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‘
Amr!’
she cried, struggling to be free of Arthur’s hold. ‘Amr,
where are you?’

‘
Mithras Gwen, he is gone. He’s dead.’ As the words
stumbled from his
lips, Arthur shook and shook her.
‘No,’
she gasped, ‘no!’

‘
I saw him go under. He is
dead.’ Gwenhwyfar fell silent, utterly silent. The sun had set. The rose-pink
sky was now a darkening blue; one or two brighter stars were twinkling faintly.

Arthur’s hands relaxed, released their harsh
grip. ‘He went under, Cymraes. Did not come up again.’
Gwenhwyfar wrenched herself from him and stumbled a few
paces
away, to stand, staring at the blackening water.

With a dismissive wave
of his hand, Arthur sent the men
away,
asking Cei to take Llacheu and Gwydre. Both boys were
ashen-faced.
Gwydre had his fist stuffed in his mouth. Arthur
knew he ought to say something to them, some words of
comfort. But
what? He had no idea what to say.

He stepped behind
Gwenhwyfar, took her in his arms
bringing her around to
face him, meaning to hold her, to give what little comfort he could to her. She
stiffened.

‘
Let go
of me,’ she hissed, tearing herself from him, whirling
away.

He stood, arms held low, spread wide, palms
uppermost. Bewilderment and pain creased his face.

She seated herself on a
fallen log, sat with her arms clenched
around herself, rocking her body gently backwards and
forwards.
Sat staring silently at the rush of river.

Arthur was shivering.
The cold of the water and aftermath of
reaction
trembling through his body. There came a soft step at his side.

Cei placed a blanket around his cousin’s
shoulders, gave
another into his hand and
nodded towards the hunched figure
of Gwenhwyfar.

‘You are both sodden, Arthur, come up to the
fire. The men have stacked it well, they have a good blaze.’ Arthur’s numbed
fingers curled around the corners of his blanket, holding the thing tight to
him. He handed the second back to Cei. ‘She will have nothing to do with me.
See if you
can persuade her to come away.’
He began to trudge wearily up
the
short incline through the trees, his body aching, jarring
with bruises
and fatigue. Within a few moments Cei, empty handed, joined him, matching his
pace to Arthur’s.

‘
She
will not come. I have wrapped her up as well as I can. Happen Enid can talk
sense into her.’

§ XXI

At first light men
stirred, began the morning routine with
hushed,
despondent whispers. Many forwent breakfast, their stomachs not up to facing
food. These were battle-hardened men, but death in the heat of battle was one
thing, the cruel taking of an innocent child another entirely. They searched,
poking and prying into submerged overgrowth, tearing away
tangled branches and roots; tugging at clogged
debris. The river
had dropped during the night, the flood waters
dispersing as quickly as they had risen. Much of the bank lay sodden and
flattened, a stink of mud and rotting vegetation.

Llacheu had not slept. He
had gone to bed chilled and
grieving, not knowing
where his mother was, nor Enid. Nessa
was
useless for she could not stop her sobbing and aside, she had
Gwydre to care for. He had tried to see his
father but the sentry
had turned the boy away saying, kindly meant, ‘Your
father needs be alone lad, go to bed.’ Come morning he had wanted to help
search the river, but had not been allowed, and so he sat cross-legged before
his father’s tent waiting for them to come back, the thoughts in his head
turning deeper and darker with each passing hour. When they finally returned
they were carrying Amr, wrapped in a soldier’s red cloak. Llacheu stumbled to
his feet, watched his
father lay the dead
boy carefully on the ground before the
banners and standards of the
Artoriani.

Llacheu had seen Gwenhwyfar cry before. She
would cry over many things; the wonder of a new-born lamb or foal, a
beautiful view, a sad tale told around the night
fire. She was like
that, responsive
to emotion, and Llacheu loved her for it
because he shared those sensitive feelings, understood the way a
lump
could rise in the throat and tears come unbidden to the eyes. At these times he
often slid his hand in hers, shared the heart-pleasure that brought the tears.
She cried also after arguments with Arthur. This was a different cry, one
Llacheu
hated. Her tears would come at night
when she thought the
boys were asleep. Llacheu would ache to go to her
when he
heard those tears of misery, but
dared not. She did not want him to know she cried, so he would not know. It was
a hard pretence
for him to keep.

The shock came
when he saw his father cry.

Frightened, he watched
Arthur weep, longing to speak to his
da, to ask for answers
to confused questions. When he finally gathered the courage to approach he was
too late. Llacheu whispered ‘Da?’ but his father did not hear, for he was
turning
away, going down the slope between
the trees towards the river,
to fetch Gwenhwyfar.

She had sat there all night among the damp
and rising night mist, the morning dew and swell of sunrise and bird song,
refusing to move. Enid, snuffling her choked
tears, had wrapped
the blanket around her mistress, kindled a fire and
kept vigil with her. Now, seeing Arthur approach, Enid scuttled away, a fresh
flood of grief exploding from her.

Arthur stood for some while watching his wife’s
unnatural
stillness. These months had been
wretched, for her and for him,
their almost constant arguing coming from
a frustration that gritted in both their stomachs. He approached and squatted
at
her side, took her chilled fingers in
his hand. Her face was still,
a statue’s cold, impersonal face. Running
his tongue over dry lips, Arthur swallowed, found he was rubbing her icy
fingers
with his own, found he did not want
to say aloud the words that
were within him. They were too final, too
much of admitting truth. He swallowed again, forced himself to speak. ‘We have
found him.’ Her eyes flickered once to him, then back again to the river, no
other movement. The water flowed, birds sang, a breeze
ruffled through the trees. One of the red-and-white cattle lowed
from
somewhere behind.

‘It looks so peaceful,’ she said, ‘this
river. It slips tranquilly
past on its
journey from mountain to sea, winding a path
between the trees, through fields and farms. It goes on for ever,
in
and out of seasons, heat and cold, night and day. A pleasant place to be, by a
river.’ Her eyes, haunted, met with his. ‘A fox came in the night to drink. He
looked at me for a long while.
Others were
watching too, the spirit people and faerie folk. I
felt their eyes on
me. Staring.’ She stood, the blanket slithering unnoticed to the ground. ‘I
know not what they wanted. They just watched. They never said anything.’ Arthur
had known Gwenhwyfar from when she was a leggy girl with tousled hair and
darting eyes, turning from child to woman. He had loved her then. Loved her
now. He had shared
her life and love, joys
and sadness, yet she was still a mystery to
him. There was a surface
knowing, solid and recognisable, dependable – yet how much lay hidden,
submerged below? He so wanted to comfort her, to share their grief together,
but he knew not how. Knew not what to say or do, for he was hurting
as much. The pain was so intense, so hard-bound
that he
thought if he spoke he would break, shatter into a thousand
pieces, and scream until there was no breath left
in him to
scream again. Without speaking, he took her hand and led her
up the rise of ground, through the green weep of
willow trees to
where they had made their camp.

Llacheu hung back, not
knowing what to expect in his
mother. Tears
certainly, puffed eyes, red, sore cheeks. But her iron remoteness, as she drew
level with the group standing
bare-headed
around the bundle laid on the ground, was
unexpected. She knelt, an anguished sound escaping her lips as
she reached forward and lifted back the covering. ‘I
thought you
would find him alive. I thought you would bring me back my
son!’ The tears broke as she lifted the dead boy, cradling his cold,
water-blown body to her breast, her hands stroking his matted
hair. They watched her a while, then Arthur knelt
opposite
her, laid his hand over hers. ‘We must bury him, Cymraes.’

‘I will not put him in the dark. He hates
being alone in the dark.’ Arthur’s fingers made to touch the boy’s cheek, but
like a whiplash her hand struck out, thrusting him aside, her voice a hiss. ‘Do
not touch him!’
Arthur
jerked his hand back. The hatred that swelled in her dark-green eyes hit him
like an axe blow.

‘
He was in your care,’ she
snarled. ‘You let him fall in the river, you let him drown.’
The accusation was too much for Llacheu. He darted
forward, grasping his mother’s arm, a sob
breaking as he cried, ‘No, Mam, it was not Da’s fault. I was supposed to be
watching Amr. I forgot about him when Da caught the fish. It was all my
fault!’
She did not intend to be callous, but grief
can gust like a great
wind, ruthlessly sweeping aside all in its path.
Gwenhwyfar
tossed Llacheu’s hand off her
arm, casting him from her and he
fell forward onto his knee, biting his
lip to stem the cry of pain as a stone cut into the flesh.

A
rthur bounded forward, gathered the boy to him. ‘Take
yout anger out on me, woman, not your son!’ he shouted. ‘Amr is my son.
My son is dead.’
Patience
receding within his own turmoil, Arthur spat back, ‘He was my son also! And you
have two other sons – and a husband.’

‘
A husband!’
She looked up, hysterical laughter choking in her throat. ‘A husband? Where? I
had one once, long ago, but he has
gone.
He spends his time chasing shadows and childhood dreams! He is too busy keeping
a royal torque around his neck to notice his
family, to see that the
love we had is turning black and sour.’
Setting
Llacheu aside, Arthur hauled Gwenhwyfar to her
feet. ‘I will not argue
with you, Gwen,’ he said, resolute. ‘Not here, not now, not before the men.’
Gwenhwyfar threw back her head and laughed, a
weird
sound that touched on madness. ‘Never in front of your men. You
prefer their company above mine, don’t you? Why is that,
Arthur? Why?’ She sneered into his face. ‘Because
they love
you more than I do? They
would lay down their weapons arid die
for you. I would not.’ Arthur
attempted to propel her in the direction of his tent. ‘We will talk about this
in private.’
She
threw his hands off her. ‘We will not! I have nothing to hide. I am not the one
who murdered Amr.’
Arthur’s hand met her face, slapping her cheek. She
crumpled
as Llacheu clawed at his father, tears spattering down
his face.

‘Don’t, Da, don’t hit her! She did not mean
it!’ Arthur stood taut, his hands and teeth clenched, body rigid. Slowly the
tension eased and he dropped to his knees. He rumpled Llacheu’s hair and lifted
his unconscious wife in his arms. ‘I know, son. I know she did not. Neither did
I.’ None of the men believed that careless flung accusation. It was an
accident, a tragic accident. Yet, words were whispered through camp and idle
gossip spread from mouth to ear; for unguarded chatter has a habit of swelling
beyond recognisable shape.

Arthur laid Gwenhwyfar on his own bed, sent
someone
scurrying for Enid. Already the
flesh along the cheek-bone was
darkening.
He reached for his son, held the shivering boy close.
Llacheu’s arms
encircled his father, the tears flowing, words muffled. ‘It was all my fault,
Da. All my fault.’ Instantly Arthur was crouching, his hands firm, strong and
secure, grasping the lad’s shoulders. ‘It was
not, it was nobody’s
fault. It was a thing that happens. If someone must
take blame then your mam is right, it rests on my shoulders.’
Llacheu shook his head, wiped mucus from his nose
with the
back of his hand. ‘You told me to watch over him. I didn’t, and
now he is dead.’

‘Ah, my son.’ Arthur enfolded the boy,
hugging him close. What more could he say to reassure the boy?