Shadow of the King (83 page)

lake. Of Archfedd and the lad, no sign. She was wearing kingfisher blue, ought

be easily seen, unless they were up among those trees.

“If she is laughing then she is not in trouble,” Arthur stated unconcerned,

snuggling his face into the deliciousness of his wife’s hair. “When she screams,

I’ll pursue her.” His hand had wandered to Gwenhwyfar’s tunic hem, was

inching higher, beneath, enjoying the smooth feel of skin along the inside of

her thigh.

“He seems a reasonable lad, Natanlius?”

Arthur noted the question in her voice. “Reasonable as in suitable escort for

the day, or reasonable as in future son-by-law?”

She batted at his hand. “Stop it. They will see.”

“Who will see? My daughter and that young, rutting stag of hers?” To provoke

her, Arthur rolled on top of her, pinned her arms with his hands. “I would wager

my sword they will be too occupied doing what we are about to do.”

“They had better not!” Gwenhwyfar thrust with her hip, toppling him off,

sending him rolling slightly down the hill. She lunged to her feet, hand shielding

her eyes from the brightness to scan the woods anxiously. Nothing, only Mel’s

joyous barking.

Arthur sat, legs crossed, chin cupped in his palm, elbow on his knee watching

Gwenhwyfar, mystified. When she went to the horses, bent to start untying

the hobbles from her mare, he said, “You allow a pair of ripe fruit to wander

off together without muttering a word of protest, yet expect neither to have a

nibble at the sweetness?” He shifted his chin to the other palm. “It is no wonder

women puzzle men.”

5 0 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“It does not concern you this lad may be tumbling our daughter?”

Gwenhwyfar’s outrage was forthright.

“She is twenty years of age. About time someone tumbled and wed her.” He

held up one finger stemming the torrent of indignation he knew was about to

follow, “But aye, it concerns me.” Casual, he stood, scratched at an itch on his

buttock, strolled towards her and, grabbing her around the waist, pulled her to

the grass. “It concerns me,” he quipped, “that on a beautiful day such as this, a

lad more than half my age may be doing what I ought to be doing.”

Gwenhwyfar made only a token show of protest. As Arthur slipped her

unlaced tunic over her head, she surrendered to the pleasure of lying naked

with him on the sun-warmed, sweet grass. His love-making, serenaded by

the sound of droning bees and bird song, was lingering and intense. Her

response, passionate.

Twenty-Three

Natanlius was fun to be with, Archfedd liked him, his company made

al the more acceptable by the knowing her father and mother, too, approved

of him. The last-born son of six brothers, he had joined with the Artoriani a moon-

month after he stepped across the threshold from boy to manhood, for there was

only himself and his next-eldest brother in his family. The others had been kil ed

at Llongborth. His father, too, had died soon after that dreadful day. To join the

Pendragon and his Artoriani was a certain way to seek vengeance for they all knew,

all of Britain, that one day Arthur would again fight with Cerdic. And on that day,

Natanlius intended to be there, with the fighting, to help in the attempt to kil the

Saxon whore-son, as his beloved father and brothers had been killed.

Thoughts of battle and killing were far from both their minds this day,

though, as the two young people abandoned Arthur and Gwenhwyfar to their

own company, and rode their horses through the shallows of the lake to the

lush grass on the far side, left them grazing there to explore the coolness of the

river that tumbled down through the shaded trees.

They climbed upward, Natanlius occasionally taking Archfedd’s hand to help

her up some steeper part, or to steady her as she clambered over the occasional

fallen tree. She did not need his help, but it was nice to feel her hand in his, to

see the bright smile on his fine young face beaming at her.

He was twenty years of age, with laughing hazel eyes set in a merry expres-

sion. A sure aim with a bow and spear, quick and nimble on his feet, he could

ride even the most unmanageable of horses. It had not taken Natanlius long to

be promoted to a higher officer’s rank within the Artoriani, even less time to

gain the king’s trust and liking.

Archfedd had noticed him before; there were many young and handsome

men among the Artoriani, all of whom smiled at her, exchanged laughter and

pleasantries, but for the journey to Gwynedd Arthur had selected this one to be

among the personal guard to his daughter.

5 0 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

The path had risen quickly, steeply, the river cutting a deep gully to their left

side. Below, the tumble of water pushed and buffeted its way over rocks and

boulders, leaping and running on its mad, downhill rush. In places, the path was

easy to walk, at others, it narrowed precariously.

“Take care, it is slippery here,” Natanlius advised, reaching out his hand.

But too late, Archfedd’s foot slid on a tree root. He lunged for her, fastened

his firm grasp around her arm, caught her before she tripped. Breathless, she

held onto him, not daring to look down the drop to the waterway below, as

he walked her a few paces to a safer, wider part of the path. Had she fallen…

she had her fingers twined in his, their bodies close, could smell the exciting

aroma of male sweat, the leather of his tunic, a faint odour of wine and strong

cheese on his breath.

It might have been wrong, but surely Arthur had known what might happen

when he allowed a young officer to take his daughter into the seclusion of leaf-

shading trees? The first kiss was brief, his lips light on hers, but she answered

him, her arms going about his neck, drawing him nearer to kiss her again,

firmer, more insistent.

Happen it was a good thing that her dog, Mel, came bursting out from the

undergrowth where the path divided, her tail wagging, tongue lolling, her

insistent barking urging them to hurry, for there was the promise of better

scent-trails ahead. Laughing, still breathless but not now from the danger of

falling, Archfedd clutched the hem of her skirt into her hands and ran on up the

right-hand path after the dog. Natanlius pounded after them.

The river had fallen behind, only trees and outcrops of rock surrounded

them as the path lurched into a steeper incline. Natanlius pulled the girl up,

did not let go her hand as they emerged from the shade into a level, grassed

clearing. They had found the river again, only here, it ran slower, widening

into a tranquil shallow pool, before dropping abruptly over a rocky edge into

the white foam of a forty-foot or so waterfall.

Archfedd went to see it closer, taking Natanlius with her, clinging to his

strength as she peeped cautiously over, down into the cascading torrent.

Immediately below, another pool, hissing and boiling with the spray, rock-

edged, no doubt deep.

“Come away,” Natanlius urged her. “’Tis dangerous so close to a fall.”

Archfedd needed no second asking.

Mel had disappeared again, they could hear her barking joyfully somewhere

ahead chasing squirrels or birds. Fool dog would not know what to do with one

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 0 3

were she to catch it! Archfedd called to her, knowing she would not come until

her own interest brought her back.

The climb up, although enjoyable, had been hard work, and Archfedd felt

the uncomfortable trickle of sweat down her back; a hot enough day without

the effort of exercise. The pool appeared to be only a few feet deep, the stones

and rocks shining beneath the dance of surface sunlight, the clear water so cool

and inviting. In a moment, she had her boots off, her skirt hitched high about

her thighs, was stepping in, enjoying the delicious coldness that stung her legs,

tickled her toes. “Come in!” she teased Natanlius. “Strip your bracae and tunic

and come in!”

Natanlius was tempted. But to kiss a pretty girl beneath the shade of the trees

was one thing, to strip naked and romp in the water with her…Ah no, not

when that girl happened to be the king’s only daughter! Instead, he removed

only his sword belt and sprawled on the grass to watch her. Plucking a blade of

grass, he chewed at its sweetness, trying not to look over-closely at those long,

inviting legs.

The mountain rivers were cold, too fast-flowing for the sun to warm their

passing, too cold to stand paddling for overlong. Archfedd scrambled from

the water, flung herself full-length beside Natanlius, lay with her eyes closed

enjoying the heat of the sun falling full on her face. A shadow dropped across

her and then the touch of his mouth against hers, the feel of his hands on her

body, her breasts.

“Do you think,” Natanlius whispered, “the sixth son of a noble lord would

stand chance of asking a king’s daughter to become his wife?”

“That would depend on what manner of a man this sixth son was,” Archfedd

answered with a shy giggle as she guided his hand up under her skirt, along

the length of her damp legs, “and on whether the king’s daughter liked him

enough.” She pulled him nearer, closer, her senses pulsing as she became aware

of his want for her.

The dog had trotted into the clearing, plunged into the water to drink, and

found a stick bobbing there. She enjoyed the game of chasing sticks. Dripping

water from her coat and mouth, she took it to her mistress, and with an enthu-

siastic bark dropped it onto the man who lay atop of her.

Suppressing an oath, Natanlius rolled from Archfedd. Twice now the dog

had stopped him from taking his manhood over far! He did not know whether

to praise the animal or curse it. Archfedd, however, was irritated. His presence

had aroused her; she had never known the close intimacy of a man. Oh, the

5 0 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

occasional light kiss, aye, the feel of a hand around her waist, beneath her

breast, but not this closer, more exciting, urgent thing. She liked Natanlius,

wanted him to be her first man, her man: her husband. As her father had, no

doubt, intended.

Annoyed at the bitch, she took hold the stick and tossed it away, forgetting the

fool dog would chase it. Mel went after it, racing over the short, sun-browned

grass to where it had disappeared among the greenery of bushes…only they

were not bushes but the tops of trees, trees that had their roots forty feet below

where the river had gouged a ravine from its race over that waterfall.

Screaming, Archfedd thrust Natanlius from her, ran to where a moment

before her dog had been.

The man did not think, acted only with instinct; he plunged over the edge

where the dog had fallen, almost falling himself, grasping branches to steady his

descent, grabbing at slender trunks, bracing himself with his feet that tangled in

bracken and bramble, jarred against rock. Slithered, slid, and tumbled. He was

down, a little bruised, but in one piece.

Archfedd had run to where the trees gave way to bare rock, to where she

had first looked down onto the cascade of water, knelt there, watching for

Natanlius, eye searching for her dog. Natanlius appeared from the tangle of

trees and bracken; she cupped her hands around her mouth, called desperately.

“Can you see her! Is she there?”

He did not hear; the noise of the water was deafening. He made his way

carefully over the wet, slippery rocks, knelt at the edge of the foaming, white-

bubbling pool. Damn silly dog could be anywhere, engulfed under the hurl

of the water, submerged in the pool, swept downstream…he saw something

dark bobbing among the turmoil of water—a lump of bark. Then something

else! There she was, trying to swim against the current, trying to keep her head

above the frantic swirl of water! He called her, urging her to him. The dog

heard, for she struck out towards him, but the strength of the plunging river

swept her aside.

Again and again, she tried to come to him. Natanlius looked around for a

branch, something to reach out to hook her with. He dared not go in himself.

Who knew how deep it was? He could be swept away, carried, tossed, and

bludgeoned down to the lake. He lay down, stretched out as far as he could

above the foaming noise, reached out his hand—and a surge of water lifted

the dog forward. He had her ear! He hauled, grasped her ruff with his other

hand, dragged and pulled her—rolled on his back, lay gasping and panting.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 0 5

The dog crouched beside him, shivering, cold, and frightened. Vomited water

over his arm.

Opening his eyes, Natanlius surveyed where he had plunged down, his

passing marked by torn branches, battered ferns, a few dislodged rocks. How

in all Hades was he to get up again? Grasping the dog by her collar, he set her

at the sheer wall, pushing her rump before him, encouraging her to scrabble