Shadow of the King (5 page)

through its entire history, had broken more promises than it had kept.

Seven

It took much courage, and a certain amount of bravado for Winifred

to enter her maternal uncle’s settlement—were it not necessary for her son’s

future, no enticement or threat would have brought her to within a day’s

ride of the place. Aesc was much like his father, the big and brash Hengest,

famed for his strength of muscle and mind, a bull of a man, set in his ways

and proud of his inheritance. Hengest had been a soldiering seeker of fortune.

The youngest brother of a vast brood, with little prospect of laying claim

to anything of value before the seizing of the great opportunity of Britain.

Vortigern, Winifred’s father, had been the key: a man as greedy and ambitious

as Hengest, and a man with an eye for a woman. Little encouragement had

been needed on Hengest’s part; he was a mercenary ready for the fight, and

had a daughter ready for marriage. Vortigern, the Supreme King, had willingly

accepted both offers, and Hengest waited quiet in the wings for the land and

gold he had been promised in exchange. Except, beyond a small, wind-swept,

surf-washed island, and an occasional bag of coin, neither had materialised. It

came as no surprise to Vortigern’s opponents that Hengest, tired of waiting

for the pledged reward, had decided to take what he wanted by force. Only

he had reckoned on Vortigern’s successors being as weak as that king. Had

reckoned without the Pendragon.

Aesc, perhaps, was reaping better reward than his father. The Pendragon was

no limp-minded king, to him went the strength of victories and the generosity

of grants that went with peace. Aesc was allowed the title
Rex
, though as a

subject-king beneath Arthur, with all the dignities accompanying such a title.

Aesc ruled as Arthur willed, conditioned upon annual homage and sufficient

tithe paid—and the continuation of peace.
Fight me and you lose
; Arthur’s words.

Words meant. Aesc held prime land in a prime position for the flourishing of

trade. To him, the longships called first on their voyages from across the sea;

to him fell the first pickings of wealth. Aesc was content with the treaty of

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

peace that he held with Arthur, for it allowed him the ability to collect what

he wanted most: wealth.

Winifred had never much liked her mother’s brother. She saw him as the

barbarian son of a Jute war lord, with the manners and stench to match a

rutting boar. The feelings were mutually exchanged. Aesc saw his niece as a

spoilt, arrogant woman who had turned her back on the tribal laws and beliefs

of her kindred. Both were content to use each other for personal benefit when

it suited a need.

As now. Winifred needed Aesc to persuade her son home. Rebellious, he

was steadfastly ignoring his mother. She had no one else to ask for help, Arthur

would prefer the boy dead, and Ambrosius Aurelianus had no place for him

among his plans to restore Britain into Rome’s fold.

She rode through the open gate into the settlement, expecting to see the

common graubenhauser buildings, dwellings of little more status than midden

huts in her opinion. Winifred was surprised to find a grandly built, timbered

Mead Hall, surrounded by a cluster of solid wattle-walled houses and barns.

The place thrived, bustling and busy; the people bright-clad with healthy skin.

Wealth and prosperity oozed from beneath every reed-thatched roof, abounded

in the surrounding hidage of fields, orchards, and grazing land. Her uncle was

doing all right for himself it seemed!

Aesc came open-armed to greet her, his smile and boom of accompanying

laughter full of welcome. He lifted his niece from her mare, embraced her as

valued kindred, Winifred responding with a smile that successfully masked her

inner feelings of contempt.

From the Hall also, accompanied by her attendants and brood of sons, stepped

Aesc’s woman. Anhild, fifth-born daughter to Childeric of the Franks. Her

dress and jewels were lavish, her manner superior—she was a king’s daughter

and a king’s wife. Her dowry had brought the basis of her husband’s present

wealth and the accompanying extensive exchange of trade with northern Gaul.

She greeted Winifred coolly, aware her guest was a divorced wife and daughter

to a deposed, disgraced king, conveniently forgetting that her own father had

been in the same position for a while. But then, Childeric held more friends

than had Vortigern, and his exiled dethronement had been a temporary setback

only. He was allied now with Syagrius of Soissons. While it suited him.

Childeric could change his allegiances as often as the wind swung around.

The two women embraced, their cheeks touching in token of friendship;

both felt the cold of the other, both broke apart with barely disguised dislike.

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

“The Pendragon is making much of a nuisance of himself in Gaul, so I hear,”

remarked Anhild. “My father reports that the Gaulish landowners complain

more of his Artoriani’s looting and whoring than they do against the Franks,

Goths, and Saxons combined.”

Winifred retained her pleasant smile—loathsome woman, as fat as a toad

and as ugly. “The Pendragon is of no concern to me, Anhild, only his title and

kingdom. The sooner he loses both, the better. It is his son who occupies my

thoughts. It is for Cerdic I have come to seek my uncle’s aid.”

“Ah yes,” Anhild replied, her Frankish accent distorting some of the Jute

words, “your independent son.” Her condescending smile broadened as she

motioned three of her boys forward, smaller images of herself, though they

bore the red hair of their father. “My childer would never run away from their

mother. We are too devoted to each other.”

Your childer
, Winifred thought,
would never have enough brain to find their way out

of this settlement without someone holding their fat fleshed hands.

Aesc invited Winifred inside his Mead Hall, called for wine and food, served

his kinswoman himself. Congenial, outwardly friendly and welcoming. All

smiles and laughter, an eagerness to please. It was a waste of time, this coming

here, Winifred knew it the moment Aesc had lifted her from her mare. Her

Jute kin would not give aid in attempting to persuade—or force—Cerdic

back to Winifred’s Castra. It had only been a vague hope that they would, a

last resort.

She sipped her wine, ate the food, though the drink tasted bitter and the meal

stuck in her throat. Aesc would not help. Her uncle was over-fat and over-full

of his own laziness. He had his kingdom, his wealth, and his pleasures. Why

should he stir himself for a mere boy?

A young man entered the Hall, swaggering with self-importance, another

reason for Aesc’s unwillingness to help her. Ten and five years of age and

with all the arrogance of his untried, incautious age group, the newcomer

paused within the shadow of the Hall, his hand resting on the pommel of

his Saxon short-bladed sword, the Saex. Winifred caught her breath as the

youth came through that open doorway. She saw the very image of her

father. Her brother Vitolinus was another Vortigern, the same chiselled chin,

long, thin face and nose, small darting eyes. There was even a scar to the side

of his face. Involuntarily, Winifred’s hand went to her heart, its beating fast

and startled. Only the hair was different, his being thick and fair. Rowena’s,

their mother’s, hair.

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

He strode up to Winifred, acknowledging his uncle with a curt nod to his

head; he stood, legs apart, fists on hips, before her, eyeing her, weighing her.

“Well, I never thought I would see the day! My sister, deigning to visit the

poor relations of the family. Come to spy on us, have you?” Vitolinus thrust

his pointed face forward, reminding Winifred of a weasel. “Whatever it is you

want, sister dear, forget it. You’ll have nothing from us.”

Her composure returned, Winifred spread her nostrils as if some foul stench

was before her. “I want nothing from you, little brother. I come for adult

council with my uncle.” They were talking Latin, a language neither Aesc nor

Anhild understood. She added tartly, “Go away, boy. My business does not

concern a whinging brat.”

Vitolinus’s smile was more of a sneer. “No? I would have sworn you

were here to talk of Cerdic!” He turned away, whistling, nodded again to

Aesc, tossing, in English, “My men and I have brought home a fine buck

from our day’s hunting. I’ll go help the butchering.” He sneered again

in Winifred’s direction. “The stench of offal is more appealing than the

company of your guest.”

One interesting facet. Winifred noticed Anhild’s expression of contempt,

and Aesc’s own narrowed eyes. Ah! Did they dislike her brother as much as

she did?

Aesc offered more wine, said, as he gestured for a slave to pour, “I sympathise

with the worry of a mother for her son my niece, but Cerdic is better off where

he is.” He sat back in his comfortable wicker-woven chair, folded his hands

across his ample lap. “I am content with the ruling of my Kent lands, but that

one there,” he pointed briefly to the door through which Vitolinus had just

departed, “that one wants a kingdom of his own. He intends to gain back his

father’s.” Aesc shrugged, accepting an inevitable outcome. “While your son

remains on his acquired stepfather’s land, Vitolinus will forget him. If, when,

your son becomes a man, he should have the notion of trying for what the

Pendragon now holds…” He spread his hands, shook his head. “Vitolinus has

higher entitlement to that land than Cerdic. I gave a home to my nephew when

he sought my protection from your,” his insincere smile showed blackening,

broken teeth, “shall we say, intended incarceration?”

Winifred too sat back, folding her hands. Murder would be a more appropriate

term. Unfortunately her plans for Vitolinus’s demise several years past had failed

when the wretched boy had escaped her custody. Her frown deepened. He had

disappeared the day Arthur had beaten her injured son, the day after that fire

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

at her farmsteading. Aesc had been there to pay homage to the Pendragon and

agree renewed treaties, and the boy Vitolinus had run to his uncle and his Jute

kin, spreading tales and lies about his sister and his future. Well, perhaps not so

far-fetched tales. Winifred had held every intention of being rid of the boy, her

brother. But Vitolinus threaten Cerdic?

Could a worm threaten a wolf?

Eight

September 468

Bull’s blood!”

Arthur savagely threw the parchment scroll he had been reading across

the tent. It hit the leather wall, bounced a few inches, then lay curled up on itself

on the rush-woven matting. He was pacing the tent, arms waving, animating his

deep, frustrated anger, his expression dark as thunder. Bedwyr, his cousin and

second in command, and Meriaun, Gwenhwyfar’s eldest nephew, were seated

on the only two stools. Wisely, they considered it prudent to remain silent.

The officer of the Roman Imperial Guard who had brought the letter stood at

rigid attention near the door flap, his indignation growing redder on his face;

his helmet, with the splendid red-dyed horsehair plume and gold and silver

plating, was clamped tighter between the curl of his arm. Proud, rich dressed,

his armour—and ego—was old but immaculate, both a reminder that Gaul was

still very much a subservient province of Rome governed by and answerable to

the Emperor. He disliked this pretentious British king, was affronted at being

treated as if he were an imbecile.

“Have I this aright?” Arthur asked, scathingly. “The sender of this letter,

the present Prefect of Rome who is, in this instance, acting in his capacity as

Ambassador of Gaul, bids me welcome. He greets me with flowered words

as a guest here, entreats that I make my men as comfortable as may be, as if

I am here on some informal courtesy visit?” Arthur stooped to retrieve the

offensive letter, rolled it tight, then changing his mind, shook the scroll loose,

batting irritably at the perfectly neat script with the back of his other hand. He

continued his pacing, the eyes of Bedwyr and Meriaun anxiously following his

movements. “This Roman aristocrat,” Arthur glanced at the signature, “this

Sidonius Apollinaris, then proceeds to inform me that a friend of his has been

arrested for writing a treasonous letter against the Emperor, and he begs that I

am to make no matter of it.” Arthur’s nostrils flared. The couched implications

were plain enough. A sour taste spilled into his mouth. “By the gods,” he

3 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

roared, “were I to lay my hands on such a treasonous turd, I would have his

balls first, then his blood!” Gods, he thought, all this way, all these weeks and