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‘
All? We’ll
be here into next summer!’ Gwenhwyfar laughed
with him — oh it was so good to see him, this boy she had known
during those distantly remembered days of exile in
Less Britain,
before she had Arthur for her own. Those had been dark,
sad days of loneliness for Gwenhwyfar. The boy Bedwyr, with his
spontaneous laughter and chatter had brought
sunshine into
the rainy days.

‘The fighting is over,’ she said, ‘Arthur is
making his way south.’ Did she sound a little too impatient?
It had been a long summer, waiting here at Caer
Luel. When
the snows began to creep
from the hills, the Artoriani had
saddled their horses and ridden north,
as Arthur had said.
Gwenhwyfar, swelling with
child, had turned south to this
better
protected place, Caer Luel, to wait: only to give birth to a
dead-born
boy, and then wait again with her grief, wait for A
rthur to send word that he was returning, frightened that
word
would come that he was never to come back.

And now Bedwyr was here,
and as when he was a boy, the sun
seemed
to have appeared from behind the storm clouds. Arthur
was
coming, she knew that, and the grieving and fear suddenly
lifted. Tucking her feet beneath her, Gwenhwyfar
settled
herself comfortably. ‘But
what of you? We had hoped you would
come to join with the Artoriani before
this.’ Bedwyr went to the door, took the tray that Nessa carried,
put it on a side table and began helping himself
to food. He had
his back to
Gwenhwyfar but she did not need to see his
expression, for the
bitterness in his voice was potent. ‘I could not come for I have been caring
for a saddened, ageing woman as she neared the ending of her days.’ He swung
around to her as she began to protest an answer.
‘Arthur should have come, Gwenhwyfar, when I wrote three years
past to tell him his mother was ill.’ He nodded
his head, lips set firm. It took her a twelve-month to die. I spent those
months in and out of a stinking sick room, where a grieving woman asked
every day to see her son! Not once did Arthur
care to come to her,
or even send
word. My brother came, once, when our King could
spare him, but not my
cousin. Not Arthur.’ Gwenhwyfar had no words to say. She had not known.

He turned again to the
food, piled bread and meat and
preserves on a
platter, strode to the chair and seated himself. Began to eat.

‘Arthur never told me.’ Gwenhwyfar stared
into the glow of the brazier. The charcoal was a warm red, a comforting,
comfortable colour. The news shocked her, the hearing of
Ygrainne’s death and that Arthur had never said.
But then,
they had been apart so
long, so often, separated by her own grief
... ‘He has been much
preoccupied these past years.’ It was an excuse, she knew, but what more could
she say? His mouth full, Bedwyr made no comment.

She tried, ‘He could not have come, even if
...’
Bedwyr interrupted, said candidly, ‘Even if he’d have wanted
to?’
Risking an apologetic smile, Gwenhwyfar stated the
truth. ‘Arthur had no love for his mother, nor she for him.’ Bolder, added, ‘For
Arthur, Ygrainne has never existed. I think,’ she dropped her hands to her lap,
sat examining her fingers. Her
sewing needle
had pricked the skin on one, leaving it rough and
sore. ‘I think he
never forgave her for abandoning him to Morgause.’
Chewing cold chicken, Bedwyr asked a question he had
never been
able to answer for himself. ‘Why was Morgause so cruel to him? She never harmed
Cei or myself.’

‘You and Cei had a father. Arthur did not.’
Standing up,
Gwenhwyfar went to fetch wine,
poured for herself and
Bedwyr. ‘And Uthr loved him, a boy who was
supposedly a
bastard born. For that,
Morgause taunted Arthur, and the
taunting
turned to a hating that has seethed beyond pro
portion.’

‘
Is
that why she was behind this war in the North?’

‘Partly.’
Bedwyr spread his hands,
laughed, breaking the melancholy
of serious
talk. ‘Well it is no more. Ygrainne is gone and so, we
hope, has her
sister Morgause. My father, Ectha, is well and is
content seeing to Arthur’s estate in Less Britain, and I have
been
travelling.’

‘
Travelling?’
Curious, Gwenhwyfar settled herself once again
on the wolf-skin, eager,
like a child, to hear a story.

‘
I had a
mind to see something of the Roman world before it
all disappeared under
the bloody swords of various barbarian pirates. With the duty to my aunt
relieved from me, I have followed my fancy a while.’ Then he told of ships and
strange beasts, of Italy and Rome.
Of the
Holy Land and Africa. Of a sun so hot it burnt your skin
through your clothes and plains of sand that went
on for ever. ‘I
have lain seasick in
wallowing ships, ridden on camels that
made me feel sicker and loved and
laughed with women more beautiful than Venus! I have seen and heard and smelt
the
wonders of the world —and almost gave
myself to God, when I
feared I had caught the pox.’
Gwenhwyfar cast an anxious glance at
him. ‘Pox?’
He laughed.
‘I awoke one night, my body a mass of itching sores —I was convinced I was
going to die. I vowed as I lay sweating in a fever that should I survive till
morning I would seek a vocation within the Church.’ Intrigued, she asked, ‘What
happened?’ -
Bedwyr guffawed. ‘I discovered
I had made my bed on some damned insects’ nest, who were rightfully angry at my
intrusion! I figured an act of my own stupidity did not warrant such drastic
penance,
and besides,’ his laughter increased, ‘I found a pretty
maid in the next village who was obliging enough to rub a
healing
salve on the bites.’ Gwenhwyfar crowed with delight, reached forward to slap
him playfully around the ear. ‘Ah Bedwyr. I ought
to berate you
for not coming earlier to us!’ She dropped serious. ‘We
have been in such sore need of laughter, Arthur and I.’
He flapped his hand, embarrassed, regretful. ‘I was angry with
Arthur,
but it was a childish anger, given from grief. Ygrainne
treated him as no mother should treat a son, but she had been good
to me. I owed her a time for grief.’ Then he
laughed again, ‘But I
am here now.
Travelling has lost its appeal and I have forgiven my
cousin.’ He winked. ‘Aside from that, my purse
grows empty. I
had to go somewhere, and now that I have escaped the
estate
where I was born and grew, I realise
that 1 do not much care for the
prospect of a lifetime of harvesting
grapes.’ Laughing with him, Gwenhwyfar took his hands in hers,
already the feeling of hope and promise that had
eluded her and
Arthur these past few tormented years was returning. When
Arthur came back all would get better. They would find somewhere of their own
to settle, and she would have another
son
... another son to replace the two little ones who lay cold
in their
graves.

‘
So what
have you a mind to do now?’ She forced the
brightness back. She was half
teasing, expecting some jested answer for return.

But he said, unexpected
in its seriousness, ‘I intend to see the
Wall.’
Gwenhwyfar drew a little apart from him. ‘What? You arrive
and then leave us again?’

‘
Na,’
he chided. ‘Not straight away, in a day or two.’ He leant
forward and tweaked a
strand of hair coming loose from her
braid. ‘I
need to meet your two boys first, and have a good sleep
and a bath!’ He
rose from the chair and wandered around the
small
room, touching a wall hanging, scenting a bowl of picked flowers. Smiling at
Nessa as she glanced up at his passing. And
bed a woman,
he
thought. Nessa smiled back, her cheeks tinged pink. She had read his thought.

The Wall?’ Gwenhwyfar queried. ‘There is little
to see save
mile upon mile of stone, broken
occasionally by a derelict fort.’
Nessa spoke, excited, eager to be
included in the conversa
tion. ‘What of the
Spirit, my lady? They say as how there is the
spirit of some poor soldier left pacing the rampart walk in
solitary
patrol.’

‘Nonsense, Nessa.’ Suddenly Bedwyr seized
Gwenhwyfar’s hand, pulled her to
her feet,
whirled her a few paces, his face alight with
enthusiasm. ‘How do we
know it is nonsense till we have discovered for ourselves?’ He danced her a few
more turns
around the chamber. ‘Come with
me! Let us find this spirit! Let
you and me ride together.’

‘I don’t think ...’ He stopped, held his arms
wide. ‘Oh come on! When you
were no more
than a girl in Less Britain we would ride on many a
brave-hearted
adventure together!’

‘
I am no
longer the young maid, and I have cantered through
enough adventures
beside my Lord husband, without starting a new one with his irresponsible young
cousin!’
He pouted, his lower lip poking
from beneath the upper.
Then he whirled to Nessa, hauled her to her
feet, danced her a few paces. ‘Nessa would come with me, wouldn’t you, lass?’
Breathless, the serving girl knew not how to
answer. Imploring,
she gazed at her
mistress. She had been given her manumission from slavery months back, but many
of the decisions that came
with freedom she still felt uncertain about
taking.

Shaking her head, Gwenhwyfar laughed,
surrendered to the tide of enthusiasm. Why not? Until Arthur returned, there
was nothing else to do at Caer Luel.

§ XLIX

They had ridden easy, taking pleasure in the
warmth of a late, drowsing summer that was reluctant to mature into autumn.
They slept in the shelter of crumbling forts; rode side by side,
pointing out birds in flight, a herd of running
deer, once, a wolf
sighted in the
distance, watching them in turn. Laughing
together; enjoying the sun and wild silence. They reached as far
as
the great fortress of Cilurnum, but discovering the bridge no longer spanned
the wide river, decided to pass the night in its
protection, then turn about and return to Caer Luel. Arthur
would, after all, be expected back soon,
Gwenhwyfar was
missing her boys, and the weather was changing.

Late afternoon they gave the horses their
heads, as blackening skies rumbled behind the first fall of rain. Blowing,
sides heaving, the animals galloped up the rise towards the next mile-castle.
It was a hastily made choice — ride back to the nearer, smaller turret, or
hasten on to the further, yet larger
mile-castle.
With the wind and rain coming at their backs,
there was no difficulty in
the decision.

Clattering through the gateway, their escort
of ten men dismounted hurriedly and ran with the animals to what little shelter
was provided by the remaining timbers of the stabling.
Thunder crashed overhead, moments after a vivid streak of
light
ripped across the black sky. Bedwyr was all for ushering Gwenhwyfar and Nessa
into the nearest intact building.

‘
Rest in here,’ he shouted, kicking the broken door aside
with
his foot. ‘I shall
help the men gather wood for a fire.’ Gwenhwyfar was indignant. ‘I am as
capable as you at collecting wood! Nessa, go inside, prepare what you can.’ She
gathered her sodden cloak tighter to her, pushed past Bedwyr and made for a
store-room abutting the height of the Wall. Roofed with turves, holes here and
there had been patched and mended, a recently hung animal skin covered the
doorway. Gwenlwyfar entered cautiously. Who had been here? Herds
man? Hunter? A trader? She ducked inside,
wrinkling her nose
at the mixture of fetid odours. Animal dung,
mustiness, stale
smoke — and something else?
Something she could not place. It
took some moments for her eyes to grow used to the
dimness; she waited, her hand resting on the door lintel. She could
see
now where a hearth-fire had been built and crossed
to it; the ash was quite cold. No wood, save for a few unburnt branches lying
around.
She gathered them and began pulling at the heap of bracken stacked in one
corner. It smelt none too pleasant, but would serve well enough for bedding
with a cloak thrown over it.

She was turning for the doorway when a sound
in the other corner alerted her. Rats? She listened, studying the heaped pile
of what appeared to be mildewed rags. Must have
been rats. As
she lifted the animal-skin over the doorway the sound came
again, a low moan.