Shadow of the King (51 page)

straightened. Her face was brown-tanned, the skin cracked and wrinkled from

exposure to sun and wind. She looked to be over the age of half a century,

was probably no more than thrice ten years. Gwenhwyfar reined Onager in

allowed him chance to rest. “A storm comes,” she said, attempting pleasant

conversation. “You tie the vines to minimise damage?”

The woman nodded. “They are robust enough if regularly tended, as any

child would be.”

“You wear the black habit of a holy woman,” Gwenhwyfar observed. “I had

been told this was the Place of the Lady.”

The woman studied Gwenhwyfar, her ageing, crinkled eyes taking in the

dark blue of her robe, the purple of her linen cloak, the sword with jewelled

scabbard hanging from a leather, bronze-studded baldric slung oblique across her

chest. Seeing also the men, strong, armed, wearing white, padded tunics beneath

crimson-red cloaks. The horses, tired but well fed, well kept, and well bred.

“We serve the Lady Mary although once, long ago, this was a sanctuary of

the other Lady. You wear the garb of a royal woman.” She added her own

question, “Yet your guard is few and you carry no banner?”

“I need no guard nor proclamation of who I am when I come in peace to

visit friends.”

The woman sucked her lips against partially toothless gums. “Equally, ’tis

best to travel quietly among possible enemies.”

Gwenhwyfar made no immediate response. Apart from those distant riders

and the women working among these vines, the world appeared as if it could

be silent and empty. Conflict, death, and battle had no hold in this serene

valley. “My enemy is also your enemy. I fear Euric the Goth as much as you. It

was my husband, the Pendragon, who attempted to rid you of him.”

The woman raised her eyebrows, impressed. “He was a brave man to try, but

also he was the fool.” She expected Gwenhwyfar to respond with some form of

animosity or hostility, was surprised to receive instead an amused smile.

“Aye,” Gwenhwyfar agreed, “as I also told him, on more than one occasion.”

The woman laughed, she had a pleasant, young laugh. “Men give so little

credit for our feminine sense!” She indicated the top of the hill, hanging

high above, and the cluster of white-painted buildings, clinging to its eastern

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 0 7

edge. “You will find no men up there, beyond the wayfarers’ tavern outside

the gate.”

“I am not looking for a man.” It was a lie, but justified as it was a partial one

only. “I seek a woman. Morgaine.”

“Not a name to be found among our Christian kind.” A flutter of wind lifted

the white of her veil. The smell of rain came strong, insistent, with the breeze.

The woman bent back to tying the vines. “Continue up,” she said. “There will

be shelter for you inside the abbey, for your men and horses, at the tavern.”

Thanking her, Gwenhwyfar signalled to move, halted again, turning slightly

in her saddle. “Do you know of Morgaine?”

The woman stood, her posture straight, shoulders held proud. Her head had

turned up the valley to where the track, having passed this citadel, lifted again

to the hills. She was not seeing the rising ground, nor the dark welt of trees

covering the slopes. “I have not always served this lady,” she said, her voice and

thoughts distant, set in the past. Her eyes met with Gwenhwyfar’s, held. “Aye,

I know of the one they call Morgaine.”

Thunder rumbled, some many miles to the south.

Forty-Seven

The men had not been allowed beyond the gateway. Ider had loudly

protested, announcing that where his lady went, he went also. The gate-

keeper, a woman with steel-blue eyes, firm jaw, and almost half his height, side-

stepped his insistence by allowing Gwenhwyfar to pass through the iron-worked

gate and shut it promptly behind her, marooning Ider on the outside. He rattled at

it a few times, demanding to be let through, drew his sword, a helpless gesture. He

stepped back, searched the high wall for a place to climb. Useless! The sanctuary

within was as well fortified as the most formidable stronghold. The wall, sturdy,

mortice-fil ed stone, stood above twelve feet, the drop this side being deeper than

the other, given the steepness and shape of this sharp-rising ground. By stepping

back a handful of paces, he could clearly see many of the buildings within, stacked,

it seemed, roof upon roof as they climbed up to the higher summit. Timber-built,

most of them small dwelling-places, perhaps a few workshops. He stamped again

to the gate, rattled irritably at its lock. Within, he could see a tannery, women

working on the drying skins, and a larger building behind there must be some-

where for a wine press, storage for the amphorae and barrels of fermenting fruit.

Women? Women only beyond that gate? He found that hard to believe.

A chapel stood at the summit, wood-built and reed-thatched, with a crucifix,

gold inlaid and taller than two men, erected with reverence high above the

door lintel. The single cobbled track led straight and steep, bending sharply to

the dexter side at a well where several women were gathered. He called out to

Gwenhwyfar, “My lady!”

She did not seem to hear, for she did not turn around or acknowledge his

shout of concern. Instead, the gatekeeper came again, peered through the iron

railings. “She will be quite safe, young man,” she admonished with a firm

finality. “None shall harm her here.”

Ider muttered something beneath his breath, which could have been a

profanity; the woman did not choose to hear. She shuffled away, her keys

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 0 9

jangling from the chain at her waist. Gwenhwyfar he could no longer see, for

she had turned the bend in the track. He faced the opposite direction, his back

to the gate, watching down the hill.

The men were seeing the horses fed and settled; the lodging at the tavern

appeared adequate, simple food but clean accommodation. Beside it, a forge and a

tumble of shabby dwelling-places, the beginnings of a small settlement that would

increase, no doubt, with the passing of time. The first spots of rain were fal ing, the

sky blackening, thunder becoming more persistent, louder. To one side of the gate

there was a smal shrine built into the wal . Flowers had been placed there, though

they were already drooping, for it was too humid for wild things to survive for

long. Ider hitched the hood of his cloak over his head, hunkered into the partial y

protecting overhang of the alcove, his sword laying across his thighs.

He would not move from here until Gwenhwyfar returned through that gate.

Gwenhwyfar knew Ider would not go far, hoped he would have the sense to

make himself comfortable within the tavern, guessed he would remain close to

the gate. Ider’s was a loyalty of devotion, never would he let anything happen

to her. It was good to have such friends.

The climb up the cobbled track left her breathless; she found her legs and

back aching long before she and the woman accompanying her reached the

chapel at the top. The abbess, a woman of advanced years, but with eyes as

bright as a blackbird’s, came from a building at the side of the chapel to meet

her, hands outstretched in welcome and with a warm smile, as if she were

greeting an old and cherished friend.

“Welcome, my dear! Welcome! We are delighted to offer our hospitality to

such an honoured guest!”

Taken aback, Gwenhwyfar questioned, “You know who I am?” She had

never met this woman before, nor did she see how advanced warning of her

coming could have reached here.

The woman laughed, gestured for her to follow along a path into the comfort

of her private quarters. “My dear, I have no idea who you are; nor, if you do

not wish to tell of it, do I need to know. It is enough to know you visit us.”

Liking this abbess for her honesty, Gwenhwyfar replied with as much frank-

ness. “I do not know how long I intend to stay.”

The woman laughed, ushered her into the comfort of a small but pleasant room

as thunder crashed overhead, releasing those few drops of rain into a downpour.

“I think,” she said, with a knowing nod to her head and bright sparkle in her

eye, “you will stay at least an hour or so, while this storm passes.”

3 1 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Gwenhwyfar accepted the wine offered, agreed to that, but added, “I would

be honoured to stay at least the one night.”

“I will see a room is made ready. Stay as long as you need, my child.”

Forty-Eight

The stone wall to the east of the convent was low, the hillside,

dropping as it did almost vertically downward on the other side, creating

seclusion and protection. The storm had grumbled through most of the night

before taking itself off northward, but had done little to dispel the uncomfort-

able heat. Two days later the air still hung as heavy as lead, a persistent haze

muffling the expanse of sky. Gwenhwyfar sat on the wall, watching a lizard

scurry from one hiding-place to another, pausing, hesitant, between its chosen

places of safety. Archfedd would have been delighted in the creature, its yellow-

green skin, darting swiftness, and reptilian beauty. A stab of longing for home

and her daughter shot through Gwenhwyfar. Perhaps it was the height, the

permeating contentment of the convent that reminded her so of Caer Cadan,

the looking down the hillside and out across the valley and up the winding

track that straddled the steep, rising ground. Archfedd was safe with Geraint

and Enid, happy running as one of the pack with the children of Durnovaria’s

stronghold. She had no worries for the child, although occasionally, when

thoughts wandered homeward as on this day, she missed her dreadfully.

Reaching forward, Gwenhwyfar picked a cluster of leaves and fruit that

would, before long, ripen and reveal the hardened shell of a walnut. The

slope was dense with the trees, the nuts self-seeding over the years, creating

a massed forest that tumbled downward, forming an impenetrable natural

barrier. Absently, she pulled the leaves off one by one, tossed the fruit away,

watched as it rolled down the hillside, became lost among the tangle of grass,

fallen dead leaves, and young saplings. She stood, wandered along the path, her

fingers idling across the cracks and splits on the wall, brushing the softness of

mosses and the intricate patterns of lichens. Beyond the wall, the unmanaged

trees became clearer as the slope gave way to less hostile ground. Vines were

planted here, southward-facing to catch the full benefit of the sun. Below,

way below, the valley floor was cultivated with scattered fields and pasture for

3 1 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

grazing, the meandering river an oasis of fresh green against sun-baked brown.

Further away, as the land began again to rise the cultivation gave way again to

trees, those dense forests that dominated so much of Gaul. The track, winding

upward, cutting like a white scar through the dark foliage. That was the track

she would need follow, tomorrow or another tomorrow. To ride up, between

the sentinel trees, upward to the crest of those hills, to find on the other side…

Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes. All this way, these weeks and miles of journeying.

One last track to follow. A few more miles, a morning’s ride. She wanted to

go home, to turn around and ride away. Courage had failed, the need to know

dispelled by the desperate desire to not find out.

Horsemen, riding along the valley, crossing the river, turned to take the

track that led up to this high place. She recognised the four riders as her men

by their red cloaks and white tunics, distinguishing Gweir’s dun stallion at the

forefront. They led a pack-pony, a deer straddling his withers. They had been

hunting then, successfully, it seemed. She hoped they would have the courtesy

of presenting the Abbess with some of the meat, knew they would, for her men

were not a selfish breed.

She rubbed her hands. The wind was chill up here at this great height. She

would soon have to find the strength to discover what lay on the other side

of those wood-covered hills. If not for herself, for the men who had faithfully

followed her here. And for all those who awaited their return.

She could no longer see Gweir, for the shoulder of the hill hid the upward

track. Two days they had rested here, although she knew her men had not been

idle. She had not seen things with her own eyes, but she knew Ider well, and

Gweir and the others. They were not men to sit in the sun when something

needed tending.

How far had they ridden, she wondered. Had they already been over that

hill? Already talked about what—who—might be there on the other side?

Morgaine, certainly, with a boy-child. Sister Brigid, the woman tending the

vines out on the hillside, had told her that much, had elaborated a little while

the storm had raged outside that first evening.

“A while past,” she had said, “I turned away from the pagan blackness and