Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (8 page)

Signalling the next course to be served, Winifred
fluttered an
alluring smile at the man seated next to her at the high
table. Below, along the length of trestle tables set in rows down the
Hall, sat the men and women of her steading and
the men of her
guest. He was no
noble, high-born or Church official, but
Wulfric the Trader was none the less important to Winifred. He
plied
his trade from all ports along the Saxon shore, across to Gaul and Less
Britain, Juteland, Saxony and up as far as the
North Way, exchanging brocades and silks and herbs and
spices;
corn, ale and wine; crafted jewellery, pottery, hunting dogs, animal skins,
slaves. He was welcome too, in the British
places.
Towns such as Eboracum and Caer Gloui; towns where
the gossip buzzed and
blossomed. Gossip of the King, Arthur. Winifred liked to know of him, where he
was going, where he
had been, for she
refused to accept the divorce he had
petitioned on her. Cerdic, her son
by Arthur, would be the next
Pendragon, not
Gwenhwyfar’s brats. And to ensure it, she
needed to know everything of
Arthur and his Gwynedd-born slut. For knowledge was power.

She served pork to Wulfric, offered him the roasted skin,
crisp and succulent to chew on. The trader beamed his pleasure,
laughed as
he drank her health with her finest ale. Later, in the
privacy of Winifred’s splendidly furnished chamber, they would
get to the serious business, the agreement and
settling of
payment for the cloth and
goods that she had selected.
Winifred always paid well, often in excess,
for it was not only the fineries she was buying. The talk over private shared
wine and haggling was the real purchase.

So Wulfric drank the lady’s health and laughed with her,
and
when the feasting was ended, followed her from the Hall
through
the door at the rear, to tell her what he had gleaned of the Pendragon. Of the
alliance with the Humbrenses and the
granting
of land to Icel; that the King’s Council were discussing
ways – legal and not so legal – to oppose and be
rid of him, and that trouble was brewing above the Wall. But then, there would
be,
with that witch-woman flourishing word that she was to be called queen. Of her,
he would not talk. To speak of that one was bad luck, Morgause was not a name
to cross an honest trader’s lips. Wulfric touched his amulet, the Thor’s hammer
at his throat, as her image spurred into his mind. A woman, so it
was said, more beautiful than even a goddess. And
more deadly
than a snake!
The
Pendragon would have to ride north to settle the
pretensions of Morgause and her weakling husband, of that
there was no doubt. It was said that Arthur had
sent messengers
to summon Lot south to explain his wife’s treasonous
actions and the messengers had been returned in a wooden chest. Parts of them,
their heads and privates. Of that, Wulfric would not speak either, let Winifred
discover it from one of her British
tale-tellers!
If the Pendragon was planning to ride north and
deal personally with the
witch, then it was his concern, not a Saex sea-trader’s. He drank more wine,
took the gold Winifred
offered and stowed
it safe in his waist pouch. But he would have
to tell her of the other thing, no way could he not, for already it
was
becoming common knowledge, now that the winter snows
were clearing. He had been enjoying his stay, the welcome and
hospitality
much to his liking, but he would be lucky to escape
the room before the wine jugs smashed over his head and
against
the walls when he told the Lady Pendragon of a third son born to the Queen.

§ IX

Gwenhwyfar
could not decide which to choose, the pale ivory silk, or the gold-thread
brocade. Both were lovely – expensive
–but
highest quality dictated highest price. Hild was known for
her purchasing of such luxury stuff and the
traders and seafarers
made trips often up the river to Winta’s
settlement with their wares, knowing they would be welcomed and leave with
their purses full.

Enid
was fingering a heavy plaid weave with her free hand,
her other hand supporting the baby, Amr, draped sound in
sleep
over her shoulder, his fat fists dangling down her back, face snuggled into her
neck. ‘This would make a fine winter’s cloak,’ she said with a wistful sigh of
longing.

Gwenhwyfar
was in a generous mood; the easy contentment
of
these English people had purged her weariness and anxieties.
She
laughed. ‘Have it then, as my gift.’ She draped the silk about her upper torso,
relishing its sensuous feel beneath her
fingers,
asked ‘What think you? Shall I have this or,’ she
reached for the
brocade, ‘this?’ Wulfric, delighted at the extent of sales this trip, but
trying desperately to mask any excessive pleasure, ambled towards Gwenhwyfar
from around the far side of the spread of jumbled bolts of material. ‘That is
an exceptional silk, my lady,’ he
crooned, ‘and
alas, ‘tis the last I have, for I sold most of it at an
earlier place of
call.’ Gwenhwyfar was only half listening; traders always made much of their
sales banter. He would be telling her next how much the previous lady had paid
for the cloth and how lucky Gwenhwyfar was to have this last at the cheaper
price. Traders
were the same the world over,
she supposed, whether they were
British, Roman, English or whatever!
Only he did not, said
instead, as he took a
step closer to fashion the hang of silk more
attractively about her, ‘It
sits well against your hair colouring, Lady, better than with the lady from
Venta Bulgarium.’
She looked sharply up at
him, her green eyes sparking a quick
flash
of anger, for he had not spoken without deliberation. ‘The
lady of Venta
would not be pleased to hear you say so,’ she responded scathingly.

Wulfric chuckled. ‘Ah, but she is not likely to hear my
words
is
she? You most certainly will not tell her.’ He laughed again,
took the silk and began folding it, careful of its
delicate
fineness. He had more to
say, Gwenhwyfar could see, from the way his eye slipped to hers, and from the
way he kept near, not
moving aside even though two of Hild’s ladies had
made their choosing over what to buy.

‘
She bid me,’ Wulfric murmured as he passed the
folded silk
to the Queen, ‘to convey her greeting to you. She wishes you
and your sons all health.’
Winifred. Arthur’s
cursed, first wife, Winifred.
Gwenhwyfar’s eyes narrowed and she ignored
the proffered cloth, held the trader’s glinting eyes with her own hard stare.
That half-breed, two-faced, lying, murdering, Saex bitch!
Winifred, who refused to accept Arthur’s divorce
from her.
Who insisted her own born
son was to be the Pendragon’s heir.

Scornful, Gwenhwyfar asked, ‘And what would Lady
Winifred be doing with the buying of such fine silk?’ She flicked
the stuff
contemptuously with her fingers, ‘I thought she wore the drab of a Holy Woman.’
Wulfric shrugged, set the silk on the table among the other materials, replied,
‘I know very little of Christian women, my Lady. What they wear beneath those
black garments is their business.’ There came a movement at the door to Hild’s
women-filled bower and a slave scuttled in, bringing with her a rise of noise
from Winta’s Hall where the men would be deepening
into
their drink and gaming. She
bobbed a hasty reverence, nodding
apology
at the interruption towards Hild. ‘Begging pardon
Lady, there’s been fighting in the Hall, both the
young cubs are
battle-bloodied.’
Hild
exchanged a hasty glance with Gwenhwyfar, whose
hand had gone to her mouth. Boys! How easily lured they were
to
quarrelling and fighting!
Hild
had four sons. At four and one half years, the same age as Gwenhwyfar’s
Llacheu, Oswin felt himself to be pig in the
middle
of his brothers, two older and one younger. When
Llacheu came to his
father’s village, Oswin’s life perceptibly improved, for he had a litter cub to
run with now, someone to
romp with in the
fresh-laid bedding of the cow-byre, a friend to join in the tickling of the
huge fish languishing in the steading’s
fish pools. And Llacheu was
fiercer than any hound bred in
Winta’s
kennels! Llacheu was a wolfling, the son of the
Pendragon and afraid of
nothing, not even the eldest brother Eadric, who was eight. For that, Oswin
loved Llacheu.

Now,
as evening fell and the Englishmen feasted, the two friends tumbled with the
hounds at the far end of the Hall, squabbling with the dogs for a few choice
bones to chew on,
though both boy and hound
had already been fed. Llacheu
cuffed a brindled dog aside and sucked the
marrow from the bone in his hand.

The women were long gone to Hild’s bower, leaving the
men
to
their drinking. The boys could creep nearer the hearth now
and listen to the stories and riddles. Last night
a riddle had been
asked that sent
everyone into roars of laughter. Liacheu had not
understood why it was so funny and had asked Enid the meaning
of
it this morning, earning for himself a smack to the ear and a rebuke about
listening to adult talk. He thought again on the words he had repeated.
‘He
had his way and both of them were
shaking, the man worked hard,
his
capable
servant
was useful at times,
but strong
as he was he
always tired sooner
than
she did,
exhausted
by the task.’
Why Enid had gone so red and
embarrassed Llacheu had
no idea. The answer had been
‘churning butter’, what was so amusing or
wrong about that?
Perhaps he had missed some
vital clue in the riddle’s asking. He
hoped
they would repeat it tonight, he would listen more
carefully if they did.

Da would have explained it of course, but Da had been
gone
several
weeks, riding with his men down to the South to settle some disagreement with
the Council. He had been in a foul
temper
for the few days before his going, something had
annoyed him concerning
Uncle Emrys. Llacheu did not much
like Uncle
Emrys, a man who made Da angry and Mam
unhappy.

Oswin caught Llacheu’s attention and together they
wriggled
across the rush-covered floor towards the central hearth.
The eating tables had been cleared and men sat about in groups,
talking and playing board games or burnishing
weapons,
mending leather harness or war-gear. They were all drinking;
the mead flowed free in Winta’s generous Hall.

They managed to work their way unnoticed behind a group
of
men playing
taefl,
and sat with their toes
stretched to the warmth of the fire. Oswin was about to say something to
Llacheu
when there came a thump on his shoulders that sent him sprawling. He jumped up,
words of protest on his lips, fell
silent as
his older brother’s hand came out to cuff him round the
head. ‘You’re in
my place, squirt. Clear off.’ Oswin bit his lip, hiding his fear and hurt. He
plucked at his friend’s sleeve, intending to scuttle away, but Llacheu sitting
obstinate among the rushes said, ‘We got here first. This is our place.’ Eadric’s
eyes narrowed, his self-importance weighted with
the security of his position as eldest. He saw no reason to sit in a
draught when two piss-brained kids were hogging
the warmth!
Not used to being answered back, he hurled an insult,
jabbing at Llacheu’s shoulder with his finger as he spoke. ‘Who do you
think you’re talking to? You wealas bastard!’ He
made to strike
the boy – and found himself toppling backwards.

Llacheu’s
head-butt winded the older boy, the move coming so unexpected. Climbing again
to his feet he began casually to brush off the reeds sticking to his woollen
bracae, and almost within the same movement, lunged to grab at Llacheu’s hair.
Dragging the younger lad to his knees, his other
hand slapped at
his face. Bravely,
though there was a difference in age and
height, Llacheu fought back. He
was the eldest son of the Pendragon, and no Saex whelp was going to insult the
next Pendragon by calling him a fatherless foreigner!
Pummelling and kicking, his fists striking at chest and belly,
feet at shins and toes, Llacheu hurtled all his
strength behind
his fury, and Oswin suddenly found a courage he did not
know he possessed. Yelling furiously, he leapt on Eadric’s back, his
feet kicking, one hand holding his hair, the other punching
at
his head and body. Two against
one; Eadric tried to shake them
off, tripped, the three of them crashed
down into the men, the
playing pieces of
their board game were scattered in all
directions and the mead cups
knocked over.