Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (23 page)

‘
You
intended to say something to me?’ Cei appeared startled. How had he known?

‘
I have been watching your
serious face, my friend.’ Arthur
chuckled. ‘Have
noticed how your eyes, between watching your
wife and our cousin, follow my wine from amphorae to goblet to
lips!’
He laughed the louder and slapped Cei’s knee. ‘You fuss like a doting mother!’

‘Someone has to,’ Cei growled. He turned his
head to look directly at Arthur, expression challenging. ‘Someone has to remain
sober for the morrow.’ By way of answer Arthur drained the goblet and held it
high
for more wine. He drank, chuckled again.
Laying a hand on
Cei’s shoulder he leant close, spoke in a whisper down
his ear. ‘This wine is reserved for me alone. ‘Tis well watered.’ Cei frowned.
Convincing, but was it true? He squinted at Arthur, trying to read him, knowing
it would be useless. You could obtain more information from a stone than Arthur’s
close-guarded expressions. He was
proficient at hiding thought
and intention. Was also a proficient liar.
Cei chewed his lip thoughtfully as the Pendragon answered some comment made
further around the circle, and held out his goblet for Arthur’s servant to fill
with wine. The lad hesitated, glanced apprehensively at the King, who with a
casual wave of his hand, gave assent to pour.

Taking a deep draught, Cei almost choked,
spat the strong wine from his mouth, spluttering his rage. Wiping his dripping
mouth, he cursed, ‘Damn you and your lies, Arthur!’ Arthur crowed his
amusement. The water’s unexpectedly potent in these parts, cousin!’
About to respond with a second curse, Cei was
interrupted by
movement from the unmarried women. They were rising,
shedding cloaks and boots, loosening bound hair.
A great cheer
and burst of applause cracked the frosted air, greeting
them. The women were to dance! At the last moment, Elen sprang to her feet. She
kicked off her boots, tossed aside her cloak and linked hands within the
forming circle. She too would dance, she would
dance to please
and excite the watching men and to taunt Arthur.

The rhythm began slowly, a haunting,
evocative pace, its
steady beat from drum and
stamping feet resurrecting the
ancient
pagan memories, that even through the grip of
Christianity would never be totally buried. The women trod
their
movement, slow-circling, their chant complementing the steady stamp, pause,
stamp of bare feet on hard ground. One
two,
one two; one two three, one two three. Dip bend, dip
bend; twirl and bend. The beat quickened as the
pace picked
up, the pattern becoming wild as the circle ascended into a
whirling frenzy of lithe movement, the women’s swirling skirts revealing
tantalising glimpses of leg and thigh; their bodies writhing within the ecstasy
of their own-made music.

The men were standing, had formed their own
circle around the dancers, cheering and clapping, stamping along with the
exultant rhythm. The dance reached its height, a screeched crescendo of voices
as the women held for a brief moment, the trembling, pulsating circle and then
slowed, winding down and down until the high, hot, emotion slid into the warm
glow of throbbing pleasure. They came to a halt, and there followed a
moment of silence when only the crackle of flames
could be heard
mixing with the
gasping breath of sweat-drenched dancers. Then,
a tumult of applause, a
shout of approval from the men.

The women dispersed,
scattering, laughing and chatting
among
the men, seeking that intimate, last sampling of
enjoyment.
Some men left their companions, went in search of their wives, others settled
again to their drink. There were not enough women to partner every man. Their
turn would come with the army whores. It would be a long night, this night of
feasting.

Elen stood among the
dwindling circle of women, her mouth open, breath heaving. She was hot and wet
from sweat, and she
wanted a man. Arthur’s
derisive words clawed at her brooding anger. She could have gone with any man,
these months, had
the offers, the
opportunities, but she had lain only with the
King, had the wanting of
only him. The child she carried was
his. And
he had laughed at her, scorned her, implied she was no
better than any
of the army whores. There were many spaces around the circle now, the women
pairing off with the men.

One lad, she did not recognise. He sprawled,
the worse for drink, beside the nearest fire. A tall young man, bull-built with
mouse-brown hair. He tweaked playfully at
the fine material of her skirt as she passed, his other hand sliding beneath,
to clutch at her slender ankle. Elen flared into anger and swung to berate
his audacity, then checked. Here was given
opportunity! Mildly
scolding with her tongue, she plucked her skirt from
his grasp,
kicking his hand aside, her eyes
signalling that this was a game;
expressing she was ready for more.

Ider hesitated, uncertain, his drinking
companion seeing the
situation whispered the
girl’s name and family, gave a brief
shake of his head, warning. Elen
cursed under her breath. She was going to lose the fool unless she acted
quickly! Contriving to trip, a little scream flying from her lips, she fell into
his lap. Giving a pretence of embarrassment, she said hurriedly, ‘I am yours,
my lover, if you want me. Or have you not the balls to graze a noble-boor’s
pasture?’ Ider needed no second invitation. Lad he might be, but he enjoyed his
women. His hands flew to her bodice, his lips crushing against hers.

Something exploded against his head. He spun
backwards, limp and dazed, a trickle of blood oozing from his scalp. In the
same movement someone was wrenching at Elen’s arm,
hauling
her upright. A hasty stir of reaction from other men, a
fluttered wave of movement as hands reached for daggers, as quickly relaxed
when the chief player in the stir was realised.

A
rthur
stood over Ider, his boot ready to kick again should
he move, but the
lad lay still, stunned by the initial blow. Elen
struggled against the grip on her arm, shrieking her outrage,
her nails clawing at Arthur’s hand. ‘Show yourself
for what
you are, slut!’ he bellowed at her, ‘but not by using my men to
get at me!’

‘
Let me go!’
Elen twisted, looked to the men for help, but
they had returned to their own business. ‘Let me go,
Pendragon, or
you will regret this insult!’

‘
You bring
insult to yourself.’ With a sneer Arthur added,
‘and you hoped I would
take you with me?’ He let her go,
thrusting
her from him so that she stumbled to her knees.
Threw at her as he
walked away, ‘There may be room among the whore carts for you.’ Insulted,
humiliated, and frightened of what was to become of her, Elen fumbled among the
folds of her skirt, found her dagger. She lunged for his departing back.
Someone shouted,
someone else thrust out a
foot to topple her. Arthur whirled,
the dagger ripping through his
sleeve, tearing through material and flesh, leaving blood seeping where the
blade had passed. He reacted instinctively, as the fighter he was, a gut
response, unintentionally vicious. His left arm swung up, knocking the dagger
aside, while in the same defensive movement, his foot lifted and thrust into
her lower stomach.

Elen pitched forward, breath and fight
whooshing from her. No one moved to aid her, she lay sprawled on the frost-hard
ground, tears of rage and humiliation
spotting her cheeks.
Arthur was
walking away, men were returning to their wine
and song. Miserably
alone, she stumbled to her feet, her hands clutching at the pain in her belly. ‘I
shall tell your wife who fathered my child!’ she screamed, staggering a few
paces. ‘If I lose it I will tell her that you killed it! Killed yet another
son, you murdering bastard!’
Arthur
halted, his hand tightly clutched on his own dagger.

He recovered himself,
walked from the glare of fires out into the
darkness.

Cei alone went to help Elen, offering her his
arm to lean on,
but she swept him a haughty
gaze, knocked him aside and
stalked
away. Did not realise her fortune. Had Arthur not
growled explicit instructions as he strode off,
she would now be
dangling at the end of a rope. The Artoriani took
unkindly to those who attacked their King.

§ XXVI

Elen could not go to her own tent where her
maid would be waiting, a prim-faced matron who had never ceased lecturing
morals all winter. Nor would she go to Arthur’s.
What was she to
do on the morrow when
he rode away? Go to her uncle – a devout
Christian who preached louder
and longer than a priest? Elen
wanted
dancing and laughter, a man to laugh and love with. After
Arthur, who
else would there be? After Arthur ... fresh tears spilled down her face, what
was there for her without Arthur! Her stomach ached like a tightening cramp
where he had kicked her. Her head too, thudded from the tears and fear. The
palisade fencing was before her, looming darker against the lighter stardusted
sky; steps upward beneath her feet as she climbed, not aware of where she was
heading until an icy blast
of cold air
buffeted her at the top. Snuffling more tears, she
leant against the wooden fencing, looking out,
down across the
ditch to the spread
of night-dark land. The river was away to the
left, glitter-sparkling the soft reflection of the stars. Away
distant,
about half of one mile off, a light flickered. The watch fires of Ambrosius’s
men, set to guard his boundaries. Oh, she did not want to go to her uncle! A
star fell, tumbling a silver trail down the sky, burning brightly hopeful a
brief moment, then it was gone. It would be better to go with the whore wagons
than go to Ambrosius, and
there at least she
would be near Arthur. Happen he would
change his mind when the babe
came? She had been a fool to act as she had before his men – of course he had
been angry with her! She would apologise, tell him what a fool she had been –
aye, she would tell him and he
would forgive
her and then they would ... calmer, happier,
she turned quickly, intent
on going to him now, straightway
before her
courage failed. Her foot slipped. The frost had settled
early, whitening
the ground almost before daylight had faded. Down on the parade ground, between
the fires where they had danced and where men and women walked, it had melted,
but up here on the lonely walkway where only the night guard sauntered, it lay
white and crisp, ice-smooth. In a flurry of movement, Elen fell, her arm coming
out to grab hold of
something to stop
herself tumbling, her fingers brushed ice-cold
wood, scraped, failed to
grip. Her legs were sweeping from beneath her, and there was nothing to stop
her falling, nothing to stop her from going over the edge of this high-built
rampart
walk, nothing save for the man who
ran, flinging himself faster,
diving
forward onto his belly, hand outstretched, fingers
clawing to catch hold
of her as she fell over the side.

He caught at her arm – the material of her
gown – the fine
stuff slipping between his
grasping fingers. Desperately he tried
to
catch hold firmer with his other hand, but the material
ripped and she was gone, falling downwards, her
scream ending
abruptly with a thud, leaving a sickening quiet.

Arthur lay for what seemed a long while, his
head over the
edge, eyes closed, fingers
clutching that ripped piece of
garment. This was not what he had wanted
– Mithras’ blood, what had he wanted?
Men
were running, some coming up the steps, others
gathering around the
sprawled body that had a moment before
been
Elen, the flickering light from their burning torches
casting dancing
shadows, grotesque around where she lay. Someone was kneeling beside Arthur, a
hand beneath his arm,
helping him up, but
Arthur pushed him aside, feeling the rise of
vomit coming to his throat. He breathed slowly, kept the
nausea
down, clambered unsteadily to his feet.

It was Hueil who had been beside him, a young
officer who had come from the north two winters past; eldest son to Caw,
chief lord of
Alclud. Someone else had inadvertently brought a
wineskin with him. Hueil took it, handed it to Arthur.

The Pendragon swilled a
mouthful, the wine was watered, he
swallowed slowly.

‘
I saw what
happened, my Lord, I was further along the walk.
She fell, I will
challenge any who says otherwise.’ Hueil had a deep voice that carried clear,
carried further when the air was sharp and listening for tales to spread.