Shadow of the King (13 page)

looked up at her, their eyes enquiring, several of the men and women half-rose

to their feet. The woman motioned them to be seated with a slight shake of her

head. No change, nothing of any difference. She came, with quick, firm steps

across the timbered flooring, her smile wide and welcoming. Cadwy recognised

her as Enid, Geraint’s wife, one-time nurse to Gwenhwyfar’s sons.

Pushing himself to his feet, Cadwy mastered the urge to wince as his leg

violently protested. Wearily, Enid waved him down, sat herself, taking a place

next to her husband on the bench.

“Her breathing comes a little easier,” she said as she took the bowl of uneaten

broth from her husband, ate a few spoonfuls. With a slight shrug to her shoulder

added, “But it may only be my fancy it seems so.”

Cadwy thought she was going to weep, but the tears did not come, for Enid

was a strong woman, and the time for tears was not yet here.

“My father knows of a doctor who resides in Venta Bulgarium,” Cadwy

offered. “Happen he…”

Enid touched his hand, her smile soft and grateful, her eyes so very tired and

saddened. “There is nothing more that can be done.” She left her spoon in

the bowl, sat with her chin in her cupped hands, weary. “No one can do the

fighting for her now.” And then she added, so very softly Cadwy barely heard,

“Save Arthur.”

The young man came to his feet, the pain ignored. “I could fetch him! A fast

horse, the wind behind a good ship…” It was something he could do, some

useful, welcome thing!

Geraint patted the air with his hands, gently bid the lad to be re-seated.

“
Na
,
na
, ’tis well meant and we thank you. Do you think we have not already

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 7 3

considered it? The journey would take weeks, and we have no sure idea of

where Arthur is. We have only a few more hours, at most a day or two.”

Reluctant, Cadwy sat.

In an attempt at consolation, Enid said, “It is good of you to come. Your

father would…”

Cadwy looked up sharply, his eyes flashing. “Would not come,” he finished

bluntly for her. “My father has, for all his life, nursed a grudge of jealousy

against his elder brother.” He shook his head, offered unexpectedly, “It must

come hard upon him to also live beneath Arthur’s shadow.” He shrugged,

was amazed to see, as he stretched his hand to pick up his goblet of wine that

his fingers shook. “Even harder to accept the Pendragon left him with the

responsibility of Britain on his shoulders and that he has not the strength to

keep it as Arthur left it.”

How often had Cadwy talked of one day learning to fight from a horse,

one day joining the Artoriani, being with Arthur? Arthur, always Arthur.

Never had he expressed a wish to fight alongside Ambrosius. He had

assumed his father did not want him, was disappointed because he would

not be able to fulfil those dreams of being a normal man. The truth hit him

as hard as a hammer blow. Did Ambrosius resent his son, not because of

the lameness, this twisted disability, but because he was jealous of Cadwy’s

regard for Arthur?

He groaned, swallowed the wine down. And this day he had compounded

that jealousy by riding away. All he had wanted was for his father to be proud

of him. It was too late now, he was here, he could not re weave the threads he

had so wantonly unravelled.

“Can I see her?” he asked tentatively, expecting to be denied. For all the

realisation of his father’s feelings, Gwenhwyfar meant much to Cadwy, for he

had few friends, few people he could trust enough not to mock him behind his

back, remark on his disability or sneer at him for being weak and unable. He

wanted a wife, a child, but was enough of a realist to fear he would never have

either. Most women seeking a husband respected only the strength of a man,

not the awkwardness of a crutch and a stumbling gait.

Enid rose, her head nodding in agreement, led Cadwy along the length of

the Hall past the few dejected, sorrowing occupants whose eyes followed as

they passed. While hands worked, minds were turned to that private chamber

where Gwenhwyfar lay, covered by the shadow of the next life. All hearts tore

and ached for her safe keeping in this.

7 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Through that private door Cadwy stopped, gasped, his hand covering his

nose and mouth against the stench of sickness and clutching death that assaulted

him, all thoughts of his father clean forgotten. Gwenhwyfar lay, small, with-

ered, against the expanse of the bed, beads of sweat proud on paper-thin skin

stretched over gaunt cheeks; her eyes closed in deep, dark-ringed sockets, while

her fingers plucked, restless, at the bed covers. The room was hot, airless; a fire

burned in the hearth, the hiss of steam rising from a cauldron of boiling water.

Distressed, Cadwy shuffled across the room, plucked a stool from beside a

table, sat by the bed. Was it any wonder Caer Cadan shouldered such heaviness

of heart? He took up her hand, held it firm in his own, willing her to know he

was here, willing her to live.

Twenty

Cadwy sat with Gwenhwyfar through the night, listening to the

spatter of rain dribbling outside, hearing the hiss and crack of wood on the

hearth-fire and her harsh, laboured breathing. He wiped the sweat from her face

and hands with a damp linen cloth, dripped the potion Enid had left between

her dry, cracked lips. Held her hand, holding her, keeping her in this world.

The night seemed long, endless. His thoughts came crowding, insistent,

whispering and fluttering in his mind. Fleeting thoughts that flickered from

one subject to another like a leaping hearth-fire, dancing around and around in

a never-tiring, engulfing circle. His lameness, unvoiced hopes and dreams; his

disappointed father; the future. Arthur. Gwenhwyfar…His lameness…Around

and around.

Even in his drifting sleep they came, those thoughts, entering disguised as

dreams; dreams where he was trying to run to save Gwenhwyfar, to run and

run but he was caught by cloying mud or the grip of an incoming tide, bound

by tightening ropes, held by clutching hands. He could not run, could not save

her. Dreams where his father stood, condemning, disappointed. Dreams where

Gwenhwyfar’s life was fading, ebbing into final darkness.

He awoke with a jerk, startled, not having intended to have slept. It was that

sleep-filled hour when it was not quite night, nor yet morning. Something had

roused him, some noise. He looked at the fire. It had burnt low, but the dried

dung and wood were still glowing red, friendly, there were no logs that could

have fallen or cracked. The rain had stopped, only the occasional drip, drip,

from outside. An owl called, mournful, somewhere not too near.

Something was different, something important. Something, some sound, was

missing. That harsh, clutching-at-life sound. Almost as if he could not bear to

look he leant nearer Gwenhwyfar. Her hand felt cold in his, limp and lifeless.

Breath held, fearful, anxious, he bent closer. Was this it? The end? And her eyes

fluttered open! Vague, distant eyes, but eyes of tawny green flecked with sparks

7 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

of gold; eyes that were blurred and tired, but eyes that attempted a smile. Alive,

breathing. Here. Alive!

“Arthur?” she murmured, her lips dry, barely moving.

Cadwy’s insides twisted, lurched. No! Not Arthur! Me, Cadwy! Cadwy! “I

am here.”

Her fingers moved in his clutching hand. “I have dreamed such fright-

ening things.”

“They have all gone now.” Cadwy stroked the damp hair from her hot—hot

but not feverish—forehead. “Rest now. Sleep.”

“Have I been ill?” Her voice was a whisper, hoarse. Hard to hear clearly.

“Aye.” His was choking, full of relief and despair and rage. Relief that she

was alive, despair that he might never experience the deep love shared by a man

and a woman, and rage against Arthur. Arthur, her husband, who ought be here

with his sick wife, not off fighting some barbarian foreign king in a barbarian

foreign land.

A slight, very slight smile touched her lips, a barely perceptible squeeze to his

hand. “Stay with me,” she asked.

“I will stay.”

Her eyes closed, the lashes fluttering down. A light sigh floated from her lips

and her body relaxed. She slept. A peaceful, unfevered sleep.

Bowing his head, Cadwy prayed—to which god he knew not—to the one

Christian god? To the pagan deities? He cared not which one among them

listened to his murmured, relieved, words of thanks.

Twenty-One

May 469

One of Winifred’s greatest delights was the stirring of a still pond

into muddied waters. The feasting had been a congenial affair, extrava-

gant but satisfying. The selection of shellfish in particular, an extravaganza of

mussels, oysters, whelks, cockles, and scallops. The tender roasted, stuffed hare

also of exceptional, succulent taste. Winifred sat, relaxed, at ease with her guest;

sipped her wine—best Greek, her last amphora. When—if—she would be

able to import more of the same fine quality was anybody’s guess. The Saxon

Leofric had been a mistake as a husband, but he had been able to secure the best

goods for her. Most of these were used to furnish this private apartment within

the holy abbey of Venta Bulgarium; fine carved tables and chairs, intricate

tapestries. Bronze candelabra, expensive Roman glass and the rare red Samian

pottery. The best wine and food, served to the few honoured guests Winifred

received here.

“More wine, my lord Ambrosius?” The polite, smiling hostess. Concealing

her relief when he declined. “I hear,” she said, with that well-practised lightness

of innocence, “your son is residing at Caer Cadan with Lady Gwenhwyfar.”

Ambrosius’s answer was a mere clearing of his throat, a lowering of his

eyebrows. Winifred felt a warming glow of delight. They were true then, these

rumours! All of them? Oh, she must know! She affected a little laugh. “People

are talking.” Again, a light-hearted chuckle. “They say he sleeps within her

private chamber.”
They say
, she thought, smugly,
he sleeps with her!

“And who, Madam,” Ambrosius retorted, setting his half-empty goblet of

wine down sharply on the table beside his couch, “are ‘they’? Tongue-waggers?

Inane peasants? Illicit traders? What do they know of circumstances?” His anger

gave away his embarrassment, his hurt.

Displaying feigned righteousness, Winifred laid her hand flat across her

breast. “Tale-tellers indeed. Wicked people who would impart any lie to gain

a bellyful of food and a night’s comfort.” The sort of people she entertained at

7 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

her steading a few miles from here. People who kept her well informed of news

and tattle. Forcing aside the regret at using the last of the wine, she motioned

for the slave to top up her guest’s drink, for she must loosen his tight-held

tongue somehow. “Nevertheless,” she said with a loud sigh, “there is talk.”

And what talk! Whirling down the wind like a winter storm! Cadwy,

the lame-leg, only child of Ambrosius Aurelianus, wooing and bedding the

Pendragon’s queen!
Did Arthur know of the rumours,
she wondered? But was it

true? Could a lame-hobble lay with a woman who, so rumour also said, had

been held in death’s arms not a month or so back? A second thought. Would

Gwenhwyfar be unfaithful to her husband? Would she be so openly foolish?

Winifred thought not, but then, Arthur had a whore in his bed over there in

Gaul—a flaxen-haired slave-girl. Through her planted spies Winifred knew of

her. As, surely, must Gwenhwyfar.

She motioned for the slave to serve Ambrosius with honey and apple cakes.

A Saxon recipe, but she doubted Ambrosius would bother himself with such

minor culinary thought. Common knowledge, of course, that Ambrosius was

disappointed in his son—how much more so, now this scandal had occurred?

As well known that the Governor of all Britain had never liked or approved

of Gwenhwyfar. Feelings fostered and honed over the years by Winifred’s

subtle interference.

Biting into one of the cakes—a little sweet for his taste—Ambrosius nursed

his varied annoyances. Annoyance that this meddling woman, whose nose

always seemed to be poking into the business of other people, was prying into

areas that were not her concern. Annoyance that his son was behaving in this

way—combined with the older, deeper awkwardness over Cadwy’s lameness.

He had intended his son to be destined for high office within the church, a

bishopric certainly, but now? What could there be for Cadwy with this outra-

geous scandal dangling over them? Could Cadwy ever raise his head in public

again? Huh, if Arthur came home, would Cadwy be left with a head? It must

be stopped, this whole, intolerable wickedness must be put to an end. But how?

Already Ambrosius had written to his son demanding his return home. Short