Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (78 page)

The horses were uneasy, standing with their
rumps to the rain-sharp wind, heads down, ears back. Llacheu released the
dogs and went along the line, touching a muzzle
here and there,
stroking another horse’s neck, a forehead, pulling at an
ear.
Onager would not be tethered here with
the others. He
approached his own horse, which whickered a welcome as
the
boy fondled its head, the lad’s fingers
toying with the rain-
matted forelock. Beside him, Blaidd growled, and
Cadarn’s
head came up, scenting the blustering wind, pricked ears
listening to the rough darkness. Absorbed with his mount
Llacheu did not notice.

Blaidd growled again and a horse squealed
further down the line, the ripple of distinct unease spreading rapidly. One
horse
reared and several stamped, tossed
their heads. Ears were back,
eyes
rolling. A shape, dark, crouched, disappeared into the
trees.
Frightened, Llacheu shouted for the Watch, but the wind
tore away his words. The boy ran, caught the man’s tunic
sleeve, pointed. ‘There’s something prowling
round the horses!’
he gasped, saw the man raise his spear, watched him
walk
forward, then Llacheu ran on, with the
two dogs barking madly.
He’d fetch his da!
Several times the wind almost lifted him off his feet, twice he
tripped,
sprawling headlong into muddied ground. Arthur had not finished his
tongue-lashing of the men. ‘I’ll not incon
venience
other men,’ he was roaring, ‘you’ll damn well sleep in
the open for your
stupidity – rain or no rain!’

‘Da! Da!’ Llacheu was pulling at his father’s
arm, pointing back at the horse lines. Breathless, told him what he had seen.
Alarmed, Arthur was running, men with him, swords drawn,
shouting for others to follow, the lost tent
quite forgotten. Each
had the same thought: Hueil had sent someone to
loose the horses, panic them in this wind, drive them away.

There was nothing. The tethering ropes were
all knotted as
they should be, the horses
had quietened, even the dogs’
hackles had flattened. Nothing behind the
trees, up the trees,
beneath. Nothing, no
one. They searched for half an hour.
Arthur doubled the guard, called a
halt. Whoever had been creeping around the horses had gone. Then Llacheu saw
the print, new made in the soft mud. He had caught it by chance, beneath the
glimmer of the few wind-flared lanterns. Solemnly he pointed to it. Arthur
squatted down, touched the shape with his fingers, tracing its size, glancing
warily into the darkness beneath the trees. Slowly, Arthur straightened,
lifting the boy into his arms as he did so, calling precise orders to the men.
The maker of this is near by, find him and deal
with it. No fuss,
no noise.’ He tried not to sound fearful, masking his
uneasefrom the boy, but Llacheu caught the worry all the same. Will
we be all right, Da?’ He was ten years of age, too
old to be
carried by his father, but
he made no protest as Arthur bore him
across the camp in the direction
of their tent.

‘
You’ll be fine as long as you stay in the tent with your
mam.’
Gwenhwyfar was
snuggling into bed. The day had been long,
tiring,
and she welcomed the end of it. For several nights she
had found little or no sleep. Last night they had been late abed,
even later sleeping, after their shared loving.
There seemed a
lot of noise and
bustle going on outside, presumably to do with
the loose tent. Something brushed against the side of the
leather, the wind? Again. One of the dogs. ‘Llacheu!’
she
called, wriggling lower beneath
the sleeping furs, ‘come in now,
it’s
time for bed!’ The tent flap moved, shook ... and
Gwenhwyfar screamed.

They heard the scream
from the tents opposite, for it went on and on, louder, terrified. Ider was up
and running for his Lady’s
tent
before that first scream swarmed into the next. Sword
drawn,
with no thought of what might be beyond, he plunged through the opening.

Arthur heard it too. Hefting Llacheu into the
nearest tree, shouting at the boy to stay there until told otherwise, he ran,
sword in hand, running as if the hounds of the hunt were at his heels. The
screaming went on, stopped abruptly.

Mithras protect her! Arthur pleaded as he
ran, his breathing
sobbing in his throat.
His legs would not move fast enough, his
breath not come quick enough!
Rare for a bear to wander so close to men, but when one did, it was usually for
a reason. They were wounded or hungry. Both. And wounded, hungry bears were
dangerous.

Later Ider admitted his sword stroke had been
nothing but
desperation and luck. The bear
had its back to the tent flap, was
reared
up. Ider had no time to think of what to do, or of his own
safety. His
sword was in his hand, he used it. Fortuna helped him plunge it straight
through the bear’s heart, Mithras himself
lent
the strength to push the blade in up to the hilt. Never mind
that the iron buckled, snapped and broke. The bear
dropped
like a stone, dead. Ider scrabbled over the twitching carcass, clasped
Gwenhwyfar to him and held her so tight, so close, his own body shaking as much
as hers, his eyes shut tight against that horrible body lying, teeth bared,
claws gleaming, inches from her. Shut tight against what would have happened
had he not got here in time.

Ider became aware that
someone else was in the tent. Heavy,
gasping breathing,
movement. He opened his eyes, met with Arthur standing there, on the other side
of the brute, became aware also that he was sitting on Gwenhwyfar’s bed,
holding her. Oh Christ Jesu, the Pendragon would hack him to pieces for this!
He could not let go of her though, for her arms were
about him, her face buried against his shoulder, her body
heaving as she cried. Ider licked his dry lips,
tried to express the
predicament in his eyes.

Others were crowding the
tent opening, peering in,
whistling
surprise, concern. Curt, Arthur ordered them to
remove
the bear, for someone to fetch Llacheu out of the tree, and to stop those
bloody dogs from barking! They were alone, Arthur, Ider and Gwenhwyfar. Ider
took her hands, unwound her grip, moved away from her, his eyes not leaving his
King.

The fright was passing. Gwenhwyfar became
aware of the uneasy silence, began brushing at her cheeks with the back of her
hand. She was trembling but becoming calmer. Something
had to be said to break the tension. ‘Bugger that thing, it bloody
scared
me!’ It was the right thing. Arthur let his sword drop,
wiped the sweat from his face, answered her with his face
straight,
a laugh in his voice.

‘
Bull’s
balls, Cymraes, I’d suggest bed-furs are more practical
when dead.’ And
then he was grinning, allowing the immense
relief
to show. He came to Ider, took the lad’s hand in his own,
pumping the
arm up and down. ‘Well done, Duplicarius, well done.’ Ider said nothing, his
voice struck dumb. Duplicarius? Second-in-command of a Turma? Jesu be blessed,
promotion!
Arthur was walking him towards
the tent flap, ducking through with him, calling to the men that they had a new
hero to jest at. Said quiet, under his breath for Ider alone to hear, ‘I thank
you,
but if ever I catch you in a similar position in my wife’s
tentagain, you’ll find yourself promoted into the next world. Understand me?’
Ider held back the pleased grin. ‘A bear’s not an
alibi you can
use too often is it, Sir?’
Arthur laughed, ‘Na, 1 think a husband might just see
through that one!’ He turned away, ducked back
inside the
tent, laughing louder.

§ XLI

Once Winifred had made up her mind on
something, she went ahead with the decision. Several things had become apparent
these last months, some things she would rather not have had occur, but the
Fates enjoyed weaving knotted snags into the warp and weft of mortal life. Some
had been gradual changes,
others abrupt. A few
difficult to swallow, but when there was a
shortage of food, even
porridge was preferable to starvation. When there were choices of the future,
Cerdic’s future, the
deciding came even
harder. But now, having won the thing she
desired, Arthur’s written acknowledgement of Cerdic as his
son,
she was determined to waste no time. Cerdic had to learn how to fight, how to
lead. How to become a man.

She poured her best
quality wine for the man sitting opposite,
taking
his ease on her comfortable, newly refurbished couch. Leofric was a good man,
nearing mid-age and with wealth enough to attract any woman of high ambition.
The wealth did not sway Winifred, she had that for her own. Neither did the
land he owned, for her own estate was not small, was well profitable. His age
was suitable, and his character? Anyone, after surviving Arthur’s tempers,
would seem docile.

Winifred handed him the wine with a warm
smile, fetched her stool, sat, with her hands demurely folded on her lap. His
one useful asset, he could fight and he could
teach Cerdic what
the boy needed to know.

‘
I
have decided to accept you as husband, Leofric. But there will be conditions.’
Leofric wiped wine residue
from his gold-fair moustache,
nodded
acquiescence. He had expected it so. No man, no
matter how rich, could expect Winifred, first wife to the British
Pendragon,
Princess, daughter of Vortigern, granddaughter of Hengest, child of Woden, to
accept marriage without terms. How many months had he waited for this? All this
time of courtship; his gifts, letters, honey-tongued messengers! Thor’s
hammer, how much had getting this woman to accept
him cost!
How much more to keep her? ‘I have offered already to take
your son into education of arms. He will be as a
son of my own.’
Winifred inclined
her head, smiled. Ah, thought she,
because
you
have no son
to
call
your own,
and to
embrace the one
born of a king
is
more
than
adequate
compensation!
Leofric understood that
she had guessed his
motives, did it matter that she knew? He had no one to follow his name, even
after the taking of three
wives. At least
Winifred was proven not to be barren. He would
be content to adopt a son
who might be king of the British one day, and if there could be other sons born
.. .

‘I am happy to comply with any other desires,
my dear one. Tell me your conditions.’ Keeping her hands folded, Winifred
answered, ‘I agree to be
your wife, but I
will on no account leave this estate. My son you may take with you when you
have need to visit your own places
across
the sea. He will need to know them, and your people, for
my other
condition is that all that is yours becomes his upon your death.’
To his credit Leofric did not waver his relaxed
smile. ‘This is
asking much.’

‘
Not so
much. You are marrying the royal, and divine, blood.
Your sons, should
there be any, can call upon Woden as their ancestor.’ And Leofric wanted that,
for he was a man who held great pride and self-importance.

He spread his hands,
indicating confusion. ‘But if you are not
to
leave this estate, how do I beget my sons?’ Winifred stood, clapped her hands
for the slaves to come,
remove the debris of
their shared meal. The interview was
ended. ‘I will wed with you,
Leofric Golden-Hair, within the
passing of
this month. You may place your feet at my hearth for
six months of a year, the other six I will not
expect you to
remain here. As for my
bed, I shall invite you there when it suits
me. There will be enough
chance for a son to be made.’ She
inclined
her head, offered him her hand to touch briefly, and
for the first time since their knowing, placed a
kiss on his cheek.
Then she left the
room, went to the privacy of her own
chamber, her heart beat thumping in
her chest. Mother of the gods! That was a more difficult thing to handle than
arguing with Arthur! She unpinned her hair, removed her gown, sat in her
under-tunic before the polished bronze mirror, gazing at her distorted
reflection. Leofric was not the first to ask marriage of her, nor
would he be the last. She had accepted this thing
because
Cerdic needed the teaching. He
needed to know how to
manage and control an estate, to oversee the
planting and
harvesting, to know the
accounts, needed to know how to wield
an
axe and a sword, a spear and a shield. He needed to become a
man who
could one day rule not just as a thegn over an estate,
but as a king over a country. Leofric could teach him all this, as
could any of the men who had sought to wed her these past few
years, but
with any of those other men, there had always been the risk of her having
another son. And already there were too many sons stepping before and behind on
Cerdic’s path. She removed her under-tunic, slid naked into her bed, running
her
hand over the silk-softness of her
body, from breasts to the curl
of hair between her legs. She had not
lain with any man except Arthur. Did not want this Leofric touching her, being
intimate with her, soiling the memory of the man she still loved, but for
Cerdic she would do it. Knowing there would at
least be no
sons.