Shadow of the King (65 page)

families farming below its brooding walls welcomed them as if already

a battle, a war, had been won. Sarum, the ancient defended place, with its

battered ramparts and broken gateways, was proving its use yet again. For

the Saex, it seemed, were no more than five and twenty miles north. Cattle,

goats, and swine were being herded into its protective enclosure, the air reeked

of fear and panic. The relief, the immense joy that swept through that small

community! “The Pendragon?” They asked, doubtful, disbelieving, when first

the cavalcade of horse and men made stop for the night, “But is he not gone

from us? Is he not dead?”

To Arthur, their elation when seeing the truth with their own sight, caused

personal embarrassment. So loud were the praises, the cheering, the offerings

of food, gifts, wine—best wine—nothing spared, nothing hidden. One land-

holder, of old Roman stock, offering two of his slave women should the men

of the Artoriani need them. Arthur declined the generous-meant offer with

thanks and gratitude.

“You are returned!” they all cried. “Returned to help us, save us, in this dark

hour of approaching death!” The cry taken up, repeated, shouted and gloried.

A thousand, thousand Saex, the chief man had declared in fast, agitated

breath, were gathered up towards the Way, laying siege to Ambrosius trapped

these past two days at Badon.

This was news! News that explained the intense panic! How, Arthur cursed,

did Ambrosius manage to get himself besieged? Mithras’s blood, the damn fool!

The numbers he dismissed as exaggeration. Hoped he was right to do so. If not,

it promised to be one hell of a fight. For all the love of all the gods, he hoped,

prayed, he was right!

They slept on the open ground, wrapped beneath their thick-woven, as good as

waterproof, cloaks. The tents they had not brought with them, nor pack-ponies.

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

No accoutrements save what was necessary for battle. What could not be carried

in a saddle-pack or across the shoulders was left behind. Each man carried his own

weapons, own equipment, and enough corn to feed each horse for three days.

Arthur needed to move quickly, and at the far end of the journey, quietly. The only

exception was the young lads, not yet old to enough to join the ranks of fighting

men, boys who would in the years ahead be honoured with the title squire. They

had their uses, aside from duties of serving, for they rode the spare horses. Wagons,

baggage, and army whores could fol ow on at the slower pace with Geraint and

the infantry. They had no place with the three hundred Artoriani. An exact figure.

Ten turmae, twenty and six to each, with four officers. Being pedantic, three

hundred and two. Arthur and Gwenhwyfar.

She slept curled against him, both of them doubly warm beneath shared

cloaks. Slept without murmur, as they all did. The march had been an endur-

ance, almost forty miles to Sarum. With as much again to cover on the morrow,

now they had this further information. New plans, new route. They would

leave before dawn, swing out along the road heading north for the dyke Arthur

had built as a tormenting boundary between his land and that claimed by

Ambrosius. God’s breath! How long ago that seemed! Follow it, then strike up

the valley of the Cuneito, marching eastward, to swing around and behind the

Saex. Further to ride, longer for Ambrosius to hold out. A risk worth taking,

for surely Aelle would be expecting reinforcements from Geraint to come the

most direct route, from the south.

Dawn limped in, dark and dismal, replaced by a reluctant, dull, sulking

day. At least, everyone said to himself, as they rode up past Ambrosium, it

was not raining.

One question Arthur had to ask before they met with the Saex, before the

fighting began. His stomach churned each occasion he thought of it, looming

nearer with every mile set behind them. He had to know. They were walking

the horses down the Cuneito valley, leading alongside the south bank of the

river, resting them. The woodland was thick, quite dense, the surrounding area

quiet and unnerving. Arthur had dropped back, was beside Bedwyr; there was

no room here for more than two abreast. Gwenhwyfar walked ahead, leading

her bay. The men talked in low tones, suppressed by knowing the Saex might

just be wise enough to post scouts this low down, and inhibited by the grey,

low cloud; spirited chatter, jesting or singing seemed inappropriate. Gweir’s

voice was the closest, telling his companion of Gaul. Exaggerating, as all young

men do, with such a wondrous story to tell.

3 9 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“Do you love her?” Arthur managed to keep his voice neutral, as if he were

merely asking some minor, military matter.

Bedwyr had no need to ask of whom Arthur spoke. Only a matter of time

before the questions were asked. And the answers had to be made. Just as good

now as later. He spoke as casually, successfully masking the gallop of his heart-

beat. “I always have. My boyhood fancy never grew from me.” He checked his

horse from snatching at a mouthful of grass.

“How much?”

“Enough to know she does not love me in the same way as she loves her

husband.”

There was no answer Arthur could make to that.

They had not argued about her coming, Arthur and Gwenhwyfar, as once,

perhaps, they would have done. She had sorted her saddle-pack, had the

armourer put an edge to her sword, and had ridden out beside her husband. No

glance, no challenge. Arthur accepted the gesture as it was meant. Was grateful

for it. Nothing would have induced him to beg her to come; equally, nothing

would have prompted him to order her to stay. Leaving the children had been

hard—Archfedd had grown so! No longer a babe, but a girl, with fiery eyes

and tossing head—ah, so like her Mam must have been at that age! Medraut,

too, he missed, for he had grown used to the boy’s wide-eyed, awed company.

They were safe with Enid; given a while to settle, would establish a friendship.

Or was that another hope? Archfedd was quite the ferocious bully. Her idea

of acquiring a friend, according to one tale Enid had laughingly told, was to

hit another child over the head with some implement—a toy doll, a stick,

whatever—and make demand that he or she would be a friend! It seemed the

girl had a thing or two yet to learn about the subtle gaining of allies. Medraut,

timid as he was, stood little chance of beating her tyranny.

One of the scouts was returning, the column ahead shuffling aside to let him

canter past. He reached the Pendragon, dismounted, fell into step beside Arthur

as Bedwyr gave ground to him, gave his report, brief but concise. The column

halted. Arthur passed the order to mount up.

Ahead, several people gathered beside the old road, incredulous when they

recognised the Dragon. The villa, rambling behind overgrown trees, seemed

shabby, its once white-painted walls peeling and mouldering; the gardens were

once maintained to the highest standard. Arthur had stayed there for a few

days when he had served under Vortigern—when Winifred was his wife, he

remembered grimly. Old Phillipi, the owner, had been alive then, a gentle, wise

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 9 5

old man. The villa had seen better days, but with the old master’s passing, and

a son who preferred to spend what little gold there was on wine and women

rather than roses and maintenance, was its sad demise so surprising?

Arthur acknowledged the acclaimed greetings from the small crowd, prom-

ised, “We go fight the Saex! Keep yourselves safe until I ride this way again!”

They were jog-trotting now, to make up time, for already the day was sliding

rapidly nearer dusk and darkness. They would press on as long as they could.

Arthur rode beside Gwenhwyfar again. She wore male apparel, bracae, padded

under-tunic with a leather, bronze-studded over-tunic. Her hair, bound into

a single braid, thick as her wrist, bobbed and bounced against her back as they

trotted, hands light on the reins, riding easy, natural.

“I have been told of you and Bedwyr.”

Her eyes remained ahead, looking through the gap between her horse’s ears.

What to answer? Petty? Spiteful?
As I discovered Morgaine for myself. And Mathild,

and…how many others?

The way it was. The only way, the fact of it. “I was told you were dead. I

mourned, I grieved, but I could not remain alone and at the mercy of filth such

as Amlawdd.” She turned her head, regarded him, her green, tawny-flecked eyes

honest, hiding nothing from him. The meaning was there, plain, in her expression,

in those eyes.
Where was my choice? A woman cannot remain alone and unprotected.

They rode on a while in silence, Arthur mulling over her answer, wanting to

ask more intimate questions.
How often did you sleep with him? Did you enjoy being

with him? Is he better than I am?
At last he said. “Do you regret losing him?”

She softened, the smile touching her cheeks, eyes, her whole face. She

stretched out her hand for his. “If that was so, would I have ridden to Gaul?

Would I have spent that long while searching for you?”

Arthur withdrew his hand, curled the fingers around the reins. Feeling the

pressure, Onager laid back his ears, raised his head, his tail swished twice. Arthur

had to say it. Had to know if what Winifred implied had substance. “Your

intention may have been to ensure my end.”

A lucky guess, intuition, a knowing of how Winifred wove lies and deceptions,

made Gwenhwyfar say, “
Na
, if I had wanted you dead, I would have succeeded.”

She held his gaze. Added, after a significant pause, “I am not Winifred.”

He took her hand again, reprimanded Onager’s sullen temper. Arthur’s heel

clamped into his side, daring the animal to kick.

Behind, Bedwyr had observed the exchange, although the conversation he

could not hear. He sighed. It had been so difficult. Losing her, so close to

3 9 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

winning her, so close! His heart, pulled in two equal directions, one for the

love he had for Gwenhwyfar, the other for his cousin, Arthur the king. Ah,

but Bedwyr had always been philosophical. Gwenhwyfar would never choose

the lesser of the two, the boy if she could have the man. She had not wanted

him, not for who or what he was, anyway. He had been a means, a useful tool,

someone to buffer her against bastards such as Amlawdd, someone to be there

in her misery and darkness. He could accept that.

He would never admit Gwenhwyfar had been, always would be, his only

deep, especial love. But then, who needed that when there was sure to be a

succulent, fair-haired whore waiting for him, somewhere, sometime. Soon he

hoped, for he knew he lied to himself.

Seventy-Four

Over-confidence! Arthur was grinning like a moon-mad boy, jubilation

spreading through the men as word passed along the column. Gweir,

returned from scouting ahead, sat his horse with a matched expression. He could

not have brought better news to his weary and apprehensive companions.

“So,” Arthur declared, “Vicus is straddled with the drunk and the whoring, is

it? Hah!” His bark of delight rippled through the overhanging canopy of winter-

bare trees as he twisted in the saddle to speak direct to his men, their pleasure at

this unexpected turn of events as evident as his. “A fine rearguard that bastard

pair Aelle and Aesc have left us to deal with! Mithras, I was hoping for a real

fight!” They took up his laughter, heeled their horses forward as he signalled to

ride on, Gweir bringing his dun alongside Onager—at a respectful distance.

He was a good scout, Gweir. He claimed the ability to move fast and unde-

tected came from his deprived years of childhood. Too often, he would laugh,

he had to fend for himself out in those wild lands up beyond the Wall. Keeping

your head down from grey wolves or Saex wolves—the one was much like the

other. Clinging to the camouflaging trees that encroached beside the old road,

Gweir, to his surprise but relief, had found no Saxon outposts, no set watch

or guard. Could not believe his fortune when, crawling on knees and belly

through the untended, uncut tangle of low shrub and grasses, he reached the

small town of Vicus. He had heard the singing, the occasional woman’s scream,

much laughter and merrymaking. Needed only to see the huddle of guards

at the gate swilling wine from a passed-around wineskin to be sure. He had

waited, all the same, watching from his safe place of hiding, seen them slump,

drunk, fall sodden to the world, against the outer wall, leaving the gateway

open, unguarded. No one had come to reprimand them, to replace them, haul

them away. Easy to conclude there was no one sober enough.

Will such laxness be maintained,
Arthur wondered, mulling over the lad’s

report. A chance worth the taking; some things needed quick decisions, others,