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Poor Morgaine, in her
innocence, had no realistic knowl
edge
of the world or the way her evil-hearted mother
manipulated
people into doing her bidding for her own ends.

Gwenhwyfar never asked what happened at Yns
Witrin, or
whether Arthur had found the
Lady, and if he had, how she had helped, and what had been her price of
payment. It was a thing
best not to ask, for she knew of the old laws
and customs,
happen better than Arthur. And
she knew too, unlike her
husband,
whose daughter Morgaine of the Lake was. She knew these things but did not ask,
for it did not matter. Whatever the
payment that Arthur had made to the
Goddess, whatever the
future might make of
it, the price was worth it, for when Arthur
returned, quiet and afraid
of what he might find, Llacheu was
sleeping
the natural sleep of a child who had suffered an illness,
but was safe
through it, and set on the road to recovering.

September
465

§ XVII

Nessa ducked through the
small side streets of Deva’s rambling,
civilian
settlement, it was late afternoon, but few were about,
the rain keeping them indoors. It was only servants who
scurried,
cloaks and hoods held close, through these cobbled, dung-strewn streets on such
a wet afternoon.

When the Pendragon and
family moved south to the new Caer,
her request to remain
with Bedwyr had been granted, they had
been
here at Deva a few months now, moved at Arthur’s express
orders. Caer Luel, he feared, held a handful too
much sympathy
for Hueil, who was
gathering his strength with a pace the wrong
side of a canter. Deva was
a stronger settlement, clinging to its Roman military loyalty, still
affectionately called the City of Legions, though the rows of barracks that had
once housed the
Legio
XX Valeria Victrix, the Twentieth Legion, the
Brave and
Victorious, had stood empty for
longer than a man living could
remember. To reach Deva, Hueil would need
to trail his men
down through Rheged,
giving time for Arthur to receive the alarm
— and Deva ranged against Gwynedd’s borders. Gwynedd would
be in this thing too when Hueil marched, for his
deposed father
and ousted brothers had fled into the protection of
Gwynedd, where Caw’s eldest daughter was wedded to Dogmail, son of Cunedda, and
brother to Enniaun.

Coming out from the side
street onto a busier Via Castrorum,
Nessa
dodged around an ox cart trundling its slow way along to the
west
gate, and ducked into an ill-lit alleyway opposite. She stopped at the third
door along, looked over her shoulder and entered. From the folds of her cloak
she brought a scroll of
parchment, handed
it with solemnity to the house slave who carne
bustling to receive her.

She waited, alone in
the quietness of this ante-chamber, while
the
slave went in search of her master. She took off her cloak, shook the worst of
the wet from its folds, patted her hair into place, inspected a bronze
statuette standing upon a tri-legged
table,
squeaked, startled, as a voice rumbled across the echoing
room.

‘You came for me, Madam?’ Nessa spun around,
indicated the scroll held
in
the man’s corpulent hand. ‘My mistress is
ill, the letter bids me bring you
to her.
Only you, of all the apothecaries residing in this
settlement, will she
see.’
The apothecary smiled, nodded
self-gratification. ‘I will
come
within the hour.’ Nessa bobbed a brief, polite curtsey and
let herself
out once again into the rain-wet street. There were
plenty others, slaves or servants, who could have run this
errand
to fetch the apothecary to Morgause, but she insisted Nessa go, and for the
sake of peace it was not wise to cross Morgause’s demands, however unreasonable
they might be.

Morgause, Bedwyr had
decided, had a temper like a spear-
struck
boar, a vocabulary as rancid as a gutter whore and was as
companionable
as a cloak full of fleas. Aside from that, and
assuming he stayed well out of her way, preferably a long way,
she
was bearable.

He was seated cross-legged outside her door,
cleaning his sword. It did not need the attention, but it was something to do
while he waited for that odious, fat little man to
leave.
Morgause called him her
personal physician — an exaggerated
title for a back-street dispenser of
herbs and potions, but, if he kept the bitch happy, who was Bedwyr to argue?
She had first
summoned him within a week of
arriving here — stomach
cramps it had been then, and an insistence that
she was being
deliberately poisoned. Then
came headaches, a sprained ankle, female trouble. This time it was a head-cold.
From the fuss she
made, anyone could
be forgiven for thinking she was dying from
a fatal dose of the pox.
Huh, if only! Bedwyr enjoyed this position of command; life, beyond Morgause,
was easy. He had wanted to join Arthur, but
comparative
idleness suited him just as well. He was not a lazy
man, but neither was
he restless as his cousin the Pendragon could be. The time to fight would come
and Bedwyr wascontent to wait. The hunting around Deva was good and there
came enough demands to keep a mind alert — and he
had Nessa
to warm him at night, and
their new-started first babe
beginning to show around her belly. He
ought to consider
marrying her, but Nessa
always shied from the suggestion,
saying a noble-born man needed a woman
of the same kind as wife, that she was content to be his mistress.

Nessa was in there now, with Morgause and
this wretched
apothecary. Morgause forbade
him to enter her room and he had need to place someone of trust there, to
ensure Arthur’s
strict ruling. No
visitors for Morgause. No letters, in or out. No
communication with the
world beyond the fortress of Deva’s strong, defensive walls. She was to be
constantly watched in health or illness, never allowed to be alone. Two guards
at the door, two maids — and Nessa to stand beside the apothecary
while he poked and pried at whatever ailment
currently
threatened Morgause.

Yet still the bloody
messages got through! There was no proof
of it, nothing concrete, but Arthur had sent word that
things
were passing down the wind. How? How the
damned hell was
she doing it? Bedwyr rubbed
more oil lovingly into the blade of his sword, his hands busy with the familiar
task, mind currying for answers. Almost, he could believe the gossip that
Morgause was a witch with a knowledge of the magic arts. Could it be the birds
that took her messages south and north? The black ravens
that lived along the roof-tops of the watch
towers? Did she have
the Sight? Was
it in the flame of the hearth-fire that she saw all
that Arthur did? Or
perhaps, as they said down in the officers’
quarters,
she really could talk to the wind. Questions, ques
tions. Black-and-white
questions producing a myriad of rainbow-mixed answers!
He took up his stone and began easing it in long, steady
strokes down the oiled and gleaming sword, giving
it an edge as
sharp as a frosted winter’s morning, working with a love
and deliberation that flowed from his hands; and with it, a half-
thought wish that he could take up this blade and
slit the
woman’s throat, put an end to these answerless riddles.

Sounds from
beyond the door, a woman coughing, the
apothecary’s stertorous voice, footsteps. The latch lifted,
the
door swinging open. Bedwyr set down his
stone, rose, the sword
held beneath
his folded arms, stood blocking the narrow
corridor from the chamber.

The apothecary was a summer-fattened weasel,
with small
darting eyes and the stench of
rotten cabbage about him. His tunic
was patched and faded, bracae
bulging tight around his middle
that
barrelled beneath a triple chin, wobbling under red-blotched,
sweating skin. His teeth were false,
ivory-carved, his hair, what
remained
of it, greasy. How in all the gods’ guises, could Morgause
bear his touch and foul breath! There could only
be one reason,
one reason alone for
these constant petty illnesses, this
summoning of a next-to-worthless
peasants’ apothecary.

With menacing slowness,
Bedwyr raised his sword as the man
shambled along the
corridor. He stopped, his little eyes almost disappearing beneath the
red-splotched flesh, the sword tip touching light against his belly.

‘
Open
your bag,’ Bedwyr ordered. ‘Empty the contents to the
floor.’ The man
took breath to protest, but Bedwyr nudged the
sword.
‘You can open it for me, sir, or I can kill you and then look
at my
leisure.’ Bedwyr’s smile was wicked. ‘It is your choice.’
Bedwyr squatted, rifled through the spill of
instruments, phials
and pots. No papers, no parchments, no slate or wax
tablets. Nothing. He stood, again pointed the sword. ‘Now strip.’ Nessa was
furious with him, taking Bedwyr’s suspicions as personal insult. For three days
she avoided him, choosing to sleep instead with the women, tossing her pert
head whenever he came to talk with her, turning her back on him. As always,
Morgause delighted in the conflict, taking pleasure in stirring sour words
between lovers, however indirectly.

Her room, her prison, had all the trappings
of luxurious
comfort: fine-made furniture and
rich wall hangings. But
quality surroundings, the best food and wine,
perfumes and
expensive clothing, could never
make up for her loss of freedom
– especially at the hands of this whelp.

But muddying calm water
in the course of her plotting, seeing
the
sweet turn sour, had always amused her. Confinement had its compensations.

October 465

§ XVIII

Winifred’s steading to the south of Venta
Bulgarium – or Winifred’s Castre as the English were calling it – seemed
prosperous enough. Arthur and his escort of a single Turma followed the track
through outlying fields, all well hedged and
fenced,
enclosing plump, healthy stock. The hay-ricks were
high stacked, sweet smelling and free from
mildew. It galled like
an ill-fitting saddle that Winifred’s farm was
thriving. Did no
drought or driving rain
threaten Saex crops then? Arthur’s
nostrils
flared, as if assailed by some foul stench. It seemed even
the elements
did not dare confront this bloody woman! Judging by the number of buildings, this
farm was of village
status. Winifred’s
personal dwelling, situated predominantly on
a slight rise, was large,
rectangular, with all the outward
appearance
of a queen’s Hall. The smoke trails of a camp curled
into the pale,
washed-blue sky beyond the steading. A white
horse
standard, sited central to the bustling activity and
scattered camp
fires, fluttered in the lazy breeze. Aesc, son of
Hengest, was already here then. Arthur rode easy in the saddle,
unhurried.

Were all the inhabitants gathered to witness
his arrival?
Women stood at house-place
doorways, hands raised, shielding
the glare of a low autumn sun.
Red-cheeked, excited children clustered at their skirts. The men were drifting
in from their tithed strip fields to join their womenfolk, the murmurings and
exchanged speculative talk rising as the Pendragon rode past. His fingers
clenched tighter around Onager’s reins as he saw Winifred come from her Hall.
She stood waiting, her expression unreadable; came, poised and graceful, down
the steps as he rode up and halted. Playing the dignity of a queen.

Arthur frowned as he saw
a tall man emerging from the
cluster
of people at the doorway behind her. Ambrosius
Aurelianus.
They had pax between them, Arthur and his
Uncle,
but for the amiable intention, the one did still not
wholly trust the other; it
was
an uneasy,
tentative peace.
Winifred could, as always, hatch a melting pot of
mischief. A
flutter of unease buffeted his
insides – who was that man in the
Christian stories, the one who entered
the lion’s den? Daniel? Arthur had a sudden, overwhelming empathy with Daniel.