Shadow of the King (28 page)

you’d not have had me in his stead. I was only ten and one years at the time!”

As he hoped, she returned the smile. She put her hand on his heart. “You are

a good man, Bedwyr. Happen, had you been older, I might have chosen you.”

“Really!”

Her smile widened slightly as she confessed, “There are many who are dear

to me; you are among the dearest. But,” she dropped her hand, turned away,

“but no one, no one, ever, will fill this cold, empty space left within me.”

“I do not think,” Bedwyr replied slowly, “anyone would be fool enough

to try.”

Turning her head, she saw Ambrosius striding across the expanse of the

parade ground that stretched before the main doors of the Hall, his purple cloak

fluttering as he moved, preparing to leave. There was one man who would not

grieve for Arthur for long. She ought to go down, bid him farewell. Ought to

do many things, not stand up here, idling time by.

She watched Ambrosius mount his horse, move off. He looked up at her,

saluted. She ought to at least acknowledge him. Did not. Could not.

From up here she could see the spread of the Caer with its clutter of rectan-

gular dwelling-places, stables, geese, goat, and pigpens. The blacksmith’s place,

the tanner and the leatherworker, the small but efficient hospital; the chapel,

kennels, and the two enormous granary barns. An army settlement which

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 6 9

extended beyond the defence walls, down the cobbled lane to the civilian

buildings that had sprung up on the level ground below the great height of the

stronghold. Down there were two taverns, a bakery, a potter, a jewel-smith,

apothecary, and a fuller.

What would happen to them now? Now there was to be no more Artoriani?

“I suppose they will all follow Ambrosius,” she said with sadness. “There is

nothing for them here, now.”

Bedwyr frowned, uncertain to what she alluded, but did not question her.

“And I?” she asked, “Where shall I go?”

Spreading his hands he indicated he was not following her conversation.

“Caer Cadan is your home.”

“No.” She turned to smile at him, patient, half-indulgent. There was no

sparkle in the expression. “No, this was Arthur’s place. There is too much of

him here for me to stay.”

“All the more reason not to go. At Samhain, the night of the spirits, it is to

here he will come.”

She walked a few paces, heading for the stairway. Stopped. Said, “He will

never come back here. He has no reason to.” She choked on a sobbed breath,

gathered her cloak tight between her white fingers. “Do you not see? He

searches for me in the other world. He does not know I am not there, that I

am here, alive, in this.”

Seven

Mathild’s plans had materialised with more ease than she could have

envisioned. The Goddess of Fortune had most certainly smiled on her!

A succession of events had aided her intentions, as if everything were, indeed,

meant to be.
Wyrd
, the Saxons called it. Fate.

First, as the touch of dawn was tingeing the eastern sky, they had found

a small boat—flat-keeled; oared; suited to these wide, shallow, and sluggish

rivers. They, the Saxons and the British, had marched at an exhausting pace,

covering a handspan of miles before full light, only once looking back when

the sky behind had reflected the sudden, bright glow of fire. The farmsteading,

poor hovel that it was, had not deserved such a finality of destruction. The

group, weary, heart and footsore, although exchanging no word, thought

as one. Hoped the family, for all their inhospitality, had got away from the

ferocity of the pursuing enemy. Morgaine and her son also. And that she had

first succeeded with the safe burying of the body.

The boat, no doubt, belonged to some similar poor steading, lying hidden

by the trees from the river. They did not delay to find out, but took the craft

for themselves, Bedwyr insisting on leaving a pouch containing two gold coins,

his last minted money, beside the mooring-post. The Saxons thought him

moon-mad; for them, stealing craft was as common as a land-man raiding cattle,

but they said naught. It was well known the British were a crazed race.

Rowing was no less tiring than walking, but by taking the oars in turns at

least there was occasion to rest, to sleep. Not to remember. That was still,

then, too raw to face. Thus, to the town of Caesarodunum they travelled;

found there many questions and rising alarm. Euric, the citizens cried, would

be upon them by the next dawn! The gates were to be closed, the militia

stood to arms. A fuss and panic, with the wealthy taking to their horses or

river barges. The poorer, wailing and crying for salvation in the narrow,

crowded streets.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 7 1

None of the small, tired party of British or Saxons stayed longer than the

one night, the excuse of their need to take word further afield readily accepted.

They purchased sturdy, though malnourished, ponies; rode as fast as practical

north, the nights and days becoming a blur of exhaustion and despondency.

Heading, on that weary trudge through thick forest or floundering marshland,

for the nearest port with sea-going vessels. Where the second touch of the

Wyrd
laid help at Mathild’s feet.

For most of the summer, the seas between this northern coast and that of

Britain had been high, with a rough, wallowing swell. Trade and fishing, seri-

ously disrupted, had consequently suffered. Boats, those that had dared put to

sea, had become damaged or had failed to return. There would be no crossing,

Bedwyr was curtly informed, until conditions eased. When would that be? His

polite question met with a shrug of shoulders and a blank expression. Only the

Saex, the pirate traders who plied their adventurous living up and down the

Gaulish coast, were foolhardy enough to risk such doubtful seas. Eagerly they

agreed to take Mathild north along the coast, past the Roman lighthouse at

Bononia, and on as far as the Elbe and her homeland.

The British? They would need make their own passage.

Mathild thought of them occasionally on that first day apart with regret.

Bedwyr had been a friend, uncensoring of her relationship with Arthur; the

men, she had known these past, long months as they camped or marched as

Artoriani. But for all that, they were British, not Saxon, and she had a task

before her to face. To claim her right to title, wealth, and land.

That Arthur had given her these Saxons as her own guard was no mere gesture

of affection. He had known well enough her intention, once free, to follow

her own path. Delighted in it. Aye, and with the granting of these men and her

manumission, encouraged it. She had not told him the full truth, however, for

he had assumed Mathild was to confront the boy who had so presumptuously

taken her uncle’s place and be rid of him. It had been one comfort for Arthur,

that last night, to believe Mathild would ensure Cerdic stayed not long in the

world after his father’s passing. Her one doubt, one tinge of guilt. She had not

corrected, at any time, that assumption.

For all their fondness of the man Leofric, for all their loyalty to his surviving

kindred, many a Saxon thegn would not support a woman returned from exile

and widowed, against one who might, with the strength of Thor’s hammer, lay

claim to land far richer than the wind-whispering marshes of the snake-pathed

Elbe. They would not rally to her, not if it came to outright fighting. They

1 7 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

might, however, if she put before them a tempting alliance. One which would

secure no tarnish of blood feud, especially if she had a son.

Arthur would have been horrified to learn of her plan—indeed, she was

herself when, truly, she examined her intention. But the
Wyrd
thrust her a third

sign of what was meant to be, for as the month turned to August she reached

the first bustling harbour that nestled beside the sea estuary, and met with

Cerdic disembarking from his own vessel. And all her schemes, her plans, her

manoeuvrings, thought up through these long months during the quiet hours

of darkness, were not needed.

He was flush-faced, excited. His crew, who cared naught for difficult sea

conditions, had tossed caution to the wind. Pirating, it seemed, suited Cerdic

well. As did the pretty-faced woman, whose eyes caught his and whose enig-

matic smile aroused his interest and rapacious need.

Within the week, Mathild’s charms and expertise in the art of loving had him

chained to her as fast as a caught thief to the whipping post. Her easy success

was heightened by the secret knowledge that what pleasured the son had been

taught her by his own father. As the night of the dead passed, and there came

no haunting spirit from the Pendragon to chide her conquest, Mathild subtly

suggested they keep their shared bed warm with a more lasting arrangement.

It suited Cerdic well; for all his youthful age, he had a shrewd mind, was

well aware that not all Leofric’s people willingly accepted him. Mathild was

true kindred to the dead man; he was not. The solution to change that posi-

tion was attractive, as attractive as the woman who would make him a most

pleasing wife, though he was but one month short of the age of manhood. His

would be a double celebration, his four and tenth birthing day would also be

his marriage day.

When that day came, and Mathild shared the marriage bed with her new,

young lord, he had a third reason to salute Woden. For she was already swelling

with child, his child.

Or so she told him.

Eight

July 470

Ambrosius Aurelianus was finding it difficult to control his temper.

He sat presiding over Council where once his nephew had sat, in the

padded, armed chair on the raised dais. They were bickering, the Councillors

seated opposite each other along the narrow, gloomy chamber. Disagreeing,

arguing. Like spoilt children squabbling over the last lick of honey in the pot.

And Ambrosius had condemned Arthur for losing patience on occasions such

as these! Hah, this would try the patience of God himself!

He listened, brows furrowed, fingers clenched, for half of one minute more,

then came abruptly to his feet. “Enough!” he roared as he strode down the two

steps, along the central aisle. “What is this foolishness? This inane argument?”

He glowered left and right, at the bishops, the elders, noble-born, merchant-

men, the wealthy traders, petty kings, and lords. “There is no case for disagree-

ment here. I summoned you to discuss the basis of strategy, how we move and

when, not
if
! Not
should
!” He had reached the end of the long, narrow room,

turned on his heel, strode back again; amused, even through his anger, that

Arthur, too, had paced in this same manner.

He stopped at the head of the right-hand row of stools, gathered his breath a

moment before turning to face his Council; a softer, calmer expression forced

onto his countenance.

“Gentlemen,” he began patiently. “Last year the nuisance of Vitolinus was

just that, a nuisance. He raided a few settlements, butchered a few cattle. He

was an irritant, a flea, a buzzing fly. Nothing more. Last year, he was as much

a nuisance—and an embarrassment—to his uncle, Aesc of the Cantii. Things

have very much changed this side of the winter snows. Great things. Most

notably, you have a new Governor of Britain. For many of us,” he smiled here,

received the response he intended, “this is a God-sent blessing!”

Most were listening to him, a few still mumbled between themselves. Stern,

he boomed, “But that blessing is as advantageous for the Saex as it is for us!”

1 7 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

The mumblings and mutterings were becoming fewer. “Aesc will not recog-

nise my authority. We could have war on our hands before harvest!” Ah! He

had their full attention now.

Striding back to his seat, Ambrosius had a last chance to think—as if he had

been doing anything else this last eight and forty hours!

Emissaries had been sent with the snow-melt—the last winter had come

hard throughout Britain, heavy drifting snow falling over settled, packed snow.

The people and farm-stock, cattle, sheep, and swine froze and starved. Only

the healthy or wealthy had come through this winter past, and if the harvest

proved as bad as some predicted…Ambrosius shut that thought firmly aside.

Enough to worry on for the time being. One by one messengers had returned.

Few carried pleasing news—even from the British! Too many petty kings had

sent scorn flying back—aye, Council had said that move by Arthur, to allow

such men their independence, was a bad one. Had Britain continued under one

government, one lord, had he not allowed so much freedom of self-rule…But

what was the point of ifs and buts? The now had to be faced.