Shadow of the King (85 page)

stag. He wore it on the second finger of his right hand. On the smallest finger

sat a battered gold ring that had once been his father’s.

He was almost tempted to stay, build himself a hut, learn how to take the raw

ingots of silver and turn them into such wondrous items. What a thing to do

with your hands and mind! A king’s son become a silversmith?
Na
, he had duties

and responsibilities at Caer Cadan. Well enough to take his ease for a few days,

his father would not begrudge him that, but to take more? He could not.

5 1 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

The journey homeward was not so buoyant, no Bedwyr as company and

only a sullen wife to greet him. He had waited until late morning before giving

the order to mount up, hoping the grey skies that had persisted these few days

would clear, but the drizzle fell heavier, with a distant rumble of thunder. No

choice but to leave in the rain.

The road was crowded by standards of normal travel, traffic slowed by the

ponderous lumbering of ox-carts making their slow way through the mud,

to or from the mines. There was much cursing and grumbling, sour faces and

hunched shoulders. Many of the slaves hauling at stuck wheels and recalcitrant

beasts, Medraut noticed, were either northern-born or Saex. Twice he passed

rich-dressed merchants coming from the direction of the coast, again, Saxons.

He supposed it was economically wise to sell the pigs of lead to foreigners. To

the Saex? But then, trade was trade.

He decided to leave the road, divert to follow the river, for no reason, save

for a whim. His escorts grumbled between themselves, soon silenced by a stern

look. Then his horse went lame, a stone, a jagged rock, whatever, had sliced

into the underside of his foot. It would be a long walk for one of the men,

obliged to exchange mounts, unless it was rested a while. Eagerly, Medraut

seized the excuse to delay. They would make camp by the river, allow the

horse to stand in the coldness of the water. By morning the rain might have

stopped, the cut healed well enough.

One of the escort mentioned the caves. “Up through the woods,” he said,

indicating the faint path. “There is a woman up there knows all about healing

and such.”

One of the men laughed.

At the time, Medraut wondered why.

Twenty-Six

How foolish! Medraut felt awkward, ill at ease, and ridiculously

immature. He stood, embarrassed, one step inside the open doorway,

fiddling with his wet, woollen cap, dripping rain on the earth floor of the

bothy. She sat before her fire, her skirt, wet-stained at the hem, pulled up over

her knees, her bare toes almost in the embers. Her legs were sun-browned,

scraped smooth of hair as were her arms. Dark hair, damp. She had recently

been out in the rain then. Her eyes and lips were coloured with the ochres and

paints some women wore. His wife Cywyllog did not, for painting the face, she

said, was a blasphemy against God. Medraut could not see how. It made this

woman attractive and alluring. Interesting.

“Well,” she said, having scrutinised him up and down, twice over, “I see

a man before me, yet he has the shyness of the boy about him.” Her heart

was hammering.
Mother!
She had never expected him to come here.
Mother be

protective, not here!
But then, what had she expected? Never to see him, never

to meet accidentally, never to have their paths cross? By remaining in Gaul, she

could have ensured that. Not by coming here, so close to where he was. She

retained the seductive smile, for she was experienced at that. You could not be

a woman who pleasured men without that ability to smile, to laugh, to give the

illusion of enjoyment. While inside you were screaming.

“My horse is lame,” Medraut stammered, looking at the floor, the bothy

wall, anywhere but at her and those slim, enticing legs. “I hoped you might

have a suitable salve. I have payment.” He unhooked a small wineskin from his

shoulder, hung its strap on a hook directly to his left on the wall, atop a cloak,

wet also from the rain.

The woman inclined her head in acceptance, leant backward, resting her

weight on one elbow. If he could come, what of Arthur? The smile at the

corner of her lips twitched, gloating, triumphant. If only he would, how

much easier it would be! She did not turn to look, for she knew the jar. It was

5 1 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

there, on the left-hand shelf beside the casket of jewellery. A small pottery

vase, well stoppered with wax, its contents a dark, bitter liquid. Intended, one

day, for him.

“I have a salve to heal all needs,” she said.
And potions to end them
, she thought.

Medraut knew his answering smile gave him the appearance of a full-moon

fool, knew also how red his face was burning. What had he expected to find

here in the name of God? A hag, a curled old woman, muttering toothless

over her foul-stinking remedies? Now he understood the men’s laughter. “A

woman up there, knows all about healing and such.”…Aye, and such! His

blush deepened. Why had he come here? Why did he not go, walk away?

Because she would mock him, laugh at him? He could see it happening, see

himself hurrying back down the hill, slipping and sliding on the rain-wet grass;

her standing in this doorway, hands on hips, head back, laughing. Cywyllog

mocked him, though not with laughter. Hers was the censuring of long silences

or harsh, narrow-eyed glances and the bite of unnecessary sarcasm.

He stood there in the doorway, uncertain what to do or say. Chewed his lip.

Damn the woman, she was not making this easy for him!

“Are you to come inside?” she asked, cocking her eyes briefly in the direc-

tion of a blanket-covered bed to one corner. Inviting, luring. Cywyllog’s was a

box-bed, hard and unyielding. Like her.

“I just want the salve,” he managed, through dry mouth and uneasy breath.

Shrugging her shoulder, Morgaine unfolded herself, came to her feet, her brace-

lets chiming, the blue-painted patterns tattooed along her arms rippling, giving the

illusion that the twined shapes of snakes and vine leaves were slithering up the skin.

Her skirt tumbled to fal as it should, the bright colour attractive but hiding those

long, lovely legs. The thought raced across Medraut’s mind that he would have

liked to have seen higher—a thought hastily thrust aside. His eyes, however, were

focused on those painted patterns. Where had he seen such before?

“A lame horse? What form of lameness?” Twice she needed to ask the questions.

“His foot, a cut.”

She nodded, gestured with her hand that he must step aside from the doorway

as she needed to pass through. “My salves I keep in a room to the back of this.”

Embarrassment re-emerging, he hastily stepped a pace to the side. A chance to

glance around while she was gone.

The bothy was wattle-built, reed-thatched, windowless. A central hearth-

place with tripod and cooking pot suspended over it, the normal fug of smoke

gathered beneath the roof, writhing its way through the narrow smoke-hole.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 1 5

The bed, a stool; shelves crammed with pots and jars; a wooden chest, for her

garments, no doubt. Cooking utensils. A table, small, ornate, out of place here

in this hovel. It was a wealthy person’s piece of furniture, exquisitely made,

inlaid with ebony and some bright, shining, coloured stuff such as you would

see inside an opened oyster shell. It was not that which drew his attention, but

the things laid out upon it. A whalebone comb, an array of ivory and silver

hairpins, and a bronze mirror. The handle was twisted around itself, decorated

to resemble a tree, the branches and leaves spreading upward to form the back

of the polished metal mirror. He wandered over to it, his hand going out,

almost as if it had motion all its own, to lift the object up. He knew he would

find a doe carved, half-hidden, timid, behind one of those stemmed branches.

He almost dropped the thing as he heard her returning to the door, his skin

prickling, drained white; his hand, his body, trembling. He took the pot from

her hand, ran from the place. He steadied himself, forced himself to walk,

dignified, calm. Ignored her call.

“Come again, Medraut. You will always be welcome.”

Twenty-Seven

September 486

Bedwyr found Arthur relaxing within the contented security of

Gwenhwyfar’s family domain. Gwynedd, the land of sky-tipped mountain

and soaring eagle; of the proud, red deer, the bristled ugliness of the boar, and

the slink of the grey wolf.

For several months they had resided among the splendour of the mountains,

Arthur himself disappearing for a few weeks to ride north, to Caer Lueil and

beyond, to the High Lands rolling, seemingly forever, beyond the Roman

Wall. The monument to a distant era that stretched from sea to sea, that was

now obsolete and rapidly becoming neglected and ruinous. In the north, Arthur

was Supreme King in name only. They outwardly honoured him, paid a minor

annual tribute, fawned and smiled while he resided overnight in the Hall or

settlement. Forgot him as soon as his banner dipped out of sight into the next

valley. It was enough for Arthur. If the peace held, if none cared or dared to

challenge his ultimate authority, then so be it, leave it as it was. It would remain

so until his ending, and then…who knew?

Arthur had returned to Caer Arfon three days earlier, was assisting in the

breaking-in of a young colt, a fiery bay with a will of his own.

Teaching a horse to respond to a rider’s wish was no quick, single-morning

task. To train an animal for the requisites of war—as Arthur needed—took skill

and time and patience, took the knowing of a horse’s mind. It was all about

trust and respect. Beat a horse, hurt or frighten it, the horse would serve, but

unwillingly, with fear and wariness. Gentle him, and the animal would do

anything, go anywhere. The colt had passed through its third summer, had

been handled from a yearling, taught to lead quietly, stand, turn. To wear

saddle and bridle. The next stage, to carry a rider.

Already comfortable with the saddle and used to having a man lean over

his back, the colt stood quiet for his handler while Arthur made a fuss of him,

patting, stroking, talking softly, fondling his ears and muzzle, giving a small

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 1 7

handful of corn. Gently, taking his time, Arthur moved along the colt’s neck,

patting and stroking, talking, almost crooning, nonsense words.

“There’s a lad, handsome boy. Your sire would be proud of you, your mother

elated! There, my son of the wind. Stand, my beauty, stand.” Arthur leant his

weight over the saddle, his feet firm on the ground. The colt’s ears flicked

backwards, but unconcerned, listening more to the soothing voice rather than

being attentive to what was happening. Arthur eased his whole weight over,

feet dangling, and then, judging the right moment, sat astride, calm, immobile,

hands resting loose on his thighs, legs dangling. The colt was more interested

in that second handful of corn that Arthur’s helper was offering him, a lad who

had the trust of many of the young horses. Relaxed, in no hurry, Arthur took

up the reins. He nodded, clicked his tongue as the handler, leading the horse

simultaneously, gave the order to walk on.

Within half of an hour, Arthur was directing the colt alone, following the

fence of the circular gyrus, the horse training ground; he tapped the horse’s

sides with his heels, used his voice and tongue, and the colt broke into a

rhythmic trot.

Arthur was pleased, a fine animal, a good horse for the Artoriani.

“A Roman once said of the Syrians,” a voice called laconically from inside

the gateway, “the only mares they could ride with any efficiency were the

whores of the local brothels, and even then, they could not maintain a distance.

It pleases me to see that we have higher standards here in Britain!”

Looking across the sanded ground of the gyrus, wearing a deep frown of

annoyance at having his concentration interrupted, Arthur burst into a wide,

gladdened, grin. “Bedwyr!” he exclaimed, “By all that is good! Bedwyr!” He

halted the colt, beckoned for the handler to come forward, take him, slid down

from the animal, giving him the last of the corn from his waist pouch and

a rewarding pat. Strode across to the gateway, arms outstretched, delighted.

“You are home? Ah, it is good to see you!”

The men embraced, looked each other over for signs of age, illness, or harm,

found none, embraced enthusiastically again.

“Jesu, but you have led me a merry dance!” Bedwyr complained, as arms

about each other’s shoulders, they left the training ground. “First, I ride to Caer

Cadan, then to Dinas Emrys, then here. You are more difficult to pin with a