Shadow of the King (27 page)

was the truth. He had not expected it to be so—indeed, had looked forward

with anticipation to Arthur’s death. The realities were always different to the

thoughts of ambition and imaginings, though. Reality was so final. Held so

much pain. You never remembered that in your thoughts and schemes for

what might one day be.

Now the silence had been broken, the men moved, came further inside.

Bedwyr crossed the room to pour wine, Illtud going to the inner door,

clutching up the little girl as he passed, lifting her with a high swing into his

arms. She laughed. She recognised this man, from where or when she did

not know, remembered only that he had played with her in the sun, swirling

her around and around like her father had used to do before he went away.

Recollected, on that same thought, they had gone away together. Happen they

were returned together also?

1 6 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“Will my Da be home soon?”

Illtud ruffled her hair, tucked her closer in his arms, made for the inner door

that passed into the Hall. “
Na
, lass.
Na
, He’ll not be home.”

What else could he say?

Closing the door behind him, he took her to find her nurse, to speak quietly

to those in the Hall who pressed close to hear with ashen faces and tear-brimmed

grief what he had to tell.

Gwenhwyfar acted with automation, taking the wine flagon from Bedwyr,

offering the two remaining men fruit and nuts from the side table. She sat in her

chair, her fingers fiddle-fiddling with her pewter tankard. Her eyes gazing at

the sword, lying where Bedwyr had placed it, across the bed-furs. On the side

where Arthur would have lain.

They sat a long while in silence. One of the dogs, Blaidd, who had been her

eldest son’s favourite hound, came from the warmth of the fire to nuzzle at her

with his wet nose. Absently she fondled his silken ears, running her hand over

his body. He had pined for the boy a long while after that killing, refusing to

eat or settle, until one night when Gwenhwyfar had taken him out with her

for a walk beneath the quiet of the stars. They had been up in the north then,

where the rivers ran deeper and wider, had sat together, woman and dog, her

arms clasped around the roughness of his neck, her head buried against his coat

while the dawn rose. And they had come away with their grief lain to rest. But

not buried, not forgotten.

“I would know what happened,” she said, breaking the stretching silence.

Bedwyr cleared his throat, spoke, telling all as it was, as if giving report. Telling

all, knowing she would not want half-truths or delicate covering of the facts.

When he finished, she asked a question.

“And so you know not where he is buried?”

Bedwyr shook his head. No. “It matters not. He is gone.”

Silence again. Bedwyr added wood to the fire. Poured more wine for

himself. Gwenhwyfar had not tasted hers. Then another question. “It puzzles

me. Happen I am tired or confused.” Gwenhwyfar searched Bedwyr’s strained,

dark-lined face for a clue to her worry. Found none. Had to ask. “Why did you

go direct to Ambrosius? Not come here, to me, at Caer Cadan?”

Bedwyr hung his head, wiped his trembling hand around the stubble of his

mouth and chin, trying to find the courage to answer her. Ambrosius spoke

for him. “Bedwyr thought you to be dead. He knew of no one else to take the

news to.”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 6 3

She thought on this a moment. “Dead?” she enquired, “How so?”

“I sent a messenger to the Pendragon when you were ill, to inform him we

expected you not to recover.” Ambrosius felt the need to justify himself. “You

were so very ill. We, none of us, expected you to survive.”

Again she mulled this answer in her mind. “But you sent again? Informing

him of your mistake? And I sent letters to my husband, several, after I recov-

ered.” She added with strained sadness, “Though I received none in return.”

“Gwenhwyfar, we had none of these. No messenger, no letter, came. We

knew nothing. Arthur was—” Bedwyr hung his head, feeling awkward, stunned,

heart-stricken with his own grief. His voice choked. “Arthur was desolate.”

Gwenhwyfar rose, placed her untouched wine on a table, walked across the

room, the dogs’ and men’s eyes following her, expecting something, some

outburst. Tears, anger? Something other than this stiff, rigid silence.

Her cloak was draped over a stool; she took it up, walked for the door,

clicked her fingers at the two dogs who rose and padded beside her.

“I would walk a while,” she said. “Sort my mind.”

She let herself out into the harsh weather. Neither of the men made attempt

to point out it was now raining, or to stop her.

Five

The unthinkable had happened. The Pendragon was gone, dead, with

none to follow him. Ahead stretched a void of uncertainty and anxious

fear for Britain.

Subdued, going about its business cloaked by a mantle of dark grief, Caer

Cadan survived through the passing of the night and day; its women keening

husbands or sons who would never return; the men, the Artoriani who had

remained behind, nursing the loss of comrades, friends, and brothers. They

were numbed, desolate.

The wind had dropped, and the rain had ceased, but the sky hung low and

petulant over the autumn landscape of the Summer Land. Trees with leaves

fluttering from their limp branches; dull, browned and faded grass; the winter

waters already returning, over all, the cold swirl of grey. More rain was in the

sky, threatening with the banks of cloud that rushed from the west, building

behind the Tor lunging upward from the Lake, that at this time of year had

swelled and spilled over much of the flatness.

Only the messengers were busy, sent on the fastest horses to all who

should know, by Ambrosius. The Council was summoned for the next new

moon at his own stronghold of Ambrosium. It had to be. Someone must

lead, someone must attempt to keep a steady course over the confusion and

disquiet. And someone had to put a hand on the rein that kept control over

the Saex.

Ambrosius stood beyond the Hall, looking at, although not seeing, the height

of the rampart walls. He had visited Caer Cadan on but a few occasions only.

Each time had been impressed—though reluctant to admit it—by the unity of

Arthur’s men. Caer Cadan was a thriving community, the heart, the soul the

very being of Arthur’s Britain, while he had been king. Yet now, suddenly

overnight, it too had died. Ambrosius could feel it, feel the limp emptiness

that was the nothingness of a shell, a dying body. A month or two, some day

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 6 5

after the winter solstice, there might well be nothing here save the abandoned

buildings of what once had been.

Gwenhwyfar stood on the ramparts with her back to the Caer, gazing over

the solitude of the Summer Land, her husband’s land, hers now. Ambrosius

would not take it from her, though he could allow her to keep only that which

had belonged to Arthur as personal possession. The Summer Land, Dumnonia.

The rest, Britain, was his.

If he could keep it.

A step behind, shuffling. He recognised the tap of a crutch, knew his son

approached. Did not turn around.

“She has stood up there since dawn,” Ambrosius observed aloud, pointing

with his finger to Gwenhwyfar. “I hear she passed but a few hours within her

chamber during the night. I doubt she slept.”

Cadwy made no answer.

“How fares the child? Does she understand much of what is happening?”

Shaking his head, Cadwy acknowledged that Archfedd did not. “A child

comprehends little at her age. I doubt she remembers much of her father.” He

steadied his own breathing, added, “It is for us, the adults, to come to terms

with our disappointments and griefs.”

His father nodded. Aye, it was so. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he confided; “I

know not how I am to contain the Saex. Word will soon spread among them.”

He opened his hands, palms uppermost, let them fall. “Bad word always does,

like mould in a barrel of badly stored fruit.”

Aesc of the Cantii. Vitolinus. Until now, uncle and son had argued and fought

as much between themselves as the younger had irritated and annoyed the British.

That would change. There was reason to unite now. Now that Arthur was gone.

Then there was Aelle of the South Saxons and his three sons. Three years

they had been settled along the coast near Noviomagus after the first fighting.

Three years while they settled themselves firmer. Entrenched with the British

while Arthur had been away moving further backward, further into the shadows

of the Great Wood.

There was little that Cadwy could answer, for there was only the truth.

“The Saex will rise when they hear Arthur is dead. We can but hope they

are not as ready as we may fear. It may be a year, happen two, before we need

fight them all at once.”

Astonished, Ambrosius regarded his son through narrowed eyes. “All at

once? You think the tribes of the Saex will unite together against us?”

1 6 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Sadly, Cadwy shook his head, began to limp away in the direction of the

small dwelling-place that was home for himself and Ragnall. “Against Arthur’s

British? No father, they would not. Against you? Aye, they will.” He trudged

away, glancing once, as he walked, up at the ramparts where his father had

been watching, up at Gwenhwyfar, standing bereft, alone. The Saex would

unite against Ambrosius. Arthur they would never have beaten, for he had been

a warlord, the Pendragon. Ambrosius Aurelianus was of the same family, but

he was no soldier, no fighter. Never would the honour and respect of the title

Pendragon be bestowed on him.

And that, the Saex knew all too well.

Six

Bedwyr’s boots scuffed on the wooden flooring as he ambled along

the walkway. He frowned. Gwenhwyfar was alone, staring out into the

emptiness of the landscape. He strolled to stand beside her, near enough to be

a companion, not so close as to intrude. He folded his arms along the top rail;

stood, much as she, gazing out into the world.

“We will have frosts early this year,” he said amiably.

“It will be a long winter.”

He rested his chin on his hands. “I recall the first time I looked across and

saw Yns Witrin under snow. A sparkling bright day it was. Great blue-black

shadows stretched across the whiteness. Everything shimmered. You could see

the shape of the Tor clearer, more bold against the snow.”

Gwenhwyfar made no answer this time, kept staring, staring out at nothing.

He stole a glance at her. Saw a single tear slither, unchecked, down her cheek.

“The pain,” he said, “never goes. But it does ease.”

“No,” she said after a while. “It just becomes buried under a mountain of

other pains.”

There was no comfort, no words, that he could offer. He needed them all

for himself, although he had grown used to this thing. No, you could never

become used to losing someone you loved. Bedwyr had loved Arthur more

than he had his own brother. When Cei had died he had mourned, aye, and

grieved, but for a while only. The forgetting had come easily there. But it

would not be so for Arthur.

“As a boy, I worshipped Arthur,” he admitted. “He was my god.” He bit his

lip. Gods were supposed to be immortal. Gods did not die. His own tears were

coming, trickling faster. “At least, though, I have the one comfort.” He turned

to her, instinctively opened his arms, “At least I no longer mourn your loss

also.” And she went to him, moving swiftly into his embrace, her face going

into his shoulder, his hold tight, protective around her.

1 6 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

They stood together, the guard on patrol altering his routine walk, turning

earlier, to step in measured pace back again along the walkway. His own few

tears streaking his firm, wind-weathered face.

Bedwyr held her as if she were a sister, lover, queen, and wife. She meant

much to him, for as a boy he had laughed with her and loved her. She had been

his first love, the first to stir a lad’s thoughts to the novelty of women. Whether

she ever knew it, he was unsure. Probably she suspected, for he had followed

her around like a faithful whelp all those months when she had lived with them

in Less Britain. He snorted a single note of self-contempt, said to the sky, his

chin resting on her head, “I was so jealous when I discovered it was my cousin,

Arthur, you loved, not me.”

She made no answer but her hands, clasped around his strong body, squeezed

harder.

“I was a lad, naive. I had no idea why you and he were always disappearing

together. When, much later, I found out, I was so angry with him—but of

course it was too late for me by then, you were already his wife.” He moved

slightly, held her away from him to see into her eyes. Smiled at her. “Mind,