Shadow of the King (44 page)

letters to read, to write. Judgements to be made, petitions to scrutinise. Three

senior officers needed appointing and one of the recent-built fortresses had

burnt down—an accident, with the fire started in the blacksmith’s bothy, so

he understood. Did he rebuild or abandon? Then Amlawdd sent at least five

letters a month demanding the rebuttal of marriage by Gwenhwyfar be settled

in court. Ambrosius had glanced through the latest, sent just before Cadwy had

entered, had tossed it aside. When was the fool man going to understand he

had been rejected and there was nothing illegal about Gwenhwyfar’s decision?

He ought to send word that Amlawdd was to sort which of them had the lady

with Bedwyr privately, in whatever fashion he thought fit. That one of them

would probably end up dead was suddenly of no consequence. God’s truth, was

he surrounded by fools? Abed? The good Christ, when would he have chance

to linger abed!

Gruff, Ambrosius asked, “What is it you want?”

A drink!
Cadwy thought.
Something very strong and very fortifying
. Said, “I have

come because I have grave concerns.”

“Personal or public?”

“Public. I would not bring personal matters to you!” Damn the man, did he

think it was easy sitting here, having to be polite, having to breathe shallow to

staunch the threatening rise of nausea? Gods, his father stank! A combination of

sitting so long in this warm fug, the cling of administered drugs, and the putrid

aroma of illness. “I come about Amlawdd.”

Ambrosius’s eyes narrowed, as he successfully concealed a groan. What had the

imbecile done now? It had seemed a good idea at the time, to promote the man

as a personal friend, given his wealth and number of men. “What about him?”

Why did he feel this insecurity, this nervousness? Again and again, Cadwy repeated

to himself,
I am a man grown, I have a wife, a child
. He ought to not fear this man

sitting hunched, so obviously il . Ought not. So why in al hel ’s name did the sweat

trickle down his back? Why were his palms sticky, his voice in need of constant

clearing? Love of God! Could a son never shake off a father’s disapproval?

Leaning forward, palms flat on his thighs, Cadwy lunged into his reason

for coming. He doubted Ambrosius would listen, but he had to try. Ragnall

had asked it of him, and for her he would do anything. Even face his father

in his lair.

“Amlawdd collects the taxes from those within his jurisdiction.”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 6 5

Ambrosius shrugged. Someone had to do it, and Amlawdd was good

at the evil job, being too thick of heart to bend before bleating sorrows

and hard-luck cases. Few refused Amlawdd’s blank-eyed stubbornness and

determination, Ambrosius chuckled to himself, save of course for the Lady

Gwenhwyfar! This brought on a coughing fit; a slave rushed forward with a

draught of water, held it to his master’s lips. Cadwy had to wait for his father

to collect his breath again.

“He is causing misery and destitution.”

“An unfortunate necessity. His is the overlord of his land. It is his right.”

“No! ’Tis not a necessity, not at this time of year!” Cadwy smacked his

fist onto his knee, angry. “The last winter was harsh for so many. Nor was

the harvest as good as expected; people are near to starving, Father. Amlawdd

has not the slightest feeling of concern or justice. He rides in, takes what is

demanded, and leaves.”

Ambrosius was rubbing his hands; he was so cold, so damned cold.

Was he listening? “Father, the poorer people are desperate. Amlawdd takes

what little they have left—even their children if they cannot pay! Twice now

have I heard he takes the children to sell into slavery!”

Ambrosius merely shrugged. “Then they ought to have set aside the legal

requirement. Any free-born British man has the right to attend the Justice

Courts to contest his taxable dues.”

Cadwy shot to his feet, hammered the air with his fist. “British -born, but

not Saex! You have taken away what few legal rights they had. You are beating

them into submission by pushing them into the ranks of the poor and slaves!”

Coming to his feet also, matching his son’s anger, Ambrosius bellowed, “The

Saex? If they do not like the way things are, then they can pack their possessions

and go back to where they were born!”

“Most along the South Ridge were born there!” Cadwy retaliated, his nerve

rising with the anger. “My stronghold oversees many a Saex farmsteading. Most

of them are second or third generation-born settlers! The farmland around my

holding is all they have ever known!”

Turning away, clutching his cloak tighter around his shoulders, Ambrosius

mumbled a callous remark. Cadwy heard. He stumbled forward, forgetting the

need for his crutch in his great rise of rage.

“Gwenhwyfar granted me Lord Pendragon’s stronghold at Badon because

she trusted my judgement! I am no Saex-lover. Call me that if you are so

wrongly bigoted, but I regard myself as a just and fair lord. Condoning the

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

burning and destruction of innocent people’s steadings because they happen to

be of Saex descent is not just! Arthur would never have done it!”

“Arthur? Arthur had no initiative when it came to raising taxes, that is why

his economy was always so poorly managed! He taxed the wealthy to provide

for their protection. Well, I say be rid of the reason for the protection!”

“So you will not admonish Amlawdd for his excessive zeal?”

“Not where the Saex are concerned. No.”

Retrieving his crutch and placing it beneath his arm, Cadwy made his way to

the door. “There is unrest coming, Sir, even in my own land where I give care

for my tenants.” He looked direct at the man before him, at the sunken face,

the thin body. “The Saex will not go back to their boats, Father. They cannot,

for there is nowhere for them to go. Arthur made peace with them because he

knew we could never fight all of them, not if they united their strength.” He

turned, had the door open. “I trust you will not be giving them a reason to join

hands on the same spear.”

Thirty-Five

Eadric lay quietly on his straw pallet that was placed in the

corner shadows, watching the hearth-smoke curl up to the roof-hole, and

the family cluster around their father, helping to remove his cloak and boots,

offering him ale and hot broth. The three boys were particularly noisy, asking

questions, dancing around, getting under foot, excited by their father’s return.

Gundrada brought the broth, placed the bowl in her father’s hands; it would

warm them more thoroughly than anything else. Shyly, she smiled at Eadric

as she noticed him watching her, silently poured a second bowl, brought it to

him. He laughed to himself as he thanked her, saw her face redden. She was a

shy little thing, as timid as a young doe. As pretty.

The boys were demanding to know all of their father’s visit. Gundrada wished

to know also, but knew better than to ask. He would tell them in his own time,

when he was warm and settled.

The eldest of the three lads persisted, “Did you speak with Aelle of the

South Saxons?”

His father laughed, ruffled the boy’s thick crop of fair hair. “That I did

not.” The disappointment this announcement brought was as heavy as an iron

pot. “I did see him though, and hear him!” The excitement increased, rose

in volume. Gundrada’s mother had to speak sharply to her brood, sent them

scuttling to bring in more wood for the fire and to bring the evening milk

from the goats. Cuthwin winked at Eadric, settled himself, legs stretched to its

heat, before the fire.

“And how are your hurts? Almost healed?”

Eadric nodded assent, said gallantly, “With your daughter’s fair hands doing

the healing, who could expect ought else?”

Cuthwin mopped the last of the broth with a chunk of bread, handed the

empty bowl to the girl who was again blushing. “A good girl, my daughter, she

will make some man a fine wife.”

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Making no answer, Eadric shuffled to make himself more comfortable, for

that he had already decided upon. Had he not found plenty of time to think

upon it, these past few weeks? He shuffled again, easing the ache of his broken

ankle, the throb of cracked ribs. They had done a thorough job, those soldiers

up at the fortress.

Other matters seemed to take precedence for a while; settling the stock

animals outside, penning the geese and chickens, feeding the sow and the cattle.

The preparing and serving of the evening meal—despite his broth, Cuthwin

ate like a starved horse—the lighting of the lamps, and Eadric’s bandages to be

tended. He had only the two now, covering the torn, inflamed area of his arm

and the ones binding the splint to his leg.

“So,” Cuthwin made a beginning when his boys were seated by his feet. His

wife was, as always were she not cooking or cleaning or scolding, at her loom.

Gundrada sat near Eadric, where she could watch him discreetly through her

lashes while she spun wool. “Aelle is intending to raise a great host. To unite

all the English under one banner against the British.”

Eadric released a low whistle. “That is some proud ambition!” he murmured.

“Will you go with him, Father? Will you fight the bastard Ambrosius?”

“Hush child!” the lad’s mother admonished sharply. “Such language is for

grown-up folk, not childer!”

Cuthwin folded his hands across the broadness of his belly, regarded the curl

of hearth-smoke wreathing upward. He had thought much of this question on

his walk home from this called Council. This was to be a thing for every free-

born man to decide for himself, whether to accept Aelle as Bretwalda, overlord;

whether to fight when the call came, or not.

Cuthwin stretched. It had been a long walk. The menfolk had not all dared

take the easy route downriver by boat—like as not the British commander had

already guessed some matter was in hand, best not to draw obvious attention.

Cuthwin had drawn the short straw. Had been one of those to walk from the

meeting-place at Muchinga aside the Tamesis River. Plenty of time to think.

He was not an old man, but he had done his share of fighting. Four elder sons

lost in Vortigern’s wars, two daughters buried beside his first wife. Cuthwin had

welcomed the settled life of a farmer, his held land was his own, he owned the

best breeding sow this side of the Lea, lived comfortably, ate well. Did he want

to put an edge to his Saex sword again? Fit a new shaft to his war spear?

He shifted his gaze, watched his wife speed the shuttle through the warp

threads. This farmsteading was, by right of law, hers, for it had passed to her

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 6 9

from her father. A farm was no place for a woman with no menfolk; she had

accepted Cuthwin as a good man despite his being a Saxon. She was British, as

so many of the wives were. Ah no, he had done his share of the fighting.

Opening the leather pouch at his waist, Cuthwin withdrew a small brooch,

his sons crowding closer to see the better. “Nay, boys, this is not for you, you

are not yet old enough to tie the ribbons of war onto a spear. We must give

this to Eadric.”

Solemnly, the brooch was handed across. This was an item of importance, an

especial thing, no mere decoration. Eadric settled it into the palm of his hand.

Bronze, slightly shorter than the length of his thumb, the edges raised forming

a dish shape. In its centre, a mask. Human. Eyes, nose, mouth. Eadric flicked a

glance at the older man, questioning with his expression.

“It is from Aelle,” Cuthwin said, his voice lowered as if the walls might hear

and spread this secret word. “All who decide to fight with him must wear it

when the summons to battle comes.”

“And when might that be? I cannot yet stand on my own feet.”

Grunting, Cuthwin made a vague gesture with his hands. Who knew when

a lord king made his final decision? “It will not be for a while. We have not

enough swords, not enough spears. And the Masks of Aelle have yet to be

spread.” He jingled his waist pouch; he had several to give to those who wanted

them, as did other men of the valley. “It is my mind,” Cuthwin added, speaking

slowly, thinking as he talked, “that it would be good to have an elder son again,

a husband for my daughter.” Avoiding his wife’s eye, continued, “It is also in my

mind that we may need to fight the British again before too many more winters

pass.” He sighed. “Under the Pendragon, there was no fear of another war. It

was good to know crops planted would be crops harvested. This Ambrosius

Aurelianus, I think, does not cherish peace as much as his nephew did.”

“He is a Roman seeking the way things once were. Arthur was British, he

accepted what was.”

Cuthwin frowned across the dim-lit smoky room at his guest. If his lads had

not found him, Eadric would have perished that night from the cold or the