Shadow of the King (22 page)

He gestured acceptance of the inevitable. “A dozen or so less will not make

much difference.” He drank again, finished the goblet. It would, but he was

beyond caring.

Mathild crossed to him, threaded her arm through his again, sought his eyes

so he might see her earnestness. “Most of the men here are from my own

people, kindred of those who have their homes along the Elbe. Most are loyal

to me, for I am the daughter of a nobleman, a warrior lord. They will do as I

do, say as I say.”

Arthur patted her hand. “I had counted on that. They will see you safe home.”

She dipped her head in agreement. “But so too will they serve me here. Free

men fight the better for knowing they do so out of choice, not desperation.”

Aye, that was true enough!

She had to stand on toe-tip to reach up and kiss him, for Arthur was tall and

she slight. “I will stay these next few days, see this through. After, whichever

way it may go, after, I will return to my home.”

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They lay quiet as the stars trod their ancient path across the arch of black

sky. Together, warm, she nestled between his arms, her head pillowed on his

chest, hair fanned in a tumble of golden spray. Arthur was awake, staring at

the darkness inside the tent. Awake and thinking again of all those unwanted,

unbearably sad memories. An owl called somewhere, mournful, desolate and

haunting. An owl, the spirit bird. Did Gwenhwyfar come, riding astride its

back? Or Llacheu? Gwydre? Amr? Or was it his own spirit, come to make

ready to take him to the beyond?

Mathild stirred in her sleep, mumbling some unintelligible word. In his sorrow

he needed comfort, could not have borne it had she gone from him also.

Thirty-Five

Someone else lay awake twenty or so miles from the Pendragon’s

encampment. She lay with her three-year-old son huddled close, deep

asleep. They were curled beneath her cloak, for the night was chill after the

warmth of the day. The stars had blazed so bright and crisp, a thousand silver

fires burning in the vault of the sky. She had watched the constellations in their

slow wheel, watched a star fall with the blaze of brief but magnificent glory,

seen a planet rise, and wander its path.

Morgaine had come with her son, she knew not why. Some inner urging or

instinct? Come to see him again, the father of this boy, the man she loved. But

having come her courage had left her. He would have no wish to see her; have

no wish to see for himself the child spawned from his seed.

Medraut was much like his father, brown, slight curled hair, though

lighter in shade, intense eyes that seemed as if they could see right through

to your soul. The same nose, long, straight. As she had set out from the

place that had become her home, Morgaine had told the boy of Arthur, the

Pendragon, the one they called Riothamus. Told him of his strength and

courage, his wisdom and laughter, speaking aloud all the memories that lay

so vivid in her mind.

They were so close now, two, three more days would bring them to the

place where the army camped, waiting for Euric the Goth to come further

north; but the closeness was bringing its own terror, feelings that drowned

her expectant hopes. Only the once had they lain together, her and Arthur,

although he had come to her place at Yns Witrin more times than that. Only

the once had she known him intimately, yet she had loved him, loved him with

an intensity as bright as the brightest star, from as far distant as girlhood. Five

years of age she had been when first she had seen him. The only man—only

other being—to be kind to her, to have smiled on her. For that, if nothing else,

her love had been seeded.

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Why had she come? She ought not have come. Those days, that time,

when she had been the last priestess of the Goddess, the Lady by the Lake, was

different. She had held an aura around her then, a shielding cloak of mystery

and pagan sanctity. For that reason, he had come to her. Why would he be

wanting her now? Now, when she was nothing more than the mother of a

bastard child.

She lay, looking up at the stars. “If another one falls before I count to the

number of one hundred,” she whispered to herself, “I will turn around on the

morrow and go home.”

A star fell. It had been a pointless promise. Morgaine knew she could not go

without seeing him, seeing his face, hearing his voice just one more, one more,

last time.

Thirty-Six

July 469

Gwenhwyfar was enjoying the wedding celebrations. Her strength

was improving daily, the vitality returning, like the welcome spread of

spring sunshine, through her limbs and body. Her face was filling out again,

the skin a glowing colour of pink health, not the sallow yellow of illness, and

her eyes had that familiar sparkle returning, the glint of tempered fire and viva-

cious laughter. Caer Cadan was the natural choice for the marriage of Cadwy

and Ragnall, for neither of their respective fathers had inclination to offer

hospitality. The king’s stronghold held adequate room to house many guests,

warranted the prestige and facilities for a splendid feasting—and would be an

opportunity to remind those who were on the verge of forgetting that they still

had an acclaimed king. Aye indeed, Gwenhwyfar was enjoying herself.

The Christian ceremony over, with its solemn pledging of vows and the

bishop’s intoned blessing, the guests were demanding feasting and revelry. Both

of which Gwenhwyfar, in the name of her lord, Arthur the Pendragon, was

intending to give in grand and unforgettable style. Wild boar, venison, roasted

fowl, and hare; basted pork and tender young mutton; the best imported wines,

ale in plenty, and the sweet, heady apple-mead so well brewed in these Summer

Lands. Musicians played, acrobats, dancers, conjurors with their sleight-of-hand

tricks and astounding illusions provided a wondrous variety of entertainment. It

seemed the whole world had trooped to Caer Cadan!

The Hall was crammed with the higher nobility, petty kings, and lords from

Dyfed, Powys, Rheged, Dumnonia—respected men from Arthur’s subject

lands. Among them, Gwenhwyfar’s brothers, come from Gwynedd. How

could she not delight in such most welcome company? In addition, filling

those sought-after spaces at table or ale-barrel, elders, merchant-men, traders.

A clamour indeed of talk and laughter! Open invitation had been sent by swift

messengers to the four winds—and they had responded with an alacrity to put

those pressing for Arthur’s demise to shame. Outside, too, beyond the light and

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noise of the King’s Hall, were lesser revellers, over many to count, with such

a whirl of dancing, feasting, and drinking! Clustered groups seated around the

well-stacked fires, knots of men and women gathered in discussion, sharing

laughter and good-natured debate. And all with their wives and children and

servants…Everywhere, there came a bustling exuberance of laughter and

merriment, gay contrast to the dour proceedings at Ambrosius’s called Council,

at Yns Witrin.

At that Council Ambrosius’s men, his declared supporters and sympathisers,

had publicly declared for him—but with what practicality?

They were, compared to the multitude gathered here, a minority, if

outspoken, voice. Ambrosius had his embryonic army of the Ambrosiani but

they were not the elite, proud force of Arthur’s followers, men who had made

free choice to fight beneath the king’s banner.

No one in this Hall would, this day, dare go openly against their king,

and the loyalty would last a while, at least long enough. For Arthur surely—

surely—was to be home soon. Aye, this wedding had been well timed, for all

its unplanned spontaneity!

Only Ambrosius and those few of the Church hierarchy to attend were sitting

stone-faced, aware they had been successfully outmanoeuvred for a while.

Ambrosius sat at the high table, talking occasionally, observing the merriment

with drawn brows and unsmiling expression, his eye going repeatedly to his son

and new-taken wife. That this marriage was nothing short of disaster was, to

him, an obvious fact; yet the girl was smiling, and Cadwy seemed more animated

and at ease than ever his father had seen him before. Could this union prove

worthwhile? Was there some small hope? A grandson would be too much to

pray for, too presumptive a gift to ask of God. Yet were it possible? Ambrosius

dismissed the thought. How could it be so? He observed also Gwenhwyfar and

her obvious determination to prove she was no longer ailing, that death had

been successfully cheated. He was ignorant of the Pendragon’s deep misery.

The messenger, he had sent in all good faith, wishing to inform a king of his

wife’s illness, to warn of her last days. Ambrosius was a proud man, but he was

not vindictive or callous. He could not know his sent word had been received

incorrectly, that Arthur thought Gwenhwyfar dead—nor that all subsequent

communication, both written and verbal, had been delayed or misdirected.

Had not been delivered.

So, in as much innocence and ignorance as Gwenhwyfar, he watched her as

she danced and talked, laughed and sang, appearing as if she had never been ill.

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Watched, unaware that on the morrow her body would ache and the tiredness

would return. That was Gwenhwyfar’s knowledge alone, a lingering weakness

that at all costs must be shielded from public view. For leaderless, the lords would

drift to Ambrosius’s hearth. Discomfort was for the next day, this was the now.

A now where she had to show these men—and Ambrosius Aurelianus—that

were an army to be brought against the rightful king, his queen would be strong

enough to draw her sword and lead one even greater in his name.

For Ragnall and Cadwy, the day had begun as an ordeal. Neither of them

particularly easy in company, both timid and shy of strangers, they had found

themselves unwillingly cast as principal players in this whirlpool of joyful celebra-

tion. Ragnall, still frightened of the threat of death hanging over her—though

Gwenhwyfar and many others had repeatedly assured her of the invalidity of

that punishment—attempted to smile, to show happiness. But other fears were

crowding her, fears real and imaginary. Together, they had shuffled a few brief,

stumbling steps, as custom decreed, to begin the dancing. Holding Cadwy’s

hand awkwardly, Ragnall had wondered at his motive for taking her as bride.

She had no beauty, only ugliness, no grace or elegance. He knew not enough

of her to be aware of the laughter that longed to escape from deep inside her,

nor did he know of her sweet singing voice or her love of tale-telling. He did

not know her at all, for until this day they had been apart since the ordeal of

shame and fear at Yns Witrin. Nor did she know him, but this did not matter.

He had given her the gift of freedom, albeit that freedom might be short-lived,

for no woman could be certain how a husband would treat her in marriage—

his features were strong, his countenance gentle and compassionate. He did

not seem a man who would tend to violence towards his lady. Ragnall did not

mind his limping, his awkward gait, for she saw only her own ungainliness.

Wished so much that she would find some way of pleasing him as wife.

Cadwy, for his part, was as mindful of his own disability. How must she

think of him as he shuffled and lurched those few, embarrassingly public steps?

Acutely, was he aware of the glances and smothered sniggers. For all the joyful-

ness, the comments directed at the couple who had caused the celebrations were

overloud and over-rude. Cadwy reddened at the cruel jesting, his fist clenching,

schooling his expression to remain plain, untroubled, but Ragnall saw, read the

thoughts behind his narrowing eyes. Took his discomfort as shame of her.

Her fear increased as the afternoon drifted into evening. With the dark would

come the other part of the ceremony, the final, complete taking of a wife. Could

she endure it, the snide comments, the cruel thoughts? How could a man take

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her into his bed? What enjoyment or pleasure could her gross deformity give?

Ah no, there was little happiness in Ragnall’s heart, for she knew that once in

the privacy of their bridal chamber, Cadwy would drop his mask of restraint

and show his abhorrence of her.

Winifred, among the guests, was all smiles, enjoying herself immensely. The

invitation to attend this day’s merriment had been a general one—one Winifred

had determined not to miss. Mischief was so much the easier discharged among

a large and prestigious gathering! Smug, as she always was, she observed with

amusement Ambrosius’s obvious discomfort. Her first words to him, upon her