Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (77 page)

‘
Arthur?’

‘Huh.’

‘
Then choose, Amlawdd!’ As
she spoke, Gwenhwyfar came
to her feet,
stood before the flames of the hearth-fire, the winter
darkness
gathering around her like a cloak.

For Amlawdd the choice
was easy. He would have her for his
own, have her and then
forget to return her! When there were no leaves on the trees the nights were
longer, the bed-place
sought earlier, kept
later. ‘I will have you now, my lovely one.
Now, when there are no
leaves upon the trees.’ He jumped up, intending to take Gwenhwyfar in an
embrace, stopped short as Arthur barked laughter that rose into deeper gurgles
and then uncontrolled crowing. Anger puffed Amlawdd’s face as
Gwenhwyfar began laughing too, her arms going
about Arthur,
clinging to him. And then the others were all laughing,
all of them seeing the jest. Damned if he could! Arthur himself put him out of
his misery, pointing, through streaming tears, at a group of small, barely
noticeable green-
leafed holly trees. Amlawdd
looked, looked again, stamped
over to the nearest, a smaller bush, and
wrenched the thing up by the roots, casting it with a yell of fury onto the
fire, to the delight of everyone else who laughed even louder.

§ XXXIX

The day after battle.
Time to feel the hurting of wounds, the
loss
of death; to watch the sun rise and appreciate how good it was to be still
alive. So much to be done on such a day.

Hueil was held among the meandering rivers
and waterways that drained into the estuary, effectively secured among the
marsh leas so tightly by the posted Artoriani that he could not
even pass wind without Arthur knowing about it.
Tomorrow,
or the day after, they would have to fight again, but on the
Pendragon’s terms, when he chose to call the fall of the dice.

Arthur was making his way to the smith, where
old Gareth could put an edge on a blade that would slice the wind. ‘Hie,
Pendragon!’ For a moment, Arthur considered pretending he had not seen or
heard, hesitated over-long.

‘
Still
here, Amlawdd? I received the impression last night
that you were going back on your sworn oath of
loyalty, were to
be leaving us this morning.’

‘
I
declared my oath, but that was before your she-vixen
tricked me,’
Amlawdd growled, a sound to match the creased scowl on his face. Last night, he
had held every intention of
pulling out. Last
night, he had drunk too much barley-ale.
What in the gods’ good name was
it brewed with? He stopped beside the King, rubbed at his temples, easing the
throbbingdrums pounding in his head. Managed a reluctant grin. ‘How, by the
Bull, do you tolerate that woman as a wife? She’s more devious than a whore-son
cattle thief!’
Laughing, Arthur began
walking again in the direction of the
smith and, uninvited, Amlawdd kept
pace. ‘I made her my wife
because I
discovered it was the only way to keep an eye on her.’

‘
She’s
a damn fine woman.’ Aye, that Gwenhwyfar was. Arthur knew he was lucky to have
her, but was blowed if he would admit that to this petty upstart. When Amlawdd
stepped in his path suddenly, holding his hand out in friendship, Arthur was
momentarily surprised.
Last night, Amlawdd
had stormed off in a foul temper,
threatening all the reprisals and
vengeances possible; half expected to find him and his men long gone by dawn.
Not that
they would have got far. The
Artoriani had orders to kill
anyone moving about these woods without the
Pendragon’s personal authorisation. Arthur stared at the outstretched hand, did
not take it. Shifted his intent gaze to Amlawdd’s face. Few men could out-stare
Arthur’s scrutiny.

Amlawdd was not one of those few. He shuffled
uncomfort
ably, held the hand obstinately for
Arthur to take. ‘Damn it,
man!’ Amlawdd finally exploded. ‘I’m trying to
apologise for
past mistakes. I’m a bloody
fool who thought I knew more, and
aye, 1 admit, thought I was better
than you.’ He lowered the hand. ‘Well, I’m not.’
Himself tall, Arthur had to lift his head to keep his eyes fixed
on
this man’s. That offered hand had been large, strong, could fell a man in a
single blow without the need of axe or cudgel. Did he want Amlawdd’s
friendship? Was it genuine? Even if it was not, for a while at least, he needed
it. More than he did the opposite.

Again, misreading Arthur’s thought, Amlawdd
tried: ‘My brothers were always the heroic types.’ He waved Arthur’s
contemptuous snort aside. ‘All right, so they
fought on what
you consider the wrong side. The point is, they fought,
were
soldiers, were capable of planning a
raid, a battle.’ He shrugged,
let the rest of his words tail off.
Amlawdd was none of these things, just a medium-ability warrior with a medium
interest in
war, set within a giant-sized
body that gave a wrong impression.
He
attempted a smile. ‘It has taken your wife to make me think,
Pendragon.’ Arthur grunted at that. Think? Probably
for the
first time in his entire life
– the family had the thinking
capability of a mouldering porridge pot! Raising
his hands in an almost imploring gesture, Amlawdd met with Arthur’s stone-set,
blank expression. ‘You want the
truth from
me, Pendragon? I hated my brothers, evil toad-
spawned buggers, the pair
of them. I was against you because
everybody
expected it of me, it took your damned beautiful wife
to make me wonder
just who the "everybody" was!’ Still no
response. Jesu, did the bastard want him to beg on his knees! All
right,
if that is what it took to show he was serious in this .. .

‘
Whoa!
Whoa, get up.’ Hastily, embarrassed, Arthur stopped
the large man in the
act of kneeling, thrust his hands under
Amlawdd’s
elbows, bringing him back to his feet. He had to
ask, ‘What of Rhica,
your son?’ Amlawdd had to answer, he acknowledged Arthur’s direct
searching gaze, regarded him straight back with
no flicker of eye
muscle or twitched
concealment of lying. He spoke plain truth.
‘Rhica was a deceitful,
greedy bastard: I’m pleased to be rid of him.’ Arthur raised an eyebrow. ‘So
what do you want from me, Amlawdd? You’ve lost chance at my wife.’ The other
man laughed, his hands on his broad waist, head back, a genuine,
amused-from-the-belly laugh. ‘Not if you’re killed, Pendragon! I want to be
around the day someone slits
your throat open
to comfort the lady in her distress! Next in
line, as husband, so to
speak.’
Resuming his intention to seek out
the smith, Arthur made
his way again, this time waving Amlawdd to fall
in step.
Gwenhwyfar would have a different
view of the matter of course
– and Amlawdd obviously did not realise
that virtually half the entire Artoriani were here for the same reason. He
chuckled, stuck out his own hand for Amlawdd to grasp.

The answering clasp was firm, sincere. ‘Your
Lady aside, Pendragon. I want to go home with an honour, a victory.’
Unembarrassed, he added, ‘Something to swank about.’
Gripping Amlawdd’s shoulder Arthur promised, ‘I think I
can do
that for you.’ Satisfied, pleased with himself, Amlawdd took his leave,
Arthur watching amused, as the big man swaggered
away across
the encampment, filled twice his size with this sudden
newfound self-pride.

At the smith’s field
workshop, the boy slave worked the
bellows to heat a bent
and twisted sword-blade in the fire.
Llacheu
was squatting before the heat, fascinated. Arthur
rumpled the lad’s
hair, handed his own sword to the smith who ran his thumb along the blade,
frowning at a slight nick to the
edge, and
grunted. No one had ever seen the old man smile, not
many heard him
speak beyond the few words that made up his entire vocabulary. He pointed to
the blade that needed strengthening, set Arthur’s aside with others. ‘An hour.’

§ XL

Two hours into full dark. The wind was
clamouring harder and
another squall of
wind-driven rain slammed the side of the tent,
battering it as mercilessly as a door ram. Llacheu looked up from
his bowl of oatmeal, licked the mess off his
fingers, noticed his
mother’s frown of disapproval and grinned.

‘It tastes better from fingers.’

‘
A spoon
would keep you cleaner– ah, boy bach, look at you!’
She leant forward,
dabbing at a large porridge stain down his tunic, shaking her head. But her
eyes were laughing, her son noted.

Arthur was seated on a
stool at the only small table,
attempting to write
beneath the dull light of a pale, flickering
lamp.
Without glancing up he grunted, ‘I was unaware that slop
could taste any
better however it’s eaten.’ He pinched his nose
between fingers, wrote two final words, laid down his stylus and
folded
the two halves of the wooden tablet, carefully sealing it with wax and setting
the thing aside. ‘How people survive on the stuff I’ll never understand.’
Llacheu scooped the last mouthful from
his bowl. ‘The barley-brew that washes it down helps.’ Arthur laughed, ‘You
have it right there!’
Finished, Llacheu turned his bowl upside down. ‘When I’m King, I’ll ban
porridge.’ Another gust of wind. The tent shook, the leather creaking and
groaning under its ropes. Arthur left his table and as he
passed his son ruffled the lad’s hair, saying
affably, Do that,
boy, and you’ll be
sentencing many a poor family to their death.’ He stretched, feeling the relief
of aching shoulder
muscles. He gave Gwenhwyfar a quick kiss as he passed
her. ‘What I would give for a dish of roasted beef!’ Her eyes bright, she
countered with, ‘Young lamb, seasoned with herbs!’ Llacheu adding, The crisp
edge of pork!’ Managed to say together, their laughter rising, ‘Anything but
porridge!’ A sudden shouting from outside stilled Arthur’s chuckling. Now what?
The two dogs leapt up barking and he cursed them
into silence, walked towards the entrance flap, was beaten
there by Llacheu. The boy peered out, ducked back,
his face
and hair wet from rain, eyes alight with excitement. ‘A tent’s
near on torn loose!’ _ Arthur did not share the lad’s excitement. He cursed
again, more explicitly, and snatching up his cloak, left the bright
comfort of the tent. Signalling the dogs, Llacheu
followed.
Rain came in great spurts, driven needle-sharp by the gusting
wind, the noise was terrific, alarming but
exhilarating. The
trees tossing and
swaying, clattering against each other, the
wind itself moaning through
the branches. Men calling and shouting.

Several of the men were
struggling to keep hold of the
flapping
tent that was tossing and leaping, its dangling, flailing
ropes reminding Llacheu, watching from a safe distance,
of that
Greek story about the
woman whose hair was formed of
writhing snakes. He
shuddered, instinctively ducked as with a
cracking
roar, the strain ripped out another tent peg and the last
holding rope
whipped loose. It caught a man’s face, cutting through his cheek and lip as
efficiently as a dagger blade. The man screamed, clutched at the ripped and
torn flesh thatspurted blood. Three men held the wild, bucking tent briefly,
others, including Arthur, scrabbling to help, but
the leather
was wet and slippery and
their breath already sobbing from the
struggle. They let go. The thing
billowed up and away, a huge
released bird
of prey, flapping and twisting, making a desperate
bid for freedom. It
snagged against the branches of the trees, was caught, dangled, writhing like a
fish stabbed through by a spear.

Llacheu heard his father
swear, a particular word he had
never heard before.
Grinning, the boy stored it in his memory. A good one to use before the other
boys at some future date! Arthur’s arms were waving, his hands gesturing
angrily, his
loud, abusive words snatched
by the wind. The men whose tent
it
was stood taking his berating, breath panting from the
exertion of
trying to save the thing, shoulders heaving, heads drooping. They were certain
it had been pegged properly and securely; one tried to explain that someone
going to the latrine ditch must have tripped over the ropes. ‘We felt it jolt,
Sir,’ he
offered, ‘then the whole thing came
loose.’ Found the
Pendragon did not seem impressed by the excuse.

Llacheu crept away,
aware it was not a good idea to stay in his
father’s shadow when he was angry with the men. He
wondered
whether it might be best to return to the
comfort of a dry tent, but what matter? He was wet now anyway. By walking low,
head bent, back crouched and with his fingers firmly hooked
through both dogs’ collars he made his way past the
line of
tents, the blacksmith’s
erected bothy, and out to the horse
lines. The Watch-guard, sheltering
behind a large old oak,
challenged his
approach, nodded greeting as Llacheu identified
himself.