Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (61 page)

Ten years past he had intended to have
Winifred executed, when she was still his wife, but the heavy rain of that year
had burst the Hafren’s banks and she had escaped. He regretted, as he dismounted
and subjected himself to her over-intimate embrace, failing to hang her. Had he
pursued that escape and hacked her bloody head off, he would not be saddled
with her, her son, or this damned Council –well that last was not true,
Hengest’s son ruled the Cantii Saex, they would
need to meet at
some time, sooner or later. Except later would have been
preferable to this meeting arranged by Winifred.

She was talking as she
escorted him, her arm linked
possessively,
through his, up the steps and into her house-place.
Polite conversation, asking after his health, the
journey, saying
he must be hungry. ‘You
received my letter?’ she asked as they approached Ambrosius.

Arthur nodded a stilted, though courteous,
greeting to the man. ‘Which one?’
Laughing,
Winifred took his answer as a jest, sounding like a
young girl. She looked striking too, though the
close-caught
veil around her head
and face hid her fair Saxon-coloured hair.
Her skin was clear, eyes
sparkling bright. Her dark, Christian garments suited her plumper figure,
bringing elegance to her
stature. Her only
item of jewellery, aside the keys dangling from
her belt, was an ornate cross hanging between her ample
breasts. At two years short of thirty, she was a
handsome
woman and despite the cold blood that Arthur knew to run
behind this warm smile of welcome, still
desirable. But then, he
reflected, an adder was beautiful to look at. It
was the bite you had to be wary of.

Two boys stood with the cluster of adults,
both glowering. The fair one, the shorter of the two and full of his own
self-importance, had to be his son, Cerdic. The other, the dark-
haired tall boy with the fixed scowl, Vitolinus,
Winifred’s
brother.

Wine was brought –
though not the shared chalice. That was
a
British tribal tradition, surviving from heathen days, and
Winifred ostentatiously professed the Christian
faith.
Ambrosius came to make his
greeting, as irritated as Arthur
that Winifred insisted on remaining
fixed at her ex-husband’s side. The Pendragon managed to loosen the limpet cling
of her arm, extricating himself with the need to greet his uncle.

‘I did not expect to see you at this Council
with the English, Ambrosius,’ Arthur said, adding as he nodded in the direction
of the dark-haired boy, ‘Nor do I recall giving permission for Vortigern’s brat
to be here.’ They had clasped hands, a brief touch, instantly broken as they
stepped back from each other, eye looking to eye, each wary of the other’s
intention.

‘I have my reasons to be here, nephew, and
Vitolinus was entrusted into my jurisdiction when you took him as hostage from
Hengest. He is secure enough.’ Arthur laughed without humour. ‘As long as you
realise the responsibility for him lies firmly on your shoulders.’ With
meaning, he added, ‘I do not want him going back
to the Saex.’
Ambrosius inclined his
head, Winifred purposefully
threaded
her arm through Arthur’s again, and steered him
further into the Hall,
walking intimately close. ‘I assure you, Arthur, my brother is quite safe under
my personal eye.’ She spoke firm, the first hint of austerity tarnishing the
glitter of sunny disposition.

‘Ah.’ Arthur pointedly removed her arm, took
a step away from her familiarity. That he believed. Winifred would allow no one
to stand in the way of her own-born son – who could, given the right
circumstances, be as entitled to rule the Cantii
Land after Aesc as Vitolinus. And Vitolinus, for that very
reason, was as good as dead, were he to tread
beyond the bounds
of his stipulated, monastic life. Arthur chuckled
quietly to himself. Another victim for the lion’s den? Of that other boy, his
son, Arthur said nothing.

He eventually managed to extricate himself and join his men
as they made camp – on the furthest
side of the steading, away
from the Saex. There was a copse of beech, flaring
with October
colour, distinct against the green of the oak wood that strode
across the hill beyond the boundary wall. The
bracken had
turned gold, and there
had come a touch of frost with the dawn.
The air was crisp, the smell of autumn-damp soil rich and
pleasant. The men had not brought tents, a
one-night halt
needed no fuss. They would roll themselves in their
wolf-skin
cloaks before the smored fires and
sleep with their heads on
their saddles. Arthur tossed his own saddlebag
down beside a fire that was already blazing. What suited his men would suit
himself good enough, it would not be the first time he awoke
with his hair frozen to the hard ground. It was a
part of
soldiering, along with poor food and the ache of old wounds.

The sunset blazed brief but glorious,
promising another fine
day on the morrow,
and as the sky turned from glowing orange
to velvet purple, Arthur put
his cloak about his shoulders and
returned,
reluctantly, to Winifred’s Hall, taking only two men
as escort.

Once again Winifred
welcomed him with a show of fondness,
led him to the high table, spread with autumn-brilliant
flowers, dishes of tempting fruits and pastries, jars brimming with wine.
She had excelled herself for this special feasting.
Ambrosius was
seated with several
men from the Church — the two boys were at
the
table also. So, Winifred was ensuring her son would be noticed? Well, let her
flaunt him, he, Arthur, would not rise to her bait! Many others were crowded
into the Hall. Half the size of Arthur’s Hall at Caer Cadan, but twice as
opulent. The walls were part stone-built, in Arthur’s place, shields and
weapons would be hung, here, rich tapestries and embroideries, depict
ing Christian scenes decorated the pink-coloured
plastered
walls.

There were no rushes spread over the floor,
the boards lay
bare, but swept and scrubbed
clean. Roof beams bore no tangle
of
dusty cobwebs or discarded birds’ nests. Even the smoke from
torches, lamps and hearth-fire seemed to obey
Winifred’s rule of
neat tidiness,
for the columns marched straight, smartly out the smoke-holes — there came, a
stir from beyond the door, like aneddy of sudden gusting wind, and tall,
fair-haired, bearded men
were striding in, proud in their armour. The
man at the front
wore no shirt, woollen
bracae and boots only, with a red-woven
cloak tossed about his
shoulders. Amulets ringed his forearms and biceps, a heavy chain of worked gold
lay on his chest, crossing under his jewel-encrusted baldric. So this was Aesc,
the son of Hengest and brother to Winifred’s
mother. Aesc,
who led the Jute settlers of the Cantii territory.

The Saex — there were
forty of them — halted. There was no
salute, no
acknowledgement to Arthur. They stood in silence,
Aesc’s bodyguard ranked before the Pendragon and the two
men of
his Turma who stood at either shoulder.

Aesc stepped forward.
He was a man of bulk; bull neck, heavy
jowled, with eyes that were narrow but missed not the
falling of
a sparrow’s feather. ‘Arthur!’ he said in
his guttural Germanic tongue, ‘this is well met!’
Arthur made no attempt to offer a hand of greeting. The
Saex had
come armed, whereas his Artoriani had entered the settlement that afternoon
with spear tips down. ‘You come wearing a sword and carrying shield and spear.’
Arthur spoke
casually, in a dialect of Aesc’s
own tongue. It was a scored point
over
the Jute, for he spoke no British or Latin. Arthur indicated
his own two
men, who carried no weapons. ‘I understood this
meeting was to be for the renewing of the treaties of peace that I
made with your honoured father; not to toss
insults of hostility.’
The Jute stood a hand-span taller than Arthur,
his chest glistened with rubbed oil, showing the ripple of muscle. He dipped
his spear towards Arthur’s own sword. ‘You wear a sword.’ Arthur threaded his
thumbs through the leather baldric from
which
the sword was hung. ‘I do. But then, as Supreme King of
all Britain, I
am entitled to.’ He regarded Aesc some shrewd moments longer, judging the man,
then moving with casual slowness, began to draw the weapon. Several of Aesc’s
men caught their breath and started forward, but Aesc turned his
head, growled his displeasure at them, ordering
them to remain
still.

Ignoring the
mistrust, Arthur held the naked sword -flat
across his palms, letting the flickering torchlight
ripple on its faceted welding.

Crafted by the heating of iron rods twisted
together like in the making of a plaited rope, then reheated white-hot before
being hammered flat into a blade that held unbound strength
and beauty and finally polished and honed to an
edge that could
slice the wind, Arthur’s great sword shimmered its
perfection.
An awed hush fell over the Saex
kind. ‘This,’ Arthur said, ‘is
the sword of Wayland, given to mortal man’s
keeping by the Lady.’
Aesc smiled, a lopsided
half-grin beneath his braided
moustache and bushed beard. He had heard
the story, told him by his own father, the story of how the Pendragon came by
the wondrous sword of the English gods. ‘You possess it still?’
The Pendragon let the heavy blade point swing to
the
ground, stood holding the hilt
in both hands. ‘I possess it still. I
took
it in battle..There is no man with strength enough to take
it from me.’
For a moment he held Aesc’s gaze, then he walked down the length of the Hall,
the crowd of silent watching men and women parting before him, walked to the
doorway, where solemnly he leant the beautiful sword against the plaster wall.

He turned, paced back up the Hall, stood
again before Aesc.
‘I rest my weapon within
the sacred threshold of this Hall.
Where
none, save my own hand, shall risk the wrath of the God
that does
protect this dwelling by the touching of it.’ Arthur stepped aside. It was an
open challenge. Respond, or give a
greater
insult that would bring shame on Aesc and all his
kindred’s kindred. All
eyes rested on the Jute leader.

Aesc stayed motionless
and then suddenly he laughed, a
single bark of mirth.
He drew his sword, strode down the Hall and placed his weapon alongside Arthur’s,
the two blades
touching. ‘Now we show that
our teeth are bared not in snarls of war, but in smiles of friendship!’ He
barked an order for his men
similarly to stack their weapons, came
before the Pendragon,
extending his arms in
greeting. Arthur almost felt his bones
give way beneath that crushing
embrace. This man needed no weapon, for he had strength enough in those
oak-built arms to crush a bear.

‘You live well,’ Arthur observed to Winifred
as the slaves
brought around huge platters
of boar and venison and beef. The
laughter of a filled feasting Hall
swirled high to the rafters, as headily potent as the wine, as rich as the
food.

‘Well enough for a woman alone.’ Arthur
sipped his wine. ‘I have not hindered you to re-wed. The Englishman Leofric
asks for you often enough, so I hear. You ought to accept; a man in your bed
may give you other things to do aside from writing letters to me.’
Winifred, with no intention of answering his
taunting, let
the remark sail to the roof beams. She busied herself with
selecting meat, masking the rise of heat to her face. Leofric’s persistence was
becoming an embarrassment. Her constant
refusals
were getting her nowhere, she would have to think
again on how to deal
with the wretched man! Seeing her discomfort, Arthur laughed. He pointed at
Ambrosius, said, his mouth full of venison, ‘Why not wed with my uncle? I would
need only to pay the one set of spies then!’ Not surprisingly, Winifred did not
share his laughter.

Cerdic, to Arthur’s annoyance, was also
seated at the high table a few places down, but near enough to overhear.
Loudly, the boy retorted, ‘My mother already has a husband. It is not I who
bears the description bastard.’
Arthur
selected bread, broke off a hunk. If Llacheu had
spoken such an
intentional insult, then regardless of company he would have been instantly
thrashed. He bit into the bread, fresh baked, still warm from the ovens. ‘Your
crops have been
good this year then,
Winifred?’ He was determined not to let
the brat rile him, though by the Bull he was finding it difficult!
They talked of minor things, the weather, the
harvest,
steering a clear path around the subjects that could cause
argument. Politics and marriage. The Christian
Church.
A
rthur noted that the carvings
on the roof beams and lintels
bore traditional pagan designs similar to
the carved heads and faces in his own Hall, put there to ward off the spirits
of evil. Christianity, no matter how strong it grew, would never quite shrug
aside the binding rules of man’s frail superstition. He
mustered courage to toss a direct statement. ‘Gwenhwyfar is my
legal wife, Winifred. I realise you
dislike the fact, but like it or no, there it is.’