Shadow of the King (70 page)

was one honed out of jealousy and envy. Arthur was strong and powerful, he

feared nothing and no one—or so he cleverly gave the impression. Between

the two, father or son, who would she support if it ever came to a fight? Arthur

or Cerdic? If she would be Arthur’s queen, then it would be the Pendragon

without doubt. With her son? As his adviser, mentor, guide…Ah, it was power

she wanted, that which she loved.

A rap at the door, Oslac entered without waiting for permission, two heads

held by the hair in his hand, blood dripping from the severed necks. Two of

Winifred’s guard, meant to intimidate her, no doubt.

“Do you think I will give way to such paltry threats?” she retorted curtly,

barely glancing at the bloodied trophies. “What are a few dead to me?” Did

Cerdic think her so feeble-minded? So soft-bellied? She, Winifred, who had

murdered for her own gain; Winifred, who had from childhood, schemed and

bartered and fought to achieve her wealth, her position. Wealth and position

that she fully intended to keep. Threaten her? Had she, then, bred a fool?

Cerdic stood, the axe in his hand. “Your land is to be legally, undisputedly

mine. On that land, my people can settle and thrive without threat or intimida-

tion. More will then come to join us, with the swing of the seasons, they will

come. And then I will found my own kingdom. Mine, Mother, not yours, not

my father’s: mine. I will become Bretwalda of the English, the founder of a

dynasty, the…”

The absurdity! Winifred laughed, head back, hands on hips, mouth open,

laughed. “You? Do all that for yourself? You could not even sire your own

son—your father had to do it for you!”

Cerdic’s lip lifted into a snarl. The axe was in his hand, he lifted it, swung,

brought it down, his breath bellowing from between his enraged, clenched

teeth with the exhalation of effort. Blood, bone, sinew spewed among the

shards of green glass and splintered wood.

She had not screamed or moved, so quickly had he killed her.

Oslac scratched, unconcerned, under his armpit, the drip of blood from the

two heads adding to the mess on the floor as he raised his arm. He had under-

stood not a word of what had been said, for they had spoken in Latin, and he

knew only the English tongue.

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He sniffed. “Bury her, do we?” he asked. “With the others, to stop their

spirits walking?”

Cerdic wiped his hand beneath his nose, licked his lips. He was shaking.

Gods, he thought, what have I done? “Aye, put them with their severed heads

between their legs to bind them to the darkness of the earth.” He left the

room, went to where it was dark and private, and brought up the contents of

his stomach, his belly heaving and twisting. Then sat, his back against a wall,

letting the cold of the night dry the sweat that was on his skin, the quiet calm

his shaking. After a while the thought came that he had wanted his mother’s

land, and now, by right of inheritance, it would be his.

In control of his guts and his thinking, Cerdic rejoined his men who, if they

had noticed anything, said not a word. There was one last thing to do, now he

had obtained what he had come for. Cerdic had recognised him when they had

battered down the wooden gates of this place. The priest had been one of the

first to run forward, protesting, demanding that the Saxons leave. Cerdic had

recognised him.

He rapped orders, watched as they slowly butchered the man, that unfor-

tunate priest. They would toss the bloodied bits into a shallow pit, not like

the others, no burial grave for this one. This one, who would never again

be entering a whorehouse, or running to tell tales to a mother about a boy

eager to sample his first taste of offered delights. Ah, vengeance had its own

reward, and Cerdic found it to be a good way to settle a heaving stomach and

a shrieking conscience.

Their business done, Cerdic and his small band of Saxons left, weighted with

treasures and trinkets, carousing their success. Three words, remembered from

those tedious days of childhood tutoring thrumming in Cerdic’s mind as they

marched home, southward.
Veni, vidi, vici.

I came, saw, conquered.

The guilt had already passed, replaced with the smell of undominated freedom.

Three

April 476

With men working together as a unit, a team, Cerdic’s Hall took

shape. It was the first permanent building to be erected, for the Mead

Hall was more than a prestigious place of residence for the head man. It was

a meeting hall for the Council, where judgements of law would be made or

collective decisions discussed and argued over, be it for planning the next

harvest or the next war; a workplace, where women would cook, weave, and

sew, where men mended harness, sharpened weapons, fashioned new spears.

A feasting hall, a sleeping place…the Mead Hall, the heart, the centre, of a

community. Although as yet this embryonic settlement of the West Saxons was

not a community. They were fledglings, grubbing an existence under tents,

foraging for food, living hand-to-mouth, day-to-day, but not for much longer.

Cerdic’s people were here to stay, and the raising of the Hall was a statement of

their intransigent intention.

The oval palisade fence had been the first essential construction. Defence

and confinement, to keep domestic animals in, the undesirable—human or

animal—out. Built of oak, a wood that smouldered rather than blazed, rising

higher than two men standing one atop the other, and with the width of two,

spread handspans, it encompassed an enclosure of several acres that would,

eventually, be a permanent home to the founders of Cerdic’s kingdom.

With that completed, the men felled yet more timber for the Hall. Oak

again, for the upright supports, door-frames, roof rafters, wall-plating, and the

crafting of the great, curved pairs of timber crucks needed to support the weight

of the roof. The plank floor was to be suspended, the height of a man above

ground level; the space underneath to take the foundations for the weight-

bearing uprights, and to keep the living quarters warm and dry. The dark cellar

would eventually be used for storage, reached by a low entrance set modestly

beside the steps leading upward to an imposing, intricately carved doorway.

Cerdic’s Mead Hall was to be a magnificent building. Roofed with timber

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shingles, not thatch, half as wide and long again as the one he had inherited

from Leofric—oh, his was to be a chieftain’s Hall, worthy of mention in song!

And others would come with the passing of the seasons, see it, admire its

crafting, its significance of power. Men would come, bring their wives and chil-

dren, offer their shields and spears into Cerdic’s service in exchange for the right

to build their own dwelling within the protective hand of Cerdic’s authority.

The foundations were well laid, the massive uprights in position. The door-

frames fitted, skeletal openings. Today, the first of the roof-beams were to be

hoisted, slotted into the half-lap joints. The weather had been kind, dry, but

not hot. If it lasted until the shingles had been laid…Ah, would the gods be

that generous?

Cerdic stood, fists resting on his broad waist, legs spread, head back, eyes

squinting into the light, as the first of the heavy beams was pulled upward, the

ropes creaking from the suspended weight, men’s muscles straining. The beam

was swung around, manhandled, eased forward, slotted with deceptive ease

neatly into the waiting joint; at the far end, another beam, with another team

of men. They were working high off the ground, the height of five tall men.

The crossed ends of the exposed upright supports to the fore and aft of the

apexed roof would be carved and decorated, painted with the grotesque faces

of house-place spirits to ward away the forces of mischief and evil. Glad Cerdic

was, that he need not clamber about up there! Once, he had groped his way up

the mast of one of his ships. He had been younger then, no more than ten and

six years, but still the dizzying height had spun his brains, churned his stomach.

He had left the sorting of the square sails to the experienced sailors after that.

And the building of his Hall roof to the carpenters.

Someone approached from behind, his shadow passing across Cerdic’s feet,

stood beside his lord. Belched, wiped his mouth with his tunic sleeve, pork

grease dribbling down his chin, the hunk of meat, well-chewed, between his

black-nailed fingers.

“Going well,” Oslac observed, indicating the busy industry. “Be settled in

soon, eh?”

Cerdic made no answer. Oslac was a good soldier, reliable, strong armed,

sure-aimed, though his manners left much to be desired. He also stank of rancid

wine, stale sweat, and piddled urine—but then, most of them did.

“How long do you reckon then? Before we move on?” Oslac spoke through

a mouthful of pork, mouth open, teeth masticating, oblivious of Cerdic’s

responding frown.

4 2 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“Move on?” Cerdic asked, his tone severe. “I do not intend to move on.”

Swallowing the chewed meat, Oslac picked at a shred stuck behind his gum.

“We’re not going to stay here forever, are we? Stuck on the edge of these

marshes with all that land out there ripe for the taking.” He threw the bone

away, northward, to where, beyond the palisade fence, the sea-marshes gave way

to the outskirts of woodland—laying further back now that so many trees had

been felled, the new-cut stumps stark against the foot-trampled undergrowth.

“Until I am ready to expand, we stay here, on my own-held, undisputed ground.”

“But I thought we were here to fight!” Oslac’s voice could whine, petulant,

like an irritating child. “That’s what I came for. To kill British.”

“And that is what we shal do,” Cerdic’s acerbic tone was lost on Oslac, who

failed to notice the lift to his nostrils, the narrowing of eyes, warning signs. “When

we are secure here, when we have ploughed, sown, and harvested our fields, stored

our barns to the roof-beams with grain, have fattened cattle, milk-yielding goats.

When the traders’ ships come first to our harbour, not others along the coast. When

the women have borne us the next generation of warriors. Then, when we have

the power of permanence behind us, then we will fight.” Stability meant survival.

Attack now, and the Pendragon would have al the excuse he needed to sweep in

from the west and wipe them out, while they were vulnerable and exposed.

Winifred’s death had been a mistake, Cerdic had realised that on the swag-

gering march back from Venta. He had done it in a rage of temper; it had not

been intentional, not been planned—but she had pushed him once too often,

the bitch. And it had been so easy to lift that axe and…

For now, he must keep his head down, remain quiet, then he would be

forgotten, ignored as of no consequence. Only a few of the British were blus-

tering their protest at Winifred’s death, but Cerdic had taken steps to repair

the damage done in that fit of temper—and he had more or less succeeded.

His bile had risen at having to write so placatingly to his father, to petition his

innocence, pleading Winifred had forced his hand. And the bribing of so many

of the British Council had cost him dear, but then, the ploy had worked, for

his father seemed content to let things ride.

Although you never knew with Arthur quite what he was thinking.

“There’s enough of us,” Oslac said, piqued. “We could make a fight of things

whenever we wanted. And why has the Pendragon not come to us? Challenged

us?” He spat pork-stained saliva to the grass. “They say, so I’ve heard, he hasn’t

the stomach for battle anymore.”

“They are fart-arsed fools, then,” Cerdic retorted as he walked away, only

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the white of his clenched knuckles betraying the rage burning inside him. The

idleness of gossip! Arthur was afraid of nothing, so Winifred had maintained.

Hah! Boasted, bragged! How often had she flagrantly compared him with

Arthur?
Your father is not afraid of the dark, of thunder, of the pain of a tooth that

needed pulling.
But he would learn to be afraid! When he was ready, Cerdic

would show him there was something to be feared—the destruction his son

would unleash. The death he would bring.

“He’s lost his balls,” Oslac muttered, persistent. “He’d have come otherwise,

after you murdered your own mother.” Possibly it was not meant to be heard,

but it came out louder than intended.

Cerdic’s fists clenched, his teeth clamped together. He would have slain

Oslac then, at that moment, except it would have tainted the building of his

Hall, the cold spilling of blood as the beams were raised.

No one crossed Cerdic. No one doubted his word, contradicted his plan-