Shadow of the King (47 page)

any knowing of Arthur being alive they would already have informed us.” He

spoke hurriedly, talking fast all on the one, excited breath.

“Husband!” Ragnall’s admonishment pulled him short, his leg halfway into

his bracae. “Has it occurred to you this might be the reason for the Pendragon

not returning?”

Cadwy stared at her, her face deep-shadowed in the low light. He did not see

the disfigurement there any more, not even in the full light of day or bright-lit

lamps. No need to see the outer shell when the inner core was enough to

give contentment and love. “You mean he may have elected to live with his

whore?” He shrugged. “Even if that be so, Gwenhwyfar ought know of it.” He

continued dressing. Ragnall sighed.

“You have just returned from Durnovaria. Need you leave again so immediate?

’Tis the middle of the night.” Coquettishly added, “And it is raining out there.”

Hesitating, Cadwy dutifully repeated he must leave straight away. The pitter-

pattering of the rain was loud, rattling heavier on the roof. His bed beckoned,

tempting. Ragnall moved, the dim light shape-shifting over her unscarred

naked shoulder, giving a glimpse of her breast. “Damn it!” he cursed, removing

the one boot, his bracae and tunic. “I’ll ride at first light.”

Content, Ragnall pressed against him as he wormed beneath the furs.

Tomorrow, she had every intention of riding south with him. Except, as the

sun warmed the morning, rain-leaden sky into a more promising shade of mist-

wreathed grey, two riders and their clattering retinue of attendants reined in

before the doors of Cadwy’s modest Hall.

Ambrosius Aurelianus and Amlawdd. Both rain-damp, chilled, and with a

dull aura of bad tidings swirling about their glum, slumped shoulders.

Thirty-Nine

Ambrosius assumed his son’s agitation was due to this unexpected

arrival. He seated himself wearily, suppressing the insistent nag of a

headache that had been with him since yesterday. God’s truth! What hope was

there for the two of them to form a relationship if every visit resulted in flustered

embarrassment? And what hope had Cadwy of commanding this stronghold in

an emergency? If the arrival of his own father set him into such a twittering, red-

faced whirl, what would a horde of spear-waving Saxons beyond his ramparts do?

In contrast, Amlawdd sprawled, legs spread, before the hearth-fire. His

was the ease of arrogance. Not for him the detecting of subtle nuances or the

noticing of the uneasy glances exchanged between husband and wife.

Both men accepted warmed wine from Ragnall and the offer of food,

Amlawdd saying nothing, merely taking and drinking; Ambrosius polite and

asking after the health of his grandchildren. Ragnall’s face lit immediately with

the animated radiance peculiar to a mother’s pride.

“Your granddaughter is a content, lay-abed babe. She wakes and gurgles for

her feed then snuggles again into her cradle like a hedge-pig seeking his winter

sleep. Your grandson, mind,” her smile was wide with pride, “has more energy

than a colt turned out onto his first spring grass!”

“I have a small gift for him in my saddlebag,” Ambrosius admitted, his face

tinged with red for fear he would be construed as spoiling the boy. “Nothing

of consequence, a carved animal for his collection.”

Ragnall was delighted. “I will send for his nurse to bring him when you

have eaten.”

“The last time I saw the boy, he was overexcited and exceedingly rude to

me. He needs discipline, not child’s toys.” Amlawdd spoke gruffly. He had

found the indifference he felt for his daughter continued with her children;

Amlawdd’s priority was for himself, his own needs and ambition. There was

not enough room in his head or heart for the details of others.

2 8 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Seeing his wife’s lips compress, her eyes narrow, Cadwy intervened by

cordially asking how long his father intended to stay, was relieved to hear the

answer of only an hour or so, to take refreshment, change horses.

“Amlawdd and I need ride on.” Ambrosius sounded tired but there was

anger behind his weary voice also. “We seek Bedwyr, who is, as I understand,

again at Durnovaria.”

Ragnall could not stem the gasp escaping her mouth. Ambrosius did not miss

it, but said nothing.

Her father was not so tactful. “What ails you girl? What is that woman-

stealing bastard to you?”

Frantically searching for some unobtrusive answer, Ragnall appealed with her

eyes to her husband for help. Cadwy had seated himself with his guests. He realised

his father guessed there was something amiss here at Caer Badon, for Ambrosius,

for al his annoyances, was astute and observant. He must have seen the baggage

ready for loading on the ponies, would undoubtedly discover the intended desti-

nation. He could think of no rapid lie, decided on the truth. Or near enough to

suffice. Calmly he took a sip of the warmed, red wine, said, “By coincidence, I

returned but yesterday from Geraint’s Hal .” At his father’s questioning frown, he

tossed an indulgent smile at his wife. “My Lady Enid admonished me stoutly for

not taking my wife and new daughter. For the sake of peace I decided to return,

fetch them. We were preparing to depart as you arrived.”

Amlawdd scoffed, announced disparagingly. “Women are timewasters.

A double ride—and of such distance—merely to show off a puking brat?

Wanton foolishness!”

Cadwy spread his arms, lifted his eyebrows, helpless, to the roof. “I agree,

but even you must acknowledge there is no arguing with a lady who has set her

mind.” To his surprise, his father chuckled.

“If you would indulge a father’s whim and delay an hour, we could ride

together. It will make a merrier party having the children with us.” Ambrosius

asked this of Ragnall, who generously agreed. What else could she do?

“Caninus thinks much of you, his paternal grandsire. He will enjoy

your company.”

“Fah! What nonsense is this, Ambrosius?” Amlawdd swung irritably to his

feet. “We go to arrest Bedwyr on suspicion of treason—and you advocate

taking a woman and babes with us?” He stalked around the hearth-place, stood,

fists bunched on his hips before his Supreme Lord, angry. “God’s justice man,

is your head going as soft as your belly?”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 8 5

Ragnall gasped, her hand going to her mouth at her father’s gross indiscre-

tion. Cadwy leapt to his feet, his hand touching his dagger hilt. “How dare

you!” he hissed. “How dare you insult my father at my hearth?”

With a snarl, Amlawdd had his dagger out, instant, into his hand.

Careless, almost offhand, Ambrosius waved the hostility down, ordered both

men to sit, put up their weapons. “Leave it be, Cadwy, Amlawdd meant not

his words in the way you heard.” To Amlawdd, said, “We do not go to arrest

Bedwyr, merely to ascertain why, yet again, he is not at the fortress I gave him

to command.”

Amlawdd grunted, sat, reached for more wine. “We know why. He either

goes to bed the lady who ought be my wife, or plots to raise a rebellion against

us.” Added with a growl, “Or both.”

Cadwy openly laughed, earning himself a dark, thundercloud look. “I assure

you, unless there should come another, greater leader, Bedwyr remains loyal.”

Cadwy spread his hands, emphasising the absurdity of Amlawdd’s claim. “He

does, I admit, often ride south to see the Lady Gwenhwyfar.” He cast a chal-

lenging glance at Amlawdd. “She did, after all, openly refuse you, is betrothed

to him.”

Amlawdd spat into the fire.

“Aye,” Ambrosius said, bringing his cloak tighter around his body. He was

cold, close to shivering, and his stomach was paining him again. “Bedwyr rides

to see the lady. But I have heard a whisper on the wind that is, as yet, a rustling

on a light summer breeze.”

Puzzled, Cadwy swivelled slightly on his stool to look the keener at his

father’s tired, drawn face. Ambrosius nodded, just the once. Saw in his son’s

eye that Cadwy had heard similar whisper. “It seems the Artoriani might not,

as we thought, be ended.”

Forty

For a long, heart-thumping moment, Cadwy stared at his father, at his

calm, almost indifferent expression and, although he was tired, his almost

careless poise. How could he have heard of Arthur being alive? Had rumour

spread further than the Saxon Eadric had thought? Careful, Cadwy said, “You

take this news with some amount of ease.”

Ambrosius shrugged. “I have always suspected, been prepared. For all that

some might have it, I am no fool. Son, I am aware not all those in authority

are eager to be my followers. Arthur had as many friends as he had enemies.”

He lifted his shoulder a second time, a resignation to the acceptance of the

inevitable. “It takes only one spark to set dry kindling crackling.” He gestured

his hand at Cadwy. “You have obviously heard these wild whisperings also.”

Amlawdd was not as calm as his Supreme Commander. Came rapidly to

stand before Cadwy, his hand tight-clasped on his sword pommel. “Aye,

your son has heard! Is he to support the bitch who so cleverly gave him this

stronghold?” Spittle dripped from Amlawdd’s mouth, so vehement was his

accusation. He left no chance for Cadwy to respond, to defend himself from

this verbal attack. “Why do you ride again to Durnovaria—do you take your

wife to safe quarter? Hah!” He stepped even nearer, his breath smelling of

stale wine and bad teeth. “Are you not in the thicket of it all, Cadwy? You

plan to join in this thing and oust your own father!” His voice was rising,

nostrils flaring. Amlawdd was a large-built man, bull-headed, bull-minded.

Although shaken, even alarmed, Cadwy controlled his fear against this threat-

ened intimidation, remained sitting, forced his own hand to stay away from

his dagger hilt.

This was false accusation—although he was not entirely certain of what he

was being accused. Tactfully, he responded on one issue. “I have been charged

to defend Badon against attack. That is my duty; my honour will ensure that

duty is complied with. I will fight against any who attack here. If you were to

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 8 7

take hostile action, Father,” he glanced away from Amlawdd’s sneering expres-

sion to Ambrosius, “then, aye, I would fight you.”

Ambrosius, waving Amlawdd to stand down, choked back a raw grimace.

Even as little as one year past he would have bellowed outright laughter at the

suggestion of his son fighting. Now he was not so sure. Cadwy had changed

since taking Ragnall as wife. No, that was not accurate. Cadwy had changed

since being closer in friendship to Gwenhwyfar. And was Gwenhwyfar plot-

ting against Britain’s Supreme Governor? The evidence—however shallow—

seemed to suggest so. “I have no intention of marching against Badon. The

Saex, though, may do otherwise now they are united. And who knows where

Bedwyr may decide to lead his comrades.”

Cadwy frowned. Now he had entirely lost the drift of conversation. “Excuse

me,” he questioned, eyebrows deepening, his fingers rubbing at his temple,

confused. “The Saex? Bedwyr? I do not understand.”

Impatient, seating himself straddle-legged across a stool Amlawdd snapped.

“You said you have heard the rumour! Well, that rumour has come to be

true knowledge.”

Cadwy caught his breath, as did Ragnall, who came to stand behind her

husband, her hands resting taught, on his shoulders.

“Aelle of the South Saxons is elected Bretwalda. Supreme over the united

Saxons.” For so great and threatening a thing, Ambrosius Aurelianus spoke mild,

as if he were issuing a statement of the weather prospect for the afternoon.

Puffing his cheeks, raising his eyebrows, Cadwy placed one hand over

Ragnall’s. Thank all the gods that might be listening! It was not of Arthur

they spoke!

“I have heard such rumour,” he said. Refrained from adding it was not

long since he had warned his father this might happen, that the Saex had had

enough, were on the brink of rising. To avoid an unnecessary clash of bitter

words, he kept his eyes from Amlawdd, whose harsh methods had been one of

the direct causes.

Sneering, aware Cadwy refused to catch his eye, Amlawdd assumed it to be

for a different reason. He leant forward, elbow on knee. “And have you also

heard of Bedwyr’s treason?”

“Bedwyr?” Cadwy stilled his fingers from rubbing against Ragnall’s hand.

“Do you also collaborate with that bitch-woman and Geraint? Do you plan,

with them, to reunite the Artoriani to ride against us?” The venom was deadly,

the glare in Amlawdd’s stare and poison on his tongue black with hatred.

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

Ambrosius cocked one eyebrow. He would prefer Amlawdd to direct his

accusations with more tact. Too often he assumed above his authority; acted,

spoke, as if he were on some equal level with Ambrosius. Ah well, that is what