Shadow of the King (17 page)

To his shame, he fled, hobble-running past the men, pushing them aside,

slithering in the mud-ruts, breath sobbing in his throat. Certain she had, after

all, been a creature of the Old Ones.

It was only later, much later, in the quiet stillness before dawn he saw, in his

sleep-troubled mind, the tears that had welled from her other eye. Pale, moon-

silvered tears that had splashed from the side of her face untouched by whatever

damage had caused so much suffering. An eye so wide and so lovely.

Twenty-Seven

The Tor was a safe place for Ragnall; its solitude and peace

surrounded her with the comfort of love that she so desperately needed.

For all their conviction that the Glass Isle was now a place of the Christian God,

the spirits of its older name, Yns Witrin, still lingered up on the great height

of the Tor. You could hear them, the echoes of their whispering, if you knew

where and how to listen. It was the place of the female, the Tor, a woman’s

place, where the Goddess listened to the tears or laughter of her daughters.

The path was steep, slippery from the recent rain, but Ragnall climbed with

the confidence of familiarity. Nor did she mind the night. She was happier in

the dark, for none could see her ugliness where there was no light. Up here,

where the wind sang and the stars were only a fingertip’s touch away, Ragnall

could feel beautiful. The Goddess did not judge a woman for her sins, only for

what she was; a daughter of life.

The abbess, Branwen, would have had the girl whipped raw, or worse, had

she known of her coming here, but Ragnall took care none should discover

it—easily done, for few paid much heed to her. The Christian God and His

followers, Ragnall felt, professed love to all save the pagan and the deformed.

She stopped as she neared the crest of the path, took time to slow her

breathing. The wind would be strong once she crossed from this sheltered side

to the open summit. She would need her breath out there.

A few years back she had been shown these paths, introduced to the freedoms

that the Tor gave, by the one who had then lived here. Morgaine, her name

had been, the Lady of the Lake, last priestess to the Goddess. She had been

Ragnall’s only friend—they were mutual friends, both outcasts, both feared for

their difference. When she had gone, with the boy-child she had borne three

years past, Ragnall had felt desolate. She had almost taken that most precious

thing, her own life, but the Goddess had comforted her with her songs that

whispered in the wind, and Ragnall had faced her loneliness, sure that one day,

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one day, she would be able to dance in the sunlight. She missed Morgaine,

but understood why she had found the need to go. Ragnall alone knew where

she had gone. Not even the child’s father had the knowing of that. Aye, and

Morgaine had confided that detail also. Who the father of her son was.

Ragnall stepped out from the shelter of the hill, her cloak and hair billowing as

the wind screamed past her. She laughed, exhilarated by the force, the passion of

its passing. Laughed, because they would all be so shocked were she ever to tell

them of that knowledge. What a nest of ants it would stir! She would never tell,

though, never betray her only friend, Morgaine, and the trust of the Goddess.

She had to lean forward against the buffeting wind, head bowed, to make her

way along the ridge to where the tall Stone lunged up towards the cloud-ragged

sky; did not see the other woman there, leaning against its timeless solidity.

Both saw each other almost at the same moment, both gasped in instinctive

alarm. The woman by the Stone dropped her hand to her side, drew a sword

blade that, although shorter and lighter than a man’s weapon, looked none

the less deadly. The Goddess must have been watching, for she tossed her

protection, sent a tendril of wind scurrying through this woman’s cloak, hurling

it around her arm, trapping the bright blade among its folds, giving Ragnall a

small moment to catch her wits.

“You startled me,” she confessed. “It is rare to meet another up here.”

“The Christian kind do not venture this far,” Gwenhwyfar replied, uncer-

tain, wary, attempting to distinguish, unsuccessfully, who this woman could be.

Decided on forthright attack. “I am Gwenhwyfar, wife to the Pendragon. Who

might you be, and what do you here?” She had untangled her sword, held it

downward, the blade glinting softly under the scudding moonlight.

“I live within the shelter of the Holy Sisters’ place, but I am here for the

same reason as you.” Ragnall lifted her head higher, uncaring whether the

scars showed on her face up here, where nothing of the real world mattered.

“I come to face my grief, to let it run loose, unfettered, where none will judge

or condemn.”

For a long moment Gwenhwyfar regarded the girl, seeing, in the fleeting

cloud-shadows, a hint of the damage to her face. Her thoughts this past hour

had taken the twists and turns of the lonely and frightened, skimming through

doubts of the future, regrets of the past. Touching on laughter, lingering on

tears. The smiles of her sons, the grief that had befallen them. And the fear,

the thundering fear that hammered for her husband. She had been thinking,

standing with her back against the cold of the granite Stone, of the last time

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she had stood up here on the Tor. Llacheu, her first-born, had been growing

in her womb then. She had been staying with the Holy Sisters, too, but had

sought the presence of the Goddess to heal her fragility, the damage that had

been done to her. How the circle turned!

Gwenhwyfar smiled, slid her sword back into the safe keeping of the scab-

bard slung at her waist, held her palms wide in peace and friendship. “There are

not many of us,” she said, “who remember it is the Mother who is the first to

comfort our tears, not the Father.”

The Tor was a lonely place, by night or day. It squatted, rising high above

the levels that were water-bound by winter, marsh and grazing land by summer.

Floating like an island among the swirls of white, morning mist, or lazily

drowsing beneath the cricket-chirruping heat of a summer sun. It sat, brooding

the cluster of lesser hills about her skirts, benignly watching, like an indulgent

mother, the blunderings of Man scuttling beneath her gaze. A lonely place, but

a place where, if you cared to listen with your heart not look with your eyes,

you could find love and contentment, given without condition.

Two women seeking the sanctuary of its healing calm. Gwenhwyfar, weary

and heartsore and frightened for her husband and daughter, sat companionably

and silent beside Ragnall, who shared the same fears for herself. Together, they

watched the stars wheel across the sky. Shared the first, beautiful colours of the

new day, their backs leaning against the tallest Stone that had stood, almost

since time began, on the summit of this hill where, surely, the gods, whoever

they were, had once walked and shed in their footsteps the patterns of peace.

Twenty-Eight

Cadwy found his father in the chapel of Mary the Mother. The hour

was early, the sun barely a hint in the rain-whisping sky. Cadwy waited at

the rear of the small, square-built place. If his father, kneeling at the altar a few

yards away, knew his son to be there he made no sign. Ambrosius expressed

no surprise, however, as, his prayer finished, he rose and turned, suppressing a

wince of pain from joints that protested at the kneeling and bending. Of course

he would have known the man entering the chapel to be Cadwy. He would

have heard the shuffle of a lame foot, the tap of a wooden crutch.

“I sent to speak with you last night.” For all the moderation in his father’s

tone, Cadwy still heard admonishment, criticism.

“I was about other matters,” he retorted.

Ambrosius shot his son a speculative look as he walked past, heading for

the doorway. What would his son be doing? Where had he gone? He had not

been in either of the two taverns, nor anywhere within the small town. Could

he have been at the brothel a mile outside? Mentally Ambrosius dismissed the

thought as nonsense, opened the door but did not pass through.

“I think it time, Cadwy”—again, Ambrosius tried to ensure that his voice was

mild, friendly—“for you to leave Caer Cadan. To come home, with me.”

“Why?” A single, short-made answer. Full of rebellion.

Ambrosius sighed, shut the door again. He walked to the first line of wooden

benches, moving slowly for his knees were sorely aching this morning. “Because

I ask it. Is that not enough?”

Cadwy remained silent, glowering.

Seating himself, Ambrosius ignored the obstinacy. “People are talking.”

“I see. ’Tis the tongue-wagging that annoys you.”

Shaking his head slowly, taking deep breaths to remain calm, Ambrosius

rubbed his hands along his thighs. The palms were sticky, sweating. His head

was beginning to thump, too. He did not want to argue with his son, did

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not. Very patient: “Aye, talk bothers me, for it is malicious talk, lies, most

of it, I trust.”

Cadwy’s head came up, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. What did

he mean? That Cadwy had shamed him, shamed himself? “I have done nothing

to offend you—save fall prey to an illness that left me twisted and useless in

your sight.” His eyes bore into his father’s face, directly offering a challenge to

deny it. “At Caer Cadan I am valued.”

Ambrosius could not help it. He laughed.

Coldly, Cadwy asked, “What do you want from me, Father? To take what

I have found? Why? I have been happier this short while at Caer Cadan than

ever I have living under your indifference.”

For the first time in many years, Ambrosius looked at his son and saw

him for what he was, a young man of ten and nine years, tall, like all of

this line, with a slightly over-long nose set against high, firm cheek-bones.

Dark eyes, dark hair. Cadwy looked much like his mother, yet he had the

similarities of the Pendragon blood, too. He supposed those male charac-

teristics marked him to be like himself, Ambrosius—Cadwy’s father, Uthr’s

brother—Arthur’s uncle. The passion in his son’s words hit home. Ambrosius

paled, his skin crawling, chalk-white, though sweat trickled down his back,

pricked his forehead, upper lip. Christ’s good soul! Was it true, then? All of

it? Swallowing bile, he stammered what he had intended to say to the son

of his flesh.

“I need support. I need loyal men beside me, behind me.” Again he swal-

lowed. “I need the respect granted to a warlord.” This was not easy, begging

for his son to come back to him. “I need you with me, Cadwy. It looks bad

that you are with the queen not with me.”

“So, you resent my happiness.”

“I did not say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I imply nothing save what is spoken or thought by others.”

“Of course, you would take leave to listen to them rather than myself.”

This was getting out of hand, becoming nonsense. “I want you—” Ambrosius

spoke slowly, trying to keep the quiver of anger from his asking, “I want you to

be sensible, responsible. When I leave to put the Saxon Vitolinus back into his

place, I need to have someone I can trust to speak for me. Someone of my flesh,

my blood.” He tossed a challenging glance. “I have no choice, I have only you.

I cannot trust you, however, while you bed in Gwenhwyfar’s Hall. You must

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leave Caer Cadan. ’Tis fortunate that communication is travelling slow and

with great difficulty, for if the Pendragon should hear of these rumours…”

Then Cadwy laughed, head tossing back, clenched fists resting on his hips. “Oh

I see, I understand it all now!” He propped his crutch beneath his arm, leant his

weight on it. “If Arthur hears the rumour I am tumbling his wife, he just might

be incensed enough to abandon Gaul and come racing back to relieve me of my

balls! You’d not be happy with that would you?” He laughed again, genuinely

amused. “The matter of me keeping my manhood intact is naught, for you are

convinced my lameness makes me a gelding anyway. Ah no, it is this other thing

you fear. You have not yet secured enough power to ensure Arthur cannot fight

his way back into Britain. And Vitolinus will sorely drain your resources.” He

made for the doorway, cast it wide open, limped through, his father following a

few paces behind. “I am almost tempted to lie, to say I am indeed bedding the

queen, only I would never so dishonour my Lady Gwenhwyfar.”

Ahead of his father, Cadwy missed the relief that passed across Ambrosius’s

face. The rumours were not true then, thank God!

“I need your support, son,” he implored. There were more than a mere few

who were saying that Ambrosius could not keep his own house in order, let

alone an army, a country.

Cadwy turned, intending to sneer some caustic retort, checked his hurtful