Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (2 page)

Arthur
bent to wipe his blade against the tunic of a dead Anglian lying face down in
the blood-puddled, muddied grass.
He gazed
at the man’s back a moment, with his foot turned over
the body. A boy,
not a man, with only the faint shadow of hair wisping chin and upper lip. A boy
who had listened to the harper’s tales of battle and had felt his heart quicken
for the
excitement and honour. A boy, who
knew nothing of the
reality of this
god-damned mess! Sons were needed to fight with
their fathers. And to die alongside them. The harpers ought
sing of that! Sing of the cruelty of losing a
beloved son; the pain
of wounds that were beyond healing. Arthur sighed.
So many sons and fathers dead. So much spilt blood.

He
pulled the spear that had killed the boy from the body. Said with regret, ‘We
ought to live together in peace, Cei.

Angli,
Jute and Saxon in peace aside us British. Surely there is
enough land for us all to build our dwelling
places, enough grass
to graze our
cattle?’ He bent to close the boy’s staring,
frightened eyes. ‘Why must strength be shown by the blade of a
sword?
Why not through discussion and wise talk?’
A
voice answered from behind, the accent guttural, the
words formed in hesitant Latin. ‘Because you and
I were born to
different ideas and beliefs, my Lord King. Differences
breed
mistrust and suspicions, which spread
like weeds in a neglected
cornfield.
Fear —and greed — grows unchecked until eventually
it rots into swollen
lies and black untruths. Overspills onto a battlefield.’
Arthur remained squatting over the dead boy, wiped
his
hand across his face, fingers firm against nose, across cheeks,
down to the stubble on his chin. Wiped away this
seeping mood
of bleak depression. He jerked upright, turning with the
same movement to clap his hand to the newcomer’s shoulder,
announced with a smile as broad as a furrowing
sow’s belly, ‘But
you and I, Winta
of the Humbrenses, you and I think different!’ The answering smile was as
friendly, as astute. ‘If we did not
my
Lord, then would I fight beneath your Dragon against
English kinsmen?’
Sliding his arm full around the man’s shoulders,
Arthur
began to steer the tall,
fair-haired man towards the northern
end
of the battlefield, to where, beyond a clump of wind-
moulded trees, the
British had set their camp. To where soon, the prisoners would be herded and
forced to kneel before a British king.

‘
Some of us,’ Arthur said, walking with long
strides, keeping
Winta close by the grip of his hand on the man’s arm, ‘have
found enough sight and wisdom to see beyond the differences, to learn of them
with interest and intelligence. Some of us,’ he patted the man’s shoulder for
good measure, ‘are astute enough
to go into
the fields and hoe the weeds. We, my friend, prefer to
see the gold of
ripening corn.’
Arthur halted, beckoned his
cousin to walk at his other side. ‘Some weeds though, can be cultivated, used
for good purpose.
Can they not, Cei?’ Cei was scowling slightly, saying
nothing. To his mind all weeds ought to be pulled up and burnt. He shrugged non
committally. He disliked — no — mistrusted Winta,
a petty lord
over a scattering of Saex settlements along the southern
shore
of the Abus river. Weeds were weeds,
whatever their brilliance
of flower or healing use. Angli? Jute? Ally,
enemy? Saex were Saex, whatever their given title and declared promises!

§ II
Although the water was not as warm as she would have liked,
Gwenhwyfar elected to stay a while longer in the main pool of Lindum’s only
remaining bath-house. Enid was already out,
wrapping
a linen towel around her body before seeing to
Llacheu. The boy was crying, standing beside the nurse, his little face scrunched
up, pathetically unhappy; he wanted to
stay in longer too, wanted to
stay in the water with his mam. Enid though, was a no-nonsense young woman,
more than
capable of dealing with
recalcitrant children. Briskly,
efficiently,
she swept a towel around the boy and scooping him
under her arm, bore him away to the changing room,
his
protesting wail trailing in their wake.

Gwenhwyfar laughed to herself, swam a few strokes from
the
pool
edge, then turned on her back, arms outstretched, head back, her copper-gold
hair floating about her like the tresses of legendary sea-maids. She had the
place to herself at this fresh
hour of the
morning, a trick she had learned early on in her stay
in this unhospitable, dilapidated Roman town. Her
belly
rippled, the child within
moving, the great bulge of late
pregnancy standing like a whale-hump
from the water; she felt like a whale too, a beached, blubber-weighted whale.
Voices were approaching, the patter of bare feet on tiled flooring,
laughter, the rise and fall of female gossip. One
voice in
particular stood out,
speaking in tidy, correct Latin, with a
nasal twang and a laugh like a
sow’s grunt. Swimming to the steps, the luxury of solitude receding, Gwenhwyfar
ascended, draped rough woven linen towelling about her shoulders and marched
through the approaching group of women, ignoring
their sudden cessation of chatter and disapproving looks, aware
that one of them would make comment. ‘Bathing
naked in your
condition, Madam, is indecent. There should be modesty at
all times in a public place.’ The Governor’s matronly wife wore a thigh-length
tunic, her hair bound tight about her head. The other women were dressed
similarly, or wore breast-bands and loin cloths. The woman, a self-opinionated
bore, wrinkled her
nose, disgusted, at the
swell of Gwenhwyfar’s belly and breasts.

Several scathing retorts flooded Gwenhwyfar’s mind but
she
swallowed
them. As Queen she could do something to silence
the more offensive remarks, but Arthur had expressed an
explicit
plea:

‘
I
leave you
in Lindum
to
play the part of diplomacy. Where the Queen is,
they
are reminded of the
King.
And I
don’t want them reminded of the
wrong
things.’

‘
I
have
to be civil
to them then?’

‘
Very
civil.’

‘
Even to the
Governor’s
wife?’

‘
Especially
to the Governor’s wife.’
Damn the Governor’s
wife – and damn Arthur! It was all
right for him, he had stayed but one
night and then ridden off with his men, the proud cavalry of the Artoriani.
Gwenhwyfar
had no choice in the matter. The
coming babe forced her to stay
in this decaying town with its crumbling,
grumbling citizens.
And so today she
remarked pleasantly, and with her hand on
her bulge, ‘Yet pregnancy is
such a wondrous miracle. Should
we hide the
generous blessings of God?’ She managed to hide a
broadening smile of triumph as she pushed through
the group of
women and made her way to
the changing rooms, where
Llacheu was still fitfully wailing.

Vigorous,
angrily, she towelled herself dry, rubbed her hair, shaking it, fluffing the
curls with her fingers. Dressed, she suggested to Llacheu, who had ceased his
crying now that she
was also out of the
pool, that they stop at the bath-house shop to
purchase a pastry before going back to the Governor’s palace. Itwas the
last place she truly wanted to go – but then she wanted to go nowhere in this
damned town. The lad crowed his delight and swarmed into her arms for an
extravagant cuddle. Ah, what
did those foul women matter, when she had
her sons with her? And Arthur would be back soon. She hoped.

Until
the tenth hour, the bath-house was for women to use, the morning was gathering
stride, and more customers were
entering.
Most at least nodded a courteous greeting to their
King’s wife, a few
gazed past her, but none would dare be as outwardly rude as the Governor’s
wife. This growing ripple of
hostility
towards Gwenhwyfar was permeating through Lindum
as powerfully as the
stench that rose from the disintegrating
main
sewer. Narrow-eyed glares, a refusal to meet
Gwenhwyfar’s eyes, men and
women who crossed the roads to
the far pavement
rather than meet her; that she was not
welcome
– within the public bath-house, in this town – had
been made more than
plain since the day of her arrival. That Arthur was mistrusted to the point of
dislike, as evident. And
these as yet
unspoken feelings were maturing and swelling like a
water-bloated corpse.

The
entrance to the baths had lost the opulence of its former glory. The colonnades
were cracking, the once vivid mosaic
flooring
faded and with pieces, large patches in places, missing. Few people noticed.
The whole town was in a like state. Houses
falling down, shops empty and shuttered, weeds growing
through the cracked pavements and roads.
Gwenhwyfar bought
Llacheu his pastry, and one for herself and Enid. They
were hungry, having left their rooms in the palace before breaking their fast.

They
walked obliquely across the square from the baths, Gwenhwyfar stopped, as was
her habit, to admire the statue at
the
centre. It was bronze, life-size, of a rider sitting proud astride
a
prancing horse. The white marble inlaid eyes had gone, and the inscription was
too faded to read – Gwenhwyfar had made
enquiries,
but no one knew who the rider was. A Caesar
certainly, for he wore a
circlet of laurel around his head and looked a noble man, very wise. Too perfectly
beautiful to be
real. Arthur was more
rugged, with his long, straight nose, dark
eyes and slight-curled hair
that often looked as if it needed a comb tugged through it. The horse, though,
was glorious, a
well-bred animal of desert
stock, its quality made obvious by the
arched neck, concave face, small
pricked ears and high-arched tail. Gwenhwyfar could almost imagine the horse
leaping from the marble plinth and galloping off, across the square and out,
under the north gate ... ah, but she would like to
gallop,
escape with him! Where would
they go? South, to join Arthur?
Or west to the land of her birth? To
Gwynedd, where the
mountains would be green,
cloud-wraithed and beautiful?
There was nowhere of her own to go, no
home, no settled Hall
or stronghold. Arthur
had not had the time to find a good place,
to build, to establish
himself. Always, there was fighting, this incessant fighting!
Llacheu wanted to pat the horse, Enid lifted him. The square was filling now, traders setting up their stalls for the day,
shops
opening their shutters, the
smell of cooking from the inns
strong
in the air. People were starting their day, hurrying about
their tasks, shopping, business. A group of boys
swaggered past,
calling loudly to each other, their slates tucked beneath
their arms on their way to the school-tutor.

Gwenhwyfar
sighed, indicated they must rejoin her bodyguard, who had waited patiently in
the early-morning pale-
fringed sunshine for
their lady. She hated Lindum Colonia.
And,
on occasion, hated Arthur for leaving her here. She
reached up to touch the bronze muzzle of the
horse, and caught
her breath as something whistled past her ear, struck
the statue with a resounding thwack and fell to the ground. She moved away,
without fuss indicated her men ought to draw nearer. With dignity she left the
square and made her way back to the safe confines of the palace.

Enid
knew
there was something wrong, but then Enid knew
her
mistress well, and had also heard the thrown stone, had
seen it fall and
settle there on the worn paving.

§ III

‘Council will
not like it.’

‘I do not ask
for, nor want, Council’s opinion.’
Cei sighed;
three years as King, and already Arthur and his Council were squabbling like
dogs after the same bone.

‘
There are those,’ Cei tried again, ‘who say that to
spend
more than a week discussing
treaties of alliance with a defeated
enemy is not good judgement.’ Arthur,
mending a broken bridle strap, made no answering
comment. The hail that had sputtered on and off all day
drummed a tattoo on the roofing of the leather
tent and
bounced like tossed pebbles on the worn, hollowed patch of
mud-packed turf by the open entrance flap.