Shadow of the King (24 page)

truly, it was not her appearance that mattered, not to him. It was what you did

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together as man and wife that counted. She was so trusting, so truly innocent

and blithely unaware of his possible inability as a husband. Other women may

have mocked, but not she.

It was Ragnall who needed the confidence, the kindness and under-

standing of a man for a woman, and incredibly, to his immense joy, Cadwy

discovered for himself that a lame leg made no difference whatsoever to the

ability of his manhood.

For Ragnall, the night brought a swathe of emotion, and pleasures that

never would she have dreamt of experiencing. And greater was the sheer, utter

delight, for the first time in her life, of being informed she could have her own

choice. She was free to choose for herself what she did, when and how.

For any woman, but especially for Ragnall who had been ordered by the whims

of others, the greatest desire, the keenest pleasure. To have her own mind.

Thirty-Eight

At the rustle of silk and waft of expensive perfume, Gwenhwyfar

turned her head to see Winifred seating herself. She made no gesture of

welcome, but equally no protest at the uninvited intrusion. For a while they

sat in silence, surveying the dancing, the whirl of activity circling and cavorting

along the centre of the Hall. Each electrically aware of, and steadfastly ignoring,

the other.

“That was neatly done, the diversion from the unpleasant necessity of bedding

the marriage couple.”

Gwenhwyfar inclined her head in acknowledgement. Made no answer, however.

“You are full recovered to health now then, my dear?” Winifred enquired,

her voice light, pleasant, seemingly genuinely interested.

“Quite recovered, I thank you.” Gwenhwyfar’s retort was shorter-breathed,

sharper. She had no wish for conversation with this woman.

Winifred persisted. “Your daughter? She is well also?” Craning her neck to

search around the crowded Hall, added, “I see her not here.”

“Most well.” Archfedd was outside with the children of her own age, being

too young to mingle with such honourable company. As Winifred well knew.

“There are fine numbers here, some many notable people.”

There seemed no point in answering. Gwenhwyfar kept her counsel, forced

down a scathing retort.

“Though I see there are as many missing. Geraint of Dumnonia, for one.”

Blood of the Bull, but this woman could be insufferable! Those not attending

were Arthur’s most vehement opposers, and for each of those, twice as many

supporters were here. Geraint, the exception. “A first child is about to be born

to his wife,” Gwenhwyfar retorted, although she saw no need for explanation.

Another long silent, pause. The noise of excitement was rising, the drinking

taking precedence over most other entertainments. “You have not heard when

Arthur plans to return?”

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“Soon,” was the terse answer.

Winifred chuckled, dipped her head meaningfully in Ambrosius’s direc-

tion. “Ah, but is soon not already too late?” She patted her gown straight,

smoothing a few creases. In public she wore the plain black of a Christian

woman, but even this was of fine-spun, softest wool, worn with a gossamer-

soft silk veil to cover her sun-gold hair. “Will he be happy to leave his whore

behind, do you think? Or will he bring her back with him, secrete her away

somewhere?” Winifred had the ability to offend while wearing such a pleasant,

friendly smile.

“If you are hoping to goad me into anger, Winifred, you had best try a

different tactic. I know of Mathild. From Arthur himself.” Aye, Gwenhwyfar

was jealous of the fact, but she was practical. No man such as the Pendragon could

be expected to pass this length of time without the company of a woman.

“And do you know that Euric was, according to my last received commu-

nication, moving northward? That, very likely, the two armies have, by now,

met?” She could see, by Gwenhwyfar’s quick, indrawn breath and sudden

paling skin, this was, indeed, unknown news.

Mastering her composure, Gwenhwyfar countered the woman’s smug

gloat, her words coming in a rush of protest. “There has been no exchange of

communication these past many weeks. I understand the sea-crossing is made

fierce by strong winds.”
Nor do we know for certain where my husband encamps;

I have no knowledge that my latest letters have reached him.
But that, she had no

intention of admitting or confiding.

Satisfied at achieving the reward of reaction, Winifred began the thrust of her

second blow. She folded her hands onto her lap, deliberately took time before

expanding her information.

“The Saex pirates, as they are still insultingly termed, have little fear of these

high, summer winds at sea. Their longships handle well under any condition.

For the right price.” She applauded an acrobat who had performed some

incredible contortion routine within a small space at the side of the Hall, her

praising hands clapping politely, joining other, more exuberant delight. “I, my

dear, have always made it policy to pay more than what is right.” Turning

her head towards Gwenhwyfar, her condescending smile was as rancid as stale

cheese. “The reward far outdistances the commitment.”

Tartly, Gwenhwyfar sniped, “I have no fear for Arthur. He is a capable

warlord, has the best men with him.”

Indulgent, Winifred nodded agreement, infuriatingly patted Gwenhwyfar’s

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hand. “I agree with what you say, but even the best will not be sufficient against

five, happen six times his number.”

Sharply removing her hand, Gwenhwyfar made to rise, thought better of the

action, remained seated. Her response was curt. “The Pendragon does not fight

alone. Syagrius is to…”

Winifred interrupted with an amused laugh. She came, gracious and with

dignity to her feet. “Syagrius? Oh my dear, you ought use Saxon messengers.

Have you not heard that news either?”

Blankly, Gwenhwyfar stared at the odious woman. The question was

rhetorical, for Winifred, starting already to walk away she tossed the answer

over her shoulder. “Syagrius marched only as far as Letetia.”

She halted, turned her head to regard the Pendragon’s second-taken wife,

to observe how pale her cheeks had turned, how wide her eyes, how fast her

breathing. “He dismissed his army. Went home.” She feigned shock, her hand

going to her chest. “My dear, were you not aware the Pendragon is to fight

alone?” She walked away, her words trailed after her through the noise and

laughter of celebration. “I happen to know Euric follows my policy of paying

high to ensure his success. I could tell you how much he has paid Syagrius to

go home, if you were enough interested.”

Winfred beckoned to a slave. “Take wine to Lady Gwenhwyfar. I believe

she is a little unwell.”

Thirty-Nine

Restless night; the long darkness before a battle. It always seemed

so very long, as if the stars hung there in the sky, paused, breath held,

their timeless dance suspended, quiet, and unmoving. The waiting, the

reluctance—the anticipation—of what would come on the morrow at this

place called Vicus Dolensis.

The horses grazed or dozed, fidgeting, their ears flicking, legs shifting, sensing

the underlying tension of the men, few of whom slept. Gathered around the

hearth fires, men squatted, checking war-gear for loose stitching, blunt edging,

cracks, breaks. Others lay huddled, curled beneath their cloaks, dozing from

one anxious dream to another. Many sat, putting an extra edge to the blade of

sword or dagger or axe, exchanging tales of past battles and brave heroes; of

women loved and women lost. Some kept their council, caressing the treasured

memories of the past, regretting a future unfulfilled.

Always Arthur walked through the encampment on the night before battle.

It pleased the men, gave heart to those in doubt or wrestling against fears,

cheered the old campaigners, gave chance to exchange shared laughter or give

comfort or courage. But who was there this night to prop the sagging weight

of his own heavy heart? Who was there to talk to him, to give an encouraging

smile, a friendly slap to the shoulder or a hand-clasp of faith? Who was there to

hold close, to caress, to touch, to give and receive love? The especial love that

could only leap between a man and his wife. The wife he mourned.

Arthur stood to the edge of the camp, aware the watch-guard was uneasy

at his presence so near to the danger of the unprotected dark. The trees here,

covering the higher ground sloping down to the vast stretch of flat land below,

were tall, straight, and thick-shadowed beneath the moon. He could so easily

take two, three paces and be lost within their sheltering darkness. He could

slip away, now, be many miles gone by dawn. No doubt there were already a

few—huh, on an uneasy night such as this, more like many—who had already

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done so. Had slid quietly away, to hide, to wait, to watch for a few hours then

disappear, go home.

If he, Arthur, were to go, would there then be a fight on the morrow? Or

would the men talk between themselves, lay down their weapons, and ride

away? Would Euric the Goth accept that inglorious way of winning?

Before, there had always been some point, some reason for the fighting:

honour, to control the land, to retain or gain what was his by rights. To fight

for revenge or power, or glory, or gain…whatever, there was always a reason.

What reason was there for this? Gaul was not his; most of these men sitting

anxious around their fires waiting for a dawn that they did not want to arrive,

were not his men. This was not his fight, his problem. Why in all the gods’

names had he not turned around months past and simply gone home? As

Syagrius had.

Pulling a thin branch off the nearest tree, Arthur absent-mindedly shredded

it of its leaves. Why? Gods! How those damn questions trundled around and

around in his brain!

Why had he come? Why had he stayed? Why did Gwenhwyfar have to die!

His throat was dry and taut, his chest hurt from the tight, choked breathing

that clutched like a clenched fist at his lungs. Arthur bit his lip, threw the

mangled branch from his hand. He wanted to shout, scream, roar his anger, let

loose his great grief. He started as a dead branch cracked loud in the stillness,

not four paces from him.

“Mithras, Bedwyr,” he laughed, shaken, “you nigh on set me leaping like a

frightened deer!”

Bedwyr stepped forward, his white teeth glistening behind his wide smile.

“Thought I might find you out here.” He stood next to his cousin, looked out

into the darkness of the trees a moment. He had been searching for Arthur this

past hour—had understood the need for solitude once he realised where Arthur

had gone. “I know I have said this before, Arthur, but I must say it again—she

may not be dead. That messenger only said…”

The Pendragon swung irritably away. “I bloody know what that messenger

said! She was ill, was not expected to last the night through. Damn it, man!” He

faced Bedwyr again, fists bunched, body rigid, so wanting to hit out, to punch

someone, something. Release the anger of losing her, of not being with her. Of

being here instead. “If she had survived, do you not think I would have heard?”

Lifting his hands in protest, Bedwyr was about to express a contradiction,

sighed, let them drop again to his side. They had travelled this path before,

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what use to say again that aye, Arthur might be right, but equally they had

heard no further message confirming the first. Had heard nothing of Britain

since that grey-faced youth had brought them such immeasurable sadness.

“I came to say our officers await you for final orders. Do we move down

onto the plains come dawn, meet Euric as we planned?”

Arthur nodded, realised Bedwyr would not see his slight movement in the dark.

“Aye. We will make this a fight to be remembered. One way or the other.”

There was no reason behind the fighting that was sure to be bitter and

bloody, come sunrise, but it would be good to release all the stored anger and

frustration. Good for all of them, not just for Arthur alone.

And then, after this thing was finished, those who could would go home

without any shadow of shame or regret clinging to their shoulders. Those who

wanted to go home.

Those who had something—someone—worth going home to.

Forty

Vicus Dolensis. This was marsh, stretching as far as the horizon—a

flatness, oozing runnels of bog-bound, shallow river and sluggish, stream-

laced, marsh. Unsuited to cavalry, ground Arthur would have avoided if given

choice. The decision had not been his to make. Three hours past the site of this

battle had been in Arthur’s hands; three hours past, his cavalry had been drawn