Shadow of the King (31 page)

was in March, a full month before his time. The months do not tally.”

Winifred’s retort was as instant. “Early July, and Cynric was, so I understand,

full-formed. Early-born childer often have no hair and no nails. They are puck-

ered little things.” She tapped the scroll in her hand. “Oh, the months can be

made to tally, my dear, with Fortune’s blessing, a little manipulation, and the

helping of many lies.”

1 8 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Mathild said nothing.

“You do not deny being the Pendragon’s mistress, I note.”

Mathild chose fruit from the bowl, small, sweet apples. “It is not a thing I am

shamed of. Arthur, to me, was a kind, good man.”

Winifred’s turn to laugh. “We are talking of the Pendragon, girl. Such

description is not for him.”

“From you, no, but then, he loved you not.”

“Ho!” the other woman sniped. “Did he, then, love you?”

That one hurt; a lie could not come to Mathild’s lips. Had he loved her? She

knew well he had not. Instead, she answered with the truth. It was, after all,

good enough, for it was more than he had given to Winifred. “He was fond of

me. Arthur had love only for one. For Gwenhwyfar, his wife.”

“My son obviously does not know his father bedded you.” Winifred

sniped. “Indeed, he hates the man enough to slit such a woman open from

belly to throat.”

Tossing the apple core into the fire, Mathild issued her own challenge. “He does

not. Nor is he likely to know. None would be fool enough to so inform him.”

Raising her eyebrows, Winifred chuckled. “Do you intend to intimidate

by threatening me with some veiled, dark foreboding?” Her laugh increased.

“You do not frighten me.”

For a moment Mathild stared into the flicker of hearth-fire flames, watched

the flesh of the apple core shrivel, brown, then blacken. When she looked up,

her expression was serene, confident. “Nor do you intimidate me. I am not

prepared to justify myself to you. I know when my son was conceived, and to

whom. I will not deny he could, just, be Arthur’s, nor will I listen to sugges-

tions that he is from any other than Cerdic’s seed. Cynric is his father’s child.

With that you must be content.”

“I dislike you, Mathild; you are not suitable as wife to my son. I intend to

have him be rid of you.”

“Equally, I may decide to rid myself of you and him.” Mathild was smiling

again, a composed, self-assured smile that held nothing of amusement or

humour. These lands along the Elbe were, by family right, hers, and she had a

son now. “It would not be difficult,” she said, “to persuade the men it would

be wiser to follow my son, not Cerdic. We are a tribe with deep loyalties.

Cerdic is not of the blood. I am, as is Cynric.”

Eyes narrowed, nose pinched, Winifred came abruptly to her feet, swept in

three short strides to stand before Mathild, her fingers clenching, wanting to go

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 8 7

around this impudent girl’s white throat. Anger quickened her breath. “Do you

dare threaten my son’s leadership?”

Calm, Mathild rose also, stood, her head tipped slight to one side. “That

I would not. I would suggest, however, you ensure no mention of this day’s

fanciful conversation reaches his ears.” She walked away, towards the door that

led out into the Hall. It was a dangerous proclamation, but Mathild had sound

motive for her determination; the loyalty of her men.

Winifred, of course, crowed derision. “An arranged death is no difficult

undertaking.”

With no flicker of fear or doubt Mathild regarded the older woman. “Another

murder, lady, might just be questioned.” She depressed the door latch, tossed

parting words. “Already have I arranged my security against you, Winifred.

Were I to die under any but the most natural circumstances, there are those

loyal enough to me to ensure I do not enter the next world alone.”

Winifred took her meaning wrong. She snorted contempt, mocked, “So you

threaten my murder!” She seated herself, laughed at the absurdity.

“Oh no, Madam,” Mathild said, “not yours. I will enter Valhalla with

my husband.”

Eleven

Skirmishes up and down the border-land, a British farmstead burnt, a

Saxon family butchered. Ambrosius’s men were gathering strength, gaining

courage, but then, so were Vitolinus’s followers. Petty cattle-raiding by the

Saxons had already escalated into the mindless, bloody murder of farming fami-

lies; Ambrosius retaliated by thrusting across the border of the Cantii land on

punitive raids. It was not enough. Winifred’s brother had a grievance, justified

in his mind, and a young, hot-headed man with an ambitious cause to follow

was not to be easily pushed aside.

With the Pendragon gone, Vitolinus rapidly grew in confidence. The

arrogance of his father and the dominance of his sister were swelling within

himself also. Before, there was always the knowing that Arthur could come

back, would not give up his kingship to the challenge of a spot-faced youth.

Others of the Saxon kind, the various tribes, petty kings, Ealdormen and

warrior-class thegns, were indifferent to the lad’s claims while Arthur still

lived; agreements were honour-bound, until necessity dictated otherwise.

The Pendragon had ensured treaties made with the English were adhered

to; from both sides of the boundary. His death in Gaul laid all that void, but

most were reluctant, even then, to deliberately upset the apple-barrel. They

had their land, their settlements and farmsteadings. Trade was increasing.

The Saxon kind were not, below surface need, a warrior race. They were

farmers, settlers, family-raisers. Seeking peace and prosperity. Why muddy

calm waters?

Nor, to the Saxons, was Vitolinus wholly English. He was untried and

mistrusted, too many remembered those half-truths and forgotten promises

made by his father, King Vortigern. “Come fight with me,” he had encouraged,

“and I will pay you in gold and land.” Now here was the son who looked so

like the father, even down to the jagged scar raking across his cheek, claiming

those same offers. Fight with me, make me king and all Britain will be yours.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 1 8 9

The same empty promises? Not even his own uncle, Aesc of the Cantii, had

believed or backed him. Until Arthur was dead.

Mistrust and suspicion was a double-edged blade, cutting to either side.

While Arthur remained king—peace, however uneasy, however delicately

balanced—between English and British remained intact. Borders had been

established, limits of settlement, of respect, and what was, or was not accept-

able agreed. With the placing of Ambrosius as Supreme Governor of Britain,

those same boundaries were challengeable. All of the English knew that peace

to be vulnerable. Ambrosius Aurelianus was a man of the old kind, the old,

prejudiced, blind-eyed order of the Romans, who looked upon the Saxons as

invaders, barbarian, savage, unlearned, and unworthy. It was a matter of time

before the British reassembled, regained their strength and determination. A

matter of time only, before the English had to put an edge to their weapons and

fight for what had become theirs.

Arthur had promised not to fight as long as there was peace. Ambrosius

professed to determine for the opposite. To drive the Saex back to the sea, to

cleanse Britain of all savagery and heathenism.

“I need more men,” Vitolinus coaxed, sitting cross-legged before the hearth-

place of his uncle. Already he had emptied a chestful of plundered silver and

gold before the gathering, had marched the rows of chained and grimed slaves

before them, giving the best of the women to the more influential among

Aesc’s guests. “With more men, I can crush Ambrosius before he has chance

to come into his full strength.” Vitolinus spoke, eloquent, confident. “The

British run around in circles, like chickens with their heads cut off. Ambrosius

is no leader; he has not the balls for an outright, bloody fight. His head is full of

his Christian God and the ideals, the misguided notions, of the past.” He was

toying with his dagger, running the blade across his thumb, fondling the fine

carving of the handle, fixed his eye on his uncle Aesc who sat, leaning a little

forward, on his king’s stool of honour.

“My father,” Vitolinus said, “became king because the people of Britain, the

ordinary folk, the tribesmen, their warrior kind, wanted no more of the Roman

law, harsh taxation, and injustice.” His lazy smile became a broad grin, the scar on

his face creasing menacingly. “My father had a greed for wealth and power, yet

he was no soldier. He left the fighting to others, the English. Your father, uncle,

my grandsire, the great warrior Hengest, gained for Vortigern a royal torque

and a kingdom. Without the blades of the Saxons, Vortigern would have been

nothing. Yet, like fools, we believed him when he promised to do well by us.”

1 9 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Vitolinus pushed himself to his feet, sheathed his dagger, drew instead his

sword, the short-bladed Saex. “Well, we took the kingdom of Britain once, in

the name of Vortigern. Let us take it again, in the name of the English!”

He was anticipating a roar of agreement, a storming to their feet of all the

men listening, a drawing of weapons, unleashed enthusiasm. Instead, a few

murmurs, one or two mildly nodding heads.

It was Aelle, from the south coast, Aelle, chieftain of the settlers of the South

Saxons, who spoke, coming regally to his feet, the faces of his three sons quietly

watching him. “And do you, then, Vitolinus a half-Wealas, expect us to follow

where you lead? In your name?” It was a mild question, betraying nothing

beyond its simple asking.

“I do.” Vitolinus had also inherited those unfavourable traits from his father

that he shared with his elder sister: self-opinionated arrogance, conceit, and

an ill-judged vanity for control and dominance. Among those of his own age

and inclination, objectives that were somewhat admired and encouraged; but

for those such as Aelle, a man of superior years, breeding, and worth, added to

nothing save insolence and disdainful presumption.

Aelle gestured for his sons to rise, enclosed his cloak firmer around his

shoulders, and made polite respect to Aesc, host to this assembled gathering.

“Then you are as much the fool that your father was, and as ill-bred as the

bitch-sow who is your sister.” And he was gone, his sons walking close at heel,

gone with him the thirty or so men who had accompanied them, rising from

the gathering and disappearing into the night. Others slid as quiet away, the

great circle rapidly diminishing, men who had come as representatives from the

Eastern Saxons and the settlers of two, three generations who had established

steadings along the Tamesis River and its tributaries.

A long silence drifted with the woodsmoke rising from the stacked

hearth-fire.

“It seems,” Aesc observed, himself rising from his stool, “you must fight

Ambrosius alone, my nephew.” He began to stride away, back to the light

and warmth of his Hall that beckoned beyond the spread of this, the gathering

ground. “Prove yourself able to succeed in more than the slaying of women

and children, and mayhap they,” he nodded his head into the night, “will

think again.”

Vitolinus remained where he stood, fists clenched, grit-jawed. Angry.

“
Ja
,” he vowed, his nostrils flaring, eyes narrowed, to those, his friends,

the young men, young warrior-kind, who had stayed. “They will think

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

again when I force them to kneel before me, and honour me with the title

Bretwalda, High Lord.”

He rammed his sword back into the sheath at his hip, spat contemptuously

into the blaze of flames. “They will indeed think again when I have taken

Ambrosius’s head.”

Twelve

April 471

In the land of the Cantii and at the insignificant steading of the old

warrior Cille, spring leapt into life a week or so behind the milder climate

enjoyed by the southern areas of Gaul. When it came, bursting forth with

a rejoicing of new-leaf budding and enthusiastic bird-song, the blood of the

young Saxons stirred with it. Tales around the winter hearth-place had been

plentiful and vigorous, stories of war and glory, of new beginnings and future

expectation. With the dazzling yellow of the spring sun, the time came for the

young men to tie the coloured war ribbons to their spears and meticulously

sharpen their sword-blades, axe-heads, and daggers. To spread the heating of a

warriors’ blood-lust, Vitolinus, at the old man Cille’s suggestion, had paid the

travelling harpers well. As April shifted nearer the bloom of May, he called for

others to join his small band of followers. The young, untried youths, keen