Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (74 page)

At the head of his small escort, Arthur rode
along the Via
Praetoria making for the
headquarters building, ignoring as best he could the bodies and the mess. This
should have been a busy
place, the main street. Should have been alive
with the hectic bustle of a town’s daily business.

The living were beginning to crawl from their
places of concealed safety. A woman moaned over the body of her man. A
shopkeeper stood staring, blank-eyed at the smoking ruin of
what had been his trade. A boy, no older than ten
summers, lay
hunched beside the walls of a tavern, his arms locked
around the limp body of a black dog. Arthur kept his eyes and concentration
directed up the straight-running street, at the
building ahead, choked back a half-sob at the thought that
kicked
him like an ox-hoof. He hoped the boy and the dog had died quickly, one sword
slash, one stab of spear or dagger. He could have looked, the wounds would have
told, but he did not want to see, wanted to believe they had died well.

There was an eerie half-silence hanging over
the smoking roof-timbers of the old Principia building, the headquarters
complex, and behind it, where once the Legion Commander
would have lived in splendid grandeur, the Praetorium. An odd
stillness
here. The crackle of dying flames, scorched and blackened timbers settling or
falling. In the, distance, a dog
howling,
the women wailing their songs of death. Overhead,
the harsh ‘craa ... aak’ of a raven. Arthur
shuddered. The
Morrigan, the Goddess of war come in her disguise to
collect the dead. It was like riding into the Underworld. He peered briefly
over his shoulder to reassure himself that his men were
there, behind. Their faces were grey, as his must be, their hands
making
the sign of protection, pagan and Christian.

They rode on through,
into a courtyard that would once have
boasted a fountain, green plants, been neat and ordered,
but
was now a place of the wounded. Even here
there was onlyminimal noise: a man groaning, another coughing, the shuffle
of feet; bloodied, dazed men. A few turned to watch
the
Artoriani ride in, their gaze uninterested, barely comprehend
ing, as Arthur halted and swung down from the
saddle. Bedwyr
would have been here, somewhere here. Arthur forced
himself to walk with controlled dignity, his hand casual on his sword pommel,
between the mess of wounded men, up the steps and
into the house-place, telling himself again and again not to run,
not
to take to his heels and scream Bedwyr’s name.

Blood seemed to be everywhere, spattered
across the walls, puddling on the cracked mosaic tiles, smeared on doorways.
The blood of Arthur’s loyal, brave men, slaughtered as they
attempted to bar entrance to whoever had done this
awful
killing. That this house-place had been the ultimate target was
beyond doubt. Arthur had no need to question as to where Morgause had been
held, he only had to follow the trail of
destruction,
leading as pointed as any arrow along the corridor,
up the stairs. He did run, then, for this upper
corridor was
narrow, leading to one room, where the door leaned wide
open
and a body lay sprawled across a bed
covered with blood-slimed
linen sheets. Arthur ran because that stained,
tousled hair belonged to only one man, he ran and cradled the body to him,
yelled with fear and alarm as the body moved,
groaned, sat up.
Arthur’s heart was
pounding, his throat had rasped dry, his
breath coming in great gasps.
He put his hand to his chest. ‘Mithras, Bedwyr, you scared the shit out of me!’
Easing his legs over the side of the bed,
Bedwyr sat cradling
the side of his head. There seemed to be a lot of
blood oozing through his fingers and soaking his clothing. Arthur explored
the lad’s arms, legs, his torso, frowned, puzzled.
‘Damn it
Bedwyr, you’ve a gash as
wide as the Hafren on your head, but
surely, in the gods’ names, this
blood is not all yours?’ Managing a feeble grin, Bedwyr patted the Pendragon’s
exploring hands aside. ‘It’s not mine. Hueil made one mistake,
he did not realise I know how to use a sword.
Some of this is his.’
For a hopeful
moment, Arthur thought perhaps Hueil lay
dead, but Bedwyr shook his
head, groaned as the dizziness
returned. ‘Na,
he is stronger than I am. I gave a good fight, but,’
he touched his
head, ‘that bitch hit me with something. I went
down like a snuffed light.’ It was his turn to express a question,
Arthur’s
to shake his head.

‘
Na, he’s
not among the dead. You might have wounded
him, but Hueil’s aim was to get in by treachery and out again as
soon as he had Morgause. They didn’t even stop to
loot or rape.’
He would get the men to search as they buried the dead
and tended the wounded, but they would not find Hueil. Not here, anyway.

Apart from the spillage
of blood near the door, and Bedwyr’s
on
the bed sheets, the room was ordered, left as though its
resident intended to be gone only a moment. On a table,
phials,
combs, a gold-backed
bronze mirror, beside the bed, a half-
drunk goblet of wine. Arthur finished it in one gulp, and
searched quickly, opening
chests and cupboards. Under
garments, folded,
freshened with a scatter of dried lavender, clothing; the paraphernalia of a
woman’s face-paint. No winter
fur cloak. No
heavy wool garments. No boots, only soft, leather
house shoes. She had
known then, been prepared.

‘You entrusted her care to me, Arthur. I have
failed you.’ The flagon of wine beside the goblet was almost full, Arthur
poured himself another drink, drained the goblet,
refilled it and
passed it to Bedwyr.

There was not much Arthur could answer with.
It was not
Bedwyr’s fault, this damned mess.
If anyone should take blame,
it must be himself, for keeping the bitch
alive when he should have slit her throat. As Gwenhwyfar had argued. He lightly
shrugged one shoulder, offered more wine. You are a man, Bedwyr, not a god.
Only He, so I am told, is infallible.’ Bedwyr accepted the second drink. ‘There
was no warning.’
He had to talk, suddenly,
let the bad taste spew from his mouth.
‘They
were just,’ he spread his shaking hands, ‘there. At dawn.
They came from nowhere, appeared beyond the walls,
and
then ...’ He cradled his head
again, the gash was not deep,
despite all the blood, but his head
pounded as if a thousand
hooves were
galloping there. He took a breath, ‘Then they were
just in, like that.’
He glanced up at Arthur. ‘Someone let them in?’
Arthur had seated himself in a chair. He nodded, suddenly
too
weary to answer.

His eyes narrowing, similar to his cousin’s
familiar expres
sion, Bedwyr regarded Arthur
across the room. ‘You know who
opened
it don’t you? Who it was passing the letters and
messages in and out
beneath my nose.’ Again Arthur nodded, still did not answer.

Bedwyr sighed, pushed
himself from the bed, rocked a
moment as the blinding
headache swirled across his forehead. He bent for his sword, lying bloodied on
the floor, had to put out a hand to steady himself. Straightening, he looked
again, directly at Arthur. ‘I had my suspicions of the apothecary. I stripped
him naked, but unless he’d shoved a parchment somewhere I’d rather not look, he
had nothing on him.’ Their
eyes met, Arthur’s
sad, Bedwyr’s resigned. ‘I began to fear it was
her, but turned my back
to it, hoping I was wrong.’

‘
If it is
any comfort,’ Arthur offered, standing and heading for
the door, ‘we all
should have realised. Nessa came originally from Dalriada, from the North.’

§ XXXVI

Amlawdd had set out from his west-country
fortress full of enthusiasm and expectation, meeting with several petty lords
and chieftains who were against Arthur. What a
sight they
were! Close on two
hundred warriors – with the shield-bearers,
women and followers of a
hosting, double that number! They
progressed
north slowly, hugging the course of the river,
laughing and chattering, foraging and hunting as they marched;
camped
early, for although the nights were drawing out, who wanted to march in the
dark? The baggage wagons were laden
with
skins and amphorae of barley-brew, strong ale to keep the
cold away at night and the men cheerful. Oh the
carousing! The
jocularity, the high spirits! A fine thing to be one with
a war-hosting! They did not hurry, took time to break camp of a morning, taking
longer as each night passed, for the heads of
the men were becoming thicker from a
night’s drinking, their
keenness, by the
seventh morning, almost evaporated,
dwindled even more when word came
that the Artoriani were ahead of them.

That was not to have been; Amlawdd was
supposed to meet
up with Hueil near Deva
where they would wait for Arthur and
have a decisive end to the arrogant
bastard. But Amlawdd had not bargained on the time it took to manhandle the
wagons
through mud and marsh, or how quickly
enthusiasm ebbed once
sore feet, aching shoulders and drunkenness set
in. He had miscalculated how fast Arthur could move with his mounted men, who
used mules for pack animals, not carts and wagons.
The men were grumbling and Amlawdd himself was becoming
sick of
the whole thing.

A toad-faced messenger
from Hueil added insult. Were it not
that they had come so
far, Amlawdd would have hacked the insolent braggart’s head from his shoulders
and gone home.
Who in the gods’ names did Hue il think he was? Issuing orders,
sending curt, insulting commands: do this, do
that. Were it not
for the promise of gold
and that other prize ... There were still
a few hours of daylight left,
they could march for a few more miles, but this place they had come to was a
good spot, Deva
was ten and five miles away,
they would be there on the
morrow. Let Hueil wait!
The messenger Amlawdd sent off tied, riding facing
his
pony’s tail and stripped of his
clothing. It cheered the men
slightly to see their Lord deal so with the
upstart. ‘Tell Hueil of the North that I will come when I am ready and not
before!’ Amlawdd shouted at the unfortunate man, as they whipped his mount into
a gallop, sent it northward, leaving behind a gust of
laughter. Arthur could not risk fighting Hueil knowing a
hosting
was behind him, of that, Amlawdd was certain. They had until tomorrow; the men
needed one more night, one night
of
celebration and laughter before the business of battle came to
hand.

The day had been bright,
crisp, a day that heralded the
coming
of spring. Amlawdd stood at the edge of the made
camp,
looking across at the mountains a few miles to the west.

Gwynedd,
swathed in patterns of mist. Gwynedd from where
the woman he wanted as his own had come. When this was
over, Hueil had promised she could be his. They
only needed to
be rid of the Pendragon.

Clouds were striding up from the south as the
afternoon descended to evening. Was that movement among those trees?
This was lonely, inhospitable country, either
pocked with
marsh and bog or clustered
with striding, dense woodland.
They
ought to have marched the quicker, not ambled at a
leisurely pace, spent
so long encamped. Arthur and Hueil were professionals, soldiering born into
their blood. Amlawdd was
the youngest son
of a man who had preferred his own hearth to
that of a hosting camp fire, for all that his elder two brothers had
enjoyed
the rigours of warfare. Melwas had even run with the Saex kind! Ah, but where
had it got them, and Gorlois? Both were dead, Gorlois slain by Uthr Pendragon
and Melwas? Amlawdd knew not how he had died, or where, except rumour tattled
that this Pendragon had been involved.

God’s mercy! What in all hell ... ! Amlawdd
was running, drawing his sword and running, shouting, using the flat of his
blade to get men moving off their backsides, screaming for someone to sound the
alarm!
Gwenhwyfar had taken only thirty men
with her into
Gwynedd. She was
hurting and anxious as she rode back to join
her husband, knowing there would be no men coming to his aid
from
the mountains. There should not be delight in killing, but as she thundered
from the shadowed concealment of the trees,
with
the war-cry of the Artoriani bursting from her open mouth, a satisfying sense
of justice flooded her. Happen
Gwynedd
could not help Arthur, but neither would Amlawdd
be helping Hueil.