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‘
And does
this sudden preference,’ Arthur asked, prodding
his cushion into a more comfortable shape, ‘extend to accepting
the
title of king?’
Ambrosius folded his cloak
across his knees, answered with a
broad grin, ‘One thing at a time,
Pendragon, one turnabout at a time.’
Cerdic
watched little of the play, engrossed as he was in
studying the man seated in the centre rows, where
the
important men were. So, this was his father, Arthur, the great
Pendragon. He was disappointed. He had expected a large man with bulging
muscles, haughty eyes, proud carriage, perhaps wearing armour, most definitely
decked in jewels. The Arch
bishop Patricius,
God rest his soul, had seemed more regal than
the man sitting over
there, laughing and clapping and entering
the
full spirit of this comic play. A king, a supreme king such as his father
called himself, should surely behave moderately, with dignity and grace, not
storm to his feet shouting and laughing in
common with the audience? And Cerdic had expected his
father to be handsome, but his nose was large, his
hair in need of
cutting and combing,
and wanting a shave too. All the man had
were a few rings, a gold torque around his throat and two
ordinary
cloak pins. A king ought to dress like a king, behave like a king.

Cerdic would, for certain, when he became
king.

February
464

§ LVI

Llacheu and Gwydre had placed themselves to
the side of Caer
Luel’s banqueting hall,
close to the back, where the flickering
of hearth-fire and lamp shadow, with luck, allowed two boys to
pass unnoticed. Llacheu squatted, sharing his dish
of boiled
eggs with his brother.
Gwydre was grinning, his mouth and
chin
splotched with dribbled egg-yolk, his wooden spoon
dipping industriously
into the delicious sauce of ground pine kernels, pepper and lovage mixed with
honey and vinegar. The boys cared little for the recipe, all they knew was that
it tasted good.

The hall was full to bursting with invited
men and women of the Caer and officers and selected men of the Artoriani. They
squashed along benches, elbowing for room, hands
reaching
and scrabbling for food, the dishes passing the length of the
trestle tables, wine and ale flowing from jug to
tankard to
mouth. Above it all, the ululation of voices; talking,
laughing, exchanging jest or friendly disagreement. A busy enjoyment of
merry-making.

Llacheu nudged his
younger brother’s arm, nodded at the
high
table, said, his mouth full, spluttering sauce, ‘See the
harper seated next to Da? Mam said how he is the best in
all our
world.’ Gwydre licked sticky fingers,
said with fierce loyalty, ‘Our main sings pretty.’
Scathing, Llacheu retorted, ‘Of course she does, but you
need a
real harper for the Warrior’s Hall.’ Gwydre shrugged good natured and wiped his
fingers round the bowl to scrape the last residue. ‘Happen so, but Mam still
sings pretty.’ He looked hopefully towards the nearest over
crowded table, his eyes roaming greedily over the
many dishes.
The pasties looked exceptionally good.

A woman servant bustled past, her cheeks
puffing red from the heat of so many packed into one room, and all the to and
fro-ing. From the corner of her eye she noticed the
boys
hunkered in their corner and
stopped, retracing her steps to
stand before them. They stared anxiously
up at her glowering expression, Llacheu risking an impudent grin.

‘What be you two doing ‘ere?’ she asked
sharply, her face furrowing into creases of suspicion. ‘Your mam know you be ‘ere?’
Llacheu nodded furiously, figuring a nod was
not so damning
as a verbal lie.

The woman’s frown cracked
deeper. Gwydre’s mop of
chestnut hair flopped
over his hazel eyes, he brushed it back, leaving a trace of kernel sauce across
his forehead. Eagerly he said, ‘This is a special feast for our da, we are
leaving the Caer
on the morrow.’ His lips pouted
as he glanced down at the
empty bowl resting in his lap. ‘We’re never
allowed to join in the fun.’ Again he looked up, an engaging smile swamping his
chubby, very dirty, face. Gwydre was an
endearing boy, he had
the knack of smiling so that whoever scolded found
it difficult
to retain their ill-temper. It
worked especially well on his
mother, but was not so effective on Enid.
Innocently he asked,
‘I’m in my seventh year
now though, and my brother’s two years
older, so why is that, do you
think?’ The woman had birthed five boys, grown now and gone to
homesteadings of their own. She knew well the ways
and
pleasures of youngsters — and
aside, did she really have the time
to chase these two imps from the
place? The next course was already being shouted for and those empty tankards
would go clean through the table boards if they were thumped any the harder.
She fought a desire to laugh at Gwydre, kept her face stern. ‘Just you stay
there then. Don’t you dare let me catch you
getting
under our feet!’ The boys nodded vigorously. ‘You may
as well have this
then,’ she added, placing the last meat pastie
from her tray onto Gwydre’s dish. ‘Happen I’ll bring you
something
else later — no promises mind.’ And she was gone, chiding the men at the
nearest table for being so impatient.

Arthur was in high spirits, almost content.
His return a few
weeks past had heralded a
sudden change in what had otherwise
been
a mild winter. Snow had blasted down from the north
east, whirling in a blizzard that had lasted for
two days, leaving
the land from coast to distant hills buried under a
white mantle
that came up to a man’s waist.
With a change of wind, the
weather had
improved, but a cold frost had locked the snow-
melt into sheets of ice that had only begun to thaw these last few
days with the return of a welcome, if somewhat
erratic,
sunshine. And now, too, Arthur intended to leave, much to
Gwenhwyfar’s relief. Caer Luel had outlasted its welcome.

‘Now that Ambrosius seems to be reaching
sensible conclu
sions,’ Arthur said, helping
himself to slices of roast swan, ‘I can
take time to sort our family life.’ He piled meat onto Gwenhwyfar’s
platter.
‘We ought to search for a Caer of our own.’ He stuffed meat into his mouth,
chewed a moment, swallowed, adding,
‘Somewhere
distant enough from my uncle so as not to ride in each
other’s saddle,
but near enough to remind him of my presence.’
About to say more, he stopped as a shouted curse, carrying clear
above
the noise of talk and laughter, sent a flutter of unease scuttling the length
of the Hall. Two men were leaping to their feet, fists bunched, voices raised.

‘What now?’ Arthur grumbled. ‘Surely they
have not over-
drunk already?’ He signalled
to a senior officer to investigate the
disturbance, but like the rush of
fire among dry tinder, the
argument was
already escalating. More men were rising,
benches were being knocked, a
scuffle began. One man, arms flailing, went down and uproar burst through the
Hall. Others
were springing up, tables
tipped, scattering dishes and food and
wine. Dogs began to bark,
joyfully leaping to devour the unexpected feast scattered to the tessellated
floor. A servant screamed.

Arthur hurled from his seat, bellowing for
peace. Angry, joined by several officers, he stormed the distance between his
own table and the fight, wading into the group of
excited young men pushing and shoving at each other. His hand clamped on a
tunic collar and he brought Bedwyr, fists swinging, face red, to
his
feet. Another officer hauled at a second lad, Ider.

On the floor,
glowering and attempting to stem a bloodied nose, sprawled Hueil.

‘
I will
have no fighting in my presence!’ Arthur did not shout,
his wrath was obvious
without the need of a raised voice. His eyes, narrowed in fierce authority,
swept from one offender to
the other. ‘If you
have a grievance then settle it in private,
outside!’

‘He spreads insults against my Lady
Gwenhwyfar like muck over a farm field!’ Ider blurted, furious, pointing an
accusing finger at Hueil.

Bedwyr trod heavily on his foot. ‘Hush, you
fool!’ Ider reddened, but it was too late, the words were out.

A
rthur
released Bedwyr, his grasping fingers slowly un
curling, extended his
hand low for Hueil to take, hauled the stocky young man to his feet.

In his one and twenty summers, Hueil had
gathered enough grievance to his shoulders for a man twice that age. Arthur had
seen his potential, a promising young
officer whose strengths of
determination,
ability and natural empathy with a horse were all
qualities needed for
the Artoriani. But Hueil had scoured, his ambition turning to bitterness. The
Pendragon tolerated his
arrogance because
there was just reason behind that sourness, but
he was disappointed in the lad, knew the time would soon come to
find
some excuse to be rid of him. For a young man, eager and
capable in a fight, it must gall like ill-fitting
harness to a plough
team to have a father who refused to see the
creeping danger of
settlers encroaching his
land. A Godly man, Hueil’s father Caw
trusted
in the Lord for deliverance. Hueil, sensibly in Arthur’s eye,
placed his trust more to a sword’s edge. It was
plain evident that
unless the father
took to defence soon, his land would be swamped
by Scotti settlers and
Hued would be left with next to naught
when
the time came to step into Caw’s boots. Arthur remembered
well the years
of frustration serving under Vortigern, years of waiting for the right
opportunity to take what he wanted, and
because
he remembered, had sympathised with this other young
m
an. But Hueil had not the forbearance that Arthur
had shown.
His was a gnawing
impatience, extending into manifold
grievances and quick anger. Arthur
wondered for how much
longer the lad would
wait on his father. Until an opportune excuse
to forcibly take his
birthright presented itself? Experience, and a shrewd ability to judge a man’s
character, showed the Pendragon that one so quick to draw a blade and
slow to concede defeat could now prove dangerous.
Hueil’s was
always one of the strongest voices when swearing loyalty,
his
was the most savage of swords in battle.
Yet for all that, and the
understanding behind the reasons, Arthur
mistrusted him, and
this winter at Caer
Luel had strengthened those minor, niggling
suspicions into firm fact.
Arthur knew of Hueil’s bedding with Morgause. He liked it not, but was astute
enough to reckon it
easier to watch someone
already being watched. As things
stood, Hueil posed only a small threat
for he had few friends. Aside, Arthur wagered, if he gave Morgause enough rope,
happen she would fashion her own noose. If it were Hueil who was foolish enough
to provide her with it then that was his misfortune.

That Morgause was in
some way responsible for this quarrel,
Arthur
had no doubt – the woman was behind every disagreement, every grumble and sour
word. By right, she ought not to be feasting in this hall, but as his ‘guest’
how could she not attend? By right, she should be dead, alongside her British
husband and Picti lover! But those Eastern Picti of Caledonia
were not quite as settled as Arthur liked to make
out, and while
they alone would not have the men for many a season to go
against him again, he could not give cause
for the tribal clans to
unite.
Hanging a priestess of the Mother Goddess might just
give them cause to pitch their spears together and
what
Morgause and Lot had failed to accomplish he could achieve
with one hanging – an achievement he would rather
not aim
for. Aye well, that was his
excuse. He knew it went deeper than
that.

‘
You
could never execute me,
Arthur,’ she had said as the Picti
had handed her over into his care – his care mark
you, they had
made it quite clear that she was not to be harmed. ‘I
belonged
to
your father,
you
would never
willingly destroy something that
he had
loved.’
A
rthur glanced at her, sitting three places from
Gwenhwyfar,
calmly eating, dressed in fine, bright-dyed silk. She was a beautiful woman,
Morgause. Nearing her late
thirties, still with the figure and
looks of a girl. Some of it was painted beauty, those heavily lined eyes of
kohl and the lead
and chalk powder to the
face, but Morgause would always be as
a
Venus, drawing men around her as moths to the flame.
Batting their wings
against the heat, only to fall scorched and broken. He ought to make an end of
her, toss her over the battlements, leave her for the wolves or pitch her,
bound hand and foot, into the peat bogs. But he could not. He could not in cold
blood murder her –Arthur had a shrewd realisation that in
death, Morgause would haunt him more potently than
when
she was alive and under his constant watch. Aside all that, it
brought him some small, pleasurable revenge
knowing that she
feared his intentions, even if that pleasure was
personal and probably most unwise. He held the leash secured tight around
her pretty, swan-white neck and he could pull that
noose
tighter, when and where he
wanted. Except he could not
admit,
even to himself, that to tighten that noose fully would be
impossible.