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Elen was pouting. ‘You could have left private word that you
are leaving on the morrow. I found out
from the servants.’

‘The right and
proper way for you to hear.’
They were entering a narrow way between fodder storage
tents, the grain kept rodent- and weatherproof in barrels raised from the
ground on wooden pallets. Stepping swiftly before Arthur, Elen blocked his
path, stood close, her breath sweet on
his
face, breasts brushing his chest. ‘Until this day, you have
not bothered
yourself with the right and proper way of things,
my Lord.’ She stretched up, kissing him sensuously on the
mouth,
her body pressing closer. He did not respond. Pouting, she pulled away. ‘Yesterday,
and for all the days before, you would have kissed me back.’
Arthur placed a hand on each of her arms,
attempting to
move her aside. ‘That was yesterday. Today I am busy.’ Elen
stood firm, irritation setting on her face. ‘Then shall I come to you tonight?
I need more of your,’ she fluttered her lashes, ‘tutoring.’
Arthur persisted, tried again to move past. ‘You
knew
enough before knowing me.’
Her
hand was creeping along the inside of his thigh. She said suggestively, ‘Any
fool can learn to read and write, my Lord, it
takes practice to do so
well.’
Smoothing her gown, running her hand
over breasts and
hips, Elen drew attention to her slim figure. That
would, to her discovered annoyance, soon be thickening. She dreaded the
prospect. Pregnant women always looked so ungainly
and ugly.
So old!

‘I have much to do, Elen. I’m sorry.’ Arthur
lifted her and swung her around, set her down on the narrow pathway behind him,
and strode on.

‘Not as son-y as you are going to be!’ Arthur
stopped short and turned back to her. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Telling you the facts.’ Her slit eyes and
pinched nose
corresponded with her venom,
looked every inch a snake about
to strike. ‘Our uncle is already angered
that you hold me as hostage, but he believes I have been kept safe. He will be
outraged when he learns of our bedding together.’

‘And is he, then, likely to learn of it?’
Arthur’s sarcasm gave
away nothing of his
anger, his voice was low and calm, eyes iron
hard. He stood very still.

‘When the child I bear becomes apparent, he
will.’ Then the Pendragon laughed, head tossed back, his collar-length slightly
curled brown hair ruffling with the movement.
‘Bull
of Mithras! You expect me to fall for that time-worn trick?’
Her dark
eyes blazed. Childishly she stamped her foot. ‘This is no trick! I carry your
child, Arthur. He will be born corn September.’
Elen stared, defiant, at the man before her. Arthur was in his
twenty-seventh
year, she, barely ten and six. These months
within
a military encampment could have been as a living death
to a girl who loved dancing and chatter and
clothes, the
frivolities of a noble-born young woman’s pampered life.
The
other women were soldiers’ wives – or
whores – the lower
classes, beneath her accustomed quality of
friendships. As the
King’s cousin she was
offered every honour, every courtesy, but
were she ever to try riding
her horse unescorted through the gateway, were she to climb out and over that
massive defence
work ... except, she had
not, because she was in love with
Arthur. Were the gates to be held wide
and her manumission given, she would not leave. Not while she had Arthur.

He was a rugged, handsome man, his expression
and temper
strikingly fierce, with a
passion for his men and horses, and for
the sharing of love, that
cavorted and soared with the needs of the day or night. His dark hair framed
wind- and sun-tanned
skin, heightening those
brown, all-seeing eyes. Their loving
had come about unexpectedly,
unplanned, a thing that had happened as naturally as the moon follows the sun.
She had been angry, confused – frightened – when the Pendragon had
refused to allow her to join their uncle. She had
raged, pleaded,
cried, not eaten, and then Arthur himself had come into
her allotted tent to speak with her. He had not intended to bed her, but she
had wept on his shoulder and begged to be set free. A young girl with only a
maidservant among the hostile environment of battle-hardened men and enduring
women. Arthur had given in, his point had been made to Ambrosius anyway. She
could go, he told her, had held her close with the intention of giving comfort,
nothing more.

That had been six months
past. A man who had a wife he had
not
seen since the last spring, who had lost her loving and care, and who grieved
for his sons, needed the tender touch of gentle hands, the heat and careless
breathlessness of love-making. But
while Arthur used Elen
to fill a need, she had loved him from that first night, and love can become
possessive for a girl too
young to know the
difference between that and physical
passion.

As a new spring approached she had begun to
suspect that Arthur’s mind was not as attentive as his body. He showed a
restlessness of spirit that, until this morning, had puzzled her. Now she
understood.

‘
You are
going to Gwenhwyfar, aren’t you?’ The scorn in her
voice was scalding.

Arthur had no
answer. With a shock of discovery, hesuddenly realised that he felt nothing for
this girl. Nothing, not even pity. It was as if he had been dwelling in some
timeless
faerie world of unreality. Elen
had been there, had not resisted,
so he had taken her. It was as simple
as that.

‘
I have not lied or deceived
you, Elen. You know I have a wife.’ She clenched her fists and pressed them
hard against her temples before holding her delicate hands imploringly out to
him. ‘I believed your honeyed words of endearment, believed you wanted and
needed me. I thought you would think enough of me to set her aside, to take me
with you as your new wife
when time came
for you to go.’ She lunged forward, clutched at
his arm. ‘You must take
me, Arthur, where else can I go if I am not yours?’
Arthur laughed at her absurdity, her naivety. ‘How can 1 take
you
with me?’ He laughed again, took her chin between his thumb and finger.
‘Where
would I take you? You would not fit well with army life on the march, my
bright-painted butterfly.’ Lamely, pleading, ‘Then where will I go? I have
nowhere unless I am with you.’
Arthur
jerked one shoulder, flapped his hands as if he did not
know, or care.
To where you were originally meant to go. Ambrosius was, after all, named as
your official guardian.’

‘
Uncle
Ambrosius?’ she squeaked. ‘I cannot go to him, I carry
your child!’

‘Mine?’ Arthur’s tone was heavy with sarcasm.

‘Our uncle assumes I am maiden pure,’ she
replied, defiant. ‘He assumes you have treated me with all honour. He will be
furious when he discovers what has happened.’

‘
You could
persuade him that yours is the second Virgin
birth,’ Arthur said
unkindly. ‘He’s holy enough to believe it.’
Arthur
did not follow the faith of a Christian, Elen knew, his was the soldier’s god,
Mithras, the slayer of the White Bull. But
even with that knowing, his blasphemy shocked her. She
covered
her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide with horror. Then her face crumpled into
tears.

The Pendragon felt a sudden impulse to laugh,
an imagined, lurid scene unfurling in his mind. The saintly uncle, so
passionate for his beliefs and ideals, so devoted
to his religion.
Arthur could see him on his knees before an altar –
with Elen,
the whoring niece, lying atop of
it, pleasuring any who cared to
sample her wares.

His amusement invoked a hurl of abuse. ‘You
seduced me, lured me to your bed with false promises. What could I do to resist
you, the great Pendragon?’

‘I seduced you! What? With those large eyes
of yours expressing a message as clear as a summer sky?’ He moved suddenly and
took sharp hold of her wrist, twisting it roughly. ‘You knew what you were
doing, Elen, you came easy to me.
Too easy.
Not for one moment do I suppose mine is the only bed
you have burrowed
into.’

‘
No!’ she
screamed, attempting to pull away. ‘That is a lie, an
outright lie!’ She snatched her hand free of his
grip and
attempted to rake his face
with her nails. He blocked the move,
held her at arm’s length, her
kicking feet striking harmlessly at the air between them.

‘
Ah, my
dear,’ Arthur let her go, she stumbled backwards,
fell against the tent.
He began to turn away. ‘If you play with a burning brand, you usually get your
fingers scorched.’ Panting, her hair escaping its carefully dressed style, Elen
sagged against the unsupportive leather of the tent. ‘You are disowning me,’
she gasped, as realisation finally became clear. ‘You are denying me and your
child!’ Arthur strolled away.

‘I intend to tell him!’ Elen shuffled to her
feet, hitched her skirts and ran a few helpless paces after Arthur. ‘I shall
tell our
uncle you raped me, he will believe
me because I am his loving,
innocent niece and you – you are a lying
bastard!’ Arthur ignored her, strode on.

‘
Arthur,’
she pleaded, sinking to her knees, genuine tears
now falling. ‘You
cannot do this to me! Take me with you as
your
mistress, your whore. I ask nothing more. Ambrosius will disown me when he
learns what we have done, when he knows
about the child!’
Arthur had reached the end of the
narrow way, swung left and out of sight.

§XXV

Nightfall. The men were ready to move at
first light. Never
content with the daily
routine of barrack life, whether within
an encampment or housed between
turf and stone walls, they celebrated the prospect of forthcoming action
enthusiastically with strong ale, fine wine, dancing and song.

A central mound of wood and furze blazed on
the parade
ground, with smaller fires
scattered like chicks around the
mother hen. Gathered to the blazing
warmth of their fires were
the nine hundred
men of Arthur’s élite Artoriani; with them
the spear-bearers, smiths, leather workers, the armourers,
medics,
unsung recruits and the three Centuries of permanent
infantry. Men laughing, exchanging tales or boasting of
conquest
in battle and bed, their breath clouding white against the chill of frost. The
roasted meat had been good. The drink even better.

Seated before the main
fire with the officers, Cei was sipping
his wine. This idea of a feast when about to move on had
become
tradition for the Cymry – the collective name for all
these men. A tradition he did not wholly approve of. He
signalled an officer’s attention, found he needed
to shout above
the excited noise. ‘Pass word there are to be no sore
heads on the morrow. Anyone unfit to march remains behind.’
The Decurion acknowledged the order, and glanced un
guarded
at the Pendragon, reddening as he realised Cei had
noticed. Cei’s lips tightened into a compressed line. Arthur was
already
well into his drink. How to keep the men sober when their commander swilled
more wine than Bacchus? Hastily, he crossed himself at the image of that
drunken, pagan god. He sighed and gestured impatiently. ‘See to the men, I
shall deal
with the officers.’ Not that he
could do much. Might as well ask
the tide not to turn as expect Arthur
to moderate his fill.

All the same, Cei hauled himself to his feet
and approached
his King and cousin. Arthur
glanced up at that moment and saw
Cei’s sombre approach.

‘
Hai!
Cei, come sit aside me. This will be a parting feast to remember!’
Cei
seated himself cross-legged next to Arthur as bidden. For
a while he watched the
leaping flames hungrily devouring
branches
and dried bracken, twisting and contorting in a
leaping dance of yellow, orange and red. The woodsmoke smelt
homely,
a reminder of a hearth-fire and a wife nursing her
children. His wife was among the women with their eight-
month daughter. It would be pleasant to live
beneath a solid
roof again, not under
the uncertain tremors of a leather tent,
but ah, a soldier’s life could never be settled. He would send his
wife
and child back to her father until his return. Arthur would
escort her, for her parents’ estate lay near
Gwynedd. Cei smiled
wistfully across
the dark space between this fire and the
women’s, watched her talking to
Elen. The girl seemed discontented, angered. Was she not happy then, at joining
her
uncle at last? Women were strange
fanciful creatures .. .
Arthur broke the reverie by nudging his
shoulder.