Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (20 page)

‘
Mam will
never forgive me,’ Llacheu said in a small,
trembling voice.

‘There is naught to forgive.’ Enid, flustered and swollen-eyed from crying, bustled into the tent. Arthur lifted Llacheu
into his arms as though he were
still a
very small child and ducked out, leaving with, ‘Take care
of her, Enid,
Igo to bury my son.’ Arthur went alone, save for the body of Amr and the
companionship of his eldest son, Llacheu. He
carried the
wrapped bundle in his arms, Llacheu riding silent upon
Hasta, the horse plodding amiably at Arthur’s heels. They climbed the hill to
the ancient burial place, to the sanctity of the Stones. Without exchanging words,
father and son dug and scraped a cavity beneath the great capstone and laid the
husk that was yesterday a laughing child beneath its ancient weight. They
covered the red cloak that wrapped the body with
soil and rocks
and left, walking back to camp as quietly as they had
come.

By sun-up the next day,
the camp was empty. Charred circles
marked the fires,
flattened discoloured grass the tent pitches.
To
the north, the ground was churned with the passing of many
hooves. And
on the ridge of a hill, the body of a small boy lay
silent and cold among the shuffling spirits of the ancient
people.

March 462

§ XXII

Ambrosius Aurelianus
was ill. He had never been a particularly healthy man, and this winter’s damp
was taking its toll. A series
of purges had cleared
his stomach and bowels but still, after
these
weeks, most of whatever he ate refused to stay down. The
pains in his
stomach had eased, that was something to thank God for.

He huddled his cloak
tighter around his shoulders, wished
the
brazier gave a little more heat against the persistent draught
that
howled beneath the doors and between the shutters. The holy place at Venta
Bulgarium might be new-built but it was
damned
cold! He ought to have left for warmer Aquae Sulis, but
he was too ill
to travel. Unscrolling the parchment in his hand, he read the pleading for help
a second time. What could he do
to assist
Eboracum? Could he mount his horse and lead an army
against the raiding Northmen? – he could not even
stand
without the room spinning and his stomach heaving! In a burst of
impotent rage he flung the parchment from him, sending it
skipping and bouncing across the stone-flagged
floor. Eboracum
had sent this urgent, desperate word and Ambrosius could
do nothing! The militia of Britannia Secunda had refused to go. Damn it,
refused to go! The door opened, a cloying waft of perfume, the rustling sound
of a woman’s garments, boots tapping on the floor.
Winifred fluttered in. ‘Oh, my Lord, do I find you still not well?’
She
flustered around, tucking a second fur over Ambrosius’s
legs, ordering a slave to make up the brazier, fetch warmed
wine.
‘There is a most tall, and extremely dirty, young man waiting outside. Do I
have him sent away?’ Winifred managed to make the question into an order.

Ambrosius grunted.
Another reason he ought to be gone
from here. Lady
Winifred intruded, unannounced, too often. She had financed the building of
this holy community and
therefore saw it as
her own. Riding to worship in the grand and
imposing church every day,
she was a God-cursed nuisance!
Politely he
refused wine, expressed that he would be needing to
see that young man
again.

Shrugging indifference,
Winifred bent to retrieve the
scrolled parchment
from the floor, unrolled it, read before
Ambrosius
could protest. Shocked, she put a hand to her
throat. ‘Those poor people
of Eboracum! We must rouse the militia, send them northward immediately ...’
Ambrosius interrupted. ‘They will not go. They say
the
North is not their concern.’

‘Not even Eboracum? And with the Archbishop
there for a meeting of the synod?’

‘Not even for Eboracum or Patricius.’
Ambrosius rubbed the
cold of his fingers with
his other hand. Especially not for
Patricius,
an odious, pompous and greedy man who managed to
offend everyone, from
Ambrosius himself down to the poorest trader. He survived because he was
Archbishop, were he any other man a dagger would have been found in his back
long since.

Winifred stamped her foot. ‘This is treason!’

‘Alas, it is not. It is not for the militia
to march beyond our
boundaries. There is
only one who commands men who will go
anywhere at any time without
thought or question.’
Sinking to a stool,
Winifred’s expression was clearly
shocked.
‘But my Lord Ambrosius, there are many wealthy men
of the church at
Eboracum.’ Ambrosius had to admit the truth. ‘It is my belief that the Northmen
attacked knowing it, guessing these comfort-loving men would travel with their
worldly goods.’ He snorted. ‘Rich pickings, a synod of the Christian Church!’
For once, Winifred was at a loss for words.
Eboracum meant
nothing to her, it was just another decaying town meeting
its
death. Patricius would be a loss, for he
was a useful man to have
on her
side, a man easily bought by the right weight of a purse.
But the synod
was to discuss the appointment of an abbess for Venta Bulgarium ... she had
sent three chests of generous gifts
north
to assure her appointment! She stood and kicked the stool
across the
room. Three chests! Three! Her future, gone to that foul-minded woman of the
north – oh aye she knew it would have gone to Morgause, curse her, may the gods
blacken her teeth and womb! Curse the woman!
Faintly
amused, Ambrosius watched Winifred stalking,
angrily, about the room, her lips tight pressed, brows drawn. He
knew
she had been hoping for the revered position as abbess, a
position that would have generated her much power
and wealth
– as if she did not possess enough of both already. Ah, the
pity
about Eboracum, but there was, he
thought with a wry smile, at
least the one compensation! She stopped her
walking, whirled to face him. ‘What are we
to
do? We cannot let the North get away with such an outrage!’

‘There is only one
thing I can do.’ It was easier to say than he
had
imagined, and having said it, he felt a weight lift from him
and the constant feel of sickness ease from his
stomach. For all
his belief in Rome, he had known these last weeks that
it was
not working, this dividing of the
country. The Pendragon, for
all his many faults, was after all, a
brilliant commander.

§ XXIII

Balancing on a tilted
chair, legs resting on a table top and
crossed
at the ankles, Arthur read the words seemingly hastily scrawled on the wax
tablet just delivered into his hand by the officer of the Watch. He scanned the
message a second time.
‘Hah!’ His single bark
of laughter caused Cei to glance up from
the quartermaster’s list he was diligently checking. Arthur
handed
him the tablet. ‘Read that!’ Cei read. ‘God in Heaven, Arthur, this is hard to
believe!’
Arthur let the chair drop abruptly
to its four legs, rose
casually from his seat and walked behind Cei to
peer over the
man’s shoulder. ‘What part?
Hard to believe Lot of the North
has
at last made himself ready to raid south, or that Ambrosius is
begging
for my help?’
Carefully, Cei placed the communication onto a
precariously
balanced pile of similar tablets, sat a
moment, massaging his stubbled chin. A grin. ‘Both I think!’
Arthur laughed again, and leaning on Cei’s
shoulder,
reached across the mess of unread petitions and complaints on
the table for the wine flask, topped Cei’s goblet and cocked his
eyes at the hound pup busy chewing something
beneath the
table. He bent to retrieve what had once been a perfectly
good
boot before the dog’s teeth had been at
it, studied the torn
leather a moment
and tossed it back to the pup. He might as well have it, the boot was of no
more use. Sauntering to his
chair, Arthur sat, poured himself another
drink. ‘Do I answer my uncle, or ignore him?’
Cei
propelled himself upward from his stool, faced his cousin
and commander
with anger. Excited at the sudden movement the pup, Cabal, leapt from beneath
the table, began bouncing
about the tent
barking and growling, the boot forgotten.
‘Ignore it? Ignore it!’ Cei’s arms whirled, adding emphasis to his
anger. ‘A whore’s son has been let in at the back door while you
and your uncle have been piddling away time and
energy
snarling at each other here in the South! Eboracum has been
attacked, and you say ignore it? Jesu wept, Arthur!’ Holding up his hands in
submission, his grin as broad as an ancient oak tree Arthur let his balanced
chair drop to stability.
‘Whoa my friend,
curb your horse! I was jesting!’ He clicked his
fingers at the young
dog, diverting his playfulness back to the quieter chewing of the boot. ‘I
would not miss this opportunity to crow I told you so.’ Cei scowled and backed
down. Reseating himself he picked
up
Ambrosius’s plea for help once again and stabbed a finger at
the second
paragraph. ‘This, I grant, is a turnabout.’
Leaning
across the table, Arthur plucked the thing from
Cei’s hand and read
aloud, ‘
"I
humbly
beseech
you to advance with
all due
expedition,
to
give aid
and
revenge
to
the deaths and ravaging of
our
Roman Town of
Eboracum against the
plundering
heathen
Lot,
self-styled
King of Caledonia."
Humbly,’ Arthur
snorted with delight. ‘I
think I like that word.’ He flipped the tablet closed, set it down on the
table. ‘Turnabout? Ambrosius Aurelianus asking for my help? Mithras, Cei, it’s
a bloody
miracle!’ His wicked grin spread
wider. ‘Reckon your Christian
God is on my side after all?’
Cei grunted. ‘If He is, you will no doubt take
advantage — but
will you then acknowledge Him?’ Arthur randomly selected
a scrolled parchment, playfully
tapped his
friend’s shoulder with it. ‘Not today, Cei. No
attempts to convert me to Christianity this day please! My
uncle
has come to his senses and realised I command the most
powerful force in Britain. I am too busy for all that knee bending
and
dutiful praying.’ Cei returned to checking his list. ‘Just as well the Lord
does not share your views.’
Arthur was up
again, striding to the open tent flap, not
listening. He issued a brief order for his uncle’s messenger to be
brought in and turned back to Cei. ‘Put that list
down, man, we
have a war trail brewing.’ Cei answered without raising
his eyes. ‘Whether in barracks or on campaign men must eat — and this list of
supplies falls widely short of what is desired. Look at this!’ He waved the
parchment at Arthur who stretched forward for it. Cei stood, moved to his side,
pointed to two separate entries. ‘Look, here
and
here, corn and flour —mouldy, all of it mildewed and rotten.
Call that
tribute? I call it insult!’ Arthur chewed his lower lip, screwed his eyes to
study the
figures and comments written
fastidiously in the quartermaster’s
tidy, but small, print. ‘When was it
delivered?’

‘Yesterday evening.’ Arthur erupted into a
burst of expletive anger, ending with, ‘Damn it, Cei, what does it take to
convince these people that I mean business?’
Cei
opened his arms wide, palms uppermost. ‘A raiding party from beyond the Wall?’
He chuckled. ‘It almost makes me think
this attack by Lot was at your
instigation. Deliberately let the bees swarm, then passively march in to
re-hive them?’ Arthur was prising the wax stopper from a fresh flagon of wine
and laughed. ‘I am innocent! Mind, it’s worth remember
ing. I could use it against Amlawdd over on the west coast. He’s
always
trying to aim some dirty trick at me.’ Cabal, his master’s attention no longer
on him, sauntered to the nearest tent pole, cocked his leg and then settled
himself before the glowing brazier, turning around three or four times before
curling into a ball instantly to sleep.

Catching movement beyond
the tent, Arthur turned. A tall
lad stooped through
the entrance and stood nervously before
him,
twiddling his woollen cap. The King studied him a
moment, then asked, ‘Do you come from Ambrosius
Aurelianus? Are you of his men? You do not bear
his insignia.’
The lad shook his head,
‘Oh, na, my lord, I’m from
Eboracum.’
His eyes, darting nervously around Arthur’s
spacious tent, were red-rimmed against a hollow, ashen face. Of
muscular
build and tall height, he slumped now, shoulders
sagging, feet dragging with the leaden weight of fatigue. Arthur
judged
him to be little more than ten and seven summers.