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‘
God’s laws speak against putting aside a wife,’
she answered,
defiant.

‘
I do not believe in God.’

‘If one winter the snows came and did not
thaw,’ Winifred
spoke quickly, her hand
resting, light but possessive, on
Arthur’s
arm, ‘would you expect me to stay in my Hall, muffled
in furs and say,
"the snow is here, I must accept it and long no more for the warmth of
summer"?’ Her fingers caressed the
smooth
inner skin along his forearm. ‘I cannot deny my need for
the sun any
more than I can relinquish my love for you.’ Arthur knew well how Winifred
excelled at manipulating words to fit her need, but in this, obscurely, he
believed her.

Cerdic was finding this whole situation
difficult to handle. As a young child, he had clung to the belief that one day
the King of all Britain would come riding on a white stallion and
place his mother where she belonged, as Queen,
and himself as
Prince and heir. It had all been some misunderstanding,
this separation between his mother and father, some political move beyond a
child’s reasoning. When Arthur at last came, there
would be great joy and celebration. He would take his son upon
his
saddle before the people and show that he, Cerdic, was the
cherished son of a king. Then his father would
kiss his mother,
hold her close and disappear into the privacy of the
sleeping place, as his friend Wulfric always did with his wife after they had
quarrelled.

Summer had followed summer, and Arthur had
never come until now. And now it was too late. For Cerdic felt himself no
longer to be a child, and he had learnt to hate
Arthur, as he had
assumed his mother
hated him. How often had he heard
Winifred
spit words of animosity and contempt for the
Pendragon? Heard her shrill
at the injustice of his desertion?
Cerdic
had witnessed his mother’s tears, her suffering at being a
woman wronged and for that, above all, Cerdic
hated his
father.

The Pendragon’s
unexpected acceptance to attend this
arranged Council had
shocked everyone. Cerdic had thoughthis mother would tell Arthur when he
arrived of their suffering and pain. Was that not why she had been so flustered
all this
day? Was that not why she had
spoken so sharply to him during
the afternoon? Why then, did she not
spit out the words of
contempt? What he had
not bargained for was his mother’s star-
shine sparkle of happiness
as
Arthur’s horse and escort came
into
view. She was like those silly
unwed girls who giggled at the young
men. Where were the rantings, the
venting of hurt feeling and frustration? What had happened to those
oft-repeated threats of
what she would do
and say to Arthur when she saw him? Where
was the bold talk that had
been a background noise to Cerdic’s
entire
life? The boy could not believe, would not accept, that his
mother still
loved the Pendragon!
He stabbed his eating
dagger into the meat, screwing the
blade round, imagining how it would
be to thrust the point into Arthur’s heart.

Vitolinus was seated next to Cerdic. This was
the first time the boys had met, cloistered as Vitolinus was in that dismal
monastery, chanting his way from one monotonous day to the
next. He placed his hand over Cerdic’s. ‘One day,’
he said,
‘when we have the wit and
strength of a man grown, the
Pendragon shall answer to our blades.’ Cerdic,
eyes rounding, regarded Winifred’s brother with
new-found respect. In a rush of needing to understand, he
blurted,
‘Why does my mother fondle him so? She is like the new-married women pawing all
over their taken husbands.’ Vitolinus helped himself to food; the monastery
stuff was poor. He made no attempt at an answer. If his sister wanted to make
the prize fool of herself by draping herself all over that
bastard, then it was her concern. Personally
speaking, he would
rather see the Pendragon’s throat slit open.

§ XIX

The Hall was
rising, men and women going tired and drink-
filled
to their beds. Aesc departed with much noise and parade.

The serious talking would come on the morrow,
this night had been for feasting, idle conversation and laughter. A chance to
make assessments, first impressions and hasty judgements. Drink-muffled minds
did not lend themselves to hard bargain
ing
and possible disagreement. Arthur found himself releasing a
breath of held tension once Aesc and his
ostentatious body
guard had departed.
While he held no fear for the man, a picked
quarrel at this juncture was
not desirable.

Ambrosius rose from the bench, gave his
good-nights to Winifred and Arthur, but the Pendragon rose with him. ‘1 will
walk with you,’ Arthur said, nodding his leaving to Winifred. At the door he
retrieved his sword, slid it, with an inward sigh of relief, into his scabbard.
It felt like having an arm missing, not having the sword swinging comfortably
against his hip.

‘I sleep within the shelter of Our Lord,’
Ambrosius said as they stepped outside, indicating Winifred’s chapel. The
priest has comfortable rooms beyond.’ There was a brittle touch of frost in the
air, with the stars littering the sky as if they were the uncountable camp
fires of
some vast army. Several men were
drifting to or returning from
the latrine pits.

Arthur pointed to the left, said, ‘I need to
check the horses, will you walk with me?’ His uncle saw no reason to refuse,
the night was chill but it
had been hot and
fuggy within the crowded Hall. To sleep on a
muzzy head would cause discomfort come morning, so he
walked
alongside Arthur, saying nothing, their boots scrunching on the frost-hard
ground.

Several horses whinnied low calls of greeting
as they approached. They looked well enough, with hay piled in the centre,
water buckets filled. Arthur leant across the fencing, hand extended to stroke
a soft, enquiring muzzle.

‘
It is some time since we talked alone,’ he said
cautiously.
‘There has
been naught for the saying.’
I am not fully forgiven yet for
all my sins then, Arthur thought
wearily, said cheerfully, ‘Your
son is well?’ It was always difficult
talking
of Ambrosius’s born son, for the lad had suffered illness as a
young boy, leaving his legs
twisted and weak.

As he had hoped, pride encouraged Ambrosius
to answer friendly enough, ‘He shows promise despite his mis-formity.
Poor legs do not necessarily make a poor mind. He
has much of
my mother in him –and the build of her father.’
Relaxing, Arthur laughed. He really had nothing
to fear from
Ambrosius, they were
both, when it came down to it, fighting
in the same Turma. ‘Without that beard I trust! Bull’s blood,’ he
faltered
briefly, aware of Ambrosius’s frown at his use of the
pagan oath, carried on, ‘I was terrified of the man. Built as big as
a
giant, wide as an oak, and that great bush of hair smothering his face and
chin! Mithras he was enormous!’
Ambrosius
too, leaned on the fence, stretched his hand to
pat a chestnut horse. ‘I
was not aware you knew him?’

‘Aye, you all came to Less Britain one
summer. I was what, three, four? You seemed so adult to me, though you are,
what, only a handful of years older?’ Ambrosius was frowning, leaning on his
arms along the top
rail of the fence. He
shook his head, lifted one hand in apology.
‘I confess I do not remember
you. Less Britain I do, Ygrainne, Uthr but ...’ He let the sentence trail off,
embarrassed.

Arthur grunted. "Tis not so surprising.
You would not have noticed a boy who was thought to be the fatherless son of a
serving girl.’ Ambrosius’s frown had deepened, trying to recall that far
distant summer. He had enjoyed himself in Less Britain, had
even, for that short while, liked his elder
brother, Uthr. ‘Wait,
I do remember! A grimed lad toddling round me like
a pup at heel, always clutching a damned wooden sword! Christ’s love, was that
you?’ He was laughing, delighted at the return of that memory of youth.

Grinning, Arthur nodded. ‘Aye, that was me.’

‘
Christ’s
love!’ Ambrosius repeated. ‘I remember kicking you
because you were
becoming such a bloody nuisance!’
They were
both laughing, their arms going around each
other’s shoulders in the mutual sharing of the past. ‘I kicked you
back.
Received a thrashing for it too.’ Arthur’s laughter eased, he shook his head,
occasionally guffawing. ‘It took me some
months
to understand why I was the one thrashed when you had
been the one to kick first.’ He shrugged. ‘It
falls hard on a lad to
be labelled bastard-born.’ Turning so that his
back leant against the wooden fence, Ambrosius said, ‘Yet you have abandoned
your son to be so labelled.’ Arthur chewed his lip. ‘The circumstances are
different.’

‘
No they
are not. Winifred is, for all her faults, a good woman
at heart, you
know.’ They had somehow moved a few paces apart, the shared congeniality
fading.

‘She is a clever woman, I grant you that.’ Although
he knew he was wasting his breath, Ambrosius
pursued
the subject. ‘She has founded three churches and
donated much financial
help towards the feeding and shelter of the poor and sick.’

‘Were I also to build a Christian church,
would that change your opinion of me?’ Arthur retorted.

‘No.’

‘I thought not.’
A group of men, Saex, reeled by on the return from the
latrines, their singing and drunken laughter loud
against the
still night. They did not see the two men leaning against
the fence. Arthur glanced at Ambrosius. It was as well his uncle spoke nothing
of the English tongue, for the group’s remarks
had not been over-polite about the Christian British. He
fondled the horse before him, a fine young chestnut
with a
good, bold eye, the Decurion’s horse. Onager was tethered in the
barn, Arthur could never turn him loose with others. ‘Why
do you still hate me, Ambrosius? What great wrong
have I done
you?’ Ambrosius tilted his head back, gazed up at the stars.
God’s
wondrous creations. Did he hate Arthur?
Christ Jesu said to
love. No, he did not hate the Pendragon, was
irritated by him, more like. Jealous even? As he had been jealous of his older,
wiser and braver brother? A difficult medicine to swallow, the
truth. He sighed, closed his eyes in brief prayer.
What was there
to answer?

‘
Because you have turned out to be everything that I, as a
boy, had so wanted to be.’
Arthur laughed. ‘What?
Bloody-minded, callous, a fornicating adulterer and a heathen!’ The laughter
deepened. ‘I think
those are some of the
milder descriptive terms you have publicly
applied to me.’ Annoyed that
Arthur had deliberately misunderstood, Ambrosius jeered, ‘Do you deny them?’ He
dropped his eyes from the skies, his challenge direct.

Arthur shrugged, replied amiably, unoffended,
‘I’m trying to give up the adultery.’ He laughed again, aware even in the
darkness of Ambrosius’s disapproval. ‘Hard to
believe, but true!
I have been an honest and faithful husband for some
months
now.’ Losing the laughter, he turned
the subject. ‘Can you deny
my
achievement with the Artoriani? We have peace.’ He
sniffed
pessimistically. He was tired, the day’s ride had been long and his thigh was
aching, that old wound, throbbing deep
within
the muscles. ‘Though for how long, only your God,
Hueil of the North,
and the English have the knowing.’ When Ambrosius made no reply, Arthur asked, ‘I
need your help to keep this peace, Uncle. If you can take care of God for
me, I’ll deal with Hueil, and together, we can
tether the
English.’ Still nothing from Ambrosius. Arthur swung away
from the fence, striking the top bar angrily with
his fist. ‘You see
only what you want
to see, Ambrosius. The sunny days, the
corn
growing high in well-tended fields.’ Arthur stepped
towards the other man, his fist raised, clenched,
nostrils flaring.
‘Well rain falls too, you know. Harvests fail.’
His breathing had quickened, he took several deep
breaths to
regain control of the
anger. He did not want to argue. Limply he
said, ‘Our people, British
people, backed a tyrant, Vortigern,
because
they were belly-sick of Rome’s corruption. Rome
claimed our taxes, our menfolk – needed here – and gave
nothing in
return except hollow promises. The power that was Rome is dying, is dead. I
have no wish to die with it.’ Arthur expected his uncle to answer, to belch his
usual claims for the
Roman way, that the
Emperor would be back. Nothing.
Ambrosius just stood there, looking up
at the stars. Arthur had thought himself too tired for an argument, but
suddenly he wanted one. Suddenly wanted to shout and bellow. To kick the man
who had first kicked him, and not worry about getting
thrashed for it. And so he goaded him again, sneering mockery
at
his uncle’s ideals. ‘Would you like me to send a plea to the western Emperor
then? I assume Severus has not yet been murdered?’ His tone was thick with
sarcasm. ‘I doubt he could
take time away
from balancing on his tenuous hold of cliff-
edged power to consider our plight, but if that is what you
wish
...’ Arthur smacked his palm to his forehead, ‘Fool I am! Happen you would
prefer I implored the Emperor of the East, Leo himself. Will he have enough
interest in us, a rain-sodden destitute little island, to make sail and come to
our aid?’
Ambrosius at last answered. His
voice was very quiet,
subdued. ‘We tried appealing before.’