Shadow of the King (93 page)

were away on patrol, and those left would eat and drink at the feast, and be

unarmed. The fight would be brief and bloody, for his men would have their

daggers. It would spill over beyond the Hall and Gwenhwyfar would be so tragi-

cally killed along with the bastard-born Medraut. In the confusion that would

follow, Amlawdd would take command, in the name of Aurelius Caninus, and

set the lad as king.

That was the plan, except Amlawdd was not talented as a leader, preferring his

drink and his women rather than concentrating on important timing. A moment

after Cywyllog had admonished Amlawdd for delaying, Bedwyr unexpectedly

rose from table and retreated through the door into Gwenhwyfar’s private

chamber before Caninus had managed to hurl even a single abusive remark.

She was already abed, reading through Arthur’s last-sent letter. She greeted

Bedwyr with a smile, the dogs stretched before the hearth-fire doing no more

than lift their heads and thump their tails in greeting. “I complained of a head-

ache. What is your excuse?”

His hands in the air, palms flat, Bedwyr blew out his cheeks, shook his head.

“Preservation of sanity?” He quipped. “My God, am I glad we do not have a surfeit

of men out there—the excitement is so riveting they would be slashing their own

throats to provide entertainment.” He gestured with his hand and expression,

asking whether he had permission to enter the chamber. She nodded.

5 6 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

He crossed to the table, poured himself wine, asked by raising the wine jug

whether she wanted any. She did. “I cannot stay long, I will need keep a watch

on the Hall, have merely come to bid you a good night,” he said, his back to

her as he poured, “and to assure you all will be well.”

There were times when Bedwyr wondered how he survived without having

Gwenhwyfar as his own. Days when he remembered how they had talked and

laughed together as a betrothed couple. Long nights when the intimacy they

had shared made his manhood throb with wanting. His hand shook slightly

as he poured her wine. She looked so lovely sitting there. He could not have

her, she could not be his…Never would he betray Arthur, except in thought.

Never at all would she.

She must have read something of those thoughts for as he turned, a goblet in

each hand, she said, “When my husband asks if I have been faithful to him, I

will only answer him with the truth, Bedwyr.”

He stood, his head drooping, staring at the floor.

“I am fond of you, we are friends. But this truth I must tell you, I have never

loved you as I love Arthur. Nor shall I.”

Putting a brave face on his torment, Bedwyr settled a smile onto his mouth

as he lifted his head. “I am thinking I may travel again soon. I have a fancy to

see the great pyramid tombs where the Egyptian kings lie buried. And Athens.

There are many places I still have not seen.”

Holding out her hand for him to bring her the wine, Gwenhwyfar returned

his smile. “I will never stop you from following where your feet must lead,

but do not waste your life running from what must be, Bedwyr.” As he began

walking towards her, she added, the laughter shining in her eyes, “You have

loved with many a young girl, my friend. I would advocate you find for yourself

a wife—why not a dark-skinned Egyptian?”

Bedwyr’s amusement echoed her own, he lengthened his stride, was

distracted by a sudden rise of noise from the Hall. He turned his head, forgot

the dog stretched in sleep between himself and the bed, tripped. Lurching

forward, Gwenhwyfar’s reaction was to try and steady him. One goblet fell

from his grasp, the other, as he overbalanced, cascaded wine down the front of

her undershift and over the bed furs, splashed down Bedwyr’s tunic. Soaked,

the red stain rapidly spreading, the fine-woven silk clung to her flesh, empha-

sising the shape of her breasts. Throwing the emptied goblet aside, concerned,

Bedwyr patted at the patch of wetness, knelt in a puddle of wine collected in

a fold of the bed fur; when he tried to move away quickly, became entangled

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 6 3

and tumbled forward, pinning Gwenhwyfar to the bed. She lay laughing help-

lessly, beneath him.

P

Medraut considered he would probably be enjoying himself more, were he to

be stuck, horseless, in the middle of open moorland during the blackest part of

the night, while a thunderstorm raged. Even the annual clearing of the midden

heap would be preferable to hearing one more of Aurelius Caninus’s grossly

exaggerated tales of personal bravado. Because they had spent a while at the

same school together, Caninus had assumed Medraut would want to share in

the entertainment and conversation of his friends. There was nothing further

from Medraut’s preference, but without offering insult, he had no choice but to

accept the invitation to sit with the rowdy, half-drunken group. Mind, Medraut

himself had as much wine in his belly—if not more.

“Not dancing?” Caninus, breathing heavily and sweating profusely from the

exertion of the spirited reel just finished, flopped onto the bench. He reached

over, took the wine from Medraut’s hand, and thirstily gulped the remainder of

its contents, wiped residue from his moustache. “I suppose with a wife as sour

as yours, you would not have much inclination for dancing though, eh?” He

nudged at Medraut’s elbow, pointed at the redhead Amlawdd had been leering

over for most of the evening. “Now there’s one worth a tumble in the hay! I

would like to have more than just a look at those paps of hers!” He held the

goblet for a slave to refill.

“You ought try for a whore, get your exercise on her if your wife’s not

accommodating you.” He guffawed, nudged Medraut’s arm again. “Even if she

is, a little extra riding never did a man harm!” He turned to his friends, sharing

the jest with them.

Although lank, Caninus was a young man with deceptive strength in his

muscles; had very much the Pendragon look about him—brown hair, piercing

eyes, long, straight nose. That was as far as the resemblance went, for his char-

acter and poor judgement were crude. Arrogant, churlishly abusive, and more

often than not, drunk and in the company of whores. It was as well his kindred

were no more. The two who had brought him into the world, such gentle,

kind-hearted people, now long cold in their graves, and Ambrosius Aurelianus,

his grandsire, a man of God. If ever there was a contender for a changeling

babe, then Caninus was the one.

One of the men nudged Caninus’s elbow, dipped his head across the Hall,

pointed. “Bedwyr.”

5 6 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“Well, would you believe it!” Caninus chortled. “We have found gold, my

friends. Pure gold!” He eye-searched the crowded Hall, Arthur’s men clustered

in their groups to one side, Amlawdd’s to the other. Amlawdd himself, talking

to Medraut’s scowling wife. “Lord Bedwyr has played himself for a fool!” He

stood, caught Amlawdd’s eye, urgently waved at him to come across the Hall.

“What do you mean?” Medraut asked, suspicious, brows furrowed, part

of his attention watching Cywyllog leave through the Hall’s side door, part

glancing around the Hall for his father’s cousin. He had been sitting at that table

over there a moment past.

Incredulous, Caninus regarded Medraut. Did he really not understand?

Was the oaf either so drunk or so blind? Hah! Was it any wonder he would

never make king? “Why think you we were sent here? Because Amlawdd is

a great friend of Arthur’s? Because I am his choice of heir? The Pendragon

assumed Bedwyr would not dare bed the queen while we were here to keep

watch on the both of them. Obviously the Pendragon miscounted the lure of

a whore’s enticement!”

Amlawdd was striding over, his authority parting groups of men and women

before him.

“We have him, Amlawdd!” Caninus crowed. “Right into our hands, we

have good reason for confrontation and not a word out of place said from our

side.” He indicated Gwenhwyfar’s chamber door, his grin broadening to match

that glowing on Amlawdd’s face.

Swinging around to face all those gathered in the Hall, Amlawdd raised his

arms, roared in his mighty voice, “Traitors! Damned, lying traitors!” Eyes,

bodies, attention, swivelled to Amlawdd, conversation stopped, laughter ceased.

In a few quick strides, Amlawdd was crossing the room, drawing a dagger from

his boot. “Bedwyr and the queen, in there!” He pointed the dagger at the door

ahead of him, “Making mockery of the Pendragon!”

Daggers were coming into the hands of others, Amlawdd’s men, their drunk-

enness sobering quickly. The few Artoriani looked to one another helplessly,

bewildered. What was this? What was happening?

Medraut, too, was confused. Words reverberating in his wine-addled mind.

“
If we are to survive the coming slaughter…show support for Caninus
…”
God’s truth,

what was this? He leapt to his feet, hauled at Caninus’s arm, saw the dagger

glinting there, in his hand.

“This is treason!” he cried, attempting to wrestle the dagger from the other

young man’s grip. “You cannot displace my father!”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 6 5

Grappling this unexpected opponent, Caninus attempted to shake Medraut

off, tried to alter the grip on the dagger. It was no worry to him if Medraut died

here, or later. His face was close to Medraut’s as they struggled together, breath

hot on each other’s cheeks. “Why defend him? What has your father done for

you? Does he treat you with the respect deserved for a son? Does he listen to

you, take note of what you say? Did you not warn him his wife was bedding

his cousin? Well, now we have proof!”

Breathing hard, Medraut knocked the dagger aside; it fell to the floor,

skimmed away a few yards. There was confusion all around, men beginning to

fight, Arthur’s men, unarmed, attempting to defend the chamber doorway with

weapons of stools, the jagged ends of a broken flagon. Amlawdd’s men striking

at them with sharpened blades.

“You cannot do this!” Medraut screamed, “I will not allow you to depose

my father!”

Caninus hit him, a punch to the jaw that sent him reeling, fastened his hand

around Medraut’s throat. “Who are you to oppose me? You, the bastard spawn

of a bitch who thought nothing of spreading her legs for her own brother!”

Medraut’s hand had been trying to force the grip away from his windpipe.

He let go, his skin draining white. Caninus released his grip, licked his dry lips,

took a small step backward. That information had been told him in confidence

by Amlawdd; it was to be used later, once supremacy had been secured for their

own purpose, used to gain sympathy among the Christians, to discredit Arthur,

to bring to themselves the advantage of righteous conquest. Once made public

knowledge, Amlawdd could not use it to full advantage. It was to remain their

final ambush, their secret weapon.

The words hammered in Medraut’s ears.
Mother’s brother. Mother’s brother
.

Arthur was his mother’s brother? The sickness rose in his throat, caught at his

guts, twisting and crushing. Was this true? Was this just another lie, another

trick? Who would say with certainty this spread of dung was lies? Arthur would

know, but he was not here…Gwenhwyfar?

With a snarl, Medraut shoved Caninus aside, pushed his way through the

melee of men, across the Hall to the private door. Arthur’s men let him through,

as he was the king’s son. His fingers clicked the latch, thrust it downward,

propelling the door open. In his rage and sodden distress, marched through

with no announcement, no permission to enter.

Stood speechless, enraged, on the far side of the threshold.

Forty-One

The numbing agony had taken Medraut across the Hall and through

that door, but he stood inside, the impetus gone, disbelief sweeping

intention aside. My God! He thought, I was right. Caninus, Amlawdd…we

are right.

Before him, Bedwyr romping with Gwenhwyfar on the bed; laughing

together, arms around each other. Before his father, he had been disgraced;

yet all the while he had spoken right: she was the whore he had said her

to be. The surge of passionate rage set loose in a great roar. He had no

weapon, needed none. He leapt the distance between door and bed, his

hands going around Bedwyr’s throat, feet kicking, teeth biting. Startled,

Bedwyr attempted to push the assailant off, rolled from the bed, across

the floor, in a flurry of desperate manoeuvres. Gwenhwyfar screamed, her

reaction—Amlawdd had sent men in to murder both her and Bedwyr—

justified as men pushed in through the door, snarling and fighting each

other, some with blades drawn. She fumbled for the dagger beneath her

pillow, leapt for the one tumbling furiously with Bedwyr, was dragged from

him to be flung across the room, her back slamming into the timber wall,