Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (48 page)

Glancing over
his shoulder he saw ‘der riding close atGwenhwyfar’s side: Na, he was no longer
a greenstick boy, he had matured since he had come all those months past from
Eboracum, become a man with the rutting instinct of all young
men out for first blood. And Gwenhwyfar was a
beautiful
woman. She had borne
children, yet her figure was as slender as
it had been in her youth, her
hair still shone with that alluring glow of sunlight shimmering on beaten
copper, and her green eyes were as alive as stars burning on a frosted winter’s
night. Gwenhwyfar might well, as she professed, be only fond of the boy, but it
was not fondness that Ider returned. Arthur’s teeth
sank into his lower lip. He recognised that appreciative gaze all
too
well. Gods, had he himself not looked at enough women with that same lusting
eye? Happen it was time he moved Ider to some other post.

Ahead, Cei had dropped
out from the foreguard and wheeled
his mount to drop in
alongside Arthur. The Pendragon sighed. Problems. One after another whirling
like scavenging ravens. Cei was daily becoming more reticent, more jealous of
the
favours given to other men. Some imagined
bitterness was
eating him as mould eats into the flesh of fruit. Arthur
would
have to sort it before it festered
into something too cancerous to
be amputated.

‘Is that it?’ Cei was pointing to a hill a
few miles ahead.

Squinting into the brightness, Arthur thrust
aside his grumbling muddle of brooding thoughts. He nodded. ‘Aye, it is.’
His black mood left as suddenly as it had come.
Arthur halted
his mare, waited for Gwenhwyfar to draw rein next to him.
Leaning from the saddle, he caught her hand, dipped his head eagerly to the
shape of that hill rising above the heat-haze and
clusters of scrubby trees and bushes. ‘Our home, Cymraes. Caer
Cadan.’

§ LXII

Gwenhwyfar stood
on the highest point of the hill, knuckles
resting
lightly on her hips, eyes narrowed to see better across the
distance. At this height, there was a lively wind
which lifted
her braids and toyed
with the wisps of loose hair that never
could be tamed into conforming. Below, in a patchwork of
colour,
the Summer Land stretched rich and fertile, spreading like some elaborately
embroidered tapestry. This, literally, was summer land. Come winter, the rivers
and streams rose and
covered the flat miles
of marshland that never drained
completely
dry, even when elsewhere was thirsting under
drought. Winter was a time
of boats and fishing, of lakes and
water-meadows
idling around the few, scattered islands of high
ground.

With the onset of
evening, the day’s heat-haze had eased and
the
view from up here, beneath a mackerel and mare’s-tail sky,
was beautiful. The blue was the colour of a heron’s
egg,
sweeping down to touch the grey-misted smudge of hills that strode
along the distant horizons. And there, rising from the
greens and yellows and browns, alone, and shouting its
existence,
the unmistakable shape of Yns Witrin.

Gwenhwyfar heard a
footfall in the grass. She smiled and laid
her
head back into his shoulder as Arthur came up behind,
encircled her waist with his arms. ‘When I fled Less Britain,’ she
said,
‘after you and I had spent those months there together
as
lovers, I came to be at Yns Witrin. Terrible things
had
happened to me, things I would
rather not remember. I was
alone, and lost and frightened. I was
carrying your child, our first-born son. I walked often on the Tor, yet, never
once was I aware of this place.’

‘I am told it blends with these hills behind.’
Arthur said, dipping his head to the range of hills running to the south-east.
‘Caer Cadan is difficult to see unless you know
where to look for
it.’
Wrapping her
arms around herself, Gwenhwyfar enclosed his
embrace. The sky, where the sun was sinking beyond the
horizon,
was beginning to flush with red and gold; fingers of pink and purple reaching
to caress the darkening blueness,
touching
the underside of the evening clouds. ‘You never
forget,’ she said, letting her weight prop against him. ‘You think
you
have. You think the bad memories of darkness and fearhave been shut safe in a
box, shut away for ever, but it comes
back
every so often, when you least expect it. Something rattles
the lid and
you find yourself face to face with the things you thought you had forgotten.’
Arthur laid his cheek against her hair, breathed in
her
womanly scent. She wore no perfume, but she rinsed her hair
with herbal infusions, and her clothes were laid
in the oak
chests among layers of dried lavender and rosemary. She smelt
of flowers, meadows.

Closing her eyes, Gwenhwyfar too breathed in
deeply, smelt horse and leather, masculine aromas mingling with the scent of
the grass and the summer breeze. The air was cool,
clear, with a
permeating atmosphere of
promise. ‘This is a good place,
Arthur.’
She meant it. The Summer Land carries the blessing
of the old gods and the peace of the new Christ.’
She opened her
eyes, turned her head to smile at him. ‘It is a fitting
site for the Pendragon to build his Caer.’ He kissed her neck, nuzzling her
warmth and love. ‘I came here during those first few months of serving
Vortigern — I cannot recall why my patrol was in this area now. Huh,’ he
laughed to himself, ‘I decided, even then, that one day I’d have
the Summer Land back as my own and make my place
here.’ He
turned her around to face inwards over the grass enclosure,
indicated a gap in the weather-worn remains of the pre-Roman defensive ridge
topping the natural hill. ‘We’ll build a main gateway there, and another over
there.’ He swung her to where
he was
pointing. ‘With banks and ditches for defence and
palisade along the
top. On the land down there, we will grow grain to bake bread and brew ale. We
can graze our horses and watch the foals grow fine and strong.’
Gwenhwyfar laughed at his enthusiasm. ‘And build
a suitable
King’s Hall I trust! No more flapping tents.’

‘My dearest love, we will have a Hall to
surpass any that has ever been built!’ Arthur announced with a tossed laugh. He
sprang away, his arms whirling as he strode across the daisy-littered grass. ‘Here,’
he said coming to a halt and gesturing to
right
and left. ‘We will build it here, so that on evenings such as
this we can stand together by the open door and
look with pride
and pleasure over our kingdom!’ Catching his eagerness,
Gwenhwyfar went to him, threaded her arm through his. ‘Oh aye? Build where the
bite of the wind will whistle through the walls, rattle the window shutters and
blow smoke back down the smoke-holes?’ Arthur wrinkled his nose at her jesting,
swiping playfully at her. ‘Those passing along the road to Yns Witrin will look
up
and see my fortress and our Hall sitting
proud beyond
formidable ramparts.
They shall see and say, "That
is
where our
King
sits
in
justice
and protection." ‘
Gwenhwyfar’s
happy laughter was rising. ‘Unless you also build
a chapel,’ she mocked, ‘they will be raising their
fists and saying
"that
is where a
heathen cur-son sits
in
tyranny over our Christian
ways," and
they will grunt and look at your magnificent Hall and
berate you for
using their taxes for such improper use!’

‘They would not dare!’ Arthur rolled his eyes
innocently
skyward, contemplated a sarcastic
answer, then conceded,
‘Aye, they
would. All right, we will have a chapel too. It can go
over there.’ He pointed vaguely to a far corner,
added wickedly,
‘Near the latrine.’ Gwenhwyfar slapped him playfully, he
grabbed her around
the waist and began to
tickle her, his fingers biting between her
ribs. She fought him off and ran giggling down the slope,
Arthur
in pursuit. He caught her, though not as quickly as he’d expected – she always
had been fleet on her feet. They fell
together,
laughing wildly, rolling down the slope. Stopped
against somebody’s legs.

Clutching Gwenhwyfar to him, Arthur looked up
to Cei’s sullen countenance.

‘I came to inform you,’ his humourless tone
matched the
expression, ‘that the men are
assembled before the priest,
awaiting your presence before blessings can
be offered on the camp.’

‘
Oh.’
Arthur coughed and released Gwenhwyfar who
snorted, smothering further
laughter. He pushed himself to his feet, brushed ineffectually at grass stains
on his tunic, offered lamely, ‘We were discussing the layout of buildings.’

‘So I see.’ What was it with Cei? Standing
there like some pompous
school tutor,
nostrils flaring, breath quickening. Was a
husband not allowed to romp with his own wife? Arthur offered
his
hand to Gwenhwyfar, pulled her to her feet, and turning deliberately from Cei,
walked with her across the expanse of grass to where the men had pitched the
tents. It had become habit for Cethrwm, their priest, to say some holy words
before the first cooking fires were lit and the men took their ease. A
habit Arthur could well do without, but most of his
men
followed this Christ God; he could not deny them their belief
because it was not his own. No commander had that right.

Cei had dropped behind a
pace. Older only by two summers, he looked as though the gap was nearer ten.
His hair had receded and
his
facial skin was wrinkled, hanging in loose jowls around chin
and throat. An old injury to his back bothered him,
though he hid
the pain well. It occurred to Arthur, a
thought come unexpect
edly, that he ought to
give Cei more praise where it was due, for
too often did he bark and growl at his cousin; occurred to him also
that
never once had he openly said thank you. Impulsively he
turned, held out his hand, intending to invite the man to walk in
company beside him, watched in horror as Cei’s
step faltered and,
hand clasping at his chest, he stumbled to his knees.

Arthur rushed to his
side, Gwenhwyfar, at his shout of alarm
running with him. ‘Fetch a medic!’ Arthur cried, urgently
cradling
Cei into his arms, loosening the man’s tunic and belt. ‘Hurry, Cymraes!’ Cei
was sweating, his skin clammy, a blue tinge to his lips, but the breathing was
easier. Surely, his breathing was easier?
‘God’s
love, Cei,’ Arthur panted, ‘don’t die. I need you too
much for you to die.’ Tears slipped down the
Pendragon’s
cheeks as his cousin and foster-brother clasped his hand,
held
tight as though he were a man drowning,
with only a single rope
to bring him
safe ashore. He managed a wheezing smile,
croaked through choking
breath, ‘Na lad, you’ll not be getting rid of my sour face so easily.’
The first thing to be constructed in
Arthur’s new stronghold was a grave for Cei.

January
465

§ LXIII

The horses’ breath
billowed from their nostrils in great clouds of
dragon
smoke, rising with the steam from their thick winter coats. The riders too,
exhaled white-misted breath whenever they spoke or laughed. Several rubbed arms
with stiff hands or stamped numbed feet on the frozen ground as their sweating
bodies cooled. It had been a fast, energetic chase, a hard gallop over several
miles. What in Christ’s good name was taking the dogs so long? They had run the
boar to ground in this thicket, had sent the dogs in to flush him out.
Well-trained dogs that would keep their distance.

Llacheu grinned at his
brother, his bright-red cheeks
glowing, hair tousled
and eyes still watering from the whip of the wind. Despite the biting cold it
was a good hunt, one of the best – aye well, the two boys had to take the
adults’ word for that, neither had hunted boar before. And by all that was
dear, this boar was some wonderful initiation!
He was reputed to be a monster of a beast, striking terror into
the
hearts of the scattered farms and steadings around the new stronghold of Caer
Cadan. Many a good hunter had set out to finish the brute, too many had failed
to return.

The great boar, a
fearsome old man of the woods, had grunted
in
annoyance at the first distant baying of the dogs as they
discovered his scent beneath an aged oak, where
some half-hour
before he had been contentedly rooting for his breakfast.
With speed amazing for his huge size, he trotted further from the disagreeable
sounds. Twisting and turning his way through the
patches of woodland he passed into open country where peasants
scratched a living, and headed for the marshland
over towards Yns
Witrin, into the
scattered thickets of alder and willow. The boar
stopped once to scratch his snout in a muddied hollow, rooting for
titbits; the dogs did not unduly bother him. They were a nuisance,
but
he had dealt with dogs before. And men.