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‘It works well enough for Cunedda’s brood in
Gwynedd.’ Arthur looked at her shrewdly. ‘You seem remarkably well informed of
what is happening many miles beyond these boundaries. Cunedda’s brood are
controlled by the strongest
brother, Enniaun
Girt. The grandsons may not be so,’ he
paused,
reluctant to say the word loyal, said instead, with scorn,
‘brotherly.’
He narrowed his eyes, ‘Cerdic wishes both myself and Llacheu dead.’ Cynically,
he added, ‘Someone must have
planted and
nurtured that idea for it to germinate and flourish
so profusely.’ Winifred
laced the chain of her crucifix through her fingers.
Her head was bowed and she spoke in what was barely a
whisper, as
if to speak the words aloud would bring reality to
them. ‘It may be you or Llacheu to slay Cerdic.’ She looked up,
her
face riddled with dread. A mother’s fear for her only son.

Arthur had risen, was
walking around the chamber, touching various items. Winifred’s loom; sweet-smelling
herbs drying in
bunches; a
wall-hanging. He remembered Winifred embroidering it, he had liked the thing, a
vivid depiction of a boar hunt. She had, if he recalled, been making it for
him. Odd how he remembered that.

He studied the scene. A boar at bay, men
triumphant in their chase. His thoughts went to Gwydre. The boy lying bloodied
and dead. His voice choked as he said in a rare
moment of
letting down his guard, ‘I
would not willingly kill a son of mine.’
Winifred came quickly to his side, took Arthur’s hand lightly in her
own. Guessed, rightly, at his thoughts. ‘I grieved for your
sons.’ Arthur
barked a disdainful laugh, retrieved his hand. ‘You? Grieved over Amr and
Gwydre? Damn it, do you take me for the complete fool!’
Her answer slapped unexpectedly. ‘I am a mother! The death
of a son, any son, brings a sharing of grief
between mothers who
love and fear for their children.’ Scornfully Arthur
flung at her, ‘Even with Gwenhwyfar?’
Compassionately
Winifred replied, ‘For the loss of a son, aye,
even with Gwenhwyfar.’
Added with a rueful smile, ‘Though I admit to preferring her sons not to have
been also yours.’ Arthur stood uncomfortable at this revealing honesty in
Winifred. Her scheming and deceptions he could handle, this opening of her
heart was becoming unnerving. And she spoke the truth, he knew that. He ambled
away, his back to her. ‘I did not come to this chamber for your pity.’
He spun round, head raised like an alert stag as
she next said, ‘You came because you fear the death of another son. What will
you
do, Pendragon, if Llacheu dies?’
Arthur’s
skin crawled. How had she known? On the few days
that it took to ride here, Arthur had repeatedly questioned
himself
as to why he was responding to the invitation to meet
Aesc on Winifred’s land. It was a thing he had to do eventually,
meet
with Hengest’s successor, but not on Winifred’s steading. So why had he
accepted? Curiosity? Boredom? Peace, apart from the rumblings from the North
and Amlawdd’s constant
growling, had settled
like an enchanted pollen dust over
Britain. Months had passed quietly,
Briton and Saex alike
content to battle
against the vagaries of weather rather than
one another.

Winifred broke his thoughts, her hand on his
arm, holding firm. ‘You may one day need Cerdic,’ she purred. Quicker, her
breath held, ‘Take him with you when you return to
Caer
Cadan. Let your two sons grow as brothers.’
Arthur stared at her incredulously.
Had he heard right? ‘You would trust me with him?’

‘
He is your son.’

‘He is of Saex blood. His grandmother was
daughter to Hengest, his mother’s uncle now rules the Cantii territory.’ Arthur
swept her hold from his arm, not liking the suggestion. Disliking more the
damned bloody sense of it. ‘When he is
grown,
Cerdic can lay claim to powerful allies. For those
reasons it would suit
me to have him out of the way.’
Winifred had
heard all the rumours. Did not think that
Arthur was capable of deliberately drowning his son. ‘You
would
not murder one of your own.’ She said emphatically, believing it.

‘Do not count on that! Were there just cause,
I would slice my sword through his neck.’ Arthur was equally emphatic.

‘
Arthur,’
excited, she took his hands within her own,
‘instead of fighting one
another our sons could fight together! Think on it! What allies they could become!’
It was tempting, too bloody tempting. The instincts of a
seasoned soldier were buffeting Arthur like storm
waves on the
shore; he could smell danger as strong as the pungent odour
of that smoking candle in the corner of the chamber. Winifred would not
willingly give up her son, not into his – or, more potent – Gwenhwyfar’s care.

Her next words ran chill down his spine. ‘If
you do not take him, Arthur, then 1 shall send him with Aesc. It is your choice
as to who brings my son to manhood. You, or,’ she laughed maliciously, ‘the
Saex.’ Then he saw the reason behind all this. To take the title
Pendragon, Cerdic needed to be taught how to
fight, how to use
sword and shield –
and how to lead men. He could not learn
that from his mother, or even a
swordmaster. He needed to be with a king – needed to be with his father. Arthur
twisted a derisive, mocking grin, stepped away from her, lifted his wine and
drained the goblet. He went to the far door, the one that would open out into
the night air. ‘Very well, Cerdic returns with me.’ He saw her smiled relief,
saw it fade as he added, ‘I have been asked by Ambrosius to turn to this
Christian God of yours. If I were to follow his advice, I would need to pay
atonement for my sins. I’ll build a monastery near Caer Cadan
and offer my son to His service.’ Her hand had gone
to her
throat, colour draining from her face. ‘The idea serves well
enough to keep Vitolinus from learning how to use
his
manhood. It will be the same for Cerdic.’ Before he stepped into the
shrouding darkness, he finished
with a
threat. ‘And if you send Cerdic to Aesc I personally will release Vitolinus. He
has more claim to the Saex kingdom than
your brat. Think on it.’ Arthur
stamped directly across the horse paddock to where his men had made camp, half
mindful that someone else might accost him before he had a chance to join them
and sleep this night. The horses were restless, snorting, ears back, but Arthur
was angry with Winifred, tired, and had drunk
more than
enough. That sputtering candle in Winifred’s room had cast a
stronger reek of smoke than he realised, for he
could smell it on
his cloak. He
stopped abruptly, head up, scenting the frosted
air. It was smoke he could smell but not from a candle .. .
Mithras’
love! The barn was on fire!

§ XXII

Onager was inside that barn. Mean he might
be, but he was a
good war-horse, and Arthur,
and the men of the Artoriani
relied
on their horses, thought of them almost as family.
Running for the nearest door Arthur was
bellowing, yelling the
word, ‘Fire! Fire!’ His own men were rousing
first, being the nearest, sleeping outside, but the Hall doors were opening,
the night-watch peering out at the sudden commotion.

Arthur reached the door,
pulled at it, was flung back as a
blast of heat and
flame erupted outward, engulfing door, lintel and wall. Inside, Onager was
screaming, kicking; Arthur could imagine the great beast lashing out at the
wooden partitions of
his stall – he was
tethered, had he yet managed to break the
rope? God’s love, he could not
lose another stallion! He raced
around to
the front double doors, praying to every god that was listening that they had
not been barred from the inside. Belches
of flame were streaming up into the sky now on the far side from
where he had just come. Men were tumbling out
from the Hall,
some pulling on tunic
and bracae, others tearing, naked,
running for buckets, fetching water,
forming a linking chain
from well to barn,
and Aesc’s Saex were coming from their
camp.

Arthur, with his hands on one of the huge
doors, paused a heartbeat of a moment. If the flames spat out from this end of
the building as they had the other, he would
never get in, never
get Onager out ... He lifted the latch, the door
gave, swung
outwards, hens bustling and
flapping, squawking as they
fluttered in panic from the confine of the
place, caused Arthur to take a step backwards, his arms going up to shield his
face
from their alarm. Black smoke billowed
out, no flame this end,
but the hiss and crackle rose louder, and
inside, Arthur could see the red hell at the far end of the barn creeping
nearer, and Onager, this end, rearing, twisting and plunging.

All the Pendragon could
do was fill his lungs with breath and
plunge into the choking blackness. Vaguely, he heard
someone
scream his name, Winifred’s voice, but he
ignored it, directed
his full attention to
the panic-stricken horse plunging and
terrified four yards within the
left-hand side of the barn. The flames were slithering nearer, touched another
bank of stacked
hay, and rocketed upwards
with a great, whooshing roar,
caught
at the roof. Arthur was at the stall, desperately trying
not to hear the
rush of sound coming nearer above him, or the
creaking
groans from the tortured roof beams. He had to slip in
beside the
stallion, had to reach the tethering rope that held so
damned fast. Onager was plunging, throwing himself from side
to side. His hoof pistoned out, slamming into the
partition wall,
lashed out again, caught Arthur a blow to the thigh that
made him gasp in pain – but he was past, was at his head! Gentle, calm, Arthur
laid his hand along the massive horse’s neck, stroking, soothing, murmuring
soft, crooning words. ‘Whoa there, my beauty, my brave lad. This is a fine old
mess eh? Come now, easy my boy, let us be going from here, come lad, come.’ He
could not untie the rope, so tight had Onager pulled the fastening, didn’t
bother to try. He had his dagger out,
through
the rope, and his hand laid firm on the halter in a
moment. He pushed
the stallion backwards, one hand insistent
on
his chest, clicking his tongue. ‘Back, step back.’ Onager was
frightened,
blinded and choked by the acrid smoke, but for all his vicious manner, he had
trust in his master and took a step backwards. ‘Good lad, good boy. Again,
back, back.’
The smoke was thickening, the
flames darting now along
floor, wall and roof. The rear wall suddenly
crashed down, timbers giving way in a belch of fuming smoke and shooting
flame. The heat was becoming intense, the noise
deafening,
but Onager was out from
the stall and Arthur turned him for the
open door. For a throat-gasping
moment he thought the animal was not going to go forward, but Onager was a
war-horse and though he was shaking and scared, he dropped his head and walked
beside the only man he would let ride him, walked to
the door and out through the reek of smoke into the cool
darkness
of a star-studded night.

Someone came to try and take the horse, but
Arthur waved
him aside and led the animal
across the paddock, filled with
men
running and shouting, or standing looking stunned,
speechless. The buckets had been abandoned, there
came
another tremendous crash and the barn roof fell in, the flames
lighting the night sky in a fireball of orange and red and dense
black smoke. Arthur did not see it, for he was
across the
paddock, leading Onager through the gate, across the cool,
frost-sparkled grass into the field, where he would have been curled asleep
with his men, had he been able. The other horses
had fled to the furthest side, milling by the wall, feet stamping,
snorting, ears going back and forth, frightened by
the smells
and sounds.

At last Arthur could stop. Gweir appeared,
face blackened, eyes round-white. ‘Master? Are you all right, Sir?’ Arthur
could make no answer. His throat felt dry and sore, his lungs heavy and
congested. Another man appeared, his Decurion, and took Onager’s halter as
Arthur passed it to him.
For long, long
moments, Arthur stood there, on the furthest
side of the field, bent
double, hands on his thighs, trying to get
his
breath while coughing the vileness out from him. Gweir had
disappeared but within a moment came back,
clutching a
tankard of winter-cold water. He gave it to his master, who
nodded his thanks and sipped the delicious liquid that cooled the burning that
ran from tongue to belly.

They all looked up,
round, as the final agony came. The walls
buckled,
the barn fell. It would not burn for much longer for there was nothing left for
the fire to consume.