Shadow of the King (15 page)

Cheering, raising their voices in battle song, the young men gathered up their

weapons and swaggered away from the flames of what had, an hour before,

been the farm of an elderly couple and their grandchildren.

Reluctant, resigned, Cille followed behind.
Ja
, soon he would go home. But

not yet.

Twenty-Three

The sun filtered, dappled, through the overhead canopy of leaves

and branches. It was shaded, cool beneath the trees, but insufferably hot in

the open for so early in the year. If this continued, the wider, shallower rivers

would soon be running low; grass, even in these woodlands, was already dry

and brown. Arthur only hoped Euric and his Goths, somewhere away to the

south, were as uncomfortable and irritable in this heat as he and his men.

He rode, as always, at the head of the Vanguard, setting a steady pace in

the wake of his competent scouts. The line of march was ordered much as

the Roman legions would once have tramped across enemy territory. First,

the pioneers, whose job it was to make a way for the army coming immediate

behind—this current stretch of woodland was easier than the past few days,

the trees and undergrowth not so dense, so tangled. Sharpened axes and brute

strength had been needed over-often on this campaign. Even the women, the

whores and their rag-tag scrabble of children, marching within the safety of the

baggage, had been required occasionally to help clear the overgrown, neglected

Roman roadways running for mile upon mile through these seemingly never-

ending woodlands.

Few rode, except the cavalry. If you could not keep up you were left behind.

It was the way of things for an army on the march.

With the pack-mules and ponies trundled the blacksmiths, the medics,

armourers, leather workers. The boys trudged here, boys who, in later times,

would be called squires. Gweir, Arthur’s servant, was luckier than most for he

had acquired a pony, rode it proudly, for all the animal’s poor conformation

and age. Here, too, escorted by a select, experienced guard, travelled the army

papers, the paraphernalia of war. Maps, details of logistics, a clutter of letters

half-read or half-written by the Pendragon.

Then, the Artoriani, the elite, Arthur’s cavalry with the standards and

emblems of each turmae, a second forest of fluttering, rustling colour. Beyond

8 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

the riders, the infantry, the mercenary forces, men whom, had they been

fighting in Britain, would have called themselves Cymry. These were an ill

assortment, a straggle of volunteers who had, since those first days after landing

along the coast of Less Britain, come in small groups or singularly to join with

Arthur. Young men and old, freemen and slaves. All seeking a part in the great

fight that lay ahead. Beyond necessary question Arthur never asked from where

they came. If a son defied his father or a husband a wife, a slave his master, what

cared the Pendragon? He needed the men, their hearts and their loyalty. For

that, he asked nothing more than a given name and next of kin if known.

The rearguard was formed partly of Artoriani, experienced, battle-hardened

men intermingled with Gauls, those yet to learn. Ecdicius and his small retinue

rode proudly here, alongside Arthur’s men. He was proving useful, this adven-

turous nobleman. Quick to learn, slow to comment. The sort of man Arthur

welcomed as an officer and friend.

Easing his backside in the saddle Arthur stretched cramped, sore muscles. It

had been a long, hot day. A longer, hotter week. Evening would be upon them

in an hour or so and the air would cool, thank the gods! Another half-hour

on the march and they would make camp. Their last. The morrow would see

them at Avaricum, and there the march ended. Arthur had made up his mind.

When, he was uncertain, but the decision had come—happen unconsciously,

during a dream. They were going no further. Either the Goths came to him

before the ending of the August month, or he would go home.

He had nigh on two thousand men following, eager, behind his red-blazoned

Dragon Banner. The men of Riothamus, they privately called themselves, those

who were not Artoriani, marching with hearts as high as the sky and grins as

wide as the Liger River. And at last, word had come that Syagrius was to join

them. The king of Soissons was about to move south with his army, would

meet the Pendragon at Avaricum.

Arthur twisted in the saddle, surveyed the column that was his army, listening

to the familiar, comforting sounds. The tramp of feet; shouts, chatter, laughter.

The occasional oath, a cadence of sound against the background of soft-treaded

hoof-beats, the creak of leather, neighing, braying. He glanced upward at the

swathe of bluest sky, hanging bright, unclouded, above the trees. A magpie

screeched somewhere to his left, answered by another further ahead. Three

days past the word had come from Syagrius that Euric was again on the move

and that he, Syagrius, would be coming with all haste to meet with Arthur.

Together, they would put an end to this barbarian scourge.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 8 7

A scout was riding in, coming at a trot, sweat glistening on his forehead

beneath his war-cap, wet, dark, patches on his mount’s coat. At Avaricum? Hah!

Had Syagrius not said the same for Condivicnum, Juliomagus, Caesarodunum?

Arthur was reluctant to admit, even to himself, that he would only believe his

one-time friend intended to take part in this thing when he stood there, before

him. Even then, Arthur harboured a suspicion that Syagrius had no intention

of soiling his own hands with blood.

The Pendragon returned the scout’s salute, questioned for a report with his

expression and eyes.

“Trees are down, Sir, quarter of a mile ahead.”

“No way round?”

“No Sir.”

Arthur’s reply was a colourful oath. Did no one travel in this damned country?

Did no one consider it might have been prudent to ensure the roadways were

kept clear? God’s breath, did not one of these damned Gauls have a brain to

think with? Time and again the column had needed to halt while obstacles

were cleared from the road. Great trees, fallen, half-rotten, submerged by years

of undergrowth. Gape-holed bridges, unsafe, unkempt. Arthur was beginning

to believe the whole of Gaul was like this derelict north-western corner. And

men like Ambrosius back home thought Britain was in disrepair? Bull’s blood,

Britain was a thriving phoenix compared with this!

“There is another river ahead also, Sir.” A slight hesitancy in the scout’s

voice brought a frown to his king’s features.

“Go on, surprise me. The bridge is down,” Arthur drawled.

The scout grinned, raised one hand in surrender. “Took the words right out

of my mouth, Sir.” Arthur halted the column. God’s holy truth! Why in all

Hades had he agreed to come to this bloody country?

Twenty-Four

Ragnall was used to keeping herself in the background, away from

the forefront. Hers was the world of shadows and half-light, of walking

with her head bowed, veil or hood held close, sight cast down. She was ten

and six years and had never smiled into a man’s eyes. Never expected to. A girl

who was to face the rest of her life as a woman of Christ had no reason to be

smiling at mortal men.

Her father’s voice beyond the closed doorway, was rising, angry, but then her

father, Amlawdd, had always been prone to sudden-flared tempers regarding

his daughter. It was the disappointment, she supposed. Other fathers could

be proud of their daughters, would expect the prospect of a good marriage, a

useful alliance, an honoured son-by-law. They would not come for Ragnall.

Who would want her as wife?

She sighed, lifted the rolled parchment from her lap, tried again to read the

delicate print of the Gospel. Her sight was not so good, the words faint and

small and the voices beyond the abbess’s closed door too distracting.

They did not want her here, the holy women. She was an embarrassment.

Neither did her father want her. For the same reason, although he also had

the guilt and memories to contend with. She rose from the stool, carefully

re-rolling the parchment scroll, placed it on the table, walked aimlessly around

the room.

It was functional, but austere and cold, much like the abbess to whom it

belonged. This was the outer, public chamber before her private rooms. No

one was allowed in there without invitation, although those few who had been

privileged reported that it was no more comfortable. Her fingers fiddled with

the one ring she wore, twiddling it absently around and around. Nor did she

want to be here, cloistered as a nun with only a duty towards the Christian God

to fill these endless days. Ragnall wanted the sun on her face, the wind in her

hair. Wanted to love and be loved.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 8 9

She looked at the ring. It had been her mother’s, the only thing of hers she

possessed, the only thing of importance that she had brought with her from her

father’s Hall, six years past when she had been a child of ten. Most of the jewels

and fine woven clothing that had once been her mother’s had gone, over the

years, to his succession of whores and bed-mates. Aye, and even before her

mother’s death had such things been given. They said she had died of an illness.

Ragnall could not remember much of her, except her smile, sun-blonde hair,

and her golden laughter. It had not been illness that killed her, though, she

was certain. Her mother had died of despair, for Ragnall was like her mother.

They both needed the sweet freedom of the sky and the sun, not the shuttered

darkness of binding chains.

Amlawdd had not loved her mother, no more than he loved her, his daughter.

But then, Amlawdd had no love for anyone save himself and the woman he

boasted he would have as his, one day. His was a love for greed, lust, and glut-

tony. He loved the Lady Pendragon, he said, but few of his stronghold believed

his declaration. He wanted her, but wanting was not the same as loving.

Ragnall paused in her walking before the shut door, studied the iron nail-

studs, ring handle and hinges, the oak wood of the panels. This had been

alive once, had stood as a great tree in a forest, its branches spread to the sun.

Ragnall let her head fall back, her arms spread, imagining the warmth of such

a freedom…and the door opened. Ragnall squeaked, leapt back a pace. The

abbess stalked through, her mouth a thin line of disapproval, her double chin

firm, set.

“You see,” she said, brandishing her arm at Ragnall. “The child is possessed.

Her mind is not in this earthly world, nor is it in God’s. I cannot tolerate her

here any longer.”

Amlawdd trotted, red-faced, blustering, behind, still arguing. “I pay you

enough, damn it, for her keep! You’ve been happy to take my gold!”

The Lady Branwen turned imperiously to face him. “Even were you to

double the sum, I would not keep her. Her disruptiveness is harming the

peaceful nature of my convent. She must go.”

“And to where must I send her? To a brothel perhaps?” If Amlawdd intended

to shock the abbess, it did not work. Lady Branwen merely scowled, turned to

Ragnall, and grasped her chin, tilting the girl’s head painfully up, back, her eyes

scrutinising the scarred and puckered skin, the one undamaged eye. “Even the

basest of whores need something beyond their sex to draw a man.”

Branwen had seen much ugliness and unpleasantness during her life. At least

9 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

here, secluded as Abbess of the Convent of Mary the Mother at Yns Witrin

she was spared many of the horrors of the outside world. The girl Ragnall was

too much a reminder of the devil’s work. She had tried, God knows, Branwen

had tried to tolerate her rebelliousness, had tried to ignore the ugliness of those

dreadful scars, But no more, no more!

In her own turn, Ragnall had no wish to stay in the gloom of this place, but

there was nowhere else to go. She begged, “Have I not been of use to you all

these years?” She held out her hands, one with long, slender fingers, the other

as twisted and gnarled as an ancient oak tree’s roots. Pleaded, “Half my body

was disfigured by the flames of the fire I fell into, but half is untouched, capable.

I can read and I can sew. I have tended the gardens, sown and reaped the corn.

My voice joins well with the songs of God…”

Branwen held up her hand for silence. “You manage to do all these things, I

agree. But you have never willingly and obediently done them. Your disfigured

body, child, completes these tasks while your mind is far from prayers and

God.” Lady Branwen folded her hands inside the sleeves of her black robe. The

matter was ended.

“Your daughter will leave here, my lord Amlawdd, when you do at the

ending of this called Council.” She swept to the door, opened it wide. Angry,