Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (68 page)

A dog was barking and jumping at the carcass,
the clouds
were thickening into billows of
dark cumulus. Was snow
coming? They had been lucky these past days,
after the heavy snows of an early winter. Gwenhwyfar peered away down the
hill, gasped as a sharp pain shot across her
abdomen. She
doubled, almost fell to
her knees, her hands clutching at the
pain that felt as though she were
being ripped in two.

Arthur clicked his tongue
at his horse, and with Llacheu
beside
him, began leading the animal into its stable. There were
only
a few stalls, most of the horses were kept at grass in the
walled and fenced paddocks ranging around the foot
of the
Caer. Excited, Llacheu was
reliving the hunt, his chatter
retelling that first sighting of the buck
and then its brave stand
against the dogs.
It had been a fine chase, a good run. But
Arthur was only half
listening. His laughter had died, a frown
beginning
to crease his face. He had glanced over his shoulder, his attention caught by a
cry, saw Gwenhwyfar slump forward,
fall.
He pushed past the horse, ran across the courtyard. His
boot slipping,
he fell to one knee, but was up, running again, taking Gwenhwyfar in his arms
as she gasped and fought the intense pain that clawed and tore at her.

Arthur shouted for help,
for someone to fetch Enid, as he
lifted
his wife and carried her inside to the bed, but Enid would
be too late for there was blood trailing on the floor, on
his arms;
blood and water gushing from Gwenhwyfar.
Arthur tore at her skirts, fumbling, ripping the material in his haste to free
her clothing. She was sobbing now, clutching at her abdomen, her knees drawn
up, tears falling as her face contorted in pain.

The head was
there, Arthur could see it, a mass of dark, wet
hair— where the hell was Enid? He
bellowed for someone to get
her, saw the doorway crowded with
the curious, the concerned. In three strides he was there, slamming it shut as
he yelled, ‘Do
something bloody useful! Fetch
whatever it is a woman needs at
a birthing. Move yourselves!’ Then
back to Gwenhwyfar,
standing over her, stroking the sweat from her forehead
and cheeks, clasping her hand as her fingers flailed to hold onto something.
She was half sitting, pushing down, the gasping
turning to panting. Her panic was easing, the pain not as
intense
now the head was nearly out.

‘Mithras,’ Arthur declared, himself almost
sobbing, ‘I don’t know how to birth a child.’
The
shoulders were out, one more push and it would be over.
In the space it
took for a breath, Gwenhwyfar half-laughed, ‘it
seems you are about to learn then, husband.’ Quickly, he
fetched
sufficient thread from Gwenhwyfar’s sewing basket, ready for the cord — his
mind jumping, unexpected to the
unsummoned
memory of a woman with her head back,
laughing.
‘I will
have
your sons!’ He thrust the image of Morgause
aside
and the child was there. As he would have done with a foal, he tied and cut the
cord, lifted the child and wrapped it in one of his own linen under-tunics that
he had snatched up. The
door swung open in
a flurry of running feet and panting breath,
Enid. But there was nothing
she could do, nothing. The tears streaking his face, Arthur showed her the boy,
a minute old,
cradled in his arms. The boy
he had seen born, his son. And the
tears came into Enid’s eyes. She put
her hand to Arthur’s arm,
her head giving
the briefest, despairing shake, and then she was
gone to tend her
mistress, and Arthur was pushing through the
door,
shouldering through the crowd and going to his horse. He
mounted, rode
at a canter, the bundle that would have been his
son clutched tight to his aching chest, the tears falling and
falling
as he rode from the Caer.

§ XXVIII

The wind talked, up here on the summit of the
Tor. Sometimes
it whispered or crooned
lovers’ talk, caressing and soothing. Or
it could shout and bellow, its
anger blasting and pummelling, but always, incessantly, in whatever voice, the
wind talked. Murmuring through the grass, slamming against the single, standing
Stone or moaning as it slipped past the height to race down and along the
valley.

Today, this late-winter afternoon, the wind prattled
through
the grass and tumbled around the
solid, granite blackness of the
man-high
Stone against which Morgaine propped her back. She had been there since
morning, huddled beneath a thick
cloak, just sitting, staring out from
this great height across the
winter water,
broken only by the drab trees and cast of muddied
trackways.

On a clear day, the view was of for ever, the
ripple of sun-
warmed or snow-mantled hills
playing faerie tricks, their
distance in the shape-changing light
confusing the senses of perspective and location. The sun-shimmered glimpse of
sea
sparkled beyond meadows that danced
with a glory of flowers,
the grazing
land kissed by a flutter of butterfly wings and choired by the joyous
glory-singing of birds. And as the shout of summer
colour turned to the brilliance of autumn reds and
golds, the
blue and silver of the
water came again, spreading and creeping
up and over the river banks, to lie silent and mysterious beneath
the
gilded wonder of a full moon. The water-lands, ghost-
shadowed by the Tor and her sister hills, wreathed by the beauty of a
lowlying, white-breathed mist. The sun would rise in all his
proud splendour from behind his evocative,
night-dark,
magical domain, to
spread his warm, cupping hand of life. And
the soft, gold moon would take her turn, bringing the gentle
ease of sleep-silent peace. Yns Witrin, as it
always had been and
always would be.
The centre, the heart, of the Old World,
where even the ways of the new and the word of the Christ
would
never entirely silence the presence of the Goddess.

To the south-east lay a ramble of low hills,
and when there
was no wind playing over
them Morgaine would sometimes see
the
grey fuzz of smoke against the sky. Smoke from the cooking
fires,
hearth-fires, the blacksmith’s forge and the tavern and
settlement of Caer Cadan, Arthur’s stronghold. Often she
would sit up here on the solitary loneliness of
the Tor, with only
the wind’s voice
and the presence of the Goddess for company,
sit and watch the slow
drift of that vague blur of smoke.

Eight months ago he had come, and he had not
come again.
It could all have been a dream,
a fanciful wanting, his coming to her—but there were some things that showed
beyond doubt that
it had been reality.

There was no smoke this
day, the sky was too grey, the wind too sprightly. The Caer itself could not be
seen, though she had
tried. Standing and
standing, she fixed her eyes on where she knew it to be, but could not see its
ditches and ramparts, its wooden-built palisade and high gate towers. The hills
behind rose higher than the mound that was the Caer, enclosing its presence
against their overpowering greens and browns and
greys. There was nothing, from up here on the Tor, to show
that
across the other side of the summer meadows or winter
floods, there bustled a busy place of men and horses. Nothing to
be
seen of the man Morgaine loved beyond living.

She had not sent word to her mother — let the
hag find out from some other spiteful direction! She, Morgaine, would not
betray this thing that was good and loving and beautiful to that
evil bitch! The wind told her she knew, though.
She could hear
its persistent voice
scuttling through the grasses,
Morgause
knows! Morgause
knows!
Several times, Morgaine had been tempted to leave the Tor, to seek sanctuary
among the Christian women, once going as far as the gate passing through the
brick-built wall that
encompassed their holy
place. But a bell had rung from the little
wattle-built chapel dedicated to the Mother of Christ, and
women had come from their cloisters and buildings,
and
courage had failed her. She had
run, tears falling, heart
pumping, back up the long hill and through the
secret ways across the lying water, climbing up and up, to the sanctuary height
of the Tor.

Dark was setting now, easing like a whisper from the eastern
sky, the blue fading to the purple
black of evening, the land
below the Tor
merging with the deepening star-speckled
darkness. Nothing moved,
nothing showed except dark against dark, but still Morgaine sat with her back
against the Stone.
Lights did not show from
the Caer, it was too far away to see the glimmer of torch or cooking fire. He
was too far away, distanced
by the miles of the summer levels and the
barrier of a life that
held no place, nor
thought, for her. He was a king, a soldier. He
had a wife, men to
command. And what had she? A childhood of fear and neglect had passed into a
solitary loneliness that
brought its own
dreaded fears. She had nothing, nothing except
this great, overwhelming, stomach-tightening love for a man
she
had seen only in glimpses, and known intimately for just one, brief-passed
sharing of time.

The cold made her move at last. Her body was
stiff, bones and muscles cramped; it would be easier to follow the gentle
slope, along the crest of the long hill, wind
around and then
drop down, but quicker to go straight down, the steep
way,
slithering on the wet grass. Her small,
neat-kept hut was
beneath this steeper side. She was cold, tired and
lonely, felt suddenly the need for her own hearth, the comfort of her bed
and the company of her own-made things. She took
the quicker
way, sliding in places,
walking side-step in others, going
straight
down the mass of the Tor and brought herself up sharp,
a small gasp
escaping her parted lips. A light glimmered from
her hut, a horse stood tethered outside. How had someone
come? How had she missed the signs? Her heart
pounded, mind
whirled. The birds — love of the Goddess, the birds! She
had seen them rise, seen and ignored their natural warning, so deep had she
been in the wallowing suffocation of self-pity!
Cautious, she slithered the last few yards, drawing her dagger
from
her belt. It could be anyone who had come; a traveller
wanting potions or healing, a Myrddin man, a Wise Man — there
were still a few, the last remnants of the old
Priesthood, the
ones the Romans had called Druid, but she had heard of
none travelling on this side of the Hafren River. Someone sent from Morgause?
That, she was expecting. Her mother would not tolerate this silence from her
daughter and the ignoring of sent
messages. Or ... With silent tread she inched towards the
door, telling
herself not to hope – but who else would ride such a
well-fed, quality horse? Sounds came
from within, the fire crackling, the ladle clanking against the cooking pot.
The mouth-watering aroma of stew cooking. Who would have the
impertinence to kindle a fire beneath her prepared
supper? Quietly she lifted the greased latch, pushed open the door,
dagger
raised, heart hammering, throat dry, prepared to fight. She would not let a sly
toad of Morgause’s take her without a fight!
It was no one of Morgause’s
sending. Morgaine stood, numb,
disbelieving, the dagger forgotten; stood staring at
him as he stared, as unexpectedly surprised, back at her.

The baby, held in the crook of his arm,
whimpered, jerking
her senses back to
reality. She stepped across the threshold into
the warmth and light,
closed the door, shutting out the judging
mistrust
of the night’s eyes. He was cradling the child
awkwardly, the bundle balanced across his knees as he squatted
before
the fire, tending the flame. As naturally as if every day she found a
distraught, dishevelled man with a young child
making himself at home within her hut, Morgaine took the
baby from Arthur and began to fold back the linen
that
swaddled it. He did not watch her, busied himself instead with
stirring the stew. Nor did she say anything as she saw the deformity, the
misshapen spine and the cruel stump of an
unformed
leg. Wordless, she wrapped the boy, only a few hours
old – for he still
had the birth blood on him – and offered him back to Arthur.