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He would have to let Gwenhwyfar go. Why was
he keeping
her with him? For his sons to
see the failure he was becoming?
To
lose even this last tentative strand of his wife’s love, because
of these endless, mire-bound, squabbles? He patted
Hasta’s
neck, walked away, his cloak
and shoulders hunched. But if he
let
her go, he would lose the woman who made him feel ten feet
tall and
capable of doing anything.

The guard on watch
called a good-night, Arthur returned the
salute.
As well it was raining; lonely tears could not be seen in the rain.

§ XX

The river Gwy was high. Fed by rain-swollen
tributaries, it
lapped over low-lying banks,
swamping tracts of grass and reeds.
A
fallen tree, with tendril branches and half its trunk covered
by
swirling water, became an inviting place for the children to play.

Llacheu leant forward,
clinging perilously to the exposed part
of
the trunk. With the tip of his tongue poking between his lips in concentration,
he prodded a stick into the debris caught between the submerged branches,
raised a triumphant cheer as
the current
swirled away dead leaves, twigs and the sodden body
of a fledgling bird.
On the bank, his feet squelching, Gwydre
threw
stones into the racing torrent, making a challenge of
aiming each further than the last. Amr, four
months short of his
second birthday, stamped his sandals in the mud,
delighting in
the delicious sucking noise
and the cool squelch of mud oozing
between his toes.

It had been a warm, pleasant day. Arthur was in a good mood;
the cattle had been delivered and the
abbot had sent a letter of apology. Words spoken in public would have been
preferable,
but Arthur realised those
occasions when it was best not to push
Fortuna’s help over-far.
Tomorrow, the tents would be taken down and they would move on.

The sun was setting.
Pink sky, behind heavily shadowed trees
ranked in solemn row along the opposite bank, their
reflections
casting black and distorted, onto
liquid-gold water. Summer
sounds; a chorus of
evening song birds, unobserved little
animals
rustling their way through concealed grass tunnels, the
rushing gurgle
of flood water and the distant noise of camp. Men laughing, a dog barking, a
horse neighing. Somewhere close, two men practising with their swords, heavy
grunts and the clash of metal on shield. A sudden triumphant shout as one
went down. A contented, warm, summer’s evening
with time
to relax tense muscles and ease the mind away from the brash
business of the day. A quiet evening for the passing of quiet pleasures.

Arthur felt happier with
himself, in good humour. He
threaded fresh bait to
his line, cast. The fish were biting well.

At dawn, three Turmae of
Artoriani had ridden around to
the rear of the
monastery. Whether Arthur’s men would have fire-arrowed the hotch-potch of
scattered buildings if the abbot
had gone
back on his word was another matter. It was a bluff the
good abbot was
not prepared to call; the gates opened, the beef cattle were driven out. The
matter was settled.

Arthur hastened to his feet, jerked his line
from the water, landing a fat perch. Llacheu, having grown bored with freeing
debris, darted forward to catch the wriggling fish.

‘
Learn
where and when to fish, my son.’ Arthur winked at
the lad. ‘The trick is
to dangle the right bait.’ He watched with approval as the boy brought a stone
down on the fish’s head, killing it.

Llacheu nodded, understanding his father was
giving him a lesson in more than fishing.

Rebaiting the line, Arthur eyed Amr squatting
close to the water’s edge. To his mind, he would rather face the agony of a
slow death in the world than the alive-death of confinement within a Holy
order. ‘Come away from the water, lad, it runs over-swift. Llacheu, keep a
weather eye on your youngest brother, huh?’ The eldest boy sighed. Loving his
two brothers dearly, he would not see harm come to either of them, but the
burden of responsibility fell as a heavy weight on his shoulders at times.
Amr yelled protest as Llacheu, a little too
roughly, dragged him
away from danger. The pig-squealing disapproval
changing abruptly to a chuckle of pleasure on finding himself dumped near an
ooze of thick, virgin mud. He jumped into it, slipped, lost his balance and sat
down heavily.

Llacheu laughed, his second brother Gwydre,
and their da
joining in. Amr flung back his
head and screeched a thin, high,
wail of displeasure, his pride wounded
and bottom uncomfortable.

‘
Mithras!
Look at the state of the boy!’ Arthur said, laughing.
‘We’ll need to clean him up before heading back
to camp. Your
mam will flay my hide
if she sees him like this.’ Making an effort
to suppress his amusement, Arthur crossed to the child and
lifted
him, whirling him round until the boy’s tears became chuckles of pleasure, then
set him down on his feet higher up the bank.

‘I’ll catch one more fish for our supper,
then we will go.’ A kingfisher plopped into the water on the far bank. Arthur
watched fascinated as the bright-coloured bird flashed down, re-emerging with a
writhing silver fish in its beak. Rainbow-
coloured
water trailed behind as it fought with sodden wings for
flight, the
extended rays from sinking sunlight changing each cascading droplet to a shower
of glistening jewels. The line
pulled. Arthur
sat at attention, began to ease the thing in. ‘I
have something big!’ he
shouted, standing now, struggling to hold the jerking rod in his hands.

Llacheu danced beside his
father, yelling with delight.
Gwydre joined them,
the excitement contagious.

‘Pull it in!’

‘It’s a pike!’

‘Na, a river monster!’
Arthur braced his legs, fighting to
land the huge fish
thrashing for its freedom
in the churning water, he loosened the
line
a moment, began winding it in slowly, give and take,
gently, gently ... suddenly the line broke. Arthur
over
balanced and toppled backwards,
falling into soft mud where he
lay winded, arms and legs spread. His two
sons rocked with laughter.

‘
Now you are as mucky as
Amr!’

‘You’ll have to wash as well!’
Up-river, a cry. A splash. The
laughter ceased abruptly.

‘
It was a monster,’ Gwydre
whispered, fearful, clutching at his brother’s arm. ‘He’s angry with you, Da,
for catching him.’ Arthur was on his feet walking along the bank, frowning,
then movement, panic. Whirling to Llacheu, he
pushed the
boy fiercely in the direction of camp, shouting, Run boy, get
help. You’re brother’s fallen in the river!’ As he spoke, he was pulling off
his sword belt, his boots, flinging them aside.

Amr was clutching wildly at a branch of the
half-submerged
tree. White-faced, eyes
terrified, mouth open in a long,
soundless, scream.

Arthur plunged into the
water, the coldness hitting his
stomach, taking his
breath. He caught hold of the trunk as the current grasped his legs, trying to
pull them from under him.
With added
rainfall the fast-flowing river was a torrent of
swirling eddies and undercurrents, strong enough to sweep away
a man. Not daring to let go his tenuous hold,
Arthur eased
himself forward, forcing himself to move cautiously,
fighting the clamour of racing fear for his son.

He reached the end of the trunk, fought his
way through the tangle of branches, unaware that he was talking, calling
reassurance, encouraging Amr to hang on, hold on, Da was coming. But whether it
was the branch snapping, the river’s
persistent
drag or the boy’s lack of strength — happen all three —
Amr’s hold gave
way.

Arthur shouted
something, he knew not what, as the boy was
taken
by the flow and disappeared beneath the surface. Arthur plunged, struggled to
keep his footing and went down himself.
Black,
choking water engulfed him. He struggled, thrusting
with his legs and
arms towards the light. He broke the surface
gasping for air, coughing and spitting
water from his mouth.
A few yards
down-river he saw the boy. A frightened face, a
chubby hand reaching
frantically for his father.

Arthur struck out, driving his arms through
resisting water, trying and trying again to swim across the current but the
river lifted his body and surged away with it, taking him too far downstream.
Again and again Arthur desperately attempted to reach the boy but the river
swept him aside. He saw Amr
disappear, saw
for one last time the small hand clutching
helplessly at life. He tried
to turn, tried to swim up against the flow, found himself going under, down and
down. His limbs ached, breath rattled in his chest, hammering drums pounded
between his ears. Easier to give in. Easier to cease fighting, to let the river
have him.

Somehow, he clawed his
way to the surface, death gurgling in
his lungs. He was distantly aware of shouting, of a rope
whistling
through the air, landing an arm’s length beyond him. Arthur snatched it, his
hands clutching gratefully, fiercely, his body falling limp as men on the bank
hauled in the line.

On the bank,
numbed and shivering, Arthur crouched on hands and knees, vomiting. Someone was
speaking. Cei. ‘You did all you could Arthur.’

‘
Na.’ He coughed. Na, not
enough.’ Others, white-faced and stunned, crowded close and silent,
words inadequate. Arthur clutched at Cei, hauled
himself
upright. His legs were trembling; body and hands shaking
violently. ‘Mithras God, Cei. My son.’

‘
Let me
through! Let me by!’ Gwenhwyfar struggled through
the knot of gathered men. Close behind her,
panting, eyes wide
with fear, Llacheu.

‘Where is my son?’ she was screaming. Her
hair fell loose from its binding pins, billowed about her frightened face. Her
glazed eyes darted, questioning. Men fell back, tight of throat, as she
approached Arthur.

‘What have you done with my son?’ Her fists
pounded his
chest; the words breaking into a
shrill cry as she shouted,
‘Where is Amr?’ Her hands clutched at his
tunic, the material ripping beneath the gold buckle fastening. Arthur took the
blows, not feeling them, not noticing them,
feeling only a
blank emptiness.

‘l could not reach him,’ he said, his own
voice quavering. ‘The river took him from me.’ Gwenhwyfar stared at her
husband, her hands falling still by her side. ‘Why are you standing here?’ she
asked tonelessly. ‘Why are you not searching for him?’ She dodged suddenly
around Arthur. Scrabbling along the bank, heedless of brambles tearing at her
skirts and thick mud
sucking at her boots.
She scanned the sweep of river, frantically
calling her son’s name.

Her foot slipped. She tried to steady
herself, but the ground
was treacherous and
she slid with a cry into the water. Instantly, hands were on her, trying to
haul her to safety but she turned on
the helpers, snarling defiance,
pushing them away. Clinging to reeds and low branches she struggled forward,
half swimming, half wading; her breath sobbing. Arthur dropped into the water
beside her, the end of the rope knotted secure
around his waist.
He reached his arms to Gwenhwyfar, pulling her to him.
‘We are searching, Cymraes, we will find him. Cei has already sent
men downstream but it is growing dark, there is
little we can do
till morning.’

‘My son is in the river!’ she screamed. ‘We
must find him!’ Distraught, her fingers plucked at Arthur’s restraining hands,
trying to break away from him. She kicked out, but
her wet
skirts were wrapped around her legs, her footing gave way and
she tumbled backwards dragging Arthur with her. As water swirled over their
heads the rope tightened, saving them both from being swept away. Arthur
staggered, gained firm ground. Anxious men on the bank hauled at the rope,
willing hands
gripping them, bringing them to
safety. Blindly Gwenhwyfar
hit out, catching Arthur’s face. One of her
rings scored a deep line across his cheek.