Shadow of the King (84 page)

for a foot-hold, found a hand-hold for himself, then a low branch, and heaved.

Clutching hold of anything firm that held his weight, breathing hard, he worked

his way upward, thrusting the dog before him—and hands clasped at her, took

her, came again to grasp his hand, pull him up that last yard, and he lay panting,

winded, more than a few scratches on his face and hands.

Archfedd was crying. She rubbed at his hands, his back, not knowing what

to do for him, how to thank him. Feebly, he pointed at the dog. “I’m in one

piece, see to the dog,” he gasped.

I wonder sometimes
, he thought,
whether women are worth all the trouble they cause.

Then Archfedd was beside him again, her arms going around him, her head

burrowing into his shoulder. He put his hand on her hair, held her close, until

her trembling eased.

Aye, he answered his own thought, happen they are.

Twenty-Four

August 486

Caer Cadan, the king’s stronghold, was subdued without the

presence of Arthur and the others; Medraut even missed Archfedd.

At least her criticisms were offset by laughter and a love of life. Cywyllog’s

continuous censuring was melancholic, her character dismal. Even during the

celebration of their wedding she had barely smiled.

Why in the name of God had he wed her? What had possessed him? What

foolish idiocy had driven him to want her for his own?
Na
, that was not wholly

true. He had not pursued her. It had just happened, last winter it had been,

during the time of the Nativity Festival. As often before, Lord Geraint’s widow

and her family had come as guests—with her, Aurelius Caninus.

Caninus, grandson to Ambrosius Aurelianus, inheritor of all that noble man’s

estate, and kin to Arthur below Medraut and the whore-son Cerdic, his heir. He had

none of the honour of his father, Cadwy, or the gentleness of his mother, Ragnall.

That good woman who had, with her daughter, passed into God’s Kingdom from

the ravages of fever barely three months after Badon. Caninus was a lad new into

manhood, and overproud of it, he had an arrogant charm that drew the maids

like dul -painted moths to the bril iance of the flame. Young smiles did not see

behind the handsome mask of confident, carefree boastfulness. A girl could be so

easily flattered at exaggerated compliment and expansive attention. He danced, he

talked. Performed, Medraut thought, like a dressed actor playing a well-rehearsed

part of the bachelor lover. A vain coxcomb, with, as Medraut knew, a vile streak

of cruelty. Watching him prance and exhibit before the ladies even Arthur had

become exasperated by his swaggering. To the maids, however, he brought a

merriment of honeyed words and blatant adulation. More than one was lured into

the tumble of the stored hay while Caninus resided at Caer Cadan.

One declining. Cywyllog.

When Ambrosius died there had been difficulty over deciding where the

students of his school ought to go. Many opted to remain within the monastery

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 0 7

of Ambrosium, but the younger ones, it was thought, would be better to go

to Brother Illtud at his new-founded school of Llan Fawr Illtud. The boys

Gildas and Maelgwyn went there, along with Davydd and Sampson. Caninus

went into Geraint’s household and Medraut returned with his father to Caer

Cadan—along with several of the noble-born young women who would take

position as handmaids to the queen.

Cywyllog was too sensible to listen to Caninus’s ridiculous flattery, too

practical to be taken in by his boasted prowess. And beside, she too knew of

his malicious streak—she wore the scar still, pale above her left temple, where

a stone meant for a litter of pups had cut deep.

Was Medraut impressed by this? Was it her stoic contempt that first drew

him to, as he thought, admire her? It must have been, for by the first budding

of early spring he had sought permission from his father to wed her. Arthur had

queried his choice, suggesting, although not outright, the girl was dour. And

now, these few months later? There was no passion, no warmth, and as for

love…Why had Cywyllog accepted him? The answer had come plain on the

night of their wedding. Vengeance.

She could not stab at Arthur, hurt him or his pride and manhood, but she

could hurt his son. Oh, there was enough to legitimise the marriage—Medraut

could not complain that she did not fulfil her duties, did not neglect him for any

need he might have, be it for a full belly of food or cleaned boots; a new-woven

cloak or the intimacies demanded by marriage. She was clever, Cywyllog. Too

late, Medraut had discovered that.

He would have liked to have ridden north to Gwynedd with his father, but

someone had to stay, someone need oversee the daily training of the war-horses,

listen to the complaints of the common people, make judgements, punish the

wrongdoers; take on the temporary responsibilities of a king. Medraut was not

king, but he was the king’s son, and deliberately Arthur had placed the burden

on his shoulders. In private, the Pendragon doubted the lad would have the

stamina or stomach to see the duty through. For that reason, he left others,

trusted, wiser men, to keep unobtrusive eye on him and the daily workings of

Caer Cadan, but like it or not, Medraut was his heir—unless he chose Caninus.

No, that was not an option Arthur would be tempted to consider.

Unexpected to them both, father and son, Medraut managed well, for he

had a good ear for listening, a knack for making sensible decision—save the

fool decision to wed with Cywyllog. Happen he had not inherited a talent

for the intricacies of battle and war, but the gift of the ability of organisation

5 0 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

and administration did not go unnoticed by all within the Caer, nor by his

father, who was impressed by the sending of regular written, accurate reports

and accounts.

Two events happened on the same day at Caer Cadan. News reached them

that Archfedd had wed with Natanlius, and Bedwyr arrived home from his

years of journeying abroad. Both filled the Caer with an air of celebration and

joy, and Medraut ordered a feast to be prepared for that evening’s Gather.

He had barely met Bedwyr, and then as a child when first he had come to

Britain. He remembered the tall, deep-voiced man only vaguely, for he had

disappeared soon after the victory of Badon. Medraut had been too young to

wonder why, but he had heard enough in the intervening years to understand

the reason. Hard it must be for a man who had loved a woman, expected to

take her as wife, then to see her happy with another. Aye, even if that other

was her husband.

He found Bedwyr an easy man to befriend, was disappointed to learn he

intended to ride on, north, to join with the Pendragon.

“I have been too long absent,” Bedwyr explained, sharing a congenial flagon

of wine with Medraut in the privacy of what was Arthur’s own chamber—

Medraut’s, while his father was away. “I doubt the ladies—nor the king—will

forgive me, were I to languish here waiting for their return.”

Talk of the women reminded Medraut of his half-sister’s marriage. Bedwyr

was pleased at the news, although he expressed astonishment at how the years

had passed him by. “She was a child when I left!” he declared. He asked after

Natanlius, probing as to his background, his family; seemed eager to meet

with him.

The marriage delighted Medraut. A husband might quieten that quick

temper of hers! Too much to hope Arthur would grant them a stronghold

somewhere far distant from Caer Cadan. Ah, to be free of Archfedd’s barbed

sarcasm! Raising his goblet of wine, he proposed long health and happiness to

the couple, enthusiastically echoed by Bedwyr.

Was it then Medraut had his idea? Or later, when they prized open the

sealing wax from a third flagon of Arthur’s best wine?

“I can take a few days to be gone from here—the Caer will run smooth

without me. Why do I not ride part of the way with you? I have a fancy to

purchase some especial bridal gift for my sister—what do you suggest?”

And so they had talked, and decided. Medraut would leave with Bedwyr in

two days. They would ride northwest into the White Hills, Bedwyr going on,

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northward to Gwynedd, Medraut to the place where the silver was extracted

from the mined lead and cast into bowls and plates, spoons and goblets. He

would purchase his half-sister something beautiful and expensive for her new

life as wife to Natanlius.

Happen it would impress her enough to ease the taint of mistrust that had

been between them both through all these years.

Twenty-Five

With an escort of four men, Medraut and Bedwyr rode from the

Caer soon after dawn, when the clouds were gathering to the west,

boasting rain. It would be welcome, for the sun had blazed too hot, too long.

A steady jogged pace, the two men easy in their conversation, talking as

if they had known each other many years, not but a few days. Crickets chir-

ruped among the heat-dried grass of the Summer Land; a lark sang; further on,

another. The steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves, the creak of leather, jingle

of harness. He ought not think such thoughts, but oh, how joyous it was to be

riding away from his wife for three, happen four days!

Yns Witrin to their left, the dark cone of the Tor rising to meet the louring

sky. His mother had come from there, so his father had told him. Where was

the place of his own birthing, Medraut wondered? Beside the lake that even

in the hottest summer lay at the foot of that pagan, mystical hill—or away up

there on the summit, where the eye of the Goddess could have watched over

his mother’s labour? Had his mother sat, gasping through the birth pains with

her back pressed against the great Stone, the sacred symbol of oath and eternity.

He could see it clearly, bright, illuminated, as the early sunlight struck against

its granite surface. He asked Bedwyr if he knew how tall it was. The older man

confessed he had never climbed the Tor to find out.

“Ask your father,” he suggested. “He has been up there.”

Medraut had heard it was the height of a man, difficult to judge from this

distance. One day, he must go up there. He had never liked to though, for

Ambrosius and the monks had instilled into the boys the evilness of the old

ways, the pagan places and heathen gods. That was all an anomaly to Medraut.

If the non-Christian way was so bad, why was Arthur a good king? Why did

people follow him, love him? The Pendragon was no Christian. But then,

there were not over-many within the Church who held a fondness for him.

His mother must have. The questions came marching in again. Easy to think,

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to puzzle as you rode, to let the mind wander and sieve through the many

possible answers.

Where was she, his mother? Alive, dead? Did he care? Not really. He barely

remembered her. Gwenhwyfar had been more of a mother than his natural

one—even though she had an inclination towards indifference. Gwenhwyfar

had no love for him, why should she? At least she had, from the first, shown

him kindness, had seen he wore warm clothes, had a full belly. Nursed him

through illnesses. Did he remember Morgaine for that? He could not even

recall her face.

The road was a good one, well maintained—that was something they could

no longer lay at Arthur’s feet: the main roadways were all repaired. Holes filled,

drainage ditches redug, and not just here in the king’s own land, elsewhere also.

Roads constructed with the strength of Rome running to north, south, and

west. East, ah, that was Saex territory. Let them see to their own arrangements,

Arthur said.

Medraut parted amicably from Bedwyr, who turned to join the road that

would meet eventually with the eastern bank of the Hafren River, and the

north. The White Hills loomed grey and cloud-covered, an undulating cluster

of hills cut by the rift of the Great Gorge and pocked by natural caves and

man-dug mines. A lure for Rome when first she made decision to claim Britain

for herself. Corn, fine hunting dogs. Tin and lead, all these plentiful in Britain.

From these mines came the lead to line the great bath at Aquae Sulis, to bring

water along the aqueducts into towns and fortresses. Lead and its precious

extraction, silver. Lead for making pewter and coffins.

The mines within the White Hills were still operable, although not so busy

and economical as they were during the height of Rome. Nearby, a cluster

of settlements where the craftsmen gathered, and it was to here Medraut was

headed, where he passed two contented days selecting the stuff he wanted to

purchase, and watching, fascinated, as the silversmith created his beautiful ware.

For himself, he purchased a silver ring, detailed with the figure of a running