Shadow of the King (10 page)

his throat.

“I have been asked to suggest you move your men on, my lord Arthur. You

would be more effective as a deterrent near Avaricum.”

“Effective? With the few men I have? My men, Sidonius, my Artoriani!

Where are the men I was promised by your Emperor? Men we British were

supposed to be joined with in this fight against Euric and his Goths? Where

are the horses I need? When will Syagrius be joining us? He was supposed to

have brought several thousand infantry to me last summer!” Arthur’s anger was

rising. Too many damned questions and never a satisfactory answer! “I have

been here a year around waiting to see this business done with, yet have done

nothing but scratch for lice and fleas!”

Sidonius retained a pleasant smile. He had been warned of this British king’s

foul temper. Euric a barbarian? Huh! It was in Sidonius’s experience that the

Goths were generous, mild mannered, and welcoming.

Not Euric personally, but his brother certainly had been. He had much

liked that brother, a firm, large man, given to much laughter and a pleasant

outlook on life. He had treated Sidonius like a visiting king. A pity Euric was

so different, had murdered him; but it was Riothamus, Sidonius was thinking,

who needed to be made an end of.

A ridiculous notion to bring him here in the first place. Nothing could hold

back Euric from obtaining his ambition, nothing and no one. Rome realised

that, these months on, there would not be the funding or the will to hold back

the encroaching tide of inevitability. Syagrius, King of Soissons, knew it, too.

The funding had dried up; there was little left in Rome’s vaults, little save dust

and empty coffers. Not even enough to send the British home.

Sidonius held his fixed, amiable expression. Arthur must never learn of that.

Must not learn that bringing him here had been an appalling mistake. God’s

truth, the anger that would be unleashed, the uproar…the cost of compensa-

tion! No, Arthur must be assured that reinforcements were on their way, that

5 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

later in the summer the ships would be waiting to take him and his men home

again. In the meanwhile, Arthur must be made to leave Juliomagus. The pres-

ence of his rabble of men could no longer be tolerated.

And with Fortuna’s blessing the problem would soon be solved. Euric would

have a hand in that, when eventually he decided to make his move. Either the

British would be wholly slaughtered, or at the least, there would be fewer of

them to need bother with.

Fifteen

Mathild stretched languidly, relishing the feel of a comfortable

mattress beneath her body; the absence of fleas and bedbugs and the

warmth of fine-woven, soft blankets. She lay, arms and legs limp, relaxed, her

eyes closed for fear this might all be a dream. If she opened them, she would

find herself back in that bug-hopping, faeces-stinking slave pen. Then the man

beside her moved, turning in his sleep, and she realised she was awake, this was

real, she had passed the night in the king of Britain’s bed. She had pleased him,

she knew—was this day not
Frigedeeg
, the Lady’s own day? A self-satisfied smile

crept over her face. Frig, wife to Woden, the Lady who blessed the union of

man and woman, who was most surely giving blessing to her daughter this day.

“That expression on your face can only be described as smug.”

With a snap, Mathild opened her eyes. Arthur was awake, watching her. She

blushed, feared he had read her erotic thoughts.

Happen he had, for his hand brushed over her breasts, her body responding

eagerly. Arthur chuckled. “You are no stranger to a man’s touch, my Saex

whore. Who taught you the art of pleasuring?”

About to say “my husband” Mathild choked back the truth. He was dead.

Slaughtered with the others, men, women, and children, by the Gauls when

they came to destroy the English who had lived peaceably, for many years,

on their island settlements along the Liger. And then they wondered why

Odovacer had called the men together! Wondered why they had marched to

take their revenge at that wicked day of burning, killing, and slave-taking! No,

she would not talk of the husband she had loved. Instead, she answered in her

own tongue of the English, “I am a noble-born, a daughter of the goddess Frig.

Her gentle hand guides my Wyrding.”

To her great surprise Arthur understood. “So, your fate is decreed by the

Lady.” His hand was stroking lower, more intimate. “Not so, my expensive

whore. From now, I command your future.” He spoke also in English, was

5 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

amused at her wonderment. Returning to Latin, he explained, “I find it most

useful to understand what my enemies have to say about me.” He laughed. “Or

what my whore may whisper in my ear.”

She was as eager as he for the sharing of pleasure. Her husband she had

missed with great sorrowing. To be used as nothing more than a receptacle for

need by the men who had taken her as slave had been hard to endure these

past two years. Mathild had pride for herself and her people, had accepted what

fate, the Wyrding, her goddess, the Lady, had sent. But oh! How much more

pleasant, how much more worthwhile, to become the bed-mate of the British

king, Arthur Riothamus, the Pendragon! She would make an effort to please

him, would serve him well. Her task all the easier from the intimate delight she

was receiving from him.

Later, she announced into the night-dark tent, “I have many whispers I can

tell to you.”

Arthur lay still. His heartbeat, after the exertion of love-making, easing. He

was tired, wanted to sleep. Outside, beyond the leather walls of his command

tent, he heard the voices of the night watch changing. Day would be here soon,

not much chance for more sleep. “And what whispers would they be?” He

asked through a casual yawn.

“Syagrius of the Romano-Gauls and his allied Franks have no intention of

coming to join you. Rome will continue to play games with you before Euric

of the Goths chooses his own time to slaughter your British in a bathing of

blood.” She paused, then added, her voice hard, the anger as bitter as sour fruit.

“Cerdic, your son, has become Lord of the Elbe and is gathering warriors to

his hearth.”

Arthur attempted to sound disinterested, as if all this was old, long-known news.

“You hear many whispers, my Saex whore. From where do they come?”

Mathild smiled, the indifference did not fool her for his body had stiffened,

his breathing had quickened. Ah! Mathild knew many things! She was a woman

of learning, could read and write both the Latin and Greek styles as well as her

own English runic lettering. She knew, too, how to read a person’s thoughts

from the movement of eye or muscle or limb. She had seen the splendours of

Rome and the wonders of the dancing lights that shimmered in the sky up in

the clear coldness of the North Way, for she had travelled those many miles as

a child and young woman with her mother’s brother, Leofric of the Elbe. How

she had loved the thrill of his fast, splendid longships that sped like swans over

the seas! She had even set foot in Arthur’s land, once, had seen the crowds and

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 7

bustle of the city of Londinium, as it had been then, when she was younger. It

had gone now, she had heard, that town, fallen into disuse and disrepair, save

for the few peasant-folk who had built their poorly made bothies among the

crumbling houses and falling walls. She had seen Arthur there when he had

been serving as an officer under the then king of the British, Vortigern. She had

been a child, but had seen and recognised the gleam of ambition in that young

Pendragon’s eyes. She had seen Winifred, his wife, also. Seen and disliked her.

As she now disliked her arrogant, power-grasping son, Cerdic.

And so, in answer to his question she said, “I hear many things on the wind.

A slave is considered to be mute and deaf, with no sense between the ears.”

She shrugged. “It is a pose worth adopting.” Then she paused, followed in a

rush, “I have never met Cerdic, yet I dislike him. He has that which should not

be his! My uncle was tricked into leaving his land to Winifred’s brat; he was

murdered for his wealth and title. Leofric was a respected man. What was his

should, by all rights of inheritance, be mine.” Mathild lay rigid. It was not for a

whore, a slave, to speak so forthright, so bitterly. She had no rights to anything,

not freedom of thought or life, no right to go where she pleased, to own any

possession, not even the clothes she wore. She had a slave ring around her neck;

belonged to the man who had paid a garnet ring for her.

But no man could take her mind, her past; no matter how ill she was used or

beaten or starved. Both her mother and father were children of noble-born men.

Her own husband had been a thegn, one of Odovacar’s bodyguard. And no man,

not even the Supreme King of Britain, Arthur the Pendragon, could take away

her determination to one day, one day, reclaim all that was rightfully hers.

In the darkness she did not see the slow, calculating smile that accompanied

the fast-forming thoughts rapidly scheming in Arthur’s mind. He had intended

to make use of her only this one night, for all the love he had for Gwenhwyfar,

aye and all the assurances he had given her, he was a man who needed the

comforts of intimacies. A few short months away from his wife he could endure,

but within the turn of a few weeks it would be nearly the year around since

he had left Britain—and the pleasures he gave and received with Gwenhwyfar

were becoming desperate to be sated.

Mathild would serve a passing purpose in that area, for she was pleasing enough—

but for certain, Fate, Wyrd, or the Roman Fortuna, some benevolent goddess by

whatever guise she wore, had surely set this woman Mathild on his path.

When this thing was sorted here in Gaul, when Rome finally shifted its arse

and decided either to let him and his Artoriani fight or find suitable shipping

5 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

home, he might just undertake another voyage after seeing to matters in

Britain. Take a few of his men, two, three turmae ought be sufficient, and

escort Mathild back to her dead uncle’s land along the Elbe River, aid her in

claiming her inheritance.

Arthur wriggled deeper beneath the bed covering, brought Mathild closer

for her voluptuous warmth. He would need write to Gwenhwyfar soon. Ought

he tell her of the whore he had bought for the price of a garnet? She would be

angry. Rather he would word it,
I have purchased a lawful way of removing Cerdic
.

That would please her, and happen, would set her understanding better over

this need for another woman while he was so long away.

Sixteen

March 469

Hit it, man!” Bedwyr bellowed, “It’s a bloody sword you’re using,

not a pitchfork!” Exasperated, he turned, swivelling at the waist, to face

Arthur who stood a yard or two behind. He spread his arms. “Jesu’s love,

cousin, these mud-wallowers are hopeless!”

Thrusting his fingers through his leather baldric strap, the Pendragon, masking

his own frustration, merely shook his head. “They are all we have, Bedwyr, we

must make fighting men out of them.” Added ruefully, and slightly under his

breath, “Somehow.”

Another rider made a pathetic attempt to cut at the straw-filled man with his

sword. He pushed his horse into a canter, going too fast too soon. The horse,

realising the uselessness of the man on its back stopped abruptly to crop grass

three feet before the target. The rider, leaning forward, urging the horse on

with frantic kicking legs and flapping arms, tumbled in a haphazard heap over

the horse’s shoulder.

“Oh Christ’s patience!” Bedwyr roared, striding forward to pick him up by

the neckband of his tunic. Shaking the poor man as if he were a rat, Bedwyr

scolded with his tongue. “Call yourselves riders? Horsemen? God’s blood,

you’re nothing but a bunch of plough-pushers!”

The faces of the ninety or so trainees fell longer, more disillusioned. They

had come to join the Artoriani, filled with the hopes and dreams of glory—

fight with Arthur, make a name for yourself! Half of this group were from

Juliomagus, others from Caesarodunum or Condivicnum, coming from the

towns, settlements, or farmsteadings, drawn to Arthur’s cavalry like ants

to spilt honey. All young men who were sick of Rome’s apathetic atti-

tude towards the threat of the Goths. Arthur had accepted them, enrolling

them as Cymry—only the best, the elite, became Artoriani, but Cymry,

comrade, brother, was enough. To fight under Arthur’s Dragon Banner

was enough.

6 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Bedwyr took a long, slow, deep breath. He and Arthur’s officers had to

make soldiers out of these lumps. If Syagrius were to come, as promised, there

would be no need to recruit these imbeciles, no need to count on the inane.