Shadow of the King (16 page)

Amlawdd strode through, disappeared across the courtyard beyond, his oaths

trailing in his wake.

Ragnall dipped a reverence to the abbess, walked through the door, which

shut with an unalterable finality the moment she was through.

There would be many more people arriving on the morrow; indeed, already

the little town was swelling with important visitors. Ambrosius Aurelianus, the

Governor of all Britain, had called for his Council to meet here on the Glass

Isle. Happen one of them would take pity on a girl with nowhere to go.

Ragnall sighed, walked across the courtyard with her head bowed, her hood

pulled well forward, but she doubted it.

Twenty-Five

Cadwy stood watching as the man dismounted, exchanged polite

greeting with the abbot awaiting him in the crowded courtyard. Ambrosius

turned, their eyes met, Cadwy betraying in that first, unguarded instant the

pleading to be accepted, loved, for what he was, not condemned for what he

was not. His father’s eye mirrored, just briefly, that same echo from the heart.

Quickly veiled, shuttered, behind the stem exterior.

Clearing his throat, Ambrosius began to walk towards the group awaiting

him on the steps of the new, wooden-built basilica building. The difficulties

of formality, the intricacies. He was here at Yns Witrin, neutral ground, to

meet with the Council of all Britain, ostensibly to persuade the chieftains and

landowners to supply the men he needed to join against the growing menace

from the Cantii Saxons. Primarily, he was here to assert his authority. Made

all the more difficult by the woman standing central among the men and the

disconcerting, unexpected presence of his son beside her. Mastering a calmness

that he did not feel, Ambrosius approached Gwenhwyfar. She had always been

a slender woman, but now, after being so ill, her body was thin, the skin like

paper over bones, cheeks hollow, eyes sunken. At another time he might have

shown concern, but not here, not before these people. Inclining his head to her

as he mounted the steps, he did nothing more to acknowledge her, the rightful

queen, stepped instead, one pace to the right to greet Amlawdd, lord of the

coastal lands to the north west of this, the Glass Isle.

As Ambrosius intended, Amlawdd’s pleasure at being singled in this way was

obvious. He had always been a proud, if somewhat slow-witted man, but he

had ambition. A fact which Ambrosius fully intended to trade upon. Pleased,

Amlawdd knelt in public homage, an act reserved normally for a liege lord, for

the king. Furious, Gwenhwyfar made to step forward, to protest.

Cadwy took her arm, shook his head, mouthed a warning. Instead, it was

he who moved, thrusting his weight onto his sound leg to counterbalance the

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lameness, he who said, loud, so all might hear, “My lord Aurelianus, the queen

asks me to speak for her, to offer her welcome to this, her Council.”

Amlawdd jumped up, his face reddening. Glancing apprehensively at

Gwenhwyfar, he wiped his sweating palms down the front of his fine-woven

woollen tunic. He had been at the wrong end of her sword blade once before.

Once was enough! A hush fell over the gathered men, the elders, chieftains,

high-born traders, and merchantmen, the freeborn who served by election or

birth on the Great Council. In the courtyard, too, a silence fell among the men

and—women who had come to Yns Witrin to seek God and be witness to the

deliberations of Council, though not necessarily in that order of preference.

The abbot, the highest ranking official of this cluster of buildings that was firmly

establishing itself as a holy-community settlement, bustled forward to protest,

was stilled by a hand-motion from Ambrosius.

Passive, he half-turned, again inclined his head in Gwenhwyfar’s direction.

To her, ignoring Cadwy, he said, “You will, naturally, forgive my forwardness

in the calling of this Council without representation to you. A woman who has

been as ill, as I believe you to have been, would not, I assumed, have had the

physical strength to attend, let alone lead a battle campaign.”

Tawny sparks flashed against the green of Gwenhwyfar’s eyes, a sharp

retort hovered on her lips, but she bit the anger down. He was right, curse

him, she had not much strength and would never be able to lead men against

Vitolinus. She was damned if he was going to usurp her position before all

these important men, though! She held his eyes a heartbeat longer, then,

smiling, addressed Amlawdd.

“It is good, my lord, that you are so eager to lend your sword in the defence

of my husband’s kingdom.” Her smile so encouraging, so intensely false. To

Ambrosius, to them all, “I will be sure to inform the Pendragon of your loyalty

when he returns.”

A few nervous coughs, shuffling of feet, no one daring to meet her eye as she

cast around the embarrassed faces.

“Has there been further news on that matter then, my Lady?” Ambrosius

queried. “Is the Pendragon to abandon this foolish quest and resume his rightful

duties here, in his own lands?”

Several gasped, including Gwenhwyfar and Cadwy.

So easy, so subtle. Ambrosius smiled, as easily and as falsely as Gwenhwyfar.

He climbed the last two steps, walking through the parting men entered through

the doorway of the building that had been constructed solely, upon his orders,

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for the purpose of this meeting. Men filed after him, skirting their way around

Gwenhwyfar, averting their eyes from her, looking at their feet, their neigh-

bour, the way ahead, any direction save at her. The wife of the Pendragon, the

king who had just, with those few words, lost his kingdom.

Twenty-Six

Evening was settling, the remnant of the afternoon’s rain-clouds

scudding over the bruise-purple sky. The wind was rising; Cadwy could

hear its voice growing more insistent among the clusters of tossing trees. The

small holy settlement snuggled at the foot of the great Tor was already preparing

for night; the last meal taken, doors closing firm against the coming darkness.

Cadwy knew Gwenhwyfar had gone up the Tor. He had seen her setting

out, going up the rain-puddled lane, her cloak wrapped tight about her shoul-

ders, wisps of copper-gold hair escaping her hood. She was so frail, so thin.

He had watched her as she had stepped onto the miz-maze path that made its

ancient pattern up and around the place of the goddess. Was she still up there?

He could not see onto the summit, for his sight was not as sharp as it ought

to be. Distances were a blur, a fuzzed-edged picture. There was a tall, tall,

standing stone up there, nestling among a few smaller ones, black against the

fading colour of the sky. He knew it was there, for he had heard of it, but see

it he could not.

Would she come down before night descended? Ought he attempt to find

her? Did she want to be found? She had been weeping as she walked, that also

he knew, by instinct more than sight. She had gone up there to seek solitude

and healing. Would not want him hobbling after her. Cadwy sighed, began

the weary trudge back along the muddied lane. She would not want his poor

attempts at comfort.

Below this incline, nestled in the sheltered hollows beneath the Tor huddled

the Christian settlement, the dwelling-places, shops, and taverns that had sprung

up around the enclosing walls of the abbey with its attendant cloisters, and the

smaller, wattle-built chapel dedicated to Mary the Mother.

The lane ahead scuttled under a tangle of droop-branched, overgrown trees,

their foliage, black against the greying sky, casting wary shadows beneath.

Cadwy jerked to a halt, head up, nostrils flaring, scenting the wind. Something

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had moved, something other than the wind-swaying shadows. A darker shape

rose from a huddled clump; Cadwy peered into the gloom beneath those

suddenly unfriendly trees. This was a pagan place, the Tor of Yns Witrin, a

place of magic and fear and superstition—aye, despite the resident community

who insisted it now belonged to the Christian God. The Old Ones, Cadwy

secretly thought, were not to be so easily dislodged.

“Who walks there?” he called, his voice commanding, impatient. A feint to

mask his fear. “Who watches me?”

“Only God, and myself. You have nothing to fear from either of us.” A

young woman’s voice. Sweet, soft, a hint of rare-used laughter. Cadwy’s heart-

beat doubled. A lady? The Lady?

The priestesses of the Mother Goddess had once had their sanctuary here, at

the base of the Tor, near where the lake lay, dark and silent, even in the driest

of summers. This, too, had been the place of the Underworld god, Avallach.

There were doorways, it was said, that led from the Tor down into his dark

kingdom. Cadwy took a steadying breath. There was no Avallach, only the

one, Christian God. And the last Lady had gone, years past, drowned, they

insisted, in the pagan waters of her Goddess. Summoning courage, he stepped

forward, one single, lame pace. “Show yourself. Why need you hide in the

shadows if you mean no harm?”

She sounded young, a girl just passed into womanhood. Her voice reminded

him of summer-warm evenings scented by honeysuckle and roses. “I do not

hide, I was merely waiting for you.” It was a half-truth, for she had not intended

to show herself, was waiting for him to pass. Something involuntary had made

her move, though, some urging inside her that had ran away with her sense.

He could see her now, her cloaked body blending with the shadows, her

face hidden by a hood pulled well forward. He pointed at her with his crutch, a

crude gesture of defence. Surely this was some night-creature, some pagan deity

come back with the fall of night to do mischief?

“It is a late hour for a woman to be out alone,” he said stiffly.

She ignored his censure, said, “Your father has men looking for you. He

wishes to speak with you.”

“And you came looking for me? Up here?”

There was a smile in her voice as she answered. “No, but since we have

unexpectedly met, there is no reason why I ought not give you the message.”

The explanation was simple. Earthbound. Cadwy’s fear dissipated, he felt

a little foolish. Pagan spirit? She was nothing more than a noviciate from the

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Convent of Our Lady Mary! He lowered his crutch, his pathetic weapon,

settled it beneath his arm. So they were searching for him? Let them look! He

had no wish to speak with his father. This night, or ever.

“Anger can be a two-edged sword, my lord. Its bite difficult to heal unless

tended straight’way.”

Cadwy started. How did she know of his inner anger? How could she perceive

his stomach was a tight, clutching knot of rage and shame? The superstitious

fear began niggling again.

“We, all of us,” she added matter-of-factly, “feel the pain our fathers

unwittingly inflict. But do we not, in our own lifetime, give as many wounds

as we receive?”

The clouds, ragged-edged, shape-shifting, were running before the blustering

wind, sailing faster across a background sea of dark, night-blue sky. Suddenly

the moon came up, her full roundness opening from behind the blackness of

the Tor, her light blossoming against the backdrop of night, her pale silver-

brightness sparkling. Shadows leapt like a mettlesome horse suddenly allowed

its head, their shapes changing, then settling, quivering beneath the gentle caress

of soft light. The moon, the chariot of the goddess.

Cadwy made to walk on, but the path was mud-bound, slippery, his lame-

legged foot went from beneath him and he toppled forward onto one knee,

cursing beneath his breath.

Ragnal darted forward to help him, her hand going to his arm. “Take care, my

lord,” she said, concerned, “this path is notorious for its bad footing after rain. ’Tis

impassable in some weathers, most especially when the ice comes after the snow.”

He was grateful to her tact; they both knew it was his clumsiness that had

made him fall. Bless her, most others would laugh, mock his unsteadiness.

Voices, male, coming nearer, breath panting as they came up the incline.

The light of their torches, needed beneath the trees, bouncing and spluttering,

swallowed the softness of the fragile moon-shadows, frightening away that

suspended moment of magic. Three men in the uniform of Ambrosius came

busily around the bend of the lane.

Cadwy glanced briefly at them, then back with curiosity at the girl who was

also looking to the newcomers. He gasped, his hand coming, unbidden, to his

mouth. The flickering torchlight had struck full upon her features, the crevices

of skin, the tight scars, twisted mouth, and puckered, sightless eye. Bile rose

to Cadwy’s throat as in that single fleeting second he saw the hideousness of

Ragnall’s distorted face.

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