Shadow of the King (104 page)

“At the gate, asking permission to enter…” Gwenhwyfar put her hand to her

mouth.
My God
,
she thought,
surely he would not come here!

6 3 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Bedwyr stood, questioned the gatekeeper, sent him scurrying back to his

post. He saluted the Council, a hasty politeness, almost ran to the privacy of

Arthur’s chamber. His thoughts echoing Gwenhwyfar’s.
My God!

With the wind scurrying so playfully outside, only one of the two great oaken

doors stood open. They would be shut at night, after the evening Gathering

had assembled. During the daylight hours the Hall stood open to all, as was the

custom of welcome, from king downward to lord and landholder.

Sounds outside, disturbed, flurrying sounds, nothing definite, nothing

particular, just a momentum of intense unease and anxious disquiet. Shadows

fell at the door, stabbing across the timber flooring, the light blocked by the

presence of men. They walked through, the one at their head dressed splen-

didly, jewels decorating his hands, arms, throat, a ruby dangling from his left

earlobe. Gold and silver ornamenting buckles, cloak, and tunic. He made much

of carrying his naked sword before him, setting it, with opulent display, beside

the threshold. That he probably bristled daggers within his boot and beneath his

tunic, no one would dare challenge.

Cerdic came into the Hall flanked by ten of his men, swaggered its length,

halted before the hearth-fire. He ignored the British Councillors, all of whom

had scrabbled, open-mouthed, to their feet. He regarded Gwenhwyfar, blinked

at her several times.

“It has reached my ears that my father is dying.”

Gwenhwyfar rose elegantly, not needing the steadying hand offered by a

slave. For the Council, she had robed herself as befitted a queen—gown of

silver-threaded silk, purple cloak, amethysts and diamonds sparking from ears,

arms, and fingers. Before her seated place, Arthur’s sword, unsheathed. She

lifted it as she stood, held it, blade downward, her hand light on the pommel,

ready to swing it upward should need arise.

“Then your ears hear wrong. He has a mild fever. Nothing more.”

Cerdic shrugged. Men died of fever. Especially old men. He indicated one

of his hearth-guard was to clear a space for him in the Council circle. The

Saxon stepped forward, shuffled two bishops aside. Cerdic sat, patting cushions

comfortable, flapped his hand for the others to reseat themselves. “Is this not

Council?” he said. “Do we not sit thus, we British?”

No one moved.

Cerdic sniffed loudly, cleared his throat. His men had arranged themselves,

semicircular behind him, shielding his back from those who were pressing through

the door, watching, twittering quietly; awaiting some order of what to do.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 3 1

“I am the acknowledged son of Arthur the Pendragon.” Cerdic pulled a

small roll of parchment from his waist pouch. “This,” he said, unrolling it and

passing it for all to see, “was signed by him and given my mother, stating that

fact. As his acknowledged son, am I not entitled to sit in the Council. Is it not

my right, as his only legal heir?”

Two

The Caer at Din Dirgel was a place true to its name, a secretive

stronghold that had for constant companion the restless buffeting of the

sea. It was never silent here, for the waves beat with relentless force against the

rocks, pounding, clamouring, roaring a right to be let in against the shore. The

stronghold was built out among a promontory of the cliffs, with only a narrow

way to its gatehouse. Archfedd’s grandsire, Uthr Pendragon, had held it for his

own, once, long ago. Her father had been conceived here, in that lofty, wind-

riddled chamber that was now hers and her husband’s. It was a place where the

wind howled and the mist curled; where waves battered and the sea moaned.

When the tide was low she could make her way down the wind of steps cut

into the rock walls, the descent perilous for it was seaweed-strewn, barnacled,

wet, and slippery. She went there rarely, for although she was no person to shy

away from difficulty, she found the unsteady way down and the long haul back

up again rather pointless. If she were to admit it, Archfedd was afeared of the

angry fuss of this sea.

She had known the coast as a child, while she lived under Geraint’s protec-

tion at Durnovaria, but there the sands had been below gentler cliffs, the sea

not so high, or alarming—save for on stormy days, and then they had mostly

stayed within the safety of the stronghold. Caer Morfa had rested close to the

inland sea. She had known the tides there and the rush of wind and rain, but

there was the calm flat expanse of sea-marsh, the ripple of rivers and tributaries,

the wading birds, the bustle of fishing boats.

Her two boys enjoyed this wild sea, of course, but they were children. For

most of her life she had known naught but the openness of her father’s Summer

Land, the quiet of the vast skies, the lulling calls of the curlew and lapwing.

Here, it was the harsh, squabbling shriek of the gull.

It was all steps and stone and seaweed here at Din Dirgel, no sweet grass,

only the brittle sea grass or that short-cropped by the constant tremor of a saline

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 3 3

wind. No plants save those that could cling, short-rooted, to the cliffs and

cracks, could survive in the distinct salt-tang of the air. Even the people of the

Caer seemed craggy and sea-dipped. The cliffs were exciting to walk along, but

sometimes the wind became over boisterous and once Constantine was almost

blown over. Archfedd never allowed the boys near the edge after that, for he

could have fallen, been picked up and tossed like an autumn leaf!

She was out along the cliffs this day alone, for the boys were with Llawfrodedd

inspecting the new-whelped pups. They had been promised one each, Archfedd

too, but she did not want one. Mel had been her dog. There would never be

another to replace her. It had almost hurt as much to leave the bitch behind at

Caer Morfa as it had to leave Natanlius…what had happened to her, Archfedd

would not know. She had not wanted to. But then, she had not wanted to

know how Natanlius and her son had died, either, yet she had heard. Gossip

was never silent, even that of the well-meaning kind.

The sky was a sulky blue, one that could not quite decide between bright-

ening or souring into the dull grey of threatened rain, and for once the wind

was not so rough. A ship had thrashed her way through the tumbling waves a

while past, blue-sailed, a brave little craft. Archfedd had wondered where she

was going, where she was from. There was not much else for her to do here,

in this small, lonely Caer. Llawfrodedd was a good man—as her father and

mother had said. He was kind and considerate to her, gave her all she wanted,

except company and talk and, she sighed as she walked, something different to

do with her days!

The stronghold was behind her. To her left, the sea. To the right, away a

distance, the narrow road that led northward up through the Comovii land,

through her own Dumnonia and joined, not far from Durnovaria, the greater

road started by the Romans, used throughout the dominance of the Empire,

and had been repaired recently at the order of her father.

The letter had come two weeks past, sent to her and Llawfrodedd. It was not

a summons, but invitation, a semi-formal yet hopeful letter asking for them to

come to Council, for her to come. Llawfrodedd had wanted to go, but she said

no, it was too far to ride. He was not a man to press the matter, she knew best.

They did not go. Now she was regretting it, now the other news had followed

in its wake, that her father was ill. Only a fever, the trader had said. Would

her mother send word if it were worse? Surely aye, she would, but what if

she did not want to worry her—and what if Gwenhwyfar was still angry with

her for that petulance over the wedding? Had it been her fault? She had not

6 3 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

wanted to remarry, had not wanted to be brought here to this damned desolate,

sea-trapped place.

Riders on the road. Two. Men on ponies, not well-bred horses, not

messengers from Caer Cadan then. Traders? Men with another petty petition

for Llawfrodedd to ponder over? Archfedd kicked at a rock, stubbed her toe,

cursed, using one of her father’s more colourfully explicit oaths. Llawfrodedd

would have chastised her for that, with an upraising of his eyebrows, a slowly

wagging head, had he heard. He meant well, was kind to her, offered all she

needed or wanted. Save for a relief from tedium.

She considered walking nearer the road, decided against. What would be

the point? Dull people bringing daily business to a dull stronghold. She walked

to the edge of the cliff, stood, gazing down at the foaming surf. She was four

and thirty years of age, a woman grown, nearing mid-age. She had known

and loved a man, borne three sons, lost one to the violence of death. What

more was there for her? What could there be for her here, for the future, save

loneliness and despair in this empty, tide-washed, wind-tortured place?

“Archfedd?”

Her eyes snapped open, her body slammed rigid. She knew that voice, who

was it? She spun around, covered her mouth with her hands.

“You! You dare come here?”

“Can I not dare to visit my own half-sister?” Medraut dismounted from the

pony, handed the reins to the other man, a servant, false bravado setting a smile

to his face. Beneath his cloak he trembled. Would she hurl abuse at him, turn

him away?

“You have done well for yourself, I see,” Archfedd retorted with a proud

toss of her head. “Rings to your fingers, a fine cloak, good boots. A servant. A

pity the ponies are such poor, ragged things.”

Medraut’s courage improved. She was berating him, a good sign. He had

expected to be shunned or ignored, sent with a curse on his way. Talking too

quickly, betraying his nervousness, he said, “I have been a while in Less Britain;

before that I travelled north, up beyond the Wall. And aye, I have done well

for myself.”

The sky was heeling darker, the wind whispering louder, shuddering in from

the sea. Brewing a storm.

“I heard you were a while in Gwynedd.” Archfedd ignored the wind’s pull at

her cloak, the damp feel to the back of her neck. She was uncertain whether she

ought be welcoming this man or even talking to him, but, ah, Medraut, for all his

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 6 3 5

faults, his unfortunate birthing, and for all she disliked in him, he was someone to

talk with; someone who had known the people she had known, the places where

she had been happy. And after all was said and done, her half-brother.

“For a while, a few years past, I was in Gwynedd, aye. I left after Maelgwyn

murdered for his land, guessing there would come more fighting between

kindred.” Medraut shook his head, the sadness and shame of that evil happening

clinging to him, though he had not been part of it. His wife had, the witch!

“Maelgwyn’s cousin had taken one of my wife’s sisters, a daughter of Caw, in

marriage, did you know that?”

Archfedd nodded. She knew. It was old, dusty news.

“Did you know also, my wife is now Maelgwyn’s mistress? She, who suppos-

edly gave herself to God?”

Aye, she knew that also. Poor Medraut, things had never woven into the right

patterns for him. “Come,” she found herself saying, “come into the stronghold,

you must be in need of warmth and food, a dry bed. Though I warn you, ’tis a

draughty, cold place. The wind finds its way in whatever the time of year.”

Medraut accepted with beamed pleasure. He had risked coming here,

knowing the antagonism that had snapped so vehemently between them. Come

with the hope that maturity and the loss of a husband had softened her. Glad

he had taken the chance, for it was good to see her again, to be with someone

who would be willing to share the laughter of the past and reflect on the sadness

of tears.

“Our father is ill. Had you heard?” They were crossing the narrow way

between cliff and stronghold, Archfedd advising him to look straight ahead, not

down. “’Tis a long drop and the swirl of the sea can make your head spin.”

“Ill? How ill?” Medraut stopped short, alarmed, his hand gripping tighter

to the rope rail. All these years had he been gone, the hurting so deep he had

fled northward, seeking to lose himself among the obscurity of the high hills

beyond the Wall. Then he had ventured into Gwynedd, by sea to Less Britain

and a new life of his own, where no one knew him for what he was or what

he had done.

He asked worried, frightened, “Is he dying?”

“How do I know?” Archfedd tossed, churlish. “I have heard nothing more, this

stronghold lies beside an empty shore and has a road that leads nowhere else.”

“I cannot stay here, then, I must go to him!” Medraut began to retrace his