Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (54 page)

‘
Let
me come with you?’
It
had taken less than an hour to make ready. Three Turmae of Artoriani, ninety
men and officers, were mounted and lined in rank ready to move out. The colours
of their standards fluttered in the skirmishing wind beside the Dragon, Arthur’s
new banner that Gwenhwyfar had made. Red upon a white background, the proud
battle colours of the Artoriani. The sore
fingers
and short tempers that had gone into the thing! It looked
grand,
fluttering and tossing from its wooden cross-pole, impatient to be off and
doing with the men.

Arthur swung up on his
stallion, ignored Gwenhwyfar,
holding
the horse’s reins while he mounted. Again, she
repeated,
‘Let me come.’

‘
No.’ His
answer had sounded too sharp, too much a
reprimand. Softening his tone,
he explained his reason for denying her. ‘I know not what we shall find,
Cymraes. If
Amlawdd was behind this, he is
to be punished, but I cannot
risk a war with him, not while Hueil
threatens to run the hills
tinder-dry in the
North. This attack,’ he gestured at the stiff
body of Rhica bound across a pack mule, ‘may be as much of a
surprise
to the father as it was to us.’ He sniffed sardonically.
‘Although I doubt it.’ He settled himself in the
saddle, tossed
his cloak comfortable and gathered the reins.

‘What do you intend to do?’ Gwenhwyfar had
not let go her hold on the reins.

Arthur shrugged his shoulders. Do? He had no
idea, hoped something would come to mind before he reached Amlawdd’s fortress. ‘I’ll
talk and be polite and politic. An exercise in
diplomacy. Assuming Ider hasn’t buggered things up too much.’
Gwenhwyfar smiled up at him, eyes sparking
triumph.
‘Then, if you ride in peace,
there is no reason for me not to
come
with you.’ She put her hand on his thigh, her eyes
desperately pleading.
‘Ider fought well for me, Arthur, were it not for him I would now be a stiffening
corpse.’

‘
Were it
not for him, I would not be riding to stop a war before it
starts. I am
King, Cymraes, not Ider.’ He reached out to run his finger down her cheek,
under her chin. ‘Or do you harbour thoughts that you would rather have him
instead of me?’
She caught his hand in her
own, laced her fingers with his. ‘I
know
Ider has a love for me, but it is only a cub’s raw feelings for
an ideal. He will soon find a woman of his own
and beyond his
duties, forget all
about me.’ She kissed Arthur’s palm, placed
the hand on the stallion’s reins and met her eyes to his. ‘For my
part,
I feel a fond responsibility for the lad.’ Arthur leant forward, touched her
lips briefly with his own.
‘I’ll be back as
soon as I can.’ A second kiss. He held her eyes a
moment. He wanted to
believe her. Had to believe her, for he could not exist without Gwenhwyfar’s
love. With sudden movement he raised his arm and signalled to move out.

Not stopping to watch them leave, Gwenhwyfar
ran to her chamber and seized up a cloak and the sword that Arthur had ordered
specially made for her. Some inches shorter than his own, a blade of thirty-six
inches, this had a carved ivory grip
fashioned
of a size to fit her smaller woman’s hand and a biting-
sharp edge. She
buckled on the bronze-studded leather baldric and scabbard, had no time for
changing into bracae and tunic.
She could
always discard the hampering swirl of skirts and fight
in under-tunic if
necessary, or naked. She laughed cussedly as she ran for the stables. That
would stir the men!
She flung a bridle and
saddle on the nearest tethered stallion,
and mounted. Arthur was already down the hill, riding at a
steady
jog westwards. His expression was black thunder as
Gwenhwyfar, urging her horse at a reckless speed past the
ranks,
drew level with him and reined in.

‘I said no!’ he roared. He kicked his horse
on, causing the
bad-tempered animal to bound
forwards, ears back, neck
snaking.

Gwenhwyfar kept pace. The insult came to me
also, Arthur. You cannot stop me from coming.’
His hands jerked the reins, causing his stallion’s ears to
flatten
in protest. Snorting, Onager lashed out, his hind leg
pistoning at Gwenhwyfar’s black, whose teeth bared in
response,
front hoof striking out.

‘
Bull of
Mithras!’ Arthur bellowed, hauling his stallion aside.
These were war-horses, temperamental, often savage,
trained
to fight. Then he laughed, ran his hand soothingly down his
stallion’s neck and jerking his head for Gwenhwyfar to ride beside him, moved
off at a trot. ‘Damn you, wife, you and your bloody independence!’ Gwenhwyfar
responded to his laughter. ‘Independence is it?
I’m coming along to give Ider a damned piece of my mind before
you
take the opportunity from me!’

§
IX

Ider pushed his
horse on, alternating between a steady trot and the occasional loping canter.
The Artoriani war-horses were
corn fed where possible, it gave them stamina and
muscle, an edge, that essential turn of speed. When he had set out from
Caer Cadan, hot with rage and humiliation, he had
no idea
what he was going to do when
he reached Amlawdd’s
stronghold. The idea had come slowly, working into
his mind and ripening as he rode. It was a good plan. Aye, a good plan! He
waited under the cloaking shadow of rain-dripping trees
till dawn, dozing a fitful, dream-riddled sleep, dreaming of
frogs.
Several times he woke startled, afraid. He squatted then, hunkered down, afraid
to sleep, mindful of the rain-wet long grass that could hide the bodies of
those repulsive creatures. Waited and watched the night surrendering to the
inevitability of day. He could still hear them, the frogs that lived in this
eternally wet estuary where the Summer Land marshes drained into the sea. Not
for nothing was Amlawdd’s fortress that was
rising
as a dark shadow against the day-bleaching sky commonly
called the Mount
of Frogs. Ider detested the things.

The gates were opening
as he walked his horse, head low on a
loose rein, up the steep, muddied track. From the
vantage point of the watch tower, the keeper looked down through suspicious
eyes at the approaching rider. Ider halted, tipped his head up to
him, nodded good day. The keeper sniffed disdainfully,
indicated the lad’s sword while ostentatiously knocking an
arrow into his own held bow. ‘You come well
armed.’ Easing his buttocks in the saddle, Ider kept his hands well sighted on
the reins, away from the sword pommel. ‘A lone traveller must be prepared for
dangers on the road.’ He smiled
congenially. ‘Even
here, beneath the gaze of Amlawdd’s
imposing Caer, a man may not be
safe.’ The gatekeeper sniffed again, wiped his nose on his tunic
sleeve, did not lower the bow. He ducked his head
backwards. ‘My Lord welcomes only those guests who come with good cause.’
Ider
nudged his horse into the darker shadows that stretched from the gate-tunnel
entrance. Raising his hand, said mildly, pleasantly, ‘Oh, I come with a bloody
good cause, don’t worry on that score.’ He trotted through, beneath the watch
tower, fought the desire to glance back, to see whether the man had lowered his
bow.

The cluster of
ramshackle dwelling places, as with most forts,
were
built in a scatter radiating from the heart of the place, the Lord’s Hall. From
the escape holes in the reed-thatched roofs, came curling wisps of smoke, dark
and sulky against the lead-
grey sky. Several
women were already about their daily
business,
one in particular, a dark-haired woman, smiling at
him as he passed, the
smile beneath her eye suggesting more than that of a simple greeting to a
stranger.

A gaggle of children,
mostly boys, milled around Ider’s horse
to
escort him up the steep incline to the Hall, chattering and
laughing, asking questions, patting his horse,
touching his
sword, shield and spears.
He reined in before the Hall,
dismounted, handed the reins to the
nearest boy. ‘Take care of
him.’ He felt in
his waist pouch, found a bent and battered
bronze coin, tossed it to the
boy. Coins were a rarity, the rich
economy of
the Romans giving way to a return to the old
systems of barter and trade; minted coins were for the wealthy, and
Arthur’s well-paid men. Ider needed to make an impression
and the boy’s
whoop of delighted thanks suggested he was
treading
the right direction. For all that, his hand slid to feel the security of his
sword, needing that small reassurance as he took
a breath and walked into the none too welcoming, gaping
mouth of
the open doorway, hoping that his story of desertion
from the Pendragon’s incessant foul-tempered reprimands
would be
accepted at least long enough to be able to get near Amlawdd. Beyond that, Ider
had not planned, but then, there
would not
be much beyond the killing of Amlawdd. He stepped
through the door. A second, fleeting hope, almost
a prayer.
That his own death would be quick.

§X

Morgaine sang as she
cooked her supper of gathered root herbs
and
a fat young partridge, a gift left by those who remembered the Goddess. Her
pleasant voice rose high above the rain-shimmering trees, echoing her intensity
of happiness. She
ought not to sing, ought
not to be so happy, for soon she would
need
to find a stylus and wax tablet – and the courage – to write
to her
mother. She dare not disobey, for Morgause had many bound spies to ensure that
the words on the wind reached her
hungry
ears, for all that she was a prisoner of the King and shut away at Caer Luel.
Morgaine would have preferred him to have
killed the evil bitch. It was a terrible thing to say about your
own
mother, but the truth was often terrible.

She would have to write
that he had come; that Arthur
had
come to her ... she ceased her song, the words trailing
into a silence as she sat back on her heels, her hands
going tight
around her drawn knees. Morgause had sent
her orders, some written, passed through trusted hands, others whispered on the
lips of travellers. Arthur will
come,
to you, she had said. I pay
traders to talk of
you,
and one day his
curiosity
will
make him come.
You
must
get a
child from him, for such a child will
be useful
to me.
And
then
you
will kill
this
Pendragon, for me to
raise his child
for my
own.

A single tear slid down Morgaine’s cheek, she
let it trickle
unheeded across her skin, let
it drip. Arthur had come, and
they had sat, sipping her sweet fermented
wine, eating goat’s cheese and fresh-baked barley bread and they had talked
companionably to each other. Talked and laughed together as friends, a new and
wonderful experience for Morgaine, for she
had
never talked for conversation’s sake, or shared laughter
with a friend.
Nor had she ever loved with a man – nor had she
still, for she could not do as Morgause had ordered, could not lie
with a man with spite and hate as her reason. She
loved Arthur,
could not bring about their union by wickedness and greed.

He had slept, sprawled
on her bed of meadow hay and sweet-
smelling herbs, he had
lain back and slept. And she had sat, as she sat now, beside the hearth-fire,
squatting on her heels with her hands gathered around her knees, watching him
sleep.
Watching as the strain of tiredness
eased from his deep-sleeping
body.

How could she tell that hag woman, who so
unexpectedly,
and so menacingly had returned
again into her sheltered,
peaceful life, of something as precious as
love? He had woken as day began to fade into evening, his face relaxed, body
eased and mind mended. She was a healer, Morgaine, a healer, not a murdering,
torturing bitch like her sow-bred mother! Morgaine would not spoil her love for
this man with her mother’s cruel spite! Would not! More tears slithered down
her skin, the fat from her supper dripped on the flames and hissed, the
partridge flesh scorching
and burning, but
Morgaine did not see or hear. Her head bowed
to her knees and she began to cry, the great enormity of
happiness
gone, and in its place a void of lonely despair. She would not betray the
Pendragon, not for all the fear and punishments threatened by her mother,
because one day, one day, he might find it in him to come to her again, and
love her.