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‘You have ridden hard?’ Arthur asked,
concerned.

‘Aye, my Lord,’ the lad answered, swallowed
hard, found a sudden interest in the iron buckle of his baldric. ‘Things were
right bad when we left Eboracum.’ Arthur lifted an eyebrow. ‘We?’
The lad flung up his head, showing more than
tiredness
behind those grey, nervous eyes.

‘We?’ Arthur questioned again. He found he
had to look up
to this young man who towered
two hand-spans in height above
him – though Arthur himself was tall.

The young soldier cleared his throat. ‘They
gave us the best horses – three of us made a bolt for it. Only I got through.
The
Northmen took the others.’ His fingers
were still toying with
the buckle. ‘I’ve heard tell of what they do to
prisoners.’ He desperately wanted Arthur to deny those rumours of horrific
tortures. One of the two had been his younger brother. But the Pendragon
remained silent. There was no point in denying a
truth; instead, the king turned to pour wine, offered a brimming
goblet;
quality vintage, not the watered stuff of the ranks. The lad accepted it
eagerly and gulped the liquid down. It felt like fire in his throat and belly,
gave him some small amount of strength and courage.

‘
Go easy on that,’ Arthur said with a smile. ‘What’s your
name, boy?’

‘Ider, Sir.’

‘
So, Lot has attacked
Eboracum. Tell me what happened. Take your time.’
Ider hesitated, gathering his thoughts. Where to begin?
‘There
were thousands of them, Sir, come up out of the dawn
with the fog. Swarming all round the town, like a disturbed nest
of
ants.’ He spoke quickly, hands and arms animated, brow furrowed.

‘Have you seen action afore, lad?’ Cei asked.
Ider swivelled around to face him.

‘I was in battle last summer.’ He answered
too quickly, too boldly. Meeting Cei’s direct, questioning gaze he faltered and
glanced at the floor, looked up again, a
weak grin forming.
‘Well, a skirmish.’
Arthur
laughed. ‘Even the smallest skirmish can make you to
piss your bracae!’
Ider grinned, found himself liking the Pendragon.
There was
much derisive talk of Arthur in Eboracum. Ider found himself
glad that he had refused to believe it. A grin flushed across his
grimed face. ‘I’m not certain whether I was more
scared of those
bastard Northmen, or
of having to come in here to talk with
you!’ Arthur peered at Ider
through his usual expression of half-
shut
eye and raised eyebrow. ‘You still scared of me then, boy?’
Embarrassed,
Ider made no answer. The tales you hear are, for the most part rumours spread
by my enemies,’ Arthur explained. ‘And some of them I foster to suit my
purpose.’ He
said no more, what would this
raw lad understand of the power
struggle between himself, the Church and
Ambrosius?

‘
So
what happened?’ Cei prompted the silence.

Ider answered that one eagerly enough. ‘Several
families
from outlying settlements fled into
town saying there were
raiders coming down from beyond the Wall.’ He
snorted contemptuously. ‘Those Northern bastards have raided many
times. Steal a few head of cattle, take some
women; burn folk’s
homes and fields then slither back to the midden they
come
from.’ He shrugged, and warming to his tale, plunged on. ‘A
few of them
approached close to Eboracum last summer, but the
militia was called up and me and the
lads swung out to meet them.’
He paused. Putting it like that made it sound as if the
thing
was boldly organised, a
well-disciplined troop ready for action.
Not the shambles it had been in
reality. ‘We fought as well we could,’ he lied. ‘We killed most of them.’ Well,
one or two. ‘I caught one bastard a blow to the jaw that sent it clean through
the back of his skull.’ That was not quite true either. He had
struck blindly out and sent someone sprawling
backwards into a
dung-pat. Briefly,
it bothered Ider that Arthur would see
through the gross exaggeration –
but the truth was not glorious enough. How could he tell the poxed reality to
this man? Ider always made everything bigger than it was, the habit a part of
him. ‘They ran, those that could run. Couldn’t face up to us!’
Now that was nearer fact. The raiders had run, but
only because
the heavens had opened in
a drenching thunderstorm and
scared
the wits out of both sides. ‘Eboracum had no more
trouble until now.’
That last was truth at least.

Ider rubbed his neck.
His body was stiff and sore from days of
riding at a fast pace. He trundled on with his report. ‘A
week or
so back, we saw the
smoke, black smoke on the horizon, curling
up
into the sky. Raids are a part of living so close to the Wall. Most folk insist
on keeping to their farms, know that risk and accept it.’

‘So what happened that was different this
year?’ Arthur prodded carefully for information, aware that the lad’s exag
geration was a deception to hide the stark fear.
Arthur had
noted how his hands were trembling.

‘Those folk fleeing into Eboracum – Saex folk
as well as British – spoke of a great army approaching down over the
northern moors. That bastard whore-son Lot. He has joined
with the blue-painted people.’
Arthur
raised his eyes from the intent scrutiny of Ider,
squinted at Cei. The
Picti? With Lot? Slowly he sucked in his breath, released it as slowly. How in
the Bull’s name had Morgause managed that? Cei’s returned look was as
meaningful. Why in all the names of the gods had
they not
heard of this? What had happened to their paid spies, the lines
of communication so carefully set up between the North and South? Damn them all
to hell, Arthur had received not a single word of Morgause allying with the
Picti!
Things had been quiet these past
months. Last winter, and
the one before that, had been hard throughout
the country,
particularly in the North, and
then Morgause had been busy
with a girl-child, and that was all he had
heard, nothing more. Mithras! joined with the Picti! Ider reached forward,
grasped Arthur’s wrist, his large hand
gripping
tight, clutching, as if he needed to cling to some
tangible reality. ‘We
laughed, said it was only another raiding party.’ Quietly he added, ‘It wasn’t.’
Earlier, Arthur had said he was jesting by considering the
possibility of ignoring Ambrosius’s plea.
Eboracum had refused to pay any tribute to the Pendragon these past years, had
solidly
gone its own way. A sense of revenge was urging Arthur to let
his uncle and those pompous men of Council drown in
their
own muck. But he could not do that. Not if Lot were allied to the
Picti.

Who was it who said he
would never resist the call to battle?
Ah,
Gwenhwyfar. She had said that to him, some time, some place; Arthur could not
remember where or when. He turned
away from
Cei and lder, walked slowly across the tent, lifted the
flap, stared out
across the trampled grass of the ground before his command tent. Opposite, the
standards were placed in a
cluster of proud
brilliance. Red Turma’s flag, Blue’s, Green’s
... his own dragon, the
tubular shape stirring slightly in a light breeze. Gwenhwyfar.

There was an ache inside him, like the
throbbing, persistent
moan of an unhealed
wound. A raw, empty pain that would
not, would not, ease. It was ten
months now. Ten long months had they been parted, since Amr had drowned.

Beyond the standards stretched lines of
tents, eight men to a tent. And beyond those, rising to meet the grey-blue of
the afternoon sky, the great ditch and embankment Arthur had ordered built. The
defined border between his land and Ambrosius’s. He observed the man on watch;
the unhurried
surveillance of a designated
quarter of one mile guard, Arthur’s
eyes
following as the man turned, walked back along this side of
the high,
imposing palisade that topped the great turf bank
towering over the ditch on the far side. How many had
Morgause
harnessed? Hundreds on the rampage? Thousands? Was the entire North about to go
up in flames?
Morgause, youngest sister to
his own mother, and his father’s
whore. Morgause, a woman who created
power through the
infliction of fear and
pain. The only living person the
Pendragon
feared. For years he had borne her cruelties,
enduring a childhood of hidden tears and silent-suffered
hurting.
And then he had discovered his true identity, and lost the man he had loved
within the same knowing. Uthr had been
his
father, and the boy had not known it. Neither had
Morgause. She had held
plans of her own: to bear Uthr a son and become his queen when he defeated
Vortigern. Only
Vortigern had slain Uthr
and Uthr already had a son. Morgause
would never forgive the boy for
being Uthr’s cub. And Arthur could never forgive Morgause her evil.

Again the Pendragon
scanned the defensive structure that
sat
guard over Ambrosius’s territory. His uncle was an idealistic
fool
but no more than that. A fool with a dream. Were they not all fools where there
was a dream to follow? He had cherished his own dreams when he was a boy,
raw-spirited and with the world seemingly at his command. That summer when he
had become Pendragon was the last he had seen of Morgause. He had been in
Gwynedd with Cunedda. And Gwenhwyfar.

Gwenhwyfar.

He swung round,
decision made. It was time old wounds were
healed
— before the bitch Morgause inflicted new ones. The Artoriani will ride direct
to Eboracum under your command,
Cei.’ He
crossed to a tent pole, took down his baldric and sword
from where they
hung, began to buckle them on. ‘Though I
doubt
there is anything you can do for them now, save bury the
dead. I’ll meet
up with you as soon as I can.’ Cei opened his arms, puzzled. ‘Why, where are
you going?’ Arthur was leaving the tent, he whistled the pup who came instantly
awake and bounded, tail and rear end wagging, to his side. ‘Gwynedd.’ Blustering,
Cei rushed a few paces after him. ‘Gwynedd? What in God’s name for?’
Arthur’s long, energetic strides had taken him
beyond the
tent, he stopped, retraced his steps, met Cei’s exasperated
expression. ‘There are men in Gwynedd who know
more of
those northern hunting runs than Lot ever will.’ He nodded at
Ider. ‘You have done well, lad. There may be a place for you within the
Artoriani soon enough. We will see how you make out.’ And he was gone.

Ider swelled with pride. The Artoriani! Was
that possible?
He thrust the suggestion
aside, he would never be good enough,
Arthur took only the best for his
Artoriani. ‘I heard,’ he said to Cei, ‘that Lady Gwenhwyfar’s been in Gwynedd
some months now.’ He dropped the words casually into the ensuing silence. Cei
answered absently. ‘Aye, she has.’

‘I heard, too, that things are not so good
between them, that they parted with harsh words.’ Lad,’ Cei snapped, striding
away from the tent, ‘your ears hear too much and your mouth flaps too wide.’

§ XXIV

Arthur was assisting with the final
assessment of horses. Although each mount was thoroughly checked morning and
evening for injury and lameness, the Pendragon
insisted on
extra examination before
a march. He straightened from feeling
the heat in a young stallion’s
swollen fetlock, and found Elen standing waiting patiently before him. She was
an attractive
young thing, dark-haired and
dark-eyed. She was also his
cousin, last-born daughter to Uthr’s sister
and Ambrosius Aurelianus’s niece. Arthur’s guest: a polite term for hostage.

‘
I
understand we are leaving,’ she said. ‘To where do we go?’
Arthur nodded to the cavalryman holding the horse,
indicating he might be led away. ‘Stand him a while in the
river, cold water may bring the swelling down,
though he’ll not
be fit to work for
some days.’ He rested his left hand on his sword
pommel, answered her with a curt, ‘I go north.’ He began
walking in the direction of the hospital tent.
There were always
a few men loitering there, he needed to see how many
had genuine illness or injury.

Tossing her proud little head, Elen fell into
step beside him. Her fingers brushed and caught his, drawing his hand
secretively into the folds of her skirt. ‘And I? Where do I go?’ Her voice
rippled as smooth as fine, eastern silk.

Arthur saw no reason to
make an answer. Elen had come into
his keeping by an
accidental miscalculation – a mistake he had quickly exploited. Her mother had
died, she was to pass into
Ambrosius’s
wardship until marriage – unfortunate that she had
ridden through Arthur’s territory to reach him.
Arthur, as son
to the eldest brother, was legally head of the family,
not Ambrosius, had decided to exercise his rights and control the
wardship himself. His uncle had been furious, but
then, that
was the intention.