looked
across at the
boy, sitting on the sun-warmed
grass among a group of
youngsters his own age, occupied with stylus and
wax tablet, busy chattering, occasionally laughing. ‘Vitolinus has settled
well, a most willing and eager young boy. I have
high hopes for
him, he has the potential of making a fine abbot.’
Winifred began walking, turning her back on the
boy,
ambling in the direction from whence the Archbishop had just come. ‘Or
an Archbishop?’ she said.

‘
Who knows?’ Patricius answered with light laughter.
‘Perhaps he will turn missionary and take the word of God to your Jute
kin.’
Winifred declined an answer, waited
for the man to open the
door into his
rooms. This first was a small but practical
chamber, with stool, table,
stone-flagged floor, a single brazier – unlit. A public room that reflected the
plainness of religious life. The Archbishop escorted Winifred through another
door, beyond which were his personal rooms, larger, more richly furnished, made
more comfortable. Few were permitted the honour of entering through here.

Winifred
seated herself on a couch, accepted the offer of wine. ‘I no longer associate
with my mother’s barbarian kin, Archbishop, as you well know. Her father,
Hengest, has been nothing to me these several years past. It was my wish for my
young brother to come here, into a House of God to annul any lingering
blood-taint of heathenism.’ And to be able to keep a close eye on him; and to
be permanently rid of him, should the opportunity arise, she thought to herself.

The Archbishop inclined his head in apology, well aware
that the Lady Winifred intended her brother to grow to
manhood safely cloistered among a religious community. Safe,
where he would pose no threat against her son. There was enough rivalry
for the future between Cerdic and his half-
brothers
by that Gwynedd woman, without the added complications of Vitolinus’s
prospects. He said, half to himself, ‘The
Pendragon
was not pleased, I understand, to learn that the
Comes Britanniarum had
transferred responsibility of the boy from his own care into ours.’ Relaxing
slightly, that flicker of hostility passing, Winifred replied, ‘My husband
approves of nothing even remotely connected with his uncle, or with me,
Archbishop. Had the Pendragon foreseen events, he would never have given the
lad into his uncle’s house in the first place – but then, at the time, they
were not the enemies they now are.’ She smiled, she so
enjoyed Arthur’s mistakes! ‘Of course, were the King to have
his
way, I, my son and my brother would have been hanged by now. His uncle too.’
Patricius was shocked by her matter-of-factness,
she saw it in
his face, said, ‘Arthur
is a harsh man, a soldier living in a
soldier’s world. There is little
nicety about him.’ She smiled to herself, remembering their years as man and
wife, ‘Even in the
bedroom the Pendragon
could be brutal. I have the scars to
prove it.’ She waved any answer
aside, added, deliberately
shocking the
Archbishop further, ‘For the most part, I enjoyed
it that way.’ She
finished her wine, rose, smoothing the creases from her black gown. ‘Now, to
business. How is the building of my new church coming along?’
Relieved at the turn of conversation,
the Archbishop toostood, with his hand indicated they should leave the room. ‘Come,
I will show you, it is all but completed. Your generous funding has enabled us
to erect a fine place, more magnificent
than
any chapel yet built. I feel that we may even be justified in
giving it
a grander title, for chapel or church it is not enough. Cathedral would be more
fitting.’
Winifred
walked before him, back out into the sunlight,
pleased with herself. Her prolific cultivation of the Archbishop
and
alliance with Emrys, was proving worthwhile, expensive,
but worthwhile. Cerdic would be King – or Comes, or whatever
–
after Arthur. The manner of the title mattered not, only the position, the
power. She could not yet influence the army, but Council and the Church was
another matter entirely. They had already achieved one victory over Arthur by
claiming the
wealthiest portion of Britain for their own. And, subtly directed
by her innocently casual suggestions,
they could soon consider laying claim to even more. Winifred glowed within
herself – plotting Arthur’s downfall was so satisfying! Vitolinus was still
sitting on the grass in the centre of the
quadrangle,
surrounded by laughing boys. His looks were those
of their mother, nothing at all of Vortigern their
father.
Winifred had a sudden,
distinct image of him as a baby, yowling in his mother’s arms as they struggled
to survive the flood waters
of Caer Gloui. Arthur had come for them, the
three of them, Winifred, the boy and their mother, Rowena, come to make an end
of them. But Fate had intervened, spilling the rain-swollen river Hafren over
its banks, allowing their escape. Bloodied
from
Arthur’s own hand smashing into her face, shaken,
scared, Winifred had
run with her mother, dodging the falling walls, wading into the cold, swirling
water, plunging, half swimming, through the pouring torrent to high ground;
breath
sobbing, skirts sodden, death running
close as a shadow.
Rowena had reached
firm ground first, clambered to safety. Had
turned to her daughter,
struggling to follow – and kicked her
back
into the muddied waters. When Winifred emerged,
gasping, near-drowned,
Rowena had gone, fled, with her son.

Vitolinus glanced up, saw her watching, answered her
haughty
gaze with a returned stare of loathing. The Pendragon had taken him as hostage
from Hengest as part of the agreed
treaty
for the Cantii lands. He hated his grandsire for that
betrayal, as much as he hated his sister. The one
trading him for
land, the other wanting him dead or safe out the way.
Well, he could wait, play their game, until he came to manhood. Then they would
see what he, Vitolinus, had in mind for himself.

He smoothed the wax on the tablet resting on his lap with
the
flat end of his stylus. Drew another obscene picture for
the boys
to crow over. This one was of the Archbishop copulating
with his po-faced sister, Winifred.

May 461

§ XVIII

Llacheu was fascinated by the ancient stones before him,
and a
little wary. He squatted, peered into the gloomy chamber
formed
beneath the giant capstone, hesitant actually to crawl under. What if there was
a body beneath there? Or worse.

A
blackbird shrilled in the copse of trees away to the left; Hasta, Arthur’s
stallion, was eating grass, the steady tear and chomp a reassuring, everyday
sound. The horse snorted, raised his head to shake away the irritation of
flies, the leather and
metal of his harness
rattling and shaking in the flurry of
movement.

The earth smelt warm and damp, a wholesome, pleasant
smell of
grass and earth and steaming stone. There had been heavy rain these last days,
but today the sun was shining,
radiating a
promise of summer heat. The world was washed and
refreshed, smelt clean
and new.

Overhearing superstitious whispers about this old burial
place,
Llacheu had pestered to see it. At first glance, the stones
seemed nothing more than a tumbled heap of flat
rocks, but
men from a time long past had laboured hard to bring them up
onto these hills above the Gwy river.

‘There
are no bones,’ the boy announced, withdrawing his head from the shadows beneath
the capstone, disappointed but relieved.

Arthur
laughed, and ruffling the boy’s hair, bent low to peer
into the diffused light of what had once been a covered
chamber, resting his arm on the two-hand-span
thickness of the
single slab which had formed the roof. ‘These stones
were the
framework, supports for the weight
of earth forming a covering
mound.’

‘Like
the timber frame of a house?’

‘
Aye. Any bones
would have gone the same way as the earth
and
turves. Rain, wind and time have taken them.’

‘
Why use stones? Why not timber?’ Arthur straightened,
began inspecting the construction. The one great flat capstone, longer than the
height of a man, rested
on uprights a few
feet high. Surrounding banks of earth, grassed
and covered with scattered wild flowers, were all that remained
of
what had been the outer walls of the burial chamber.

He answered Llacheu’s question tentatively. ‘Timber does
not last, it rots and decays. Stone like this is strong and it takes a
mighty force to destroy it. Certain – special stone – is sacred to
some. The Old People erected circles of stone for their gods and
burial places such as this. One day I’ll show you and your
brothers the Great Henge. Tall, tall stones,’ he indicated with
his hands
a height way above his head, ‘higher than a man on
horseback. Each with a topped lintel stone, many believe it was
buiit with the magic of the Druid kind.’ Added, ‘I
was
proclaimed Pendragon by your
grandsire beside a sacred stone.’
Was that when you became King?’