Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (28 page)

‘
You are
over soft on him, Arthur. He needs a sound
thrashing!’
Letting the parchment spring to a loose roll
before starting to
wind it tighter, Arthur commented, ‘You are in a
delightful mood this day.’ He swung his legs from the cot. Sitting on the edge
he stretched and yawned, sniffed loudly, then peered
hopefully into the wine flagon, wrinkling his nose to discover it
empty.
That was the last of the best wine. He sighed. Barley-brewed ale from here on.

‘The patrol was not good I assume?’ he said,
returning his attention to his glowering cousin.

The patrol,’ came the
sharp retort, ‘was a God-cursed useless
waste
of time.’
Eyes sparking amusement, Arthur
said with annoying cheeri
ness, ‘Bad as a wet laundry day, eh?’
In his sour mood, Cei failed to appreciate the
teasing
humour. Instead, the remark brought forth an upsurge of
exasperation and discontent. ‘For three days, Arthur,’ herailed, stalking
around the small confine of Arthur’s tent, ‘we
have encamped here. Enniaun ought have joined with us by
now.’ He
stopped before Arthur, hands gesticulating. ‘Let us face facts. He is not
coming. Why should he march from Gwynedd? What interest has he in the old
hunting runs of his dead father?’

‘He has a great interest, Cei,’ Arthur
answered, with quiet conviction, all humour gone. He raised an eyebrow, looked
directly, almost challengingly, at his cousin. ‘He will be here.’ Cei faltered,
taken aback by the conviction of that bland statement. He turned away, back to
the brazier. ‘That is as may be,’ he changed verbal direction, attacking from
an alternative
level, ‘but for how much
longer are you intending to hang your
head and allow these Northern curs
to harass our patrols and thieve our supplies?’ His arms were whirling with
grievance. ‘The rain soaks through clothing and tents; the wind is bitter
cold and the horses are kicking and snapping at
each other with bad temper — as are most of the men. We are wasting valuable
time idling our heels here — and damn it,’ Cei
kicked savagely at
a table leg, ‘all you do is sit on your backside,’ he
kicked a second time, harder, ‘reading!’ Arthur scratched the base of his neck.
How he would like a
bath! His belly rumbled. ‘What
has happened to supper, I
wonder?’
He spoke the thought aloud, stretching a second time,
easing the muscles along his shoulders. Pushing
himself lazily to
his feet, he ambled past the angry Cei towards the
closed tent flap, running a finger as he passed across the muddle on top of his
work table. With a scowl, he peered out into the darkening
evening. Rain was falling straight down like an
opaque curtain,
drumming on the leather tent, spattering water-logged
ground,
the drops leaping and dancing. The
grass, churned and
muddied, had rivulets of water forming a series of
channels
seeking a way to lower ground.
There would be flooding on the flat, the rivers would be high too. At least
here among the ruins
of a Roman fort there was shelter enough to light
the cooking
fires. The men had eaten well
these past few days — one grumble
they could not toss at him! Game was
in plentiful supply here, north of the Wall.

Gweir was returning at a quick trot, head
down, shoulders hunched against the rain, the cleaned tankard clutched tight in
both hands. The lad needed a cloak.

Arthur stepped aside to allow the boy
entrance, taking the drinking vessel from him as he did so. ‘Not much point of
a
^;
clean tankard,’ he said,
bending slightly lower so as to be nearer
the boy’s ear, and thrusting
his nose into the lad’s face, ‘when I have nothing to put in it.’
The boy reddened and stumbled a
horrified apology.

Good-natured, Arthur laughed and ruffled the
lad’s wet hair.
He was ten summers,
although it could be one more or one less,
and not particularly
proficient as a personal slave, but Arthur liked him. He had found the boy,
huddled and wretched, in the darkness of what remained of the Principia
building back at
Vercovicium. A ragged,
hungry, frightened boy, with tear
stains on his grimed face, hiding
among the rubble.

‘
What’s
your
name?’
Arthur had
asked, holding the squirming child at a safe distance, mindful of the
frantically kicking feet,
lunging fists and
things crawling in matted hair and filthy
clothing.

‘
That
be
my business!’ the lad had spat, struggling to be free of
Arthur’s restraining
hold.

‘
Wrong.’
Arthur had bundled the lad without
ceremony
down the hill and into the
nearest water for a thorough
dowsing. ‘As from now, it
is
my
business
also.’
The boy’s burst of outrage at being taken as slave
evaporated with the discovery of who this man, callously dunking him in cold
river water, was. Inside the passing of a day the boy worshipped his new
master, went around – even through this
pouring
fall of rain – with a grin as broad as an oak trunk. When
the men from
the North came raiding they had slain his family
and claimed the stock. Lying low until they had gone, Gweir
had
survived as best he could. Had he known the wonders he would discover as slave
to Arthur the King, he would not have taken such fright when the soldiers rode
into the fort where he was taking shelter. But then, if the boy had not put up
such a
spirited fight when Arthur had found
him hiding, the Pen-
dragon would never have established that first basis
of liking.

Gweir whirled on his
heel and disappeared into the rain once
more, trotting in the direction of the stores wagons, his
bare
feet spattering among the puddles, kicking up
spray and mud.

‘He
needs boots,’
Arthur thought. Said
aloud. ‘The boy has nothing save the rags on his back. I ought have attended
that afore now. Fetch my supper too!’ he shouted to the departing figure. ‘My
belly is growling!’ Waving an acknowledging hand, Gweir ducked through the
rain, jumping the gullies of running water.

Cei sounded a
disparaging snort as Arthur, chuckling
quietly, ambled back to the table, his hand fondling
Cabal’s
ears as he passed
the sleeping dog. ‘You treat the wretch as if he
were a son, Arthur. A witless, lazy good-for-nothing –
you
ought sell him to someone who would teach him
a few harsher lessons if you have not the heart to do so.’

‘To you?’ Arthur queried, glancing at Cei who
was seating himself on the tent’s only stool.

‘
I
would not treat him as softly as you do.’
Placing both hands on the table,
the Pendragon leant
forward, smiling lazily. ‘What is
it with you lately, Cei? You are
as sour as ruined wine. Gweir is just a boy. A
homeless, lost,
British boy who has known
nought but a life of harsh words and
herding sheep. Until a few days
past, he had never seen a fine-made tankard, let alone Roman wine to slop into
it!’

‘
I will
tell you what is wrong with me,’ Cei stormed, stamping
to his feet,
angered at this unnecessary lecture. ‘I am sick to
death of tramping these cursed hills. Sick to death of getting
wet; of waiting for your brother-by-law who is not
going to come
– and I am sick to the stomach of your damned good humour!’
Arthur laughed, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest,
his facial skin wrinkling into creases around his
eyes and mouth.
Chuckling, he strode from behind the table, his arm
extending
to wrap across Cei’s ox-muscled
shoulders. ‘I would have
thought, my
friend,’ he thumped Cei’s back, ‘that my good
mood was a thing to be
welcomed! How often have you
complained
about the opposite?’ He lightly scuffed Cei’s hair, as
he had the lad’s. ‘Enniaun will be here soon, you
have my
word.’ He could be so certain, sound so assured, for Gwenhwyfar’s
letter had confirmed it. Enniaun had passed through Caer Luel riding North into
the hills as he and Arthur had planned – though her couched words had been damned
difficult to decipher! Idle? Mithras, it had taken him half the day to
interpret her hidden meaning! They had to be careful,
take no risks, for letters could too easily fall into enemy hands,
secrets
must be kept safe, but blood of the Bull, Gwenhwyfar’s phrasing was too
cryptic! ‘Then we can move north and begin the business we came here for.’ He
snorted another guffaw. ‘I can do nothing to stop the rain, mind!’ He slapped
Cei’s back
the harder. ‘Meanwhile, we stay
within the limits of the terrain
that we know. And wait.’ Gweir
returned, cleared a space on the table and set down a
bowl, uncovering it to reveal steaming stew, poured barley-beer
from a jug. Hungry, Arthur began to eat, spooning
thick
venison gravy supplemented with herbs and root vegetables. Through
a mouthful, he told the boy, ‘My cousin is right. This
tent is a mess.’ Swallowing, added gruffly, ‘Get it tidied – but do
not
touch my table!’
Looking about him, Gweir
ran his hands through straggling,
greasy hair and puffed out his cheeks.
He might as well try to stop the rain as clear the wake of Arthur’s scattered
debris! He
had already made several attempts
to tidy the place, but
whenever he
began clearing away the muddle of strewn papers,
discarded clothing and
military paraphernalia, Arthur, who
seemed
to be forever within the tent, always bellowed at him to
‘cease that
infernal rustling!’ Gweir bent and began sorting a muddle of muddied, damp
clothing strewn in one corner, his fingers dwelling over the softness of the
quality weave.

Warmer, dried, his humour
improving, Cei rubbed the side
of his nose, scratched
behind his ear, tentatively suggested, ‘Would you ride patrol tomorrow, Arthur?’
Swallowing a mouthful, Arthur spooned more meat. ‘I’ll consider it.’
Cei helped himself to more beer. ‘Knowing your
damned luck
it’ll stop raining by morning.’
Laughing, Arthur
agreed to go, even if it still rained; noticed
Gweir. ‘Oh for the Bull’s sake, boy, stop fiddling with
thatbundle of clothing and fetch more of this stew. A bowl for Cei also.’
The
boy sighed. Letting his arms open, he allowed the
garments to tumble to the
floor in a heap. He had begun to
wonder if
Arthur’s other slave had also had this same problem to
deal with. Had he
deliberately fallen down those steps at Caer
Luel?
The pain of a broken leg was worth enduring for a while if
it meant a
rest from trying to accomplish an impossibility! He
paused just inside the tent opening, gloomily looking out at the
pouring
rain. Aye, and a good, long lie in a dry bed.

‘
Gweir!’
The lad spun around at Arthur’s sharp, commanding
voice. What else could
be amiss? Arthur was squatting on his heels, rummaging through the bundle that
Gweir had dropped;
he straightened, holding
a plaid-weave cloak and tossed it
casually
at the boy. ‘Take this as your own,’ the Pendragon said,
‘and after you have fetched the stew, go to Gaius
and tell him to
fit you a pair of boots.’
Gweir caught the cloak and stood clutching it to him with his
mouth open, unbelieving. He had owned nothing save
rags
afore now, nothing as grand as a
plaid cloak and a pair of boots!
‘For me?’ he managed to croak, gazing
with new heights of adoration at the man before him. ‘Be this for me?’

‘What?’ Arthur rumbled, ‘is it not good
enough for you? I
suppose you’ll be wanting
a damned new tunic to go with it? Get
yourself one while you’re about
your boots – and bracae. We will come in for some hard marching within a few
days like as not, I can’t have a snivelling boy whining about his cold feet and
balls, trotting at my heels.’ Gweir began to stammer thanks, but Arthur cut him
short. ‘I am tired of having a rough-shorn tup mooning around my tent. If you’re
dressed in the part of a king’s slave you’ll start doing your duties like one!’
His face alight, Gweir nodded eagerly, and
clutching the
cloak to him, scuttled out into the night.

‘
You spoil
the brat. Give it a few months, and he’ll be no
good to you,’ Cei
warned, wagging his finger.

‘Given time, and then the right training,’
Arthur corrected,

‘
he
has the making of the next generation of Artoriani. I need such boys, Cei. For
the boys become men.’