Shadow of the King (11 page)

But it seemed Syagrius was delayed, yet again, would not be coming now until

next month.

Arthur, last night, talking with his officers, had raised again the issue of going

home, but even for that they had to rely on Syagrius, for it was he who had

provided the ships, the horse-transporters, the seamen to bring them here.

“What these men need,” Arthur said with that familiar thoughtful expres-

sion of one eye half-closed, the other eyebrow raised, “is some incentive.”

He stood a moment, considering; the next, he was running, pushing through

the line of men. The horse that the rider had fallen from, a fine bay though its

head was common, was still eating grass. Arthur vaulted into the saddle from

a run, taking up the reins as he landed, and urging the animal into a gallop

all in one movement. Startled, the horse tossed its head, snorted, and leapt

forward. Arthur galloped it across the training field, wheeled at the far end and

without slowing, galloped back. The bay was going fast, eager, excited—and

then Arthur performed several of the movements that were everyday exercises

to the Artoriani: dismount at the gallop, run a few paces, vault across the horse’s

back to land on the far side, vault again, turn around in the saddle through a full

360 degrees. He had crossed the field, was swinging the animal to come again.

Bedwyr ran forward, laid a javelin on the grass. Arthur saw, rode to take the

thing up. Would he miss, so fast was he going? He leant down from the saddle,

plucked the shaft up, rode on, the horse not breaking pace once, the javelin

held high above the rider’s head. Arthur halted, bringing the horse to a stand

in one flowing movement. And then he circled, turning the horse this way and

that, round and around, and as he manoeuvred he threw the javelin, tossing it

high, up above his head, catching it with each change of direction—and was off

again, galloping straight at the straw-man target. Was past, the javelin quivering

as it thudded neatly into where the heart would be.

At the far end Arthur slowed, eased the horse to walk, caressed its neck,

praising and patting, walked on a relaxed, loose rein back to the group of

impressed men.

“That,” he said simply, “is what it is to be Artoriani.” He dismounted, gave

the reins of the sweating animal to its deposited rider, and with a final slap

to its rump Arthur sauntered away, as if the display of horsemanship was an

everyday occurrence.

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

At the edge of the field, near to where the ordered lines of tents began, a man

waited, his arm looped through the reins of his horse. As Arthur approached he

began to applaud, genuinely impressed.

“That was a fine display, my lord! Do all your men ride as competently?”

Acknowledging the praise, Arthur answered truthfully, “Many are more

proficient than I. That was nothing compared to some.” He held his hand

forward for the man to clasp in greeting. “What brings you to my camp,

Ecdicius?” Indicated the way to his command tent. “May I offer you wine?”

Agreeing with enthusiasm, Ecdicius fell into step beside the Pendragon, who

motioned for a cavalryman to take his guest’s horse.

“I come for one reason only, Lord Riothamus.” Ecdicius paused, seeking how

to put his thoughts, though he had rehearsed his speech over and over. He stopped

abruptly, stepped in front of the Pendragon, his expression earnest, entreating.

“Take me as one of your Artoriani, teach me to fight as your men fight.” His

features crumpled into a crease of desperation. “You will not be staying in Gaul,

you have your own land, your own kingdom to defend—someone must have at

least a partial awareness of how to keep these barbarians at bay. I want to learn,

want to know how my beloved country can survive when you are gone!”

Arthur placed his hand on the man’s shoulders, steered him forward into

his tent. Ecdicius was ten years Arthur’s senior at least. He was well meaning,

his compassion and sincerity whole-hearted, but to learn all Arthur knew in a

matter of weeks?

Ecdicius interpreted Arthur’s frown as a negative reply, for his fists bunched,

his face contorted. “Teach me anything, even the rudiments of a cavalry charge,

show me the basic needs. Give me something so I can drill the men who would

fight behind me, as men fight behind you, as a cavalry team, as comrades, as

one brotherhood.” Eager again, determined, “I can do it, I will. I mean to form

myself an efficient cavalry.”

“Your wine.” They were inside the tent, Arthur’s personal quarters, clut-

tered as usual with papers, wooden writing-tablets, strewn clothing. The bed,

a portable leather-strung cot, was rumpled in one corner, unmade. Women’s

undergarments were clustered with the blankets.

Arthur seated himself on one of the two stools, indicated to his guest to seat

himself also. “How many men have you?”

Eager Ecdicius responded with, “Twenty. They have their own mounts,

good quality stock, some with the Desert breeding in them, as do yours.” He sat,

leaning forward, the wine goblet, untasted, clasped tight between his hands.

6 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“The horses I have brought are not my best. I would not bring the cream

of my stock across the seas.” Remembering his trained war stallions and the

breeding herds, Arthur fell silent. How many of the mares had foaled well

this year? They needed good colts, sure-footed but fast, courageous but

easy-tempered. The foundation stock had come from Gwenhwyfar’s father,

Cunedda—his stallions from his father and grandfather. Fine, proud horses that

were, so legend said, bred from the wind by the gods; horses that could do

well on poor feed if necessary; horses that could carry a man all night and fight

with courage and stamina the day after. They came from the desert lands, those

original horses, given as gifts by the Romans to Cunedda’s family. The horses

now, Arthur’s horses, were sturdier, broader, with shorter, thicker legs, but

they retained the intelligence, deep chest, bold eye, and distinctive concave

face. The desert breed, adapted through cross-breeding with the smaller native

ponies for the changeable climate and rougher terrain of Britain.

He ought to be at home helping train the two and three-year-old colts,

helping put the mares to this year’s selected stallions. Gwenhwyfar was over-

seeing all that, she was capable, more so than he, but he liked to be with the

horses…Gwenhwyfar, he ought to be with Gwenhwyfar.

Ecdicius was prattling something about these men he had, his ideas for

a training programme; Arthur only half heard, he was looking at Mathild’s

garments strewn over the bed.

“
What will you do about a woman
?” Gwenhwyfar had asked.

“
It’s a part of soldiering to take a whore occasionally
,” he had answered, truthfully,

adding, “
but we will be gone only the few months. I expect I can make do with the

memory of you
.” A few months? Hah!

He had written to Gwenhwyfar yesterday, telling her the army would

soon be moving on again, that only the gods and Rome had the knowing

of when they could turn around and march for home. Had said nothing of

Mathild. Happen he ought have done. Ought have told his wife it was she he

loved, not a slave-woman acquired merely for the comfort of his needs. It was

Gwenhwyfar he wanted with him, his Cymraes, not for all her pretty smile,

intelligent conversation, and aye, soft skin, not Mathild.

His thoughts were broken by Ecdicius repeating a question.

“Do you read Vegetius? A wonderful man, wonderful strategy.”

“Oh, er, aye,” Arthur rallied his mind back to the present, “Vegetius

is useful. Arrian’s Tactica if you can get a copy is informative, or there is

Xenophon of course.”

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

Ecdicius was delighted with the advice. “My brother-by-law has a vast

library, he must have copies. He is to soon publish a collection of his poems, I

shall arrange for you to be sent a copy.” He thumped the palms of his hands on

his thighs with a resounding slap, announced, “But I must be on my way! It is

agreed then? My men shall join with you as a separate turma. Aquilla Turma, I

think, our standard shall be the Eagle, after the honour of Rome!”

Arthur stood as his guest came to his feet with that last declaration. What?

How did…? He remembered making no such agreement for Mithras’s sake!

“Until the morrow, then.” And Ecdicius saluted and ducked from the tent.

Arthur stood, dumbfounded, then laughed. If a civilian landlord could

outmanoeuvre the Pendragon so smartly, then aye, happen he did have the

makings of a reasonably good cavalry officer!

Seventeen

No! My answer is no!” Aesc, Lord of the Kent Saxons, angrily

banged the flat of his palm down onto the table causing the pewter

tankards and plates to bounce. A chicken leg, balanced on a heaped bowl of

cooked fowl, wavered and tumbled, rolled to the floor where a hound, snarling

at his companions, greedily snapped it up. Several men seated at lower tables

ranked along the Mead Hall glanced up at their leader’s bull-roar, saw Aesc was

only reprimanding Vitolinus. They returned, unconcerned, to their food and

drink. Vitolinus was always in one sort of trouble or another; he seemed to have

a gift for rubbing people the wrong way.

“But why?” Vitolinus protested vehemently. “I could take thirty or forty

men this very night and…”

Aesc thrust himself with such force from the table his chair toppled back-

wards with a crash that boomed and echoed through the length and height of

the building. His hand snatched out to catch hold of his nephew’s neckband,

dragging the young man also to his feet. Aesc shook him, bellowing, “I said no!

I have agreed peace with the Pendragon. If I ever decide to break that peace

I will do the cattle-raiding or the settlement-burning.” He shook Vitolinus

again, “I would lead my warriors. I, Aesc of the Kent Jutes, not a mere whelp

who still drinks milk and has a handful of straw-piddling pups as hearth-mates!”

He tossed the lad aside, sending him skidding across the timbers of the floor on

his backside. Several men laughed, Vitolinus was not much liked, tolerated only

because he was Aesc’s kindred, the son of their lord’s dead and buried sister.

Righting his chair, and with a contemptuous snort, Aesc re-seated himself,

stretched forward for a third helping of roasted fowl.

Vitolinus clambered to his feet. His arm was bruised, his pride hurting worse.

His expression was always a scowl, enhanced by the scar that ran from ear to

chin down the side of his long, thin face. Behind Aesc’s back his hand formed

an obscene gesture; he turned and stalked, furious, from the Hall. Many a man

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

breathed a sigh of relief at his going. Where Vitolinus sat there would always

be a storm blowing. Few of the older men would grieve at a permanent ending

to Vitolinus.

Aelfred was younger, and like many of those of his age group, admired

Vitolinus. He slipped from his own place at table and joined his friend, catching

up with him a few yards from the Hall door. The sky was almost dark, a few

stars stealing from behind wispy cloud cover. No moon this night. Vitolinus

acknowledged his companion with a grunt, indicated he was heading for the

kennels. His favourite bitch had whelped; he would need to check the pups

before seeking his bed.

They stood a while, watching the proud mother suckle her litter of eight.

Aelfred pointed out a large, fat pup. “That one’ll be a fine dog when he grows!

See how he shoves the others aside to get at her teats?”

“
Ja
, a hound who knows his own mind.” Vitolinus made no effort to hide

the anger that burnt inside him. “As do I.”

Aelfred was silent a moment, leant his weight on his arms, straddling the

closed gate of the hound pen, said, “So you want to lead a raiding party against

the British?”

Vitolinus only grunted as a reply.

Vaguely, Aelfred observed, “Aesc is our lord, he must know what is best.”

“It is in my mind, old men prefer the warmth of a hearth fire to the cold

of battle.”

Aelfred was not shocked by Vitolinus’s rebellious words. Aesc’s nephew was

known for his provocative opinions. And aside, he agreed.

“It is also in my mind,” Vitolinus continued, knowing his companion’s

thoughts well enough, “those same old men need reminding occasionally of

who we are, where we come from. Are we the Pendragon’s slaves? Or are we

warriors, proud men who take what we want, when we want?”

The air moved as the outer door opened, another young man entered, joined

them at the hound pen.

“Thought I would find you here,” Cuthbert grinned. “A fine litter—I would