Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (51 page)

Amr he had missed, but
Amr had been young, and beyond
his
chubby smile and babe’s needs, Llacheu had not known
him. Gwydre, though, had been a constant companion, not
always
an amicable one, for brothers often did not agree, but their squabbling had
been no more than pups in the same litter scrapping over a choice bone. As
likely, when the growling
ceased, they would
curl together, content, before the hearth-
fire.

He woke some nights, sweating and screaming,
the horror of that hunt returning into his dreams. Never would that terrible
scene of Gwydre’s killing fully leave his memory.
For a boy with
so much life to embrace, grief faded quickly; beyond the
occasional thorn-prick reminder, Gwydre’s voice,
his face were
becoming an echo as faint as a half-remembered dream. But
sometimes, he missed his brother painfully.

His head nodded forward, tired from the day’s
excitement;
they would all sleep sound this
night; for it had been a long, busy
day. They were all tired, some of
the men half dozing as they rode, hunched beneath their cloaks against the
rain, hands easy on the reins, bodies swaying with the steady rhythm of their
horses’ pace. The ambush came unexpected.

No more than a handful of men, well armed,
attacked with hunting bows and spears where the road narrowed through the
encroaching shrub. Four of the escort lay dead
before they could
draw sword, among them the Decurion and Caradog. The
Artoriani spurred their horses forward, attempting to reach and close in around
their Lady and Llacheu, who, coming fully
awake,
was gallantly drawing his own dagger and riding close to
his mother in
order to protect her. lder, torn between the
decision
to aid Gwenhwyfar or the boy made a rapid choice for
the boy. Leaping
from his own horse, he jumped towards the lad, scooped him in his arm and
tumbled to the grass, covering
him with his
own shield as they fell. Gwenhwyfar, seeing
Llacheu with Ider, drew her own sword, trying to think calmly,
to plan, all the while her mind was screaming for
the boy’s
safety. An arrow thrummed, pierced her mare’s neck, bright
blood spilling down the chestnut hide from the
severed jugular.
The horse crumpled, falling head first into a tangle of
legs, and
pitching her rider off; Gwenhwyfar
hit the ground hard, her
head catching on a rock half-hidden beneath
last autumn’s fall.
Shapes moved around
her. Voices, shouting and grunting as the
attackers came up out from the
bushes to fight hand to hand.
Llacheu was
pushed against her; he scrabbled close, arms going
around her, his dagger tight in his hand, ready
to stab at anyone
who came too near.

The clash of sword on shield, swearing, the
smell of fresh blood. Ider stood over Gwenhwyfar and the boy, his boots planted
to either side, fighting for his own life and theirs. But mostly, theirs.

When not on campaign, Arthur’s men drilled
daily. Weapon training, marching, wrestling, running. Every day, in every
weather. Drill, drill and drill again. To fight effectively a man must be fit
and ready for action. They grumbled of course,
complained and cursed at the officers for being fatherless sons of
whore-house
bitches, their profanities increasing when com
pelled
to cover miles on route marches carrying full pack. But if
man or beast could not keep up, then the Artoriani
was no longer the place for them. Fit men, fit horses; disciplined,
drilled,
professionals.

A man leapt at Ider,
screaming some wordless battle-cry, ran
into the sweeping stroke of Ider’s sword. Gwenhwyfar, her
senses
returning, but her head still spinning, pulled Llacheu, protesting, beneath
her. A weight fell across her legs, something warm and wet spattered her skin.
She looked up, wished she hadn’t, buried her head again.

The Artoriani losses were heavy, but the
remainder were skilled enough to win through, and ensure that not one of
theirattackers got away. Not even the young man with the golden torque who had
come from the tavern in Lindinis.

Ider took three great lungfuls of air,
regarded the six men standing as he was, out of breath and blood-splotched.
Three
horses lay dead. At a quick glance,
two others would need to be
destroyed. Probably more. He sheathed his
sword, kicked the
dead man from his Lady’s
legs and lifted her with ease as if she
were a child. Llacheu sprang immediately to his feet, teeth
bared, dagger scything. ‘Whoa, little cub,’ Ider
chided, putting
a restraining hand
on the lad’s head. ‘The fighting is done, let us
tend your mam.’
Carrying her a few paces, he set Gwenhwyfar
down
under the spread new-leaf boughs of a tree where the grass
was green and
untrampled.

With gentle hands he inspected the bloodied
swelling to her
forehead. "Tis not deep,’
he said, removing his neck cloth,
‘but you’ll have a bruise the size of
a goose egg. I’ll damp this with water, it will ease the hurting, my Lady.’ Gwenhwyfar
stayed him from rising, her hand going to his
arm.
She was pale, felt nauseous and was trembling, but still she
said, ‘I am
all right. See to those in more need than I.’ She
indicated the others. Gravely Ider nodded, and handed the
cloth to Llacheu, who ran to a stream trickling a few
yards off to
wet it. He said nothing as he quietly went to help the
injured of his Turma. His friends. Forcing herself to stand, Gwenhwyfar
let the world swim by a few times. She was of no
use sitting idle
by this tree while
men needed help. She swayed, fought down a
wave of sickness. Deep, even breaths to steady the dizzying
swirl.
Concentrate. One foot before the other. Why did the
ground heave so? Llacheu came back, his face grey, concerned,
silently
handed her the wet cloth. She smiled and thanked him, assured him she was not
seriously injured, just a bit dizzy.

Ider was kneeling
beside Damos, whose cuirass was soaked, stained with a dark redness that was
almost black. Gwenhwyfar
knelt opposite him,
shook her head at Ider’s grief-stricken questioning face. There was no hope.
The arrow had pierced
deep into his lung,
the breath coming in a spittle of rattling
gasps.

Damos clung to
Ider’s hand, felt Gwenhwyfar’s cool fingers
touch his hot forehead. They had been companions from
the
start, these two young men, good
companions, good friends. He
croaked, through a hurting breath, ‘We had
good hunting, my friend, you and I together.’ Ider said nothing. His throat
choked, words stuck.

‘I would give half my pay for a cool drink of
water,’ Damos added with a cough. A little cough, with a soft breathing out of
air.

‘
I’ll
fetch some!’ Ider was half up, eager to be doing something
of use, but
Gwenhwyfar shook her head again. ‘He has no need
of it, Ider. There will be cool water in plenty where he has
gone.’ She folded Damos’s hands across his chest.
He looked no
more than he was sleeping, save for the black blood.

Sinking to the stained grass, Ider dropped
his head into his hands and wept like a disconsolate child.

Gwenhwyfar left him with his grief, went to
tend another, Llacheu, silent, trotted at her heel, fetching water when she
asked, helping to tear bandaging, rolling, holding,
helping
where he could.

And all the while, Gwenhwyfar was thinking,
will it never
end, this horror of death that
surrounded her? What had
happened to the sunshine and the laughter? Why
was there nothing but rain and tears?
With
the Decurion dead, the men left were disorientated,
the suddenness of an attack in country that was not
hostile
leaving them stunned. They
needed to be up and doing, not
sitting
dwelling on it, so Gwenhwyfar set them to work, tending
the wounded,
dispatching the horses. Searching the bodies of
their attackers. ‘We must know who they were, where they
come
from. My Lord would wish to know.’ She added with a snarl of ferociousness that
few had heard before, ‘As do I.’ The men nodded, faces set. As did they.

Stone-faced, Ider stood beside Gwenhwyfar,
allowing her to finish bandaging a wound in a man’s thigh. She sat back on her
heels, looking up at him, waited for him to speak. ‘We have identified one of
the bastards,’ he said curtly. He turned on his heel, strode to where a body
lay slightly apart from the others.

Before
following, Gwenhwyfar smiled at the injured man.’That will be sore for a while,
but will mend.’ She struggled wearily to her feet. The rain was still drizzling
and light would
be fading soon. Her legs
felt as heavy as her throbbing head. She
went to join Ider, but at sight
of the body, turned away, fell forward onto her hands and knees and retched
into the grass.
She knew the whore-son, she
knew him! The nephew of a name
from the past. A name with a face she
still saw, occasionally,
when the mares of
the night brought dreams of despair and fear.
The young man’s features
were the same, the same colouring, the same snarling, greasy expression. For a
second time she vomited. Ider knelt beside her, rubbing her back, easing the
discomfort, unsure what else to do.

She sat up, managed a
weak smile. Simply, she said, ‘Did any
get
away?’

‘None.’ Her eyes were seeing beyond Ider,
seeing again a time and remembered faces at Vortigern’s court. ‘He was at
Londinium, this man’s uncle.’ She took several breaths to calm herself.

‘Who is he?’ Ider asked, meaning the dead man.

For a long while she did
not answer. Then on a drawn breath,
‘He is Rhica, the son
of Amlawdd.’ Gwenhwyfar swallowed, went on to explain with dry lips and throat,
‘Amlawdd had a
brother, an older brother,
Gorlois by name. Gorlois had a
young
wife, but she left her brutal husband for another, her
lover. To keep her, the lover was forced to kill
Gorlois, and
from that sprang a war that ended with Uthr – the lover –
and his woman – Ygrainne – fleeing to exile.’ She lifted her hand,
let it fall in a hopeless gesture. ‘And so began
the hatred
between the Pendragon and
the kindred of Gorlois: his
brothers, Amlawdd and,’ she had to steady
her breath again before saying, ‘Melwas.’

‘
My Lady?’
Ider took her hand, was alarmed to feel it so cold.
‘Are you unwell? You
have turned so pale ...’ The last name meant nothing to him.

She managed a smile,
attempted to reassure him, and
Llacheu
who had trotted over. She knelt, held her son close,
said over his head to Ider, ‘No matter how far buried you
think it
is, the past will always rise again to
the surface.’ She began to get to her feet, Ider helped her up. She nodded a
curt order at
the waiting men, ‘Bring this
body. My husband will wish to see
it.’

‘And these others, Lady?’ Venom was in her
voice as she answered, ‘Leave them.
Carrion
eat vermin.’ The men exchanged glances. One
ventured, tentatively, ‘Christian people require a Christian
burial,
my Lady.’
Gwenhwyfar laughed caustically. ‘I
doubt the men of
Amlawdd are bothered
by the niceties of Christianity. His
brother Melwas, when he ran sword
in sheath with the Saex, certainly was not.’ Added, ‘They would not have
bothered to bury us.’ She watched as two men lifted Rhica and carried him to
one of the waiting mounts.

To no one in particular
Gwenhwyfar said, ‘Gorlois was slain
by Uthr and Melwas by
myself. Now there is only Amlawdd. Who shall bring his death and end the thing?’
It had been a rhetorical question, she was not even aware she had spoken aloud,
but Ider answered with iron coldness.

‘
If it
was he who ordered this killing, then it shall be me, Lady
Gwenhwyfar. I
swear I shall avenge this bloody day.’ Gwenhwyfar regarded Ider through slit
eyes, much as her husband would have done. ‘Let it rest. This thing has circled
warily beyond the shadows of the fire for
many and many a year.
For now, we must see to our own, get them returned
to Caer Cadan.’

§V

Morgaine took pride in her hair, always kept
it combed and clean. There was little more to do here among the solitude of
these hovels that had once housed the community
of the Ladies
at the base of the Tor. She was alone now, for the last of
the other women had died, toothless in old age. Morgaine was the
only one left. The young women did not come to
seek service to
the Goddess any more – they went to the far side of the
Tor now, down the hill a way, to the holy house of the Christian
sisters who dressed in drab black, and cut their
hair short,
hiding what remained under a veil.