Shadow of the King (35 page)

swords drawn, anxious, alarmed. Mathild’s men, Saxons. A maid-servant in the

open doorway, hand to her mouth at the blood and the mess, began to scream.

Cerdic swung towards them. “Get out!” he bellowed. “Get out of here!” He

pushed at them, lunged with his fist, booted with his foot, driving them from

his private chamber, slammed the door shut, stood, breathing hard. Shaking.

She was dead, Mathild, he knew that. No woman could survive such

brutal treatment.

“You fool!” Winifred snarled. “Will they follow you now without question?

Without glancing at you with thoughts of murder in their minds? She was their

kindred by blood.” With difficulty, she was attempting to control her own

shaking body, swallow down the rise of vomit that had come into her throat.

She fetched a cloak, threw it over the body, hiding it from sight, then wine

from the far side of the chamber; with trembling hands, poured, drank a few,

quick gulps, poured for Cerdic, handed him the tankard.

“You have one chance to survive beyond this night, Cerdic, to live into the

next dawn and the dawn after that.” Her hand went to his arm, gripped it tight,

urgent. “You must say some madness took possession of her, that she tried to

murder your son—I will be witness to it—to protect him you acted as only you

could.” Her other hand took hold of his chin, her fingers biting into his jowled

cheeks, forcing his head to turn, to look at her. “They will follow the boy!

Without question, they will follow him.” She slowed her breathing, becoming

calmer now she knew how to deal with this madness. “You must be his father.

And I must discover, and ensure, somehow, that yours is truly dead.”

Cerdic pushed her grasping hand from his face. Bitter, he laughed. “And

what of Britain? Do you still command me to take Britain?”

She moved away from him, turning her eye from the heap on the floor that

had once been his wife. “If I do not manage to win over or destroy those men

who have loyalty for Mathild above you—or her son—then Britain may be the

only safe place for you.”

Her smile allowed a sliver of triumph to settle into it. She knew who

most of those men were; she had made it her business to know. They were

the ones who had come north with Mathild from Gaul. The ones who had

fought with Arthur. Easy enough to pay the right people with the right gold.

Winifred laughed, low, to herself. Ah no, Mathild would not be going into the

Otherworld alone. She would have her men with her for company. And by

chance, one of them might talk of Arthur before he died.

Eighteen

Another spring come and gone, with the days rapidly sprinting

towards the full heat of summer.

The man stood beside the palisade wall looking down into the valley that ran,

almost as a second defensive barrier, around this side of the decaying Roman

town. Avallon had once been a busy, important place, bustling with the trade

that had come from the road that trundled northwest through Gaul, passing

below its high citadel walls. No more. Few used the Roman road now Rome’s

influence was waning. There was no safety in travel, no profit in trading along

an obsolete route. Avallon, too, was dying. Once a proud town, its buildings

were beginning to crumble, becoming shabby; where the many taverns had

swelled with laughter, only one sold wine now. Where the young had set their

market stalls, opened shops, sold pottery, skins, and cloth, now only broken

shutters swung aimlessly in the wind and few cared to visit Avallon.

He, this man, was one of the few. Of dishevelled appearance, hair in need

of cleaning and combing, simply dressed in rough-spun, woollen tunic and

plaid bracae. He was watching a woman and child make their way along

the track. They seemed small from up here, overshadowed by the tumble

of trees cluttering the far hill, dwarfed by the steepness of Avallon’s own

imposing height.

He could hear their voices floating up to him on the clear, still air; hear her

chiding the boy for idling. He ought to call out, show them he was watching,

but he did not.

Unchecked, a single, despairing tear wavered down his beard stubbled cheek.

He closed his eyes, seeing in his mind not the woman walking down that

narrow, steep-sided valley with her son, but another lady, one who had green

eyes and unruly copper-coloured hair, not Morgaine’s dyed, red hair.

He could see her, the other woman, her shape, her size, her hair tossing and

cascading around her shoulders. But he could not image her face, or recall her

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 1 3

voice. It was there, on the edge of memory, hanging like a half-awake dream,

always just beyond his reach, never near enough to see clearly, to touch.

He ought to be grateful to Morgaine, for she had so patiently healed him of

his terrible wounds, brought him back from the edge of the Otherworld. Her

nursing, skill and love through those long, long months when he had lain so ill,

so weak, and so helpless, ought to be appreciated, rewarded. She loved him, he

knew that, but for her he felt nothing. Nothing at all.

After the passing of these long, long seasons, the hardship of winter, the glory

of spring, surely he ought to feel some stirring, some lift of caring feeling? But

Arthur felt nothing. Nothing save the gaping emptiness that surrounded and

swallowed him. His Gwenhwyfar was gone, gone ahead to the Otherworld

without him, and he had lost everything that had once been his, in this. His

men, his kingdom, his courage and hope.

Morgaine happened to glance up, saw him standing there behind the timber

palisade wal , waved, encouraged her son to wave also, but Arthur did not return

the acknowledgement. She could heal deep inflicted wounds from spear, sword,

or axe, could ease away the ravings of a fever, nourish the weakness, and return

strength to a body so sorely punished. Nothing could she do for the inner hurts,

the bruising and lacerations to the heart and soul. Arthur was her life, her being, her

meaning, yet she was daily, almost by the hour, aware he had no feeling for her.

Arthur stood, his mind not registering the blueness of the sky, the gold of the

sun, or the fresh green of the trees. When the others had gone, believing him

dead, Morgaine had stayed with him. Cared for him in the hovel of a deserted

goatherd’s hut she had found tumbled beside the river. Fought for many weeks

against the spirit of death that had so determinedly courted him. She had cooled

his fever, warmed him when he lay shivering and cold. When those immediate

dangers were passed, struggled with his weak and feeble body to bring him

here into the safe territory of the Burgundians; to the place where she lived, a

few miles outside Avallon, within the dedicated, discreet community of pagan

women who served the Mother Goddess.

All this she had done for him out of love. He ought to feel something of

gratitude to her, not this damning darkness of resentment. He could not fight it

though. Had not the strength or inclination.

Better it would have been, for Morgaine, for himself, to have died there

in that stinking goatherd’s hut. For, without reason to live, it was all, all of

it, so pointless.

Nineteen

Although Ambrosius Aurelianus wore the impressive title Supreme

Governor of All Britain, it was a hollow decoration, or at least, the

element “All Britain” was exaggeration. By the factor of his strength and

popularity among the north and western tribes, Arthur had been the only man,

since the extinction of Roman influence, to rule as unquestionably supreme.

Save, perhaps, in the extreme north, above the line of the old Antonine Wall,

where not even Rome had survived for more than a handful of years. To the

Pendragon, the British tribes had acknowledged their homage, claiming lesser

titles of king or prince beneath his seniority. To Arthur, the English had also

knelt, either willingly or forced through defeat. By right of inheritance, he had

been lord over his own Dumnonia and the Summer Land. Aye, Arthur had

been a warlord who commanded much power and respect.

Only the territory of Ambrosius had not bowed to him. Centred around the

wealthy and well-to-do towns of Aquae Sulis, Venta Bulgarium, Caer Gloui,

and Corinium—Londinium having been shamefully lost to the Saxons through

the tyrant Vortigern’s incompetence—the populace preferred one of their own

kind to lead them. Someone who valued Rome and the Empire, someone who

would restore that same stability of law and order. Who would reintroduce the

hierarchy’s necessary status and wealth, and lower unreasonable taxation.

Arthur had veered towards the old, pre-Roman way, to the independence

and tradition of the British tribesman. Ambrosius Aurelianus advocated the

opposite, the rights and privileges of the citizen. Naturally, with its deep-rooted

sense of pomp and grandiosity, southern Britain came down heavily weighted in

the latter’s favour. As naturally, the wilder lands of Britain would have nothing

to do with him.

With Arthur’s going, that gradually splitting rift had fragmented even further,

Britain was no longer a single island state. With no steady hand firm on the

steer-board, the tribespeople were returning to how it had been before the

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 1 5

Roman Eagles had marched up from Rutupiae way back in Claudius’s time, in

Anno Domini forty-three. Gwynedd, Powys, Rheged, and their sister lands; the

wild hills above the Wall—all were now independent, forming themselves into

rough-hewn embryonic kingdoms, answerable to none save their own lord. The

ending of Arthur had escalated the ending of Britain as a united province. Only

the one enclave, Ambrosius’s held lands, remained steadfastly Roman.

And then, of course, there were the English.

There was little Ambrosius could do about the British tribes, as unruly,

snarling a bunch as ever had been. Nor was there much inclination among

the Council to consider them. The tribes, never truly Roman, would, it was

widely accepted, revert to type. Let them! But the English?

Ambrosius had pledged to finish them, send them scuttling for their boats and

the sea. For the Saex, he promised his loyal followers, Britain would become as

uncomfortable as squatting on an ants’ nest.

The problem with rash-made pledges. Easy to make, difficult to accomplish.

Inexperience of soldiering did not deter Ambrosius, for he was a man of

faith and he had good men beneath him, battle-hardened, war-scarred men

who for all their previous questionable loyalty, would serve him well. At least

until someone else lured their interest. As there was no one now Vitolinus was

despatched—and even were he not, it was doubtful British men would follow

a half-Saex cur—Ambrosius was safe at least for long enough to achieve his aim

to firmly entrench the level of respect that Arthur had once acclaimed.

His first move was to occupy English-held territory, to dominate and suppress.

He ordered a formidable line of fortresses and strongholds to be built at strategic

points. He placed patrols and militia guards along the key trade routes. Arthur

had never advocated such methods, preferring to be able to move his men fast

and effectively when needed, where needed. To tie men to one area went

against the use of his efficient cavalry, but Ambrosius was ever an infantryman.

He would do things the Roman way. What was left of the proud Artoriani,

Arthur’s elite cavalry, Ambrosius sent to man the new fortresses that set watch

over the English settlements. They were no longer Arthur’s men, for they were

his to command now.

Twenty

August 471

Amlawdd, for all his impatient character, was astute enough to

realise he must wait, pick a right moment to approach Gwenhwyfar.

Apprehension was behind his reasoning. Gwenhwyfar was no ordinary, demure

woman. One false step and he could lose more than pride! The lady was too

well practised with sword and dagger for any man’s safe comfort—as he well

knew from past experience. Even the hope of amassing all the Pendragon’s

wealth and land kept his hand steady on the reins. Whatever was Gwenhwyfar’s

would, as her husband, become his. The prospect of making attempt for the

supreme kingship, though, for all his dreams of ambition, was low on his list.

Even Amlawdd, with his imprudent and ill-thought ideas, recognised his limi-

tations. No, to be lord over such prestigious land was enough. With both the

Summer Land and Dumnonia marching alongside his present, modest, coastal

holding, he would be master of the entire southeast…a fine ambition.

It was not, then, until August was into full gallop that Amlawdd rode, intent

upon his quest and with an escort of but four men, to Caer Cadan. He had

chosen a fine, warm, day; a pleasant ride beneath a sapphire blue sky that was

skittered with mare’s tail and distant mackerel clouds.