Shadow of the King (39 page)

The wind from the coast caught them square on the face as they stepped

out from the shelter of the track. Before them lay acres of sheep-cropped grass,

securely enclosed by the top rampart bank. Gone was the palisade fencing, the

wooden guard-towers, the round-houses, granaries, cattle pens, storage pits and

sheds. Gone, the Hall, the heart of the community. Nothing, save the wind and

the grass, and the remains of one square, stone-built building. They ignored it,

for it was a tawdry Roman temple.

Leaping up the incline to the top of the last rampart, Gwenhwyfar shaded

her eyes from the buffeting wind, her hair whipping away from loose hairpins,

her cloak swirling around her legs. The stronghold was impressive. “This is

magnificent!” She marvelled as her eyes roamed over the expanse of enclosed

land and then outward. Was that the sea there in the distance? Clouds were

gathering. Rain.

They walked around this top rampart, following where once the fencing

and walkway would have strode, pointing out intricacies of the next gateway,

a faded shadow where once a track had lain. Gwenhwyfar exclaimed at a hare

set running almost from beneath their feet. Bedwyr cursed; he had no spear

with him.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 3 5

“
Na
,” Gwenhwyfar chided, “let the goddess keep her fleet-footed messenger.

There has been enough killing in this place.”

It took an hour or more to walk the entire circuit, by which time their cloaks

were drawn tight against the wind and their hair was as ragged as a wind-teased

seed-head. The clouds had surged nearer, heaping higher and wilder. A few

dithering spots of rain fell.

“Would there be shelter beneath the banks?” Gwenhwyfar queried, peering

at the louring sky. Already she was cold, had not much inclination to become

wet also in this late-summer storm.

“The temple would be better.” Bedwyr was already running, Gwenhwyfar’s

hand clasped firmly in his, Bedwyr’s head ducked against the sudden cloud

burst. Boots slipping on the sudden-wet grass, they ducked through the door-

less entrance, stood breathless, laughing together as they shook the rain from

cloaks and hair.

It was not much of a building, half a roof, one wall cracked and bowed. One

puff of wind from the right direction and surely it would be down. Roof tiles

scattered on the floor among an accumulation of debris, leaves, grass, sheep

droppings. The remains of a fire. Someone else had sheltered here, then. Bedwyr

squatted down, began poking at the cold ashes, peered around for dry timber.

“There may be enough for a fire if you are cold,” he offered, raising his eyes

questioningly at Gwenhwyfar. She was standing by the door, her arms clutched

around herself, watching the sheet of dark rain blanketing the expanse of desolate

fortress that had once, so long, long ago, been active with the bustle of life.

She shook her head. “No,” she smiled, a sad half-complete expression. “No,”

she repeated, “I am not cold now we are out of the wind.”

Bedwyr came to his feet, crossed the small space, and stood before her; after

a moment, put his fingers out to tuck away a loose strand of hair behind her

ear. “I love you,” he said. There was no laughter, no jesting. “I always have,

ever since I was a boy.”

She dipped her head, not knowing how to answer him.

“I would never let anyone else take you as their own,” he added. Gwenhwyfar

nodded her head, a small, slight movement. Aye, she knew that.

As if she were a fragile, terracotta-made doll, Bedwyr slid his arms around

her, drew her to him, nestled her head into the dip of his shoulder, cradled her

softness against his strength. His fingers stroked her hair, and his lips brushed

her forehead. She made no response, but then, neither did she move away.

There was no intention for anything more, but they were a man and woman,

2 3 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

alone, sheltering from the rain. Both with their own, separate, need. It was

nothing frenzied or passionate, their love-making, not the sweating, breathless

coupling of the desperate; rather this was a shared giving and taking, the need

to be loved, the wanting to give comfort and protection. Something gentle and

immensely tender.

Twenty-Six

Bedwyr must have drifted into sleep, for he awoke with a start,

some abruptness in a dream grunting him alert; he found the rain had

stopped and Gwenhwyfar gone, though her perfume, the vague scent of

summer flowers, lingered. Damp and chilled, he collected his cloak they had

lain upon, shook away the dead grass, twigs, and earth, fastened it around his

shoulder, and stepped outside.

Everything was fresh and gleaming, the grass sparkling as if some faery crea-

ture had wide-scattered handfuls of tiny diamonds. The sky, where the rain had

passed, was a cloud-skeined cobalt blue. A flight of wild geese threaded past

in their pondering formation, their cries and beating wings eerie and mournful

in the silence of this ghost-murmuring place. Gwenhwyfar stood on the top

rampart, her back to him, facing the sea, the wind blustering at her loose-tossed

hair and folds of her cloak. She stood, straight and still. Arms wrapped around

herself, staring into the heavy weight of the past.

Beyond these deep ditches and high ramparts lay the rolling hills. Beyond

them, the sea. Wind-whipped, white-tipped, sea-crested horses, prancing their

wild dance with the tide. The Britannic Sea, over which he had sailed with his

men. Over which he would never return.

“I miss him,” Gwenhwyfar spoke to the buffeting wind, her voice

carrying to the spirits who must surely be watching, listening, aware. To

his spirit? Did he hear? Was he there, trying to be near her? If he was, why

could she not feel him, feel something of him—a whisper on the wind, a

half-seen shadow? He had believed her dead, but surely he knew now…

surely? Why did she never feel that, if only she could turn around quick

enough, she would see him standing there with that familiar smile? Why did

she never see his face in her dreams or hear his voice? Imagine his touch?

Why was there this nothingness for her, beyond the empty darkness of this

desolate ache?

2 3 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Did he miss her? Were his tears as many, was his pain as searing? “I miss you!”

she shouted again to the wind. “Miss you so much, but I am so, so very angry

with you!” She let her head drop back, her breath clamped tight in her chest,

tears wet on her face. “So angry you went, that you’ll not be coming back to

me. So angry you loved me, angry because I ought to hate you for hurting me

like this!” She lifted her arms, her fists clenched. “Why did you go?” she cried.

“Why? Tell me, why?” Her fingers went to her hair, combing through its loose

thickness. “How could you do this to me, Arthur?”

Nothing, only the sigh of the wind as it toyed with her hair, the geese in

the distance. No snarl of thunder, no great burst of light. No roar, no cry, no

sound. There was nothing, no feeling of him nearby, no memory of his voice.

He was not here, not with her. Gwenhwyfar was quite, quite alone. She let her

arms drop, head and shoulders sag.

Watching, the pain tore at Bedwyr’s heart as if a sword were twisting there.

She might bed with him, marry him, but he would never possess Gwenhwyfar.

Not until Arthur’s spirit was laid. And how did you fight a ghost?

Uncertain whether to leave her to herself or go to her with some offer of

comfort, Bedwyr walked slowly, hesitant, across the wide expanse of sheep-

nibbled grass. His toe caught against something, the light nudging its rain-wet

shine into a sparked gleam. He bent, picked up the object. It had once been

bronze, gleaming, worn proudly.

Gwenhwyfar had turned, seen him, was wiping at her falling tears, attempting

a smile.

“Is all well?” he called, almost carelessly, as if nothing of serious importance

had occurred.

She nodded, sniffed loudly, a smile winning through. “Aye,” she said lifting

her chin. And suddenly, she realised she was, almost. “Aye,” a slight laugh. “I

think I am. What’s that?” She came down the bank, her impulsion and the

steepness making her run, girlish, lovely. She took the thing from Bedwyr’s

outstretched hand—a buckle, a bronze baldric buckle, green and old, a few

moss-bound garnets still decorated its hinge. She studied it a moment, solemnly

handed it back.

While Bedwyr examined it, she looked across to where she had stood up to the

rain-washed, fresh-cleaned sky, then across to the ruined temple where not long

ago she had willingly given herself to the touch of a man who was not Arthur.

“Everything has a start and a finish,” she said with a soft, resigned sigh, “but

there is always something lurking unexpected to remind us of how it once

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 3 9

was.” She placed her hand on Bedwyr’s arm. “I am searching for the thing that

will help me forget, that is all.”

Her smile deepened as she stood on toe-tip to kiss his cheek. “I am well. He

has gone; I must accept it. I must look to the future not the past, for it is a path

of sad darkness. I must try to face into the sun again.” She patted his shoulder, a

light, loving touch, walked away, heading for the gateway and the descent.

“Do I let it be known you are to be mine?” Bedwyr called to her departing back.

She kept walking, her heart churning, breath thrashing. She needed to take

a husband, if only to protect herself against those who wanted her as wife. But

did she want to love again? Could she face being so hurt again? Her voice, for

all her jangling thoughts, came calm. “After Samhain,” she said. “After the

night of the dead, then aye, you can let it be known. Give me until then.”

Your last chance, Arthur
, she thought.
Your last chance to come back to me.

Bedwyr watched her walk down the steep track before following, glanced

over his shoulder at the temple. She might agree to be his, or somebody’s

wife, but inside, she would always be Arthur’s. He knew that, for as he had

loved with her it was another name she had murmured on the shadow of

her breath.

Arthur.

Twenty-Seven

Arthur!”

He heard his name called, half-checked, his head lifting fractionally,

fingers pausing, then bent back to his work. The figure he was carving was of a

woman. He would tell Morgaine it was of the Goddess. The wood was birch,

smooth to the touch, pale, silvery, feminine. It was half-finished. The gown he

had managed, the folds appearing easily beneath the blade of his knife, the feet

and hands, perhaps, could have been a little more delicate. The face he would

leave until last. Today he was shaping the head, working patiently, carving each

separate curl down the long mass of loose hair. Later, he would find something

he could use to darken it a little, make it redder. Morgaine would know it was

an image of Gwenhwyfar, but she would not make comment, would take it,

delightfully thank him, make much of setting it in place of honour on their

dwelling-place shrine. She was always polite, accepting, smilingly quiet even

when he shouted at her.

She called again, her voice coming nearer. Arthur shifted uncomfortably;

he was quite well hidden here beneath the trees unless she came up the path

alongside the river. She did.

“There you are!” She beamed, fastidiously skipping across a scatter of rocks

that served well as stepping stones, her hem held high above her knees to

avoid the spray. The river ran fast here, making ready to descend in a series of

waterfalls a little lower down. “Did you not hear me call?”

Arthur had not looked up. She cast herself down beside him in a flurry of

bright-coloured swirled skirt and jangling bracelets. Still he did not look at her.

“Is it not a glorious day?” She sighed, lay back, stretching out, sharing the shade

of his tree. Arthur, his back against the trunk, grunted a non-committed answer.

“Look at those clouds,” she persisted cheerfully, tucking her hands behind

her head. “The gods riding their white chariots across the sky. I wonder what

they think of us?”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 4 1

“What a useless pile of dung we are, I expect.” He meant to be sarcastic but

she giggled, thinking the comment amusing.

“I have left Medraut playing with his friends,” she said. “They are planning

a running contest. I told him he has no chance of winning.”

Arthur only grunted again, concentrated on his carving.

“What’s that?” she asked, mildly curious.

“Nothing to concern you.”

“You have a gift for carving. That bowl you made me was lovely.”

“Anyone with an ounce of sense in his brain can turn a lump of wood into

something worthwhile.”

“Well, I cannot.”

He made no answer.

Morgaine toyed with the curled shavings, heaping them, fingering their

soft silkiness, wondered whether to collect them up for Medraut to play with