Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (50 page)

‘
Aye, I
intend to leave first thing, there is much I need. It will
be easier to
ride to the market than summon traders here.’ Squinting at the few words he had
written, Arthur said, ‘You will take Llacheu?’

‘
Of
course, he will enjoy it.’ Arthur said nothing, sat staring at the wax tablet.

He had taken Gwydre’s
death so hard, shouldering the blame
atop that of Amr’s
cruel ending. Gwenhwyfar stood, crossed to him and from behind, placed her arms
about him. She was hurting too, some days it seemed as if the pain would never,
never ease, but she had been strong this
time, able to take
Arthur in her arms
and help him to weep, secure in the
knowledge of her love. A love that
she gave without condition.

Why the strength this time, why not last?
Well, she was
content now, settled and at
rest. They had their own home,
their
own Hall, and there had been no fighting between Saex or
British, no
quarrelling with Ambrosius or the Council and
Church
for many months — nothing, save those little irritations
that squirmed
from Winifred’s rat-nest of course. When Amr
had
died, it had been as a last straw added to her overbalancing
heap of doubts and weariness. But now her doubts
were gone —
almost — and a bright, burning energy replaced her
weariness, an energy that made the pain of Gwydre’s death easier to bear.
No, it was Arthur this time who carried the
weight of grief, him
that she worried about.

‘Llacheu will be in no danger,’ she pointed
out. ‘We ride to
our nearest town with
adequate escort through our own
territory.’
Reaching his arms behind his head, Arthur clasped her neck,
bringing
her closer to him. ‘Who rides escort?’

‘Red Turma.’

‘
Ah.’ He
let her go, started shuffling the several piles of
unread correspondence
about his desk; parchment scrolls and wax tablets, petitions and complaints.
The tedious business of being a King.

Gwenhwyfar returned to her loom; the plaid
was wrong, she
had missed alternating the
colour four rows back. Oh well.
What
had he meant by ah? Happen she ought to ask, but then,
it was probably
nothing, just one of his irritating ways. She looked again at the weave. When
she had made his banner, the red and gold dragon that writhed across a white
flag, she had
stitched well, making a thing
that, even to her own eyes was
well crafted and exquisitely done. But
then, she had wanted to make that, had wanted to create something special for
Arthur, and for Llacheu when he followed ... Impatient, she began unpicking the
wrongly fashioned weave. If only the threads of
life could be so easily unravelled when something went wrong!

§ II

The courtyard lay in a rough-shaped rectangle
between the stables, the Hall and the kitchens. It was small but serviceable; a
place where the horses could be brought up for mounting or tending, and only
recently cobbled; through the winter it had squelched with churned mud. The
fourth side was open, giving way to a narrow track that wound down the rise of
this, the highest ground of the Caer, to the southern gateway. The north and
east gates had grander, wider tracks that strode their way through the complex
of buildings to the large, public doors of
the
King’s Hall. This courtyard was a more private place,
though it was often, as today, crowded with men,
horses and
the ever-present scrabble of dogs.

Watching as Ider helped
Gwenhwyfar mount, Arthur
noticed how the lad’s
eyes never left her face, held a look of saturated adoration. The Pendragon
shrugged, dismissed the
uneasy feeling of
jealousy which seemed to bother him so often
of late. Most of the men adored Gwenhwyfar - who could blame
them!
Ach, he was seeking shadows on a cloudy day. The younger lads -. aye and even
the older men -fell over their own
feet to
take a chance at serving their queen, that was as it should
be. Except
it always seemed to be Ider who was there first, always Ider helping her to
mount, or to fetch and carry.

Gwenhwyfar was mounted,
and riding with her escort
towards the gateway,
Llacheu on his fine grey pony, chattering
away
to the Decurion, the officer in charge. Always talking,
that boy, as noisy as a squawking magpie! Arthur
turned back to
the Hall, fighting an impulse to run after them, to say
he would
ride with them ... what in the name
of Mithras was wrong
with him? All
these dark fears and churlish doubts; some days, it
was like living a
waking nightmare. A nightmare where water
swirled
and a boy’s hand reached for rescue, rescue from a great
boar with blood
eyes and stinking breath.

Fifteen men, half a
Turma, rode with his wife and son, fifteen
experienced,
loyal men- this was ridiculous, there was much to be done this day, best to
shrug nonsense thoughts aside and get on with matters that needed attention.
Yet still he looked to
where the last horse
trotted beneath the wooden guard tower
and out through the open gateway,
listened to the sounds of
hooves clattering
down the cobbled lane. Morgause had set
these dark thoughts of
foreboding, she with her high laugh and
gloating
eyes, Morgause who delighted in nurturing the belief of
her witchcraft.
If you come after me, Pendragon,
none of
your
sons
shall live .. .

From beneath the grey clouds that had been
threatening rain since dawn, came a shrill screeching and a beating of wings.
Starlings mobbed a hawk, the small against the mighty.

Enduring the fury a while, the larger bird
ignored the flapping wings and abuse, then tired of the game, circled higher;
sailing on the wind over the flat lands spreading out to Yns Witrin,
standing proud above the winter-come waters,
silhouetted
against the horizon of grey sky. Daily, the higher ground
was
pushing through the dissipating
flood-waters. Summer would
be come again soon.

Yns Witrin. A place of the old gods and of
the new. Of sanctuary and solitude. Where lived the Lake Lady. A place where
Gwenhwyfar said she had found peace.

Morgause’s threats were no more than that, he
knew the
woman, knew the extent of her
evil-minded ways. He called her
witch
as
a derisive word – she
held no power, no magic, not
beyond the
allure a beautiful woman had over a man keen for lust.
He would have known if she had more, for he had
suffered from
her cruelties long enough
as a child. Arthur chewed his lower lip,
stood squinting across the distance at that hill. Yet she professed to
be a priestess of the Goddess, had spent a while over there beneath the
impressive Tor of Yns Witrin with the Ladies who lived by the
Lake. The lake which even in the hottest of
summers never dried.
There was only one of the Ladies now, so folk said,
a young woman, the last of her kind here in the Christian-dominated
South. One Lady serving the Goddess, as Morgause
professed also
to do. Arthur thought he had seen her, this lone
priestess, suspected that she and the black-haired faerie-woman who had tried
so gallantly to save Gwydre from the boar were the same person. One day he
would ride to Yns Witrin and find out for
certain,
thank her. It had been a brave thing that she had done, to
run as she
had, attempting to divert that great brute’s attention. A
rthur turned again, intending to make for the
Hall, but stopped.
Damn it, one day
might never come! There were always so many
things to be approached ‘one
day’.

Impulsively, he shouted for his horse to be
made ready. He needed something to ease this black mood from his throbbing
head. Something to make him forget Gwydre, and Amr,
to
cease this incessant worry about Llacheu. And the Lady would know of
Morgause. Would know whether she truly held the power of life or death over his
sons.

§ III

The tavern in Lindinis
was crowded, these bustling market days
were
always welcome to those shopkeepers who needed the extra trade. Ider pushed
through first, making way to the only
table
unoccupied. With his hand he dusted the bench, helped
his Lady be
seated. Llacheu scrambled beside his mother, who
invited the other two men of her escort while in town to sit also.
Damos and Caradog shuffled along the opposite
bench as Ider,
swaggering to the bar, called loudly for wine.

‘
Can’t you
see I’m busy!’ the little dark-haired man behind
the counter growled,
pouring a tankard of ale with one hand, busily stirring a ladle round with the
other. Casually Ider took
the ladle from
him, stirred a couple more rotations and scooped
some stew from the earthenware jar embedded into the counter.
He sniffed it, took a small taste. ‘This good
enough for my
Lady?’ he asked.

The bartender scowled at
him. ‘Good enough for a queen
that stuff.’ Ider’s
answering grin echoed the sarcasm in his voice as he leant across the counter
and said, ‘It had better be, it is for the Queen and her escort that I buy it.’
For a brief moment, the tavern-keeper was
tempted to match
a similar scathing reply, but he glanced at the woman
seated at
the corner table, noticed her
copper-bright hair, her rich
clothing,
then the golden torque around her throat. No
ordinary woman wore such an item of value. She was talking to
a
boy fidgeting beside her.

‘Aye,’ Ider prompted, ‘my Lady Gwenhwyfar,
wife to the Pendragon, and their son.’ To emphasise his point he touched
the bronze dragon badge on his shoulder. He leant
a little
further forward, spoke
directly into the man’s face. ‘I’m
Artoriani.
My Lord Pendragon takes unkindly to rat-poison
being served to his Lady or his men.’ The pleasant smile he gave
as
he carefully handed the ladle back to its owner portrayed a meaning far removed
from friendship.

Within moments, clean bowls appeared and a
flagon of fine wine was opened. The tavern-owner bustled from behind the counter,
wiping his hands on a grubby apron tied around his middle, personally served
his eminent customers, thoughts flickering faster than a racing storm wind. As
served
to
Queen
Gwenhwyfar! I can
raise
my
prices,
advertise around the town;
get a
better
standard
of clientele coming in!
Already, in his mind, his takings box was
bursting with gold, his pockets bulging with
riches.
Bossily he shuffled men away from Gwenhwyfar’s
corner, proclaiming the lady needed privacy and not crowding.
Good-natured,
knowing the man’s gruff, grasping ways, his regular customers complied.
Miltiades was always after the making of more money.

Three men standing
propped on their elbows at the bar
quietly finished their
ale and pushed their way out through the
tavern
onto the street. This was a side street, bustling with
people, bristling
with shops and traders. Two doors along was
the
laundry, wafting its repugnant mixture of smells through
the open doors.
The tallest of the three men stopped to use the
almost full urine pot outside — a slave, about to empty it,
politely thanked him, waited for him to finish.
Fulling was not a
pleasant job, but a slave could not complain, at least
this boy
had the easier task of emptying the
public pot, the other boy
had to take
the cloth from the vat inside after it had lain
stiffening in the
collected urine. His hands were blistered and
sore,
and he was shunned even by the laundry cat because of the
stench that
clung to his clothing, skin and hair.

The three men strolled on, heading for where
they had left their horses, three men dressed in hunting gear; ordinary men,
save one had a glint of excited mischief, wore the torque of a
chieftain’s son around his short, bull-muscled neck
and a
golden frog, the emblem of his
father Amlawdd, on his
shoulder.

§ IV

Though it was
warmer than the last few weeks, the sun had not managed to shoulder through the
banks of cloud, and by late
afternoon a fine drizzle was falling. Riding home,
Llacheu paid
no mind to the weather, for rain was a part of life,
as
unavoidable as night. Though he had been talking briskly
when
first
they left Lindinis, he had fallen silent. Death was a part of life, a part he
saw often. His father’s men, their wives and their
children could be mortally wounded or fall prey to sickness and
disease.
But to lose a brother, a brother whom you had played
with, curled asleep with, fought, laughed or cried with, had
been for all its part of the everyday way of
things, hard to bear.