Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (45 page)

‘
What is
all this?’ Arthur snapped, taking his eyes and
thoughts
from Morgause. ‘If you have a thing to say, Hueil,
then say it openly. To me.’
Hueil’s frustration was running deeper than
ever it had
before. Frustration with what lay before his nose; at his
many
brothers who were as blinded as his
father; and impatience with Arthur who gave him as little regard as did his
father. For three
long years had Hueil
served the Pendragon with courage,
strength and loyalty. What had been
his reward? Naught. Still he was a minor officer, nor had he been awarded
personal triumph. Why was he not yet Decurion? Why did Arthur not
show him the respect he gave to others – to
Bedwyr for instance,
this new
untried boy? Hueil was thrown only the picked bones,
while Bedwyr
received the flesh from the carcass.

‘
Well?’
Arthur folded his arms, stood calm. Deceptively
calm.

Glowering, Hueil wiped the back of his hand
at the drip of
blood coming from his nose,
smearing it across his upper lip and
cheek. Squarely he met Arthur’s
gaze. ‘I said naught of consequence.’ Bedwyr sprang forward, fists clenched. ‘Naught
of conse
quence! By God you cur’s whelp; you
insult Lady Gwenhwyfar’s
honour and then say ‘tis naught of consequence!
I shall have your tongue and manhood for this!’ Nostrils flared, eyes wide, he
raised his dagger, ready to strike. Arthur reacted with skill and speed,
knocking the blade from Bedwyr’s fist, sending the lad sprawling.

‘
I will
have no killing!’ the Pendragon hissed through
clamped teeth. Breathing
hard through exertion and anger, he turned on his heel and asked again of
Hueil, ‘What causes this disturbance?’ Hueil realised, too late, that his
tongue had run away with
words that would
have been better left unsaid. Lowering
clenched fists, he made a step
away from Arthur, offering
submission. ‘I
uttered some fool remark.’ He faked a laugh. ‘My
senses are awash with
your fine wine.’

‘
To that I
agree,’ Arthur replied drily, ‘yet still I wish to know
what it was you
said.’
Hueil lifted his head, tilting his
chin into his familiar
arrogant angle. ‘I urge you to leave it my Lord.
I spoke out of
turn. Let it rest at that.’
Were he a king in his own right, no
man
could have argued at that, no man, not even the
Pendragon, would have dared give him the look Arthur was
now
giving him.

There followed several moments of uneasy
silence. Hueil glowered, there was no getting out of this. All right then,
since Arthur forced him to speak, he would say what he had to say
plainly. ‘I asked Bedwyr how he spends his leisure
now that you are
returned. Now that
he can no longer visit your wife’s chamber of
an evening.’ Silence was rapidly falling around the Hall. All heard
Hueil
say, ‘I remarked that he had spent so much time in her
private company while you were away, that he could now, surely,
wield
a spindle with better dexterity than his sword.’ There were a few titters of
laughter from those of the Caer,
not from
Arthur’s men. Gwenhwyfar sat silent, her heart
beating fast as a
stampeding herd of horse. Arthur tolerated
Hueil,
she did not. She disliked his arrogance, disliked more his
intimate
association with Morgause.

Bedwyr had scrambled to his feet, hot coals
of rage burning his cheeks, knuckles white on clenched fists. His answer stung
like an irate wasp. ‘My friendship is no secret.
I am often in the
King and Lady Pendragon’s shared company.’
Hueil sniggered. ‘It is not your visits when my
Lord
Pendragon is in residence that I question, but those when he is
not.’ Llacheu and Gwydre huddled deeper into their concealing shadow, the
younger boy clutching at his elder brother’s tunic.
Llacheu placed his arm around the boy’s shoulders, drawing him
close, his brotherly protection diminishing his
own rapid
anxiety. The voices were
loud, threatening, the atmosphere
that had a moment since been of
congenial laughter, blasted suddenly into tense hostility.

‘
Will
there be a fight?’ Gwydre asked in hushed whisper.

Llacheu shook his head for answer. ‘Da would
not permit brawling.’ His reassurance did not sound convincing. He was
uncertain what was being said, unsure of the dark
implications,
but understood well enough that something unpleasant was
happening. And that the unpleasantness was directed
at
Bedwyr and his mam.

Morgause dipped her fingers into a bowl of
scented water, elegantly wiped them on the linen towel proffered by a slave.
She had known, when innocently letting slip certain informa
tion, that Hueil would not be able to keep it to
himself for long.
How predictable the poor fool was!
Gwenhwyfar sat, hands clenched. She wanted to
answer
Hueil, wanted to cross the feasting Hall in quick strides and
strike that suggestive leer from his sour face. She was shaking too much, her
legs would not carry her the distance. She must remain seated, it was for her
husband to deal with this.

Arthur was saying nothing. He stood with eyes
semi-closed,
head inclined. The entire Hall
had fallen silent, save for the
snarl of dogs fighting over scattered meat
and fish.

With a brief flicker of passing uncertainty,
Hueil glanced at
Morgause. She nodded
imperceptibly, a slight movement of her
head, a slow down-sweep of her
lashes. He was doing well, so
long as he
did not stretch the mileage. Placing spread fingers on
his chest, he intoned, ‘What have I said that can
cause
Bedwyr such concern? I only
repeat that which is on every
man’s lips. Since he claims innocence why
does he seem so hostile?’

‘
You dung
heap!’ Bedwyr lunged forward, only to be blocked
a second time, more
forcefully, by Arthur.

‘Hold!’

‘
But Lord
... !’ Bedwyr dropped back, his pride hurt; hurt
more when Arthur again rounded on him. ‘I said hold! Obey
me!’ To
Hueil he said, ‘You had best be certain of gossip, you
take a chance by daring to repeat it before me.’ He turned away,
sickened. So the thing was to happen. The dog was
turning to bite the
master’s hand. It was expected, but Arthur had not bargained on Gwenhwyfar’s
hand also being mauled.

‘I would advise,’ Morgause’s voice was silk
smooth in the silence of the Hall, ‘seeking what truth lies behind this gossip.’
Arthur whirled around, strode across the tessellated flooring that showed ample
evidence of once seeing better days. He put his hands to the table, opposite
her, leant his weight on them,
and said, his
face contorted, ‘When I require your advice,
madam, I shall seek it. I would suggest not holding your breath
for
that time.’ He swung away, took one step, was halted in mid-stride by her
calling:

‘Bedwyr’s attentions to your wife are witnessed.
You were away some many weeks, Arthur, a woman can grow lonely for
a man’s company. Were I a husband,’ Morgause was
saying,
her words throbbing through Gwenhwyfar’s swirling head, ‘I would
ask, if a wife were seen kissing and embracing a young
man in the openness of a garden when her husband was
abroad, what intimacies then, might occur in the
privacy of
her chamber?’ Gwenhwyfar felt the colour drain from her face,
her hand went involuntarily to her mouth, she rammed the back of her hand hard
against her lips to stem the cry of rage.

Bedwyr was incensed. He appealed to Arthur, ‘You
cannot believe this vomited filth!’

‘
You
were seen, Bedwyr,’ Morgause persisted, as calm as a tranquil river. ‘Before
you make open love to a married
woman, particularly a woman married to a king, I
suggest you ensure you are not over-watched.’ She selected a honey cake and bit
delicately into it.

§ LVII

Hushed murmurs, a few mutters of protest from
Arthur’s men were heard, but the invited guests this night were mostly from the
settlement and stronghold — Councillors, dignitaries, men of trade and note —
and well acquainted with Bedwyr. He had flirted with almost every woman
present, tossing flattering remarks, giving looks of appraisal; drawing pink
blushes to a
maiden’s cheek and to the elder
matrons’, pleased that they
could
still draw a young man’s attention. Women — and
husbands — exchanged knowing glances. Aye, the lad was one
for
the ladies! Gwenhwyfar felt suddenly sick with apprehen
sion. Her stomach heaved to her throat, her body trembled.
Too easy was it to read those sneering looks on
people’s faces, to
imagine what
vileness they were thinking and murmuring.
People would more easily
believe the excitement of lies, than accept the tedium of truth. Arthur had his
back to the table, to her. With a slight turn of his head he cast a sideways
glance at her, looked quickly away before their eyes should meet. She
blinked aside tears. Surely he did not believe
these lies? Did not
doubt her faithfulness ... surely? He was a few
yards from her. Staring ahead, not looking at her, his fists were clenched
tight, the nails biting into the soft flesh of his palms, fighting the pain of
uncertainty. Somehow Gwenhwyfar managed to get to her feet, though her body was
shaking, her knees threatening to buckle. She walked calmly and with dignity
around the table. Faces and voices faded.
Nothing,
no one, mattered except Arthur. She stared steadily
at him as she came,
people parting to make way for her. What madness was happening here this night?

‘
My
husband, you are my only love. We have our disagree
ments and our sadness, as do all partners of marriage, but never
would
I betray you or that love. Never.’
Hueil had followed Arthur, stood
eight paces to his other
side. He snorted derision. ‘Do you
not expect her to deny it?’ He
was warming to this thing, the overspill of resentment
frothing
to the surface. ‘They are lovers.
Both have betrayed you as king
and husband and cousin. Neither of them
is openly going to admit it.’

‘Ask whether she denies allowing Bedwyr to
her chamber when she is alone. Whether she denies meeting with him in the
garden, embracing him.’ Morgause was smiling, pleasantly, almost offhandedly.
The odious bitch! Gwenhwyfar flung back a taut answer. ‘I do not deny either.
Bedwyr is my kin, he is as a brother to me.’ Morgause gave a low chuckle of
amusement. ‘Yet, he is not, technically, a brother, is he?’ Her voice carried
very well, even at a soft murmur.

Arthur had not moved,
saying nothing. Gwenhwyfar
stepped
closer to him, her hand extended but not daring to
touch him. ‘You do not believe this nonsense! Do you?’ Her
hurt for a moment had
flared into anger, was struck suddenly to
fear when he at last met her eyes. ‘You do!’ she gasped.
‘My god,
you do!’ She bit
her lip, let her imploring hand drop to her side;
dared
not reach out, lest he brush her aside.

Arthur bit his bottom lip. He was breathing
fast, his nostrils flaring, chest heaving for air, fingers gripping the cold
touch of
his sword pommel. He dared not take
a glance towards the
walls, dared
not look, for he knew they were closing in on him,
surrounding him,
waiting to fall and crush him. He wanted to
run,
reach for cool, sweet air, for the vault of unbounded, starlit
sky. Nor
dared he look at Gwenhwyfar, for fear that just this once she lied to him.

Their quarrels were
nothing, heated words between two
people
with opposing wills, nothing more than sparring or
sword
practice, an edge against which to sharpen ideas and
opinions. All right, he admitted, whores had shared his bed
even when they should not, but they meant nothing
more than
a way to satisfy a need. And aye, she had left him for a
while, and in his solitude he had turned to Elen, but Gwenhwyfar had
gone because of her grief, not because of their
often exchanged
anger. He loved
Gwenhwyfar, above all life he loved
Gwenhwyfar,
and it hurt deeper than any battlefield wound
that others could snarl these vile accusations at her. He ought
to
make an end of Morgause, make an end to this incessant
stirring of hatred and malice, and that hurt more, hurt that
even
to protect the woman he would willingly die for, he did not have it in him to
kill Morgause.