Shadow of the King (73 page)

the wielding of sword and shield. A safer occupation, book-learning. Safer for

whom? For the son or for the father?

The boy Gildas would be better off there, where he could forget about the

darkness of execution, of blood and war. Forget about the past and the neces-

sary, cruel ending of elder brothers.

A pity Cerdic could not be so easily dealt with.

Six

September 476

What’s that?” Gwenhwyfar knelt on the bed, her arms going,

automatical y around Arthur’s waist, her chin resting on his shoulder as she

peered over his shoulder at the document he was reading. “Anything interesting?”

“Mm?” Engrossed, he had not heard her enter their chamber. Beyond the

open door, someone was chopping wood and a hunting party had returned

with all the clatter and shouting that usually accompanied a successful expedi-

tion. It was good to have Caer Cadan busy and prospering again. He caressed

her cheek as a greeting. “A letter arrived from Gaul.” He chuckled wickedly.

“Sidonius Apollinaris. Will the old goat never cease his writing?”

Gwenhwyfar settled herself more amiable, snuggling beside her husband as

he shifted to make room for her. It was more comfortable to sit on the bed than

endure the hard seat of a chair or stool. His thigh had been throbbing these past

few days, as the rain and the damp disagreed so abominably with the ache of

old wounds. He was one year over forty and on some days, when the broken

bones and wounding scars of the past loudly reminded him of their existence,

felt twice that.

“Apparently,” Arthur said with a chortle of amusement, “our intrepid cousin,

Bedwyr, has been making himself useful during his travels abroad. He persuaded

Euric to let Sidonius out of imprisonment. Hah!” He laughed outright. “I

imagine shutting the old man away for over a year was the only thing Euric

could think of to stop so many of these damned letters!”

They laughed together, Arthur drawing her nearer with his arm affection-

ately around her. She was eight and thirty, a few silver streaks were becoming

pronounced in her hair, crow’s-foot lines appearing around her eyes. But to

him, she would always be beautiful, even when she was old, toothless, and

stooping, she would be Venus.

“Does he include news of Bedwyr?” She peered again at the letter, scanning the

neat, accurate writing for information, took it to read closer. Arthur watched her,

4 4 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

noted the anxious dip of her eyebrows, the way her tooth chewed at her lip as she

quickly read. She had wept quiet tears for several days when Bedwyr had left, almost

two years ago now. He went, he had said, because he found it difficult to sit still

in one place, saying he wished to travel along the great rivers, to reach, eventually,

the centre of the Eastern Empire, Constantinople. Arthur wondered whether it had

been an excuse. He knew Bedwyr had almost married with Gwenhwyfar—guessed

there had been more than platonic formality between them, but had never pursued

the detail. Had she slept with him? Often, he almost asked her, let the rise of

courage slip away. The truth did not always need knowing.

“There’s nothing beyond passing mention of gratitude to him, and to say

Bedwyr then moved on towards Rome.” The disappointment clouding her

expression was obvious.

“Do you miss him?” Arthur asked quietly, the lurch of his heartbeat booming

in his chest. He wanted to leap up, shake her, make her say no or make her

confess she had loved Bedwyr, lain with him, wanted him…and what would

he do then? Hate her? Punish her? She had thought herself a widow, it was not

adultery to be with another man when your husband was dead. And if there

was punishment, ought it not be levelled at himself?

Gwenhwyfar’s restless shrug however, was indifferent. “I suppose so. Bedwyr

was…” she paused. What was he? A good companion, a good friend? Reliable?

Sexually exciting? “Bedwyr was here when I needed someone.”

Arthur drew his finger lightly down the sun-tanned gold of her arm.
Here,

when I was not. Jealousy
, he thought,
is an irrational, uncontrollable emotion.
The

silence hung uneasy for a moment. Gwenhwyfar had not responded to his

touch, had even moved slightly away from him, her attention deliberately

secured on the letter.

She sat upright, reading intently, Bedwyr set aside for other, intriguing

news. “Odovacer has overthrown Orestes after demanding a right to land, has

taken Rome!”

“It would have been wiser to have granted the army’s request,” Arthur answered

laconically. Added, matter-of-factly, “When an elected leader asks for something,

it usually means there is an intention of taking it, one way or another.”

As Cerdic would one day, sooner or later, try to take more land. The thought

struck them both, but it passed without verbal referral.

Instead, Gwenhwyfar asked, “And the boy? What has happened to him?

Does Sidonius say? He is so young.” It was always the innocents who were hurt

in a rebellion. The children. The sons.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 4 1

The man Orestes had, for some time, been in supreme command of the army

of Rome—what was left of it—and strategically, had placed his young son on

the throne as Emperor of the West. Ten months past, that had been. Emperors

lived such short, interrupted lives.

Not this one; he had Fortuna guarding him, it seemed. “
Na
,” Arthur reas-

sured her. “Read on. He is in exile, enjoying the hot sun and blue sea of the

Bay of Neapolis. I doubt there will be any support to reinstate him, and he will

be no threat to a man like Odovacer, his replacement.”

“Orestes is dead then?” Gwenhwyfar read quickly, ran her finger under the

passage describing his lurid murder, grimaced at the excessive detail, hoped this

was another of Sidonius’s many colourfully exaggerated flourishes. The previous

paragraph describing the destruction, burning, and killing brought about by the

rebellion made her doubt it. “Did you ever meet him?” she asked, lifting her

head from the writing, and letting the scroll roll up on itself. “Odovacer?”

Arthur took the letter from her, dropped it to the floor, lay back, taking

Gwenhwyfar with him, tucking her between his embracing arms. Her hair smelt

new-washed, deliciously of herbs. “I never had the fortune of that pleasure.”

He spoke wryly, but his hold had tightened around her. The memories of Gaul

remained grim even after this while. He rested his cheek against her head,

closed his eyes. Gaul. Pictures sauntered into his mind: dark, never-ending

woods; sun-dappled roads; wide, shallow, and lazy rivers. That battle. That

final, destructive, haunting battle.

Mathild. She had known Odovacer. He frowned, could not remember the

exact knowing. He had not thought of Mathild for some while. A year, two?

Longer? Was it Sidonius’s letter that brought back this unexpected recollection?

She had been with him many times while he sat reading just such a commu-

nication. Sat next to him on the creaking bed in his tent, combing her hair or

easing the tense ache in his shoulders with her deft fingers.

The detail surfaced. “Mathild’s mother was wife to one of Odovacer’s

generals. Her family were butchered when their Saxon village was raided.”

She had then been taken into slavery and Odovacer disappeared to serve under

a variety of rising generals, working his way since then, steadily, to the top of

the pile.

“Any woman who had known this man, Odovacer, must have had her wits

about her. He sounds dangerous,” Gwenhwyfar observed.

Arthur took her face between his hands, his thumb brushing the softness of

her cheek. “She was as fiery as you, Mathild. You would have liked her.”

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

Gwenhwyfar doubted it. “Not while she was sharing your bed. I would

have sooner cut her throat.” A teasing smile lifted Arthur’s lips, his eyes spar-

kling. As he would have cut Bedwyr’s had anything persisted between him and

Gwenhwyfar. She delicately touched her lips against his own, silencing any

further word, reminding him of the unspoken pax that rested between them.

Mathild. Arthur had told her, on that long, slow, journey home from Gaul,

of Mathild. The jealousy, the rise of heart-burning ill-will, had compressed

her lips then, but sense and practically had eased away the hostility through

the passing of months. Arthur was a man who enjoyed his women. Mathild, at

least, had seemed to be a woman of worth, not some lice-bitten, pox-ridden,

gutter-slut. And who was Gwenhwyfar to chide? Had she not also betrayed

their exchanged marriage vows? Occasionally, especially when Arthur was gone

on some visit to a distant stronghold, or meeting of the Council, she lay at night

remembering Bedwyr’s hot caress, the different touch of his exploring hand,

the feel of his breath, his mouth on hers. Remembering, but not wanting. It

was Arthur she wanted, Arthur she loved. The rest had no more significance

than the fantasy arousal of a passing dream.

“It would seem to me,” she said after a while, “we al have a darkness shut into

our souls, one we will need explain when we stand in the sunlight of the next

world.” She moved slightly, kissed his mouth again, more possessive, decisive.

Arthur ran his hand along her back, down across her buttocks, pulling her,

insistent, nearer. Teasing, he announced, “I think events have arisen that make

me need someone in my bed. Shall I make do with you, or send out for the

tavern whore?”

The look Gwenhwyfar gave him was supercilious. She disentangled

herself from his hold, rose gracefully from the bed, and ambled to the

doorway. Lingered, watching the men lifting the deer carcasses from the

pack-ponies.

“Will he last long, do you think, Odovacer? The first man without Roman

blood to wear the purple of an Emperor since Augustus Octavian. Surely he

will be dead before the year is out?” She spoke with her back to Arthur.

“He is a man to be reckoned with, uses his head as well as his balls. But I

agree, there’ll be Romans ruling again in Rome before the winter.”

With deliberation, Gwenhwyfar closed the door, slid the bolt home with a

firm thrust, turned, leant against the wood her eyes narrowed, seductive. “You

would not rather have Mathild, or someone like her, here?”

Stretching out, folding his hands behind his head, crossing his boots at the

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 4 3

ankles, Arthur pursed his lips, considering.
Would you rather have Bedwyr?
He

thrust the irrational jealous thought aside, knowing it to be the mischief of

mind-tricks. “
Na
,” he said. “Her hips were too bony for my liking. If I must

purchase my meat, I expect something substantial to chew on.”

Ponderously, Gwenhwyfar unpinned her hair. Unrestricted, the copper

silver-streaked mane tumbled free, cascaded over her shoulders, across her

breasts, down past her waist and hips. Slowly, unhurried, she walked back

to the bed, her fingers releasing the lacing of her gown, let it slide to the

floor about her feet; unfastened the under-tunic, her breastband. Stood naked,

sensuous, one step away from Arthur.

She was as slim as she had been in her youth, the faint marks against her bel y and

thighs the only signs of her childbearing. The skin of her arms, neck, and face was

golden, tanned from the hours out in wind, air and sun; her legs long, slender.

“If you found me in a slave market,” she enquired, “would you purchase me

for the price of a ring?”

His stomach knotting with wanting, Arthur held his hand out to her. She

took it. “If anyone ever owned you,” he answered, his voice husky, “he would

be a fool to sell you.”

“Oh.” She knelt on the bed, leant over him, her natural perfume, her body, her

nearness, rousing him to that last, full attention. “You intend to keep me, then?”

Arthur drew her down, brought her body close, moulding together with his.

“I am not a fool.”

Seven

Something thudded against the outer door with a loud, penetrating

thump, followed by what sounded like the hounds of Hades let loose after

a wild she-cat. Within the chamber, the dogs leapt wildly at the inside of the

closed door, barking furiously.

“What in the name of the Bull is going on?” Arthur sprang from the bed,

found his bracae in the hastily discarded heap of clothing tumbled on the floor.

Pulling them on, hopped to the door, flung it wide.

Two children fell through, locked together, snarling, hurling abuse,

tangling with the excited dogs. Fists punching, feet kicking. Arthur leapt back

as a sandalled foot caught him on the shin. He cursed loudly, shouted at the

dogs to lie down, be quiet, bent in attempt to grab hold of the two twisting

children, cursed again as human teeth sunk into his hand. “Mithras’s blood!”