Shadow of the King (49 page)

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those circles back home, touching each standing stone with a warm caress of

greeting, brought the overwhelming inner feeling of calm.

But these Stones Gwenhwyfar could not touch. She felt no fear or dread;

there was no leering shadow of evil or malicious intent, she just could not reach

out, touch the surface of the nearest Stone. She walked forward a pace, imag-

ined that the Stones were parting before her, making a path, stepping aside, not

wanting to be a part of this, her time, her existence. It all seemed very polite,

so tolerant and indifferent, as if those spirits that lay here, remembered only by

the marking of these Stones had dutifully accepted her presence, offered her

polite courtesy, yet would be relieved were she to go. She was not wanted, but

would not be turned away. They were waiting, she was certain, for someone,

or something, to come, were prepared to wait until the other end of existence.

Until the very ending of time.

As Arthur was waiting. She knew that, she could feel it, so strong was it here

amongst the Stones. Waiting…for what? For her? To be freed? To decide? Ah,

that she could not yet know.

Impulsive, she curtseyed low and deep to one Stone that seemed larger than

some of those others nearby. A trick of light, the fading glow of sunset, the

coming of dark…Did it seem the Stone answered her with a slight, shifting

movement? She turned. The hermit was waiting at the edge of the trees, not

stepping out from their night-darkening protection. He, a Christian man,

would not come into the domain of the pagan.

“The Ladies,” he said, in a voice as clear and fresh as spring water, “are

beyond these lines of Stones. Follow their march, on the morrow.” He lifted

his head a little higher, his blue eyes glittering a Christian challenge. “If you are

not afeared.”

Gwenhwyfar walked back to him, her smile indulgent. “The Stones do not

mind those who come to do them no harm.”

He snorted light contempt, indicating they were to return along the same

path. “May I ask why you seek the heathen, when it is the words of Christ

that ought be in your heart?” he said, after they had walked in silence for some

many yards.

Again, Gwenhwyfar was behind him, having to trot occasionally to keep

pace with his long stride. “It is only the heathen who can answer the questions

I must ask,” she replied.

He walked on, head high, his staff stabbing into the ground with every pace,

saying no other word until they neared the camp. She could smell the smoke

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of her men’s hearth-fire, hear the faint murmur of their voices. Ider would be

waiting, anxious, at the edge of the trees, not settling until she returned.

“You have the look of a woman who has lost something that must be found,”

the hermit announced. “I will pray that Jesu may help you find it.”

They stepped out into the clearing, a shallow river ran down to where the

hard earth slipped into sand, and the sand into the sea. Ider, as she expected,

grunted, nodded at her, turned to join his men. The hermit went direct to his

bothy, slipped inside.

At dawn, Gwenhwyfar made her way, with only Ider for company, along

that same twisting path and out among the mist-wreathed columns of Stones.

She walked the few miles with her heart light, her steps making no sound

on the dew-wet grass. Where the Stones ended, she found the place where

the Ladies dwelled. They were of the Goddess, but were not the Ladies she

sought. There had once, and not so long ago, been many such scattered groups

throughout all of Less Britain and Gaul, but their following was dwindling

now, here as in Britain, with the young girls going to serve Mary the Mother of

God, rather than the Goddess, Mother of Earth. None of the five knew of one

called Morgaine who had a boy-child named Medraut, but then Gwenhwyfar

had not expected them to. For a journey to end it must have a beginning, and

no journey could end too soon after its starting.

By mid-morning she and her men were again on their way. At least now,

from the telling of the Ladies by the Place of Stones, they had some vague idea

of where they need ride, where they need look.

Forty-Three

July 472

Bedwyr, riding through the gateway into the outer settlement

of Ambrosius’s stronghold, was surprised, and not pleasantly. The place

was busy, full with people occupied with the various needs of daily routine,

but they were civilians, a good portion of the men clad in the garments of

Christianity. Where were the soldiers, armed men, trained professionals? He

halted his horse by a trough, let it extend his head to drink. July had been hot

and humid, a long, uncomfortable month of sticky, itching skin and irritable,

flaring tempers. In a few months time, when the bite of winter was nipping

sharp at fingers and feet, they would look back and long for this heat, as a fall

of snow would be most welcome now! Christ God, this was supposed to be a

fortress! A bell began to toll, striking one, solemn note. Bedwyr’s eyes followed

a group of monks as they made their way through a stone archway into a shaded

courtyard from where the summons came. A gaggle of five young boys ran

from a narrow side-street, dodged around his horse, and scampered after the

monks, one pausing to grin a quick apology.

Bedwyr dismounted, led his horse after them, but stopped this side of what

was an obvious boundary. Through the arch, in contrast to the business of

the streets, order, neatness and an air of calm solitude. The monks, and the

boys—more of them now, at least four and twenty—were entering a low,

single-storey chapel, stone-built in the traditional equal cruciform shape. So

Ambrosius had his abbey built, and his school for boys. His fists clenched,

Bedwyr turned away, clicked his tongue for the horse to walk on, and headed

for the lane that ascended steeply upward to where another gate stood open.

The fortress proper. Well, he hoped Ambrosius knew what he was doing, that

those simple-clad, sandalled monks knew how to wield a staff and club as easily

as they did gospel and crucifix. He shook his head as he began the climb up

the cobbled track. If not, that fine, recent-built place would soon enough be

blackened and lying as a smoking ruin.

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He had to wait for the most part of an hour. He was offered wine, fresh baked

bread, sheep and goat’s cheese. He drank the wine, nibbled the cheese, paced

the floor, barely noticing its splendid mosaic pattern depicting the ascension

of Christ. There were soldiers up here within the fort, guards at the perimeter

wall. A half-century, about forty men, drilling on the parade-ground before the

principia building. Others loitered around the barrack blocks, some grumbling

between themselves, as soldiers always did, at the unfairness of the fatigues rota.

A few men looked up as Bedwyr passed by, saluted a superior officer, but with

reluctance, no snap of enthusiasm or interest. Someone had come to take his

horse and he was escorted here, into the ante-chamber of this Roman-style

house-place. And asked to wait.

“My business is important,” Bedwyr had said, twice now, received in response

the same answer: please wait, lord Ambrosius will not be long.

More wine, more cheese. A door opened and closed somewhere among the

rooms behind this one. Footsteps, but no one came. Another quarter of one

hour. Another door, more steps, and Ambrosius entered, his hand extended in

greeting. “You ought have joined me at Mass, Bedwyr,” he chided. “We have

a new-appointed abbot, his words are most uplifting.”

The thought that there were more important matters needing attention beyond

the listening to a new abbot’s monotonous liturgy crossed Bedwyr’s mind, but

he held his tongue, answered with a polite mumble. “Another time?”

“Indeed! Please, sit. May I offer wine, something to eat?”

“Thank you. No.” Bedwyr remained standing, ignoring the offer of a couch.

Pointedly, he looked at the two servants who had entered with their master. Ambrosius

dismissed them. From his waist pouch Bedwyr brought out a smal , bronze Saxon

brooch, handed it to Ambrosius who took it, frowned, passed it back.

“They have reached your part of the woods, then?” Ambrosius seated

himself on a couch, patted a cushion into place behind his back, his good

humour evaporating.

Bedwyr put away the saucer-shaped brooch that carried the mask of a human

face, fastened the leather thongs of the pouch. “It is in my mind they have been

worn for some months, hidden beneath folds of a cloak or kept safe within a

pouch.” He patted his own. “That they are now beginning to be worn openly

is, I think, significant.”

“Yet there is no whisper on the wind of a hosting. No mumbling of a

meeting point.”

Pursing his lips, Bedwyr agreed, but added, “There are war spears, I have

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seen them, though I was told they were for hunting.” He lifted one hand,

fingers curled as if cradling a sword pommel. “There is a sharp edge being put

to the sword and axe. Nothing tangible, nothing obvious, more a pricking at

the nape of the neck.” He let his hand fall; he wanted to shout, to get angry, to

say all the things that were in his head and heart to the man before him. To tell

him of this inadequacy and inefficiency. To say that Britain desperately needed

Arthur back…but he was sworn to secrecy, could not betray his king, nor

Gwenhwyfar. Could not betray the confidence of men such as Geraint, Cadwy,

the trust of Lady Ragnall. “The Saxons are about to rise,” he said, pushing

thoughts of Arthur from his mind. It might all be wrong, Arthur might be

dead. “And you are not making ready.” It came out, not as an admonishment

or judgement but with a hurt cry of saddened pain.

“Aelle will not call for a hosting this year.” Ambrosius placed his palms,

fingers spread, on his knees, spoke with a conviction of certainty. “But if he

does, I shall be ready.”

Scornful, Bedwyr challenged the assurance. “Ready? How? Do you plan

to pray for a victory?” He swung away from Ambrosius, faced the wall, leant

one hand upon its smooth, dark-red, painted plaster. “When Aelle comes,” he

turned around, managed to keep the anger from his voice, “he will be coming

with an army at his back!”

“And if he does not come?”

It was not an answer Bedwyr had expected. He stood, mouth open, the

words he had intended to say trapped as irrelevant. He frowned. “Of course he

will come.” He heard the question in his voice. Did Ambrosius know, then,

something he did not? He had to, for he was sitting too calm, too self-assured.

“His eldest son will not be able to fight. Aelle will not act without Cymen.”

Bedwyr gasped, his face coming alight with a glimmer of hope; happen God

had not deserted them after all! “Is he ill? Mortally so?”

Ambrosius shook his head. “Not ill. Few die from a break to the leg, but he

will not be from his bed until the leaves change, too late for battle by then. The

Saex will not fight during winter.”

The answering comment was a curse, one of Arthur’s favourite colourfully

embellished oaths. The anger was rising again. “Are you so certain they will

not? Or next spring, what of then? Do we still sit here, on our backsides,

running our thumbs along our blades, waiting?”

Refusing to rise to the bait, Ambrosius leant deeper into the comfort of his

couch. His back was aching, his shoulders stiff. He had lain awkward during

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the night, would take a hot bath, have his slave massage the tense muscles. “I

have placed my resources where I think them to be effective, Bedwyr. If Aelle

cannot form a hosting, there will be no battle. When the time comes, you will

have your orders. I expect you, and others who hold like command, to contain

the Saex in their own territories. Your East Saxons will not meet with Aelle of

the South.” Ambrosius pushed his cushion a little higher up his spine, confident

in his judgement.

The anger was seething, bubbling below the surface. “Are you mad?

Contain the Saex? Is that what you want us to do?” Incredulous, Bedwyr

stood before Ambrosius, too stunned by the utter stupidity to release that

checked anger. “My few men against God alone knows how many? We’ll be

slaughtered—if we ever even manage to fight our way out of our fortress.”

He strode across the few paces between them, thrust his face close into

Ambrosius’s. “Aelle understands the rule. You obviously do not. United we

win. Detached, we die.”

“No, Bedwyr, I say again, the Saex will not fight. You and your men will

ensure they have no heart to fight with. No men, no weapons to fight with.

You misunderstand me, Bedwyr.” Ambrosius stood, folded his arms, threading