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‘
And were
told to look to ourselves. Which is what I am doing.’
Arthur slid his thumb through his sword belt,
rocked forward onto
the balls of his
feet and back to his heels. ‘Another bishop could
come and teach my men to shout
"alleluia" and send the enemy
running in fear. It worked well
once before, I believe.’
Ambrosius growled
something inaudible at Arthur’s ridicule,
then stated, ‘Bishop Germanus was a good man, a valiant soldier
and
a devout man of God.’
His hands held out
flat, palms down, Arthur conceded, ‘If my tutoring serves me well he had come
with Papal blessing to see
Vortigern
secure as king, provided that same king could comply
fully with the putting down of certain heretical
notions that were
abroad at the time. One of those strange quirks of
fate led the
bishop to be in a position to
see off a small band of hostile raiders.’
Turning aside, Ambrosius laced
his fingers behind his back. The stars were indeed beautiful this night. It was
true, the
Christian Church had blessed
Vortigern’s claim to the king
dom, verifying that Britain, then as now,
was very much alone.

Breaking the stiff, angry silence, Arthur
said, ‘Rome is finished, Ambrosius, the sooner you accept that, the sooner we
can forget our quarrelling and work together for our own land, our own people.’
Ambrosius sighed, audibly loud, long. He pushed himself
from the fence, turned to face Arthur, offered his hand. ‘You
are
right. Everything you say is right. I agree.’
For
a long moment Arthur stood there, gaping open-mouthed
from Ambrosius’s face to his outstretched hand,
back to his face.
Had he drunk more wine than he thought then? Surely he
was drunk? Hesitant, half afeared that he was dreaming and to take that hand
would break the dream, Arthur took his uncle’s
proffered grasp. Then they were laughing together, embracing,
patting
each other’s shoulders. Stupidly, Arthur almost had the need to brush a tear
from his eye.

‘You will back me fully tomorrow then, when I
make a new
treaty with Aesc?’ Arthur held
his breath, not daring to hope for
an answer.

‘
Aye.’
Ambrosius raised his arms, let them drop. ‘It does us no
good to be at each other’s throats. There are
enough bastards out
there trying to do that for us.’ Arthur’s elation
lasted a few moments longer, then faded. Suspicious, he questioned, ‘What is in
this for you? Why the change of heart?’ Ambrosius had the decency to appear
slightly embarrassed. Two reasons.’ He held up a finger. ‘One: you are to
insist that Aesc allows the church at Durovernum to be rebuilt and that a
priest is permitted to reside there.’

‘
Canti Byrig they call it now,’ Arthur corrected
absently. ‘Two?’

‘
You aLso become
Christian.’
Arthur roared with laughter. He bent forward, his hands
on his
thighs, laughing, shaking his head. ‘Mithras’ blood,
Ambrosius,
are you serious?’ He glanced up, still laughing. ‘Gods,
you are!’
Ambrosius shrugged, then smiled, the expression
broadening
into a grin. ‘No, but it was worth a try!’ He clapped Arthur’s shoulder,
again offered his hand, which Arthur took in new friendship and accepted
partnership.

A rustle of a woman’s
skirts. Arthur spun around at the footfall
behind him, a slave, timid, reluctant to speak. He
beckoned her
nearer, asked her business.

‘
My Lady asks you to her chamber. She wishes to talk with
you.’
A
rthur hesitated.
He was in no mood for more of Winifred this
night. He touched Ambrosius’s arm,
said with a chuckle, ‘To you, Winifred may be a good woman; to me, she is a
pain in the arse.’
To his
surprise, Ambrosius answered, ‘I meant she is good
for the Church. Personally, she gives me constipation
too.’
Reluctant, Arthur began to follow the
girl back to the Hall. As
an
afterthought, Ambrosius called after him, ‘I would ask also that
you
ensure the boy does not become King after you, Arthur.’

‘
That is
three things,’ Arthur answered, his laughter boom
ing into the crisp
night air.

§ XX

Cerdic tugged at the
sleeve of his new-found friend, whispered,
‘Vitolinus,
are you asleep?’ The other boy grunted, opened one eye. ‘I was. What is it?’ They
were curled together beneath a shared sleeping-fur in the far corner of the
Hall, a warm niche where no draughts reached, Cerdic’s accustomed sleeping
place. The younger boy
pointed across the
mounds of Winifred’s men, sleeping,
snoring, a few clutching their women
close. His finger was shaking. ‘He’s gone to my mother!’
Vitolinus groaned, rolled over, pulling the fur
closer about
his ears. Already he was
regretting becoming involved with this
spoilt whelp. ‘Go to sleep.’
Cerdic persisted, shaking the older boy. ‘Do you
not hear me?
Arthur is with my mother.’ An uninterested murmur. ‘So
what?’ More agitated, Cerdic pulled the soft fur aside, Vitolinus sat up with a
curse, his hand half raised to cuff the boy. ‘You little
brat I’ll ...’ but Cerdic caught his wrist. ‘Do
you not
understand? Arthur is alone with her.’ Vitolinus snatched back
the fur, began tucking it around himself again. ‘You were complaining that he
was not her true husband were you not? Well, now he is, so shut up and go to
sleep.’ Cerdic’s retort hissed sinisterly into the dim light of the Hall
interior. ‘I am old enough to know why men lie with women. To get sons.’
Vitolinus had lain down, but the words
struck home. He sat
up again, squinted at
the shadows hiding the door that led from
the Public Hall to Winifred’s
private chambers. Sons. Ah. The last thing Vitolinus needed was yet another
brat of Arthur’s. Cerdic and Llacheu were two too many already.

He patted Cerdic’s
shoulders in a fond, brotherly way. ‘Good
point,
lad. Come on.’ He tossed the fur aside, began to step between the scatter of
sleeping men, Cerdic following.

‘
Where are
we going?’ The boy whispered, glancing
anxiously over his shoulder at
the closed door of his mother’s chamber.

‘For a piss, where do you think?’ A malevolent
grin crept across Vitolinus’s face. ‘And while we’re out there, we’ll see about
interrupting the adding of one to the population.’

§ XXI

Arthur seated himself on a stool before a
table covered with a fine embroidered cloth. On it sat a comb, bronze mirror,
an ash-wood box and a larger box of carved walrus ivory. To one side lay a
leather-bound Bible. Winifred dismissed the slave, poured fresh wine into a
silver goblet, handed it to him. It was good stuff, imported. She offered
fruit, he declined.

She was, Arthur noted
with amusement, now clad in
something
nearer the form of dress he was more accustomed to
her
wearing. Gone was the plain black weave and veil, in their
place a gown of the finest flame-coloured silk,
the cut fashioned
to cling to the ample
contours of her body. Her hair, golden-fair
as her mother’s had been,
hung loose in rippling waves down
her back.
A delicate perfume of summer-scented flowers wafted
behind her as she moved. A holy woman of God?
Arthur
coughed to conceal laughter.

Winifred seated herself
on a second stool some distance from
him, folded her hands
into her lap. ‘You look as I so well remember you,’ she said. ‘The years have
been kind.’

‘Your memory must be at fault then,’ he jibed
drily.

He was watching
her, Winifred noted, as a man looks at a
woman he wants. ‘What is it Arthur, that makes women
love
you so?’ She spoke with a soft sigh of
regret and longing. ‘You
are a thorough bastard.’
He laughed. ‘Must be my natural charm.’ He
swilled his wine around in the goblet, aware he had already drunk too much this
night. Even so, he did not refuse when she rose to pour him more.

‘
Oh?’ She
placed her finger lightly under his chin. ‘You
possess charm? I never
knew.’ With sudden movement, Arthur stood, seized her wrist, put
his goblet on the table, took the wine jug from
her and placed it
there also. When he kissed her, she responded, eager.
His hand was going up her back, beneath the fall of hair to her neck.

Winifred closed her eyes, let her head fall
back, his touch
sending sensations, all these
years neglected, pulsing. Her
words came on a whispered breath: ‘My
Lord, love with me as we have before!’ Arthur’s hand was caressing her throat,
and then the fingers were clasping tighter, squeezing. Her eyes snapped open,
her own hands clawing at his as she tried to breathe.

‘Love as we did before? I never loved you
then, Winifred,
have no intention starting
now.’ He shoved her from him,
sending her reeling to the floor. Calmly,
he retrieved his wine, sat, drinking it.

Winifred scrambled to her feet, lunged,
knocking the goblet from his hand and struck his cheek one sharp blow with her
open palm, moved quickly back beyond his reach.

‘
Ah, that
is more the Winifred I recall.’ Arthur brushed at
the wine splashes on
his tunic, amusement clinging obstinately
to
his expression. ‘You had me worried for a moment, I thought
Ambrosius
spoke right and you really had become a good, Christian woman.’ He rubbed the
sting of his cheek. ‘I see not.’

‘You are beneath contempt, Arthur Pendragon!’
He stood, coming forward in one lithe movement, again catching hold of her.

‘
I? Whoa,
Winifred! Who is it who has fluttered her
eyelashes, simpered and spoken of love this evening? What!’ He moved
slightly away from her, without releasing her. ‘You mean
I have read you
wrong? You were not intending to lure me into
your bed?’
She hissed, like a disturbed
snake, ‘I would not have you in my
bed were you the last man alive!’ Arthur let her go,
pushing her from him. He filled his goblet
again,
not caring that he was becoming drunk. ‘You always were a
liar.’ He swallowed a large mouthful of wine. ‘Now
we have that
little game put behind us, can we move on to business?’
She was angry, he could see, by the pinch of her
nostrils, the
flutter of breath, but
give her credit, was controlling it well. She
had learnt something then, these years. For himself, despite the
many
misgivings which on more than one occasion had almost turned him for home on
the ride here, Arthur was enjoying himself. It was probably the wine.

Leaning forward, resting
his elbow on his knee, a wicked grin
spread across his
face, ‘I have still not decided what it was that
enticed me to agree to come here. But, since I am here, and your
pathetic
attempt at seduction has failed, what else have you in
mind for me? Do you and Aesc plan to slaughter me like Hengest
did
the British at Council?’

‘
Kill you?’ She was brushing at her rumpled gown, patting
her
hair
into place. ‘How I would dearly love to!’ Regaining a hesitant
composure,
Winifred seated herself. Devil take the man, how did
he manage to
raise her passions so easily — temper and desire?
She forced a smile, breathed slowly and deeply. ‘I will
see you
dead one day, Arthur, but not yet, not
until the time is right. I want you to live a few summers more.’ A
rthur sat back, lazily resting his arm on the
table. ‘Naturally.
Cerdic is not old enough to contest my title.’

‘His time will come. Cerdic will fight you.’

‘
I look
forward to the encounter.’ Idly, he picked up the Bible
lying on the table, the gospels written on
parchment and carefully
stitched
together within a leather cover. He opened the delicate
book and peered at the finely copied writing, his
eyes swimming as
the multitude of
tiny words blurred. By the Bull, he was tired!
Passionately Winifred exclaimed, ‘There does not have to be a
fight!’
A
rthur shut the
book. ‘You actually read this? Mithras, is it
worth the strain to your sight?’
Answering her, ‘Of course there
does.’ Winifred had seated herself, sitting
straight-backed, poised and elegant. ‘Many of your chieftains are returning to
how it
was, before Rome came. They are
happy to renew the old laws,
divide their land between sons so that all
take a share. Please,’
Winifred stretched
her hand out for the fragile book Arthur was
toying with, ‘please, treat
that with care, it is of great value.’ Arthur peered at the thing he held, as
if unaware how it had got there, tossed it, none too gently, back to the table.
‘Unfortunately,’ he drawled – the wine
really was too strong for this late hour–’the old system has its flaw of
fratricide. Brothers
are not always the best of friends.’