Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (38 page)

Movement at the door, footsteps beyond, the
latch lifting. Enniaun strode into the room. He saluted, indicated he wished to
speak privately.

Standing well aside from Lot, Arthur’s cheek
twitched as he
listened to his
brother-by-law’s news, strode back to stand close
before his captive.

‘So you do not believe me? Your infant
daughter has been
escorted into my care. It
seems, in the haste to flee with her Picti
friends, your wife forgot to look for her safety.’ Arthur hooked his
thumbs
through his baldric, stood rocking slightly from heel to toe, said mockingly, ‘I
assume she is your daughter?’
Lot
reddened in quick, hurt anger. ‘By the light, you
shall pay
for that insult to my wife!’ Arthur lifted his hands, let them
fall in a subtle, resigned
gesture. ‘It is
you who are about to pay for insults, Lot, not I.’ To
Enniaun he said, ‘Have
the girl killed.’
Lot
’s face drained from ash-grey to colourless
white. He was
walking a night terror
from which there was no hope of waking.
‘She is a child! You would not
murder an innocent child!’
Returning to his
stool, Arthur sat, wincing at the ache
running
down his arm, shuddering through his thigh. Old
wounds resented new battles. ‘You said yourself, she is
betrothed
to an enemy king. Through that marriage she could become a powerful enemy
herself. By implication, she carries
the
death penalty. Morgause would have known this well
enough when she
abandoned her to save her own skin.’

‘
Christ’s
blood, Pendragon, she is my daughter!’

‘Despatch the
child, Enniaun, but with speed and no pain.’ Enniaun nodded, drew his sword as
he left. Unpleasant, but necessary. War was unpleasant.

Lot
shuffled forward on his knees, tears flowing, voice
breaking, begged, ‘You cannot do this!’ Lost, defeated, broken,
his head hung, his chest heaving in sorrow, he
blurted, ‘What
do you wish from me
then, Pendragon?’ He looked up,
pleading. ‘Ask and it shall be yours.’
Arthur wanted many things, but one wanting soared
above
all others. Morgause.

He felt sudden pity for this man before him,
answered, with genuine sorrow, ‘I cannot spare her for those reasons I have
already said, and for the suspicion that she may
not be your
child, but a Picti-born daughter.’
Lot
bit his lip, choked.
There was no hope then. ‘For myself,’
he
gulped, ‘I ask nothing, do with me what you will. It is the
way things must be; but for my daughter I plead a
grave, do not
leave her for carrion
meat. She is a child, none of this her
doing.’ The guards moved forward,
took Lot from the chamber. It
would be done
immediately, his ending. Arthur heard his
pleading as the door shut,
begging this concession for one so small and innocent.

Arthur walked to the table, poured himself a
large goblet of
wine, drank it down in one
gulp. The door opened again,
closed, a light tread behind him,
Gwenhwyfar’s.

‘I heard,’ she said. She stood, her hands
clasped across the slight bulge that was widening her waist. ‘I have seen the
little girl also.’ Arthur made no reply.

Suddenly angry, Gwenhwyfar snapped, ‘I
realise she cannot be allowed to live – but what he asks ...’ Arthur swung
around, tears were watering his eyes. ‘I have sons, happen that one new in
there,’ he pointed at her belly, ‘is my daughter. Death must come, but well do
I understand the afterwards. She would have a burial, Gwenhwyfar, without the
need of an asking.’

§ XLVII

Morgause was desperate – would this poor-bred
hill pony not move any faster! Stupid creature, damn stupid men, why had they
not found her a better horse to ride! The pony, labouring from the forced pace
through this swirl of wind-crusted snow, stumbled, pitched his rider forward.
Morgause shrieked as she fell, toppling over its shaggy head and neck as the
animal sank to its knees in a drift of snow. It lay winded a moment before
scrambling to its feet, breath coming in gasps, head lowered, snow settling
along its mane and shaggy rump.

Several men ploughed their way to help
Morgause up, but angrily she shrugged them aside. There were but a handful of
them now; many they had left behind to die, more
than half not
surviving the last two nights. The wounded they had not
even bothered with. They would not have lived long in this cruel
weather anyway. Two miles to Din Eidyn, only two
more damn
miles! Remounting the pony, Morgause kicked it onwards, the
men
huddling about her as they struggled
through the drifting snow.
They must reach the coast, could not stop,
could not rest, for Arthur was not far behind. Every so often they could hear the
baying of his men between the howling of the
wind. The
Artoriani, mounted on better horses and with the courage and
elation of victory, would be upon them if they stopped – curse
all the gods and these poxed Picti cowards! Did
they not see that
they had to get her across the firth and to safety
before Arthur came! The Pendragon could not believe they had lost her. So
damned
close, so close to capturing the woman
and having an end to
her! He stood
at the water’s edge, thin ice rimming the shallows where wind-patted waves ran
against the snow-patterned rocks.
He kicked a loose stone, sent it
tumbling with a splash into the water of the Bodotria Firth. Lost her to a
damned fishing boat that was pulling strong for the far shore.

The dead pony lay in a crumpled heap, fifty
or so Picti men squatting, heads hung low in defeat beside it. With no more
boats to take them she had left them, abandoned
them to
Arthur’s mercy, taking only those few that could fit in safely
with her. Arthur watched as the boat progressed
further towards
the hills of the far side, hoping a squall of wind would
capsize the thing, but the men along these coasts were experienced
sailors, knew how to handle a craft, even in a
snow-pocked
wind as strong as this.

He could not see her
clearly now, for the craft was going fast before the wind, but she had been
close enough for her voice to
carry
when first the Artoriani had arrived. Close enough to
laugh
and mock him, to jeer that he had lost after all.

‘
I
warn
you, Pendragon, do not try
to follow me,
for if you
do I
shall call a curse upon you that you shall for all time regret!’

‘
I do not fear
you
witch-woman!’
he had called impotently from the shore.

‘Oh, but you
do,
Arthur, you do!’
He turned away, stared with dispassion at the
hunkered Picti.
Defeated men. It was
in his heart to let them go, poor bastards.
Hard enough to know the hurt of losing without being
abandoned to
the horrors of a victor’s mercy. They deserved better than this; although didn’t
they all? Arthur walked back over the rocks, mounted Onager. His
men were ready to do as they must, but he sat a
moment before
giving the order,
watching the boat that was so small now,
barely seen.

‘
You
come after me, Pendragon,
and I
shall curse
your
sons.
One
has
died, none
shall
live. I
shall see
to it,
Pendragon. If
you
come after me I
will
have
your
sons!’

‘
I’ll
be back for you Morgause,’ Arthur said to the grey,
white-spumed waves. He was afraid of her, afraid of her
mocking,
threatening words, but he was more afraid of letting
her stay loose. ‘Come the spring, I’ll be back.’ He looked at the
Picti men, haggard and cold, weary, pointed at two
of them, the
strongest looking, had them hauled to their feet.

‘You two I will not slay. You will be given
food and warm cloaks, allowed to go to your home.’ Arthur leant forward over
Onager’s neck, one arm resting along the chestnut’s
crest. ‘And
you will tell them, those people of Edda, that your lord
fell in
battle and that Lot and his daughter
were executed by my
orders.’ His narrowed eyes bored into the nearest
man, a man
with dark eyes and hair. ‘Tell
them that when the first buds
show
on the trees after the going of the snows, they will see my
Artoriani in Caledonia, and their hills will run
red from the
blood of every man,
woman and child that I find. I will do this, I
will burn and I will kill — but I promise this also, in the name of
the Dragon that is my banner, not one person
shall be harmed if
I am given Morgause. Not one warrior, not one
boy-child. The life of your people, your families, for one woman.’ He lifted a
single finger, held it a moment before raising his eyebrows, an expression to
emphasise that he meant every word. ‘To show this as truth, your men here will
be given honourable death.
There will be no
mutilation, no torture.’ He smiled a lazy,
superior smile. ‘It is
Morgause who treats brave and noble
warriors
with disrespect, not the Pendragon.’ And then he turned Onager and rode away,
south back to Trimontium.
Trying to
convince himself that he was not afraid of Morgause,
or her threatening
words.

September 463

§ XLVIII

‘
Lady, a young man is asking
to see you.’ Gwenhwyfar was sewing the delicate gold stitching of the
dragon’s eye on the new banner she had been working
these
past, long months. It was near finished, would be ready when
Arthur returned here to Caer Luel from the highlands of the north. She raised
her head from the intricate work, her fingers hesitating before making the next
stitch. ‘A messenger? From my Lord Pendragon?’ Bad news? Good? Her heart
thumped.

Nessa shook her head. ‘Na, my lady, he has
ridden from the south.’ Added with a twinkle of excitement, ‘He’s a handsome
lad, gives his name as Bedwyr ap Ectha.’
Hands
flying to her cheeks with a gasp of surprised pleasure,
the sewing quite
forgotten, Gwenhwyfar leapt to her feet and
ran
across the chamber as a man entered through the open door.
She squeaked
with delight, and laughing, flung herself into his
open arms. Bedwyr twirled her around as if she were a young girl
again,
hugged her, kissed her cheek.

‘How you have grown!’ she said with approval,
releasing herself from his embrace, but holding, still, to his hands. ‘Let
me look at you!’ She stepped back, smiling,
assessing the young
man. With a flop of dark hair, and eyes that sparked
a promise
of mischief, he was indeed
handsome! He was not quite
Arthur’s
tall height, nor as thickset as his elder brother, Cei,
who was broad built, with a bull neck and solid,
squared
features. Bedwyr’s chin was set as square as Cei’s, his eyes as
deep and dark, but he was altogether leaner, more
supple. If Cei
was the ox, then Bedwyr most certainly was the stag.

Taking his hand, and leading him to her own
comfortable chair, Gwenhwyfar exclaimed, ‘Why, I saw you last when you
were, oh, two and ten winters old!’ She calculated
quickly in
her mind, her eyes widening with disbelief. ‘That is eight
years past!’ She shook her head at the quick passing of years, kissed
him again on the cheek. ‘Oh it is good to see you
Bedwyr!’ She
withdrew her hands from
his, sat back on her heels, asked Nessa
to fetch wine and food.

The girl, standing by the door, remained
immobile, staring. Never had she seen a man so desirable!

‘Nessa!’ She visibly jumped at Gwenhwyfar’s
rebuke, scuttled from the room, raising her gown almost to her knees as she
ran, red-faced with embarrassment. Amused, Gwenhwyfar cast a reprimanding frown
at the young man. ‘I trust you will not have the same effect on all my serving
women!’

‘What effect?’ he asked innocently.

Kneeling on a wolf-skin beside him,
Gwenhwyfar playfully slapped his knee. ‘You have grown into a rogue Bedwyr ap
Ectha! I think you most certainly do not emulate your aunt’s piety!’ He
hesitated a heart beat moment before laughing, a warm, rich sound, rising from
deep within his chest. ‘Arthur’s mother had straight-faced ideals, they were
never mine!’ Quickly he
asked her
questions. ‘How is Arthur? How goes the campaign in
the North?’ He sat
forward to the edge of the chair, caught her
hand
again. ‘Tell me, I wish to know all the details. All of
them, mind!’