Shadow of the King (19 page)

drained of energy. “We shared each other’s company through the night. She

seems a pleasant girl. We laughed together over many things.” Aye, Gwenhwyfar

thought, and comforted a few tears. What nonsense was this Cadwy saying?

“Who accuses her of such an absurdity?”

“Lady Branwen, the abbess.”

Gwenhwyfar almost laughed. Almost, but not quite. The gravity of Cadwy’s

frantic expression, the knowing of Branwen’s capabilities stopped her. Oh aye,

Gwenhwyfar knew the cruel side that lay behind Lady Branwen’s pious bigotry!

She had been victim of it herself back in the days of childhood.

Cadwy had his breath easier. He grasped Gwenhwyfar’s arm, began to urge

her along the street. “Hurry!”

She brushed his clasped arm aside, “Wait, wait! What can I do about it?” She

was at a loss, confused. Tired, a little disorientated.

Blank, Cadwy regarded her slow-witted dullness. “You are the Queen. The

Pendragon’s wife. You can speak for her.” She seemed not to understand.

“The abbess has called for an immediate trial. They are gathered in the Council

basilica, my father presides in judgement.” Again, Cadwy pulled at her arm.

“There will soon be a decision made!” Tears were welling in his desperate eyes.

If they did not hurry, it might be too late!

Trial indeed! What folly was this? It was no crime to walk on the height of

the Tor—why, if it was then…Gwenhwyfar smiled to herself. Aye, she had a

glimmering of an idea. Deftly, she spun Cadwy around, pushed him from her.

“Go, delay things. I come as soon as I may.”

His face brightened. “You will hurry?”

She nodded, thrust open the door to her lodging-place. “Go!”

Thirty-One

The anger welling inside Gwenhwyfar was aroused by more than

the injustice that seemed to be thrown at an innocent young girl. She

swept through the doors into the crowded Council chamber, pushing aside the

two sentry guards who stood as a matter of formality on such an occasion to

either side. Taken by surprise, they hurriedly crossed their ceremonial spears,

barring entrance but she sliced them apart with her drawn sword, strode into

the building, creating a stir from inside as the crowd turned their heads, tutting

and frowning at the disturbance.

Here were the nobles and eldermen, high-born merchantmen and free-

born traders. Bishops and the clergy. The abbot of the Glass Isle and, seated

opposite him, the abbess, Lady Branwen. At the head of the room, beyond

the crowd, swollen by those of the settlement who had managed to push

their way in, Ambrosius Aurelianus dressed formally in a purple-edged toga,

was seated on a chair of state. Sprawled at his feet, visibly shaking from cold

and fear, Ragnall. They had stripped her of outer garments, displaying her

disfigured body. Proof of her devilry, they said; proof God had punished her

for her sins.

Although hurried, Gwenhwyfar had attired herself carefully. It would not

be wise to appear dishevelled and slovenly before such austere and august

company. She had chosen a robe of green silk, the colour of new-budded

spring, and a cloak of finest woven wool that draped to her ankles in

a contrasting, darker shade. It billowed behind her, like a green cloud of

rustling leaves and wind as she strode through the parting crowd, seeming like

a visiting Goddess herself.

Her copper-gold hair was braided and decorated with the glittering sparkle

of emeralds and garnets. At her throat, her gold-twined torque, shaped as a

dragon. And in her hand, blade down now that she was through the doors, her

unsheathed sword.

1 1 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

She stalked forward, head proud, green eyes flickering tawny sparks of

outrage. It occurred to her, in a moment of fleeting sorrow, that it ought be

Arthur where Ambrosius sat, presiding over this gathering. But had Arthur

been here, there would be no need for her anger. Had this court of judgement

been called with Arthur as king…No use pursuing that brief thought; Arthur

was not here. She need deal with Ambrosius. And Branwen.

Politely, if somewhat restrained, Ambrosius acknowledged her entrance,

waved aside the two guards hurrying after her. The Council and gathered

onlookers—mostly men—pressed behind her, heads craning, standing on

toe-tip, not wishing to miss a single moment of this excitement.

She had reached Ambrosius, halted before the first step of the raised dais and

watched by all present, offered her sword to him, hilt first. Hesitant, puzzled,

sensing some trick, Ambrosius came to his feet, took it.

And Gwenhwyfar sank into a deep reverence of obedience. Save to her own

husband, she had never before offered such humility.

Murmurs of astonishment; mutters of incredulity. All in that Council knew

Gwenhwyfar too well, reckoned her to hold as much force, self-will, and

impudence as Arthur himself.

Gwenhwyfar had decided how to fight this thing as she hastily dressed. Ah,

there was more than one way to win a battle! Straight out, with brute strength—

or by stealth and cunning. She had no hope of winning by force; there were

not enough of her men present to back her. Oh, there were a few who would

remain loyal to Arthur, but not many. Ambrosius had seen to that. Arthur’s

men had either gone with him or had not been invited here…Gwynedd was

not summoned to Council at Yns Witrin, nor Dyfed, Rheged, Caledonia…

only representatives of the south were here, the wealthy south who ran spear

against shield with Ambrosius.

She offered her sword and tipped her face up to her husband’s uncle, the

man who was proclaiming himself as Supreme Governor of all Britain. Her

voice did not quaver as she spoke, her words winging, clear and regal. “We

have our differences, my lord Aurelianus, angers that will never be quenched.

In absolute loyalty to my lord Pendragon I cannot, nor will not, acknowledge

you as Supreme Lord.”

“But I am, undeniably, in command of this Council of judgement this day,”

Ambrosius countered. Murmurings from the watching crowd, a few hands

applauding, nods of agreement.

Briefly, Gwenhwyfar inclined her head. “You are, undeniably, about to

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

command the murder of an innocent—and that of the rightful Queen, wife to

Arthur the Pendragon.”

The murmurs rose in volume, excited chatter, speculation. Ambrosius

was about to deny such an outrageous charge, but Gwenhwyfar did not give

him opportunity.

“But then,” she continued, “that would suit your ambition, would it not? To

be rid of me so easily.” Her smile, directed solely at him, was taunting. There

were many things she disliked about Ambrosius Aurelianus, many a reason that

she could find in her heart to justify his end—but, she knew, for all that dislike,

he was a fair man, no murderer of women.

His answer was honest. “I have no wish to be rid of you, only your

husband.”

Hers was as direct. “I am Arthur’s wife. You need be rid of me.”

Declining to argue the point, Ambrosius flapped his hand. “Neither have I a

taste for murder.” A doubt flickered in his mind. Was that the truth? He would

gladly have Gwenhwyfar sent somewhere in safe keeping, somewhere a long

distance off, but
na
, he would not have her murdered. He held his hand out,

intending to raise her up.

She ignored the gesture. “If you order the brutal killing of this young woman,

Ambrosius, then you must burn me beside her, for we are equal in guilt, if guilt

it be, to walk in innocence on the Tor of Yns Witrin.”

“What nonsense is this?” Lady Branwen, impatient at this play acting, annoyed

at the interference, came to her feet. Ordered, “You interrupt a court of law.

Be gone!”

With slow dignity, Gwenhwyfar stood. Her height was taller than the abbess,

her poise and dignity the more acute. A willow against Branwen’s elm. Once,

Gwenhwyfar had feared her, when she was a child at home in Gwynedd. No

longer. She felt only pity now for Branwen.

Ragnall’s trembling had eased at Gwenhwyfar’s entering, relief filling

her. She knew not how this woman could save her, only that through

the night they had sat together companionably, listening to the distant,

comforting, heartbeat of the ancient goddess, sharing their secrets and pain.

As the abbess spoke, however, the fear began its insistent quivering again.

She dared not glance up, dared not lift her head. Instead, she curled smaller,

foetal, the tears brimming from her undamaged eye.

Gwenhwyfar asked, “What charge is brought?”

Branwen answered tersely, although it had been Ambrosius Gwenhwyfar

1 1 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

had addressed. “The charge of consorting with the devil.” Gwenhwyfar raised

an eyebrow at the woman. “Your evidence?”

Without hesitation, using spite-ridden words, Branwen retorted, “She was

caught walking on forbidden heathen ground.”

Gwenhwyfar laughed, her head back, hands going to her hips. “Then aye,

you must burn me also! I was with Ragnall for all the night. It was I who took

her up onto the summit of Yns Witrin.” She glanced around the crowded

Council chamber, her stare lingering across one or two known faces. “I would

warrant in the days when the Lady resided here, many a man in this audience

found his way across the lake onto the Tor.” A few men laughed, echoing

her amusement. “My lord Ambrosius, if such be the charge against this young

woman, then there will, I think, be quite an array of us condemned to this fire

of yours.”

More laughter. The tension had eased. This whole thing exposed so easily

for the ludicrous sham it was.

Affronted, irate that the sway of opinion had shifted, Branwen begged

Ambrosius to intervene, to command silence. Persisted with her intent. “This

girl bears the marks of God’s cursing.” Roughly, she dragged Ragnall to her

feet to again publicly show those hideous scars.

Gwenhwyfar bit down a repulsive shudder. Ragnall had told her, out there

in the hiding darkness, of her injuries and of how she had come by them,

but she had not seen for herself, under the cloak of darkness. She managed to

mask her reaction, thrust a moment of panic aside. God’s truth, how could she

proceed with this next thing? The girl was indeed hideous…yet her nature was

gentle, her voice sweet, her laughter infectious. She must go on, for she was too

far along the road to turn back! It might not be winning for Arthur, but even

some small, insignificant victory over Ambrosius would mean much.

She turned, slowly, deliberately sought out Cadwy who had so hopefully

followed her through the crowd, was standing at the forefront, anxious,

concerned, angry at his father’s part in this. Why, though, was he so fearful

for a girl he had met but the once? A girl from whom he had recoiled because

of her deformity. Because of guilt and a heavy conscience? He had behaved

shamefully to her, reacted exactly as others often did to himself.

Gwenhwyfar directed her words to the crowd. Her eyes to Ambrosius. “Do

we, then, burn all who bear the scars of misfortune?”

Aurelianus caught his breath, saw this other trap neatly set, with no way

to escape.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 1 5

“Commit Ragnall to burn, Ambrosius, for these prejudices, and you so

commit your son.”

Uproar. Branwen calling for a right to issue punishment for offences against

God. Those of Council and interested spectators shouting her down.

Beneath the tumult, Gwenhwyfar spoke quiet words to Ambrosius. He

listened, nodded once. Aye, it was as she said, it was the law. Although for

Ragnall, he could see it doing naught but making a bad situation worse.

Gwenhwyfar stepped aside, her part done, her mouth dry. Now it was for

others to do and say.

“Hear me! Hear me!” Ambrosius called for order, called again, and a third

time. Quiet was slow to descend, but gradually it fell.

“Hear me!” Gruff, reluctant, they listened. “There is but one way to settle

this. By law no maiden can stand condemned if a man be willing to take her

into his protection.” Ambrosius paused, let his gaze slide over the men present.

“Will any here take Ragnall as wife?”

Gasps, shouts of incredulity—some of horror and outrage. Ragnall herself

looked up, her mouth open, shocked. Then laughter came and derision, fingers

pointing, men mocking. Shamed, Ragnall dipped her head, fought back new

tears of humiliation.

It was her own father who laughed the loudest, he who called, “Have her

as wife? That hideous creature?” His amusement rang to the rafters. “No man

would be so much the fool.”

“I would.”

The silence fell as rapidly as a thunderbolt. All eyes turned to Cadwy. He

came forward, stood before the girl, took her unscarred hand in his own, tipped

her head and, balancing his crutch, gently wiped aside her tears. “I would have