Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (41 page)

Walking, stumbling, not caring where her feet
trod, she was
unaware of all but this
sudden ache of intense misery. The pain
of loss eases, but never quite
goes, is always there ready to return, unexpected, uninvited, at some potent
reminder. The mile-castle on the Wall fell behind, hidden by the swirl of mist
and rise of land, but Gwenhwyfar did not notice, did not care.

The chink of harness and thud of hooves might
have been
muffled by the rumbling of
thunder, the rhythmical patter of
rain. Whatever reason, she did not
hear. From nowhere, there before her, riding out of the mist came a host of
men. She stopped, bewildered and confused. Someone laughed.

‘What master are you escaped from then?’

‘
What
master would care to keep such ragged property?’

‘I wager she’d
look none so poor were we to strip her!’

‘It’s so long
since I’ve seen a woman, any maid would look well, stripped!’ Another voice, an
officer. ‘What is the disturbance? Good God! Lady Pendragon!’
Gwenhwyfar crumpled to her
knees.

‘
Gwenhwyfar?’
The familiar voice floated somewhere above
her in the darkness, came
again. ‘Gwenhwyfar?’ A hand patted
her
cheek, rubbed at her cold fingers. Her eyes flickered.
Opened. She
looked up into creased, worried eyes.

‘
Arthur?’
she croaked, not believing it was him. Her hand
felt for his body, rested against the thick, rain-wet leather of his
tunic.
‘Arthur? Is it you?’

‘Aye.’ He supported her shoulders and waist,
allowed her to lean against him. A multitude of questions were in his mind,
hammering to be answered. ‘What, in the name of Mithras, are
you doing out here alone, and in this sorry state?
If someone has
done harm to you I
shall stretch his neck as long as the Wall for
this!’ He was angry, she
could tell, more than angry.

... it is a long story.’ Gwenhwyfar scrabbled
to her feet,
clutching at her husband as
the world whirled in a dizzying spin.
When the mist cleared, she saw men
of the Artoriani clustered
around, their
faces grimed and weary from their march,
expressions concerned. She
looked down at herself, her skin, her clothes; touched the tangle of soaked,
matted hair. What
was she doing out here? Her
mind whirled in a rush of
confusion, as misted as these rain-sodden
hills.

A
rthur
caught at her arm, alarmed, pointed to her tunic.
‘This is blood!’
Vaguely, she looked at it. Blood? The blood of life come and gone. The blood of
death. He shook her. ‘What has happened, Cymraes? Tell me!’
Another voice, female, caused him to glare above
Gwenhwyfar’s
bowed head. ‘So this is your queen? Sa, I remember as a child she preferred the
appearance of a midden slave.’ Gwenhwyfar’s head ached, her temples throbbed,
forehead
pounded. Her neck felt as though
it were bound by iron. It took
great
effort to lift her head. Who was this woman? Why was she
riding with the
Artoriani? Nausea bubbled in her throat, the
moors
misted and swayed, swirling into hazy circles. She fought
the faintness
and became aware again of her appearance, of where, who, she was. She stared at
the woman cloaked in a hooded silver wolf-skin, and who despite the rain and
hardship
of riding with an army on the
march, appeared as having barely
a lock of her barley-corn, fair hair
out of place. Gwenhwyfar turned to her husband. ‘You did not hang her then.’ Morgause
tossed back her head and laughed, a sound that,
had it been a scent, would have smelled of sickly, sweet
perfume. ‘Hang
me? Arthur could never hang me!’ Lips pressed together, the Pendragon removed
his cloak,
swung it around Gwenhwyfar’s
shoulders. He ignored
Morgause, though
her tauts and comments were becoming
more
difficult by the day to endure. But she was right, he could
not hang her, or drown her or hack off her head ...
‘Re-form
the line of march,’ he
barked, propelling his wife, none so
gently, towards his stallion.

§ LI

Warmed with hot broth and dressed in dry clothing,
Gwenhwyfar silently suffered Nessa’s
more than vociferous
scolding.
‘We had no idea where to search for you. My poor
Lord Bedwyr has received such a tongue-lashing from the King
as
was never heard! We thought he would strike the lad!’
The comb in Nessa’s hand flew from her ingers as
Gwenhwyfar swung
sharply around, protesting, ‘Bedwyr has done no wrong in this!’ Nessa sniffed
loudly. ‘Lord Pendragon says the whole thing
was
a foolish venture. I am inclined to agree.’ She began
combing again,
none so gently.

Gwenhwyfar squirmed
around a second time, the comb
lodging
in a tangle. ‘Shame on you! Do you think I’ve not
noticed
who you’ve recently curled up with?’

‘
Tch!
Keep yourself still Lady, or I’ll be ripping your hair out!’
Added tartly, ‘I could as easily sleep with him
at Caer Luel, but
oh no, he had to entice you out here to these
rain-soaked hills!’ Gwenhwyfar stamped to her feet, tearing the comb from a
knot of hair and throwing it to the bed. ‘He did
not entice me! I
had as much of the decision.’

‘
Then you
acted with
as
much stupidity as he.’ Arthur entered
the tent, flinging his sodden cloak from his
shoulders as he came. The boy Gweir, as ever trotting behind, deftly retrieved
it. ‘By the
Bull, it’s wet out
there!’ Arthur went to the brazier, lifted one foot to rest it on a stool;
stood with arms folded and that familiar half-
squint to his eyes,
regarding his wife.

She returned his stare,
determined not to be the first to
glance away, unsure of
what he was thinking, or intending to
say,
aware she had been foolish – in all of it. But it had seemed
such a
lovely idea at the outset. He lifted one eyebrow higher, leant slight forward,
giving question. Waiting answer.

With a slight toss to her hair. ‘I was bored.
A ride along the Wall suited me well.’ As if that explained all! Arthur made no
comment. For a moment more he stood, rocking gently against the raised leg,
then suddenly, as if dismissing the thing, crossed to the bed pallet and lay
down, placing his arms behind his head.

Gweir hurried past
Gwenhwyfar and began removing
Arthur’s
muddied boots. Finished, he glanced shyly at his
Lord’s
wife and asked, ‘Can I fetch you anything, Lady?’
Answering for her, Arthur growled, ‘You can fetch a draught
of
wine, then get out.’ He shut his eyes, scratched at an itch on his nose and
pointed at Nessa. ‘Take her with you.’ Nessa bridled, about to make a retort.
Gwenhwyfar hastily
placed a hand on her arm. ‘I
need you no more this night,
Nessa, thank you.’

‘
And where,’ she replied sharply, ‘am I supposed to go? Do
I,
then,
sleep out in the rain, or share a blanket with one of them?’
She tossed her pert head in the
direction of the men’s tents. Arthur chuckled. ‘They’d like that!’
Gweir cast nervously
between master and mistress, unsure whether to speak, risked, his voice
quivering, ‘If you please, there is a place within Lady Morgause’s tent.’
Arthur stretched, yawned. ‘She has been
complaining that
the single hand-maid
I granted her was not sufficient. You
ought to be well received.’
Nessa
snorted. ‘I’d rather take the first offer!’ Gathering her
belongings she swept out after Gweir, saying
unnecessarily loud
‘Escort me to the
stores tent, I’ll make my bed there.’

‘
There is no need
to be so angry.’

‘
No?’ Arthur’s voice was
heavy with sarcasm as he answered Gwenhwyfar. In one fluid movement he rose
from the bed and
crossed to her, to grip
her arms roughly in his hands. ‘I find you
wandering alone in the middle
of nowhere, looking like a peasant-bred slut and you tell me not to be angry!’ Gwenhwyfar
dropped her eyes to the rush matting on the
floor,
bit her lip. ‘I meant with Nessa. None of this is her fault.’
Arthur strode across to the other side of the
tent, arms
waving, animated. ‘What if I had been an enemy? A missed band
of Lot’s rebels or some young, hot-headed Saex boys?
There are wolf-packs aplenty roaming these hills. Blood-inhell,
Gwenhwyfar!’ He raised his arms, hands spread. ‘You
could have been torn to pieces by either one of
them!’ He paced
around the small
confine of the tent in frustration. ‘Going off by
yourself was inexcusable; Bedwyr I’ve reprimanded
severely; I’m
ashamed of the both of you.’
Gwenhwyfar wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘He
is
not to blame. I insisted on staying with the girl. He was not
aware I had left the place.’ She twirled her
marriage ring around her finger, focusing on its flash of light as the gem
caught in the
dim reflection from the single lamp, trying hard not to
cry.

Arthur swung to face her,
‘Then he ought to have been
aware!’ He was
struggling to keep his intense anger in check, the whole foolish escapade was
so stupidly undertaken – so damned perilous. ‘I expected to return to Caer
Luel, find you there with a welcome befitting the Supreme King, not come
across you looking and smelling as some putrid
swine-maiden.’
He put his hand to his forehead, rubbed at the ache that
was
pounding behind his temples. ‘Mithras
knows what Morgause is
making of all this!’

‘
Oh, I
see!’ Gwenhwyfar’s head snapped up, eyes flashing as
many sparks as her ring. ‘Is that what bothers you?
What
Morgause thinks!’

‘Of course not!’ Arthur bellowed, his anger
intensifying.

‘Am I then a prisoner of yours?’ Gwenhwyfar
shouted back. ‘Must I stay where you send me? Am I not allowed to ride or
travel where I will? I was foolish to wander away
alone I admit,
but for the rest, I had adequate escort and this tract of
land is
now free of rebels or warring Saex,
as you well know, otherwise
you would never have ridden so far north.’
She was tired,
miserable, and in the wrong.
All three of which made her stamp
her
foot and declare, ‘I am a free woman first, then your wife. III
wanted
to leave this tent now, you could not stop me!’

‘Go on then, leave. Go, make your bed
elsewhere!’ Arthur strode to the tent opening, ripped it back, gestured
elaborately with his hand for her to leave. ‘Go find another runaway slave to
make a fool of yourself with!’

‘Gods, you disgust me!’ Furious, Gwenhwyfar
snatched up her cloak and flinging it around her shoulders stalked out, not
looking at him, staring straight ahead at the
dark crags that rose
opposite beyond the wooden palisade of the marching
camp.

Arthur thrust the flap
from his hand and threw himself on the
bed,
attempted to make himself comfortable, to sleep. Finding
her unexpectedly as he had, out here along the
Wall,
wandering and distraught, had frightened him. The fear had
materialised as anger, and anger was a thing
difficult to diffuse.

His heart was hammering,
head pounding and his hand
scratched
by some object, Gwenhwyfar’s comb. Stamping to his
feet, he returned to the opening. She was some yards
outside
the palisade, men
hovering inside the fence, uncertain,
agitated,
not knowing what to do.

Arthur ran to the wooden
posts, flung the comb at her
retreating
back. ‘Take your comb, you need something to
improve
your present state!’ It was a good throw, striking her shoulder before it fell.
Gwenhwyfar stooped for it almost as it
landed, spun around and
hurled it back. It fell short of the fence, lost
somewhere among the long grass. ‘Keep it. Give it to Morgause.’ She turned her
back on him, began striding away in the direction of the crags, heedless of the
cold drizzle.

Arthur swore. ‘Damn you Gwenhwyfar, what
makes you so
bloody obstinate?’ He went a
few steps, realised the discomfort
of
soaking grass on bare feet, cursed, swung back to his tent and
cursed
again as he searched for his boots. Pulling one on, he hopped, pulling on the
other, back out the flap, through the gateway and took off after her. Finally,
breathless, he caught her and grasped her arm, swinging her to a halt.