Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (24 page)

Taking another gulp of wine, Arthur passed
the skin to the
next man along, then
swivelled on his heel, stood facing Hueil.
He could have the making of a
good officer, this young cub, were it not for his arrogance. Pointedly, Arthur
made reply. ‘If
there is any need to answer
a challenge, I am capable of doing so
for myself.’ He took one step so
that his breath, cloud-misting in the cold air, spumed over Hueil’s face. ‘Though
I doubt any man here would have thought of anything untoward until you brought
it to mind.’ He turned away, descended the steps and, removing his own cloak,
covered the dead girl.

What had he wanted these past months? A
woman;
companionship? Warmth and loving, to
give as well as take. He
had not wanted this, not wanted to spoil a
young girl, end it for the both of them like this.

For the second time that
night he walked away from Elen. He
had been up on the
walkway, looking out into the dark. He too
had
seen that star fall. Only his mind had been elsewhere, to the north-west, away
up to where the mountains touched the
sky in Gwynedd, to Caer Arfon
where Gwenhwyfar had gone with his sons two months short of a year since.

He had not been aware of
Elen, only that fluster of
movement, the
scrabbling for a handhold. He had run but had
been
too late, as he had been too late into the water to save Amr. And if he did not
go to her soon, would be too late to
make peace with Gwenhwyfar.

And out of all
this, all this loneliness and needing, it was Gwenhwyfar he wanted.

§ XXVII

Gwenhwyfar was kneeling
on a ragged square of discarded
cloak, tending the
small patch of garden that she had cherished in childhood. Spring had come
early this year, the flowers blooming eagerly, with their bright, yellow heads
nodding a
welcome at the sun. Even the salt
tang of the sea, that had
roared and blustered through the long winter
with malicious
spite, smelt of the spring
and a promise of warmer days to come.

As she dug, turning over the soil ready for
sowing, she
hummed a lilting tune to
herself, the words trickling and
running silent in her mind. A robin
hopped bright-eyed at a discreet distance, stabbing at an easy-gathered meal
brought to the surface. Gwenhwyfar tossed him a particularly fat worm,
smiled as he gobbled the thing down and bobbed a
sort of thank
you in return. You knew
where you were with birds and
animals. Not with people or men. Husbands.

Her song was wistful, the words came to her
lips. When the
heart yearns for
love
and
the day burns for night. I will
come to
you,
once again.
We
will love, once again.
An empty song really, so mockingly hollow.

‘Hello, Cymraes.’ Gwenhwyfar gasped, her hand
flying to her mouth, stifling
the rise of a
startled scream. With the same movement, her head jerked round, up; the outline
of a man was shadowed
against the bright glare of the low spring sun.

‘
You look
well,’ he said, for want of something better to say,
‘but then, the
mountains have always agreed with you.’
She
replied with a shrug of one shoulder and raised her hand
to shield her
eyes. ‘The mountains are my home. I am content here.’
They said nothing for a while, neither knowing what to say or
how
to say it.

Plucking courage from
empty air, Gwenhwyfar said; ‘I assume
you
have come to see your sons. Llacheu is with my brother Dogmail, he is teaching
the boy to hunt.’ Almost added, That ought
to be
your
responsibility,
but instead, waved her hand in a
vague
direction. ‘I know not where Gwydre is gone, somewhere
around the Caer
getting underfoot I expect. Probably near the pig runs, he has taken a liking
to a runt born some days past.’
Nervous,
she was talking over-fast, the words gushing like water
spouting from a
cracked fountain.

‘I have seen him,’ Arthur said, uncertain,
his hands fiddling
with his sword pommel
for want of something better to do with
them. ‘He was at the stables. He
showed me his pony. A good
choice for him.’
Then, quicker, more eagerly, ‘Do you
remember
the pony you had as a child, Gwen?’ He was trying to
smile, finding it
difficult to control this wanting to take her in his arms, to kiss and hold
her, to never let her go. ‘Remember that moth-eaten bear-rug on legs?’ Playful
indignation. ‘He was not moth-eaten!’ A
rthur
laughed then, the skin around his eyes wrinkling with
amusement, his
body relaxing the tautness. He extended both hands, offering to help his wife
up from her knees. ‘As I recall,
that was
your answer when I said those same words once before!’
Gwenhwyfar
hesitated before taking his hands, placed her
fingers
with care against his. His palms felt cool, but the grip, as
he enclosed her hands in his own, firm, with the
strength of the
world in them. She smiled back at him, half remembering
that long-forgotten episode of childhood. Did I? Oh aye, I was so
angry I threw a bucket of water over you.’ She
laughed,
memories flooding.

He helped her stand, pulling her upward, and did
not let her
go immediately, but held on,
keeping her to him. She was slim,
her figure, even after child-bearing,
as slender and lithe as a willow. And beautiful. To Arthur Gwenhwyfar would
always
be beautiful. He was not laughing
with her. There was a pause.
‘I loved you then Gwenhwyfar, as I love you
now.’
She withdrew her hands from his, wiped
them down the front
of her old work clothes. Nervously licking her lips
she backed
away a pace, startled to realise
that she was trembling.
Indicating her
garden, attempting to change the subject, she
said, ‘I have been here
most of the afternoon, but seem to have got so little accomplished.’

‘The flowers have bloomed early this year.’
She glanced, surprised, at him. ‘You
notice flowers?’
Quiet.
‘I notice many things, Cymraes.’ He was looking at her, noticing how the light
touched the copper of her hair into
gold,
noticing the little lines of sadness that had etched
themselves to the corners of her eyes. How
^-
unhappy
those eyes
seemed.

Another long silence,
Gwenhwyfar shivered. Unfastening
his cloak Arthur swung
it around her shoulders. ‘You are cold.’

‘A cloud covers the sun, the shade is chilly
this time of year.’ He stood so near, hands resting gently, possessive, on her
shoulders. He smelt of horse and leather, the
faint aroma of
male sweat. Smelt as she remembered him.

His face was close to
hers. Her breath was quickening,
coming
in little gasps, her breasts rising and falling. She ducked
her head against the kiss. He ran a finger under her
chin, tilting
her head upward
again, holding it there, fixing her gold-
flecked,
green eyes with his own penetrating brown stare. That
touch, that one simple, thrilling touch, burnt into her skin,
setting
her heart leaping, her stomach knotting.

‘Arthur, I ...’

‘Na, Gwenhwyfar, no words. No more hard words
between us.’ He eased her to him, bent his head and kissed her, a light,
tender loving that barely brushed her lips. She
caught her
breath as he let her go
briefly to move his body closer. Then he
kissed her again, more insistent;
long and soft, with a passion that was being held in tight check.

Confused reaction whirled in her. She wanted
to pull away, to slap his face, to scream all the curses she knew at him. Why
then was she responding? Kissing him back? Why was
her body
taking aflame for him?
A
great weight hurtled at them, breaking the embrace.
Cursing, Arthur
staggered and attempting to keep his balance, let his wife go. With the support
of his arms abruptly removed
and the body of
the massive hound clamouring against her side,
Gwenhwyfar fell backwards. The young dog ecstatically
straddled
her, huge paws resting on her shoulders, whimpered delight.

Helplessly laughing,
she batted him away. ‘You great oaf!’ she
chided
fending off the dog’s tongue from washing her face and
ears. ‘Mind where you place those
bear-paws!’ Laughing. How
long since she
had last laughed? ‘Na, you great beast, do not nip
my ears!’ Laughed
louder as the pup playfully chewed at her dangling ear-rings.

Arthur was far from
amused. He gripped the dog’s collar and
hauled
the squirming animal away with a severe reprimand.

‘
Do not
scold him,’ Gwenhwyfar pleaded, ‘he’s only a pup, he
has not yet learnt
manners.’ Stroking the ecstatic dog’s broad head, her fingers moving to scratch
at a soft spot between his forelegs, she asked, ‘What is his name?’

‘
Cabal,’
Arthur growled.

A tall, muscular-built young man with short
mouse-brown hair and brown-tanned skin was running up, his expression a mixture
of anger and apprehension. Seeing the dog he spurted forward to grab the collar
with his large hands, as Arthur had
done,
profuse apologies spurring from his lips. ‘He broke away,
Sir. Damned
pup was in a frenzy to be with you!’ Arthur growled something that Gwenhwyfar
did not catch
above the noise of Cabal’s
struggling and whimpering to be free.
‘It is not fair to hold him back,
Arthur,’ Gwenhwyfar pleaded. ‘Let him greet us, then he will be satisfied.’
Scowling, Arthur jerked his head, giving this new
young
man permission to let the dog loose. Gratefully, Ider let go the
absurd creature and Cabal again bounded against his master’s leg as he brushed
past in his eagerness to reach Gwenhwyfar, sitting still on the pathway.

‘
Curse
you, dog!’ Arthur bellowed. ‘Will you never learn?’
Gwenhwyfar
hugged the hound to her, making a fuss of him.
Aye, you knew where you
were with animals. With his initial
enthusiasm
slackening, Cabal moved away from her and nosed
lovingly back at Arthur,
nudging his master’s hand. Grinning, Ider stepped forward to assist Gwenhwyfar
to her feet. Their eyes met as she smiled up at him and held.

The eldest son of a moderately wealthy wool
merchant, Ider had been expected to follow his father, to carry on the trade
when the time came. But he hated those stinking, oily fleeces; he wanted to
fight, to join with the Pendragon, to become one
of the Artoriani. His father had
forbidden the dream. So he hated his father too. His mother, proud of her
eldest son, had
secretly purchased a
battered sword and encouraged him to join
Eboracum’s militia. Both had
taken a beating for that. Two winters past, she had died. There was nothing
more for Ider to care for, not even his brother now. He had cared for no thing
and no one – until this moment, when his grey eyes met with the green sparkle
of Gwenhwyfar’s.

He felt a surging leap
deep inside him, something that was far
stronger than the love a mother gave, something warm in
the
pit of his stomach. She was beautiful,
Gwenhwyfar. Ider fell in love with her at that first exchange of smiling eyes.

Gwenhwyfar saw it,
recognised it. She took her eyes from
his,
began to brush ineffectually with her hands at her dusty skirts. ‘I do not know
you.’ Feeling flattered, flustered, she had to say something. ‘Are you new to
my husband’s service?’

‘
Aye, my
Lady.’ Ider had learnt a long time since, to hide
hurt and doubt by play-acting. By making
everything seem
larger than it really was the pain inside grew less. ‘I
am Ider, I brought word of attack upon Eboracum to the Pendragon.’ A grin of
pride spread across his square, firm, face.

Gwenhwyfar smiled warmly at him. She liked
him, a lad probably from home for the first time. ‘My husband must be impressed
with you if he trusts his dog to your keeping.’ She
meant her words, for Arthur was very possessive of his animals.
And
his family, when he had the time for them.

Ider swelled with a glow of pleasure and
pride at her praise.
‘He’s a grand dog,’ he
replied, still grinning. ‘I’ve always wanted
a dog, but my father wouldn’t
allow it.’