Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (66 page)

He would go to Aesc, and learn how to become
a man. He needed to learn, for there were two things he now wanted. His freedom,
and to make an end to the bastard he hated more than any person living. Arthur,
the Pendragon.

§ XXV

‘Mam
?’ Llacheu lifted his eyes
from the ash-spear shaft he was
rubbing
smooth, the thing intended as a gift for his father when
he returned. ‘Why
has Da gone to see Winifred? I thought he detested the disagreeable bitch.’ The
sun had set half an hour gone, its brief blaze of glory fading into evening.
Beyond their private chamber, Caer Cadan was preparing for the night.

‘
It is not
for you to call her so!’ Gwenhwyfar reprimanded her
son, not entirely masking her amusement. Llacheu
had
mimicked Arthur’s tone and often-used expression. He was so very
much like his father, even down to that familiar squinting
look of one eye half closed, the other eyebrow
raised. When he
grew, the voice too would be similar.

The boy had muttered a
response, she did not quite hear
what,
but did not question him. It was probably something rude
about
Winifred, and she had no heart to chide him for thoughts
she herself harboured. Aloud he said, ‘Do you
think Cerdic will
want Da’s torque when he is grown?’ Gwenhwyfar was
kneeling beside a brindled hound sitting patient by the central hearth-fire,
pulling burrs and ticks from
his thick coat.
Her nimble fingers had caught a flea, broken it in two but at her son’s
question, she paused, hands hovering above
the dog. She considered an
answer, to tell the truth or pass it
away?
Llacheu was ten years of age, a child no more. She began
again to search for parasites on the dog’s coat, chiding
the
animal to cease his ridiculous squirming and lie still.

‘
Da said
you were to be the firmer with him,’ Llacheu
informed her as the hound
scrabbled to his feet and attempted to wash Gwenhwyfar’s ears with his tongue.

Laughing, she pushed him away, wiped at her
wet face. ‘Da
then, can have the training
of him! The dog is soft in the brain!’
They laughed together, mother and
son, sharing the friendship of their dogs and the pleasure of each other’s
company.

She had not answered the
question, and as their laughter
faded, Llacheu
repeated, ‘Well, do you?’

‘Do I what?’

‘
Cerdic.’
Gwenhwyfar sat back
on her heels, her lower lip pouting as she considered an answer. The dog seized
the opportunity to wriggle away and lay down next to Llacheu’s dog Blaidd, yawning,
his mouth a gaping chasm of white teeth and pink tongue.

She answered with the truth. ‘Cerdic will
want to be called Pendragon, aye. His mother is teaching him to expect it.’ Llacheu
held the spear shaft before him, squinting along its length. It was a good
shaft, would serve well. He nodded to himself in satisfaction, set it aside and
stood up, stretching. He
was not yet growing
into his height, though it would come
within the next few years. His
child’s body was slender, with
firm,
maturing muscles, his hair, a light brown, cascading to his
collar in an
unruly mop, never tidy. And his eyes were Arthur’s
eyes, expressive, able to reflect laughter or anger; as thick
lashed,
as deep and dark. He finished his stretch, enjoying the
pull of cramped muscles along his neck and back. ‘Then he will have to
fight me for it! I am not afraid of Cerdic.’ Aye, so much
like Arthur!

‘Then you ought to be!’ Gwenhwyfar’s reply
was matter of fact. ‘Your father fears what he may become.’
Llacheu snorted disbelief. ‘A boy brought up by a
woman on a
farmsteading? What will he know of war and fighting?’

‘
A boy
whose father is King of all Britain, whose uncle is Aesc
of the Cantii, whose grandsire was the Saxon
Hengest. Do I add
to the list?’ Gwenhwyfar had risen to her feet, stood
before her
son, her hands going to his
shoulders, giving them a little shake
as she spoke. ‘He may not stay
with his mother. What if she sends him to live with his uncle? Have you thought
of that?’
The boy’s answer was pert,
combined with a shake of his
head. ‘Father would never allow it.’

‘Your father might not be able to stop it!’ Llacheu
shrugged, and bent to retrieve the spear shaft from the floor where he had laid
it. He did not fully understand this intense animosity between his mother and
that other woman
who had once been his
father’s wife. He, Llacheu, was Arthur’s
first-born, legitimate son, so why all this fuss about poxed
Cerdic?
Except, he understood one thing. He wanted to follow his father and be the next
Pendragon – very, very much. And if Cerdic had that same wanting, then there
would indeed be a fight for possession of the Dragon. ‘I will have the
Artoriani behind me?’ Llacheu said, half turning to look at his mother, a
slight rise in his voice with the question. He
wanted his father’s torque and banner, but there was a hard part; he would only
get them when his father was dead. And beyond anything– beyond
everything
– Llacheu did not want his father dead!
Gwenhwyfar
must have caught the pain of his expression, for
she held out her arms
to the lad, a sudden fear pricking that he was, perhaps, too old now to respond
to a mother’s hug. But
Llacheu grinned and
flung his arms around her broadening
waist, snuggling his head into the
bulge that was the new baby growing within her.

‘The Artoriani will follow Arthur’s son to
beyond the sea’s
edge,’ she said, stroking
his unruly hair into a semblance of order, ‘but only if that son is worthy for
the following. And
you,’ she ruffled
his hair back into its customary untidiness, ‘will
be more than worthy.’
The lamps would need trimming, several were smoking.
Darkness was thickening outside. Llacheu stretched up to place
a
light kiss on her cheek. ‘Poor Cerdic. I almost feel sorry for him.’
The baby was uncomfortable, for all it was only
four months
within her, and perhaps with a ‘little too much irritability
Gwenhwyfar answered, ‘Do not waste your sorrow. He is not deserving of it.’ Whistling
to the dogs, who instantly came alert from sleep,
Llacheu made for the door to walk them before he made for his
bed.
His mother was often short-tempered these days; he had asked Enid about it, and
received a pert answer.
‘You’d be bad-tempered if
you
had to
carry
a damn
great lump about
for
nine
months!’ He threw a quick grin at Gwenhwyfar. ‘Cerdic, I think,
must
be as disagreeable as his bloody bitch of a mother.’ He ducked out before she
could make an answer.

Gwenhwyfar laughed and settled herself before
the fire, her feet tucked under her skirts. She sat for a while, enjoying the
comfort of this, her home, letting the warmth flush her cheeksred, letting her
thoughts wander. Within the passing of a few
years
Llacheu would become a man. An idle, passing, thought;
would he break as
many hearts as had his father? Gwenhwyfar
sighed.
Her son ought to have brothers beside him, loyal
brothers. She prayed
often, to both the Virgin Christian Mary and the Old Goddess. Prayed that she
carried a boy, a new brother for Llacheu.

The fire crackled,
Gwenhwyfar yawned. She had a headache
coming on. Too much sitting about, not enough walking,
ah,
but she was so tired!
She ought to think about going to bed, yet
she did not welcome it for the bed gave little comfort,
despite its
new goose-feather
mattress, fine linen sheets, and covering
furs.
A bed was such a lonely place when your man was not there to share it. She got
to her feet, winced and stamped her numbed foot as a rush of blood sent her
toes tingling. Hopping to the bed, she sat on its edge, rubbing vigorously at
the needle-sharp prickling.

The sound of boots approaching outside made
her lift her head. Knuckles rapped on the door, a man cleared his throat
nervously. Gwenhwyfar groaned. Now what? Wearily,
she
went to open the door.

The man who stood there held his woollen cap
sheepishly in
his hands, twisting it around
and around, a faint, tentative
smile on his face.

Uncertain, for
the light was poor, she questioned, ‘Ider?’
Eagerly, the young man nodded,
the smile becoming bolder.

‘
It
is Ider! You are returned! And are you well?’ Pleased,
Gwenhwyfar held her hands to him as she gabbled the
questions,
drew him inward, into the light of lamp and fire,
standing him within the threshold of her chamber. He
reddened,
embarrassed at her enthusiasm and affectionate greeting. He had half expected
to be turned away, told to go straight to barracks.

‘
You look
splendid,’ she appraised, her tiredness forgotten as
she circled around
him, noting he was thinner, but that his skin was sun-browned, his eyes
bright-dancing. Again she took up
his hands,
turning them over, inspecting the healthy pink
colour beneath the nails, the pad of firm flesh to the palm. ‘Your
wounds are healed? You are allowed back to us?’
The questions came in a rush. He managed to stammer answers, and then there
was a slither of paws on the steps beyond the door
and the swirl of
the two dogs
entering, seemingly a whole pack by the extent of the
barking and wagging of tails. Llacheu was there
and hugging his
good friend Ider,
asking the same questions as his mother, pulling the man further in; and the
door was shut, a stool found. His cloak
and the saddle-bag were taken, laid in a corner; a tankard of ale
was
pressed into his hand, the wild exchange of laughter and
chatter tumbling in a rush of shared excitement.
Enid was called,
asked to fetch some more wine and bring food.

Ider drank his ale and
answered the questions fired at him as
best he could. Aye, his wounds were healed, and aye, the
medics at Aquae Sulis had at last passed him fit, but
no, he had
not enjoyed his time there. ‘Jesu,’ he
complained, ‘the women
are as prim as a
duck’s arse!’ He drank thirstily, wiped ale from
his upper lip with the back of his hand. ‘Even the ale there tastes
as
bad as that muck they call healing water. It tasted more like boar’s piss to
me!’
The two dogs were nosing at his leather
bag. Llacheu
absently called them away, returned to the urgent
questioning, but the dogs ignored him. Blaidd pawed at the bag, whimper
ing. Suddenly there was a shrill yowl and the dog
leapt
backward yelping, the other dog, Cadarn, began barking.
Gwenhwyfar, Ider and Llacheu sprang to their feet.

‘What the hell!’ Ider roared, as he strode
across the small
chamber towards the
snarling, barking dogs, Llacheu with him,
shouting at the animals to be
quiet.

The leather bag had tumbled to the floor,
tangled with Ider’s
cloak. Gwenhwyfar, at
Ider’s other side, grabbed his arm,
pointed at it. ‘Mithras! The thing’s
moving!’
Ider grinned, lifted the bag and
cloak, advised Llacheu to put
the dogs
through into the main Hall a while. They objected,
but at the boy’s firm
insistence, out they went. Loosening the cords that held the bag closed, Ider
put his hand inside and withdrew a ball of tabby, spiky fur with two
black-tipped ears
flattened above frightened
round eyes. The tiny creature
opened its mouth, and issued a plaintive,
wailing, meow.

Gwenhwyfar laughed, clapping her hands,
delighted. ‘Oh, the dear thing!’
Grinning,
Ider handed her the kitten. He grimly surveyed
the several red scratch marks along the back of his hand. ‘Dear’,
was
not a description he would have used.

Gwenhwyfar fondled the animal, admiring its
softness, its
perfect markings, let Llacheu
have his turn at cuddling it.
‘Where did it come from?’ she asked. They
had no cats at Caer Cadan for they used weasels to keep down the mice and rats
in the granary stores.

‘Two days back, I stopped a night at a
farmsteading. The
kitten’s mother had died
and the woman of the house couldn’t
be bothered with the litter. She’d
already killed the others.’ Ider shrugged, non-committal. ‘It seemed a shame
not to let such a
tiny thing have a decent
chance at life, just for the sake of
dripping some milk down its throat.’
Llacheu had set the kitten on the floor.
Gwenhwyfar
squatted and flicked her fingers, the kitten pounced. They
all laughed.