Shadow of the King (33 page)

done—although there were some who later said it was un-Christian. More

praised her courage, her thinking. The best way to put an end to scum, with

the feel of a cold blade.

Na
, Winifred had no regrets at the sorry ending of her brother. She would

have killed him as easily, had she found the chance, on the day of his birthing.

Fifteen

May 471

The British saw the battle at Guoloph as a resounding victory.

Given that Vitolinus, the perpetrator of the unrest, was dead, it could

not, reasonably, be taken in any other vein. Conveniently, it was immediately

forgotten that his ending was by murder. None saw him as British—despite his

father having been once their king. He had incited war and death, and so his

end, no matter how it had come about, was fitting retribution. To the English,

Vitolinus’s failure was regrettable, but few did more than shrug their shoulders

or shake their heads. He had been a hot-headed young man—good for him

for trying—but the crops needed planting, the weeds hoeing. The son of a

foreigner, a half-bred Wealas boy, would not be over-missed, on either side.

Ambrosius was delighted with the victory. Deaths had been few, though

many had suffered terrible wounds; his Council was pleased the matter had

been dealt with quickly and efficiently—no need for expensive campaigns or

costly negotiation of terms. The Cantii Saex were firm under Ambrosius’s boot;

he had proved himself a capable leader both politically and now militarily. He

was praised as a heroic leader, and before the month was half-completed, men

began to forget the Pendragon, for he was no longer needed. Whereas once the

young men came to join the famed Artoriani, now they would come to seek a

place within Ambrosius’s army. With not so much eagerness and hope, it had to

be admitted, but it was early days. Soon, when he had the economy on firmer

feet and his army was at full strength, he would begin the task of pushing the

Saex back.

“Send them into the sea from whence they came!” With the flush of first

victory, the rally cry spread swift throughout southern Britain, especially

where the borders ran against the English-held lands. Victory ran proud

through those chieftains and petty kings who had thought it prudent to fight

alongside Ambrosius, but Arthur had freely granted land and status to those

who readily supported him and Ambrosius was, as yet, an unknown quantity.

2 0 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Their loyalty was not to be disappointed. Success, they found, brought all the

trappings of generosity.

Ambrosius’s victory banquet was lavish, by his standard of modesty. All those

of importance were invited to join him at Aquae Sulis. Praise for those who

had taken a stand against the Saex was bountiful, as was the promised reward:

land, title, cattle, jewels, and weaponry. Ambrosius was not a fool. Loyalty must

be earned, and the winning of one small skirmish did not buy unquestionable

faithfulness. Not when so many were so fickle, and prone to bouts of absent-

mindedness. Arthur had earned loyalty by achievement and ability. Ambrosius

had much ground to cover in sparse time. He needed to give, and give gener-

ously, to those who would follow—and remain—with him.

The banqueting hall within the public buildings of the Basilica at Aquae Sulis

was moderate but sufficient. Only the most important, the especial invited,

were to join Ambrosius at his High Table. Lower down, there would be no

official seating, for too many were of high and equal rank, so as was common at

these larger gatherings it was made a free-for -all, come, sit-as-you-please.

To his delight, Amlawdd was to be one of those invited to be seated with

the Supreme Governor. He had his own wanting for reward. Patient, he had

waited for Gwenhwyfar’s grieving to take its natural course; patient again, he

had retained his thoughts and ambition until the right moment came to unleash

them. He knew for what he would ask; it was his understanding the thing

had been promised him while Arthur was king, now was the time to claim it.

Unusual to ask for reward—it was for the giver to offer, not the receiver to

seek—but in this instance, Amlawdd took his chance, knowing Ambrosius was

desperate for firm alliance. All he need do was wait, speak when opportunity

presented itself.

He was greeted well by Ambrosius, who embraced him and gave loud praise,

overheard by those many already seated in the banqueting room.

“Amlawdd!” he exclaimed. “Another of my loyal men at the battle of

Guoloph come to share in this victory feast!” Ambrosius indicated he should

sit, to Amlawdd’s great pleasure, at the Governor’s right hand.

“Did I tell you how splendidly Amlawdd fought for our cause?” Ambrosius

smiled wide; heads were turning to listen, those at the High Table, others

seated nearby along the rapidly filling seats of the lines of trestle tables. Soon the

food would be brought in, the serious eating and drinking started.

Putting his hand on Amlawdd’s shoulder Ambrosius gave further praise;

“My friend Amlawdd personally slew more than a dozen of the Saex scum!”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 0 1

Ambrosius encouraged polite applause. “Aye,” he laughed, “was your sword

not almost as bloodied as mine own?”

Chuckling happily, Amlawdd settled himself comfortably among the noble

guests, accepted wine as the girls began to pour the offered drink, took a few olives

from the dish before him. The slaves began to bring in the courses, great dishes of

pork, beef, fowl, swan, hare, fish of al kinds, piled vegetables, and pastries, many

needing to be carried by two men; all greeted with applause and delight.

Ambrosius spoke gross exaggeration and disfigured fact. He had slain two

men, wounded three or four others, had all but soiled himself when a Saex

axe-head missed scything away his left ear by but a hair’s breath and, to his sure

knowledge, Ambrosius’s blade had been as clean and bright then, as it was now.

To be fair, that was not the Supreme Lord’s fault, for his personal guard had

been so thick about him and the enemy so weak, that he had not found chance

to do more than shout orders and avid encouragement.

Soon the tables were littered with spent dishes, half-eaten carcasses, discarded

bones; frothing with spilt ale, stained with slopped wine. “So!” Ambrosius

waved his hand for the slaves to come forward with the sweeter courses. The

noise was tremendous after an hour or more of feasting, so many guests eating,

talking, and laughing together. “What can I offer you, my lord Amlawdd, as

token of my appreciation?” Ambrosius had to raise his voice so that he could

be heard. “You hold good land already. Do you require cattle perhaps? Slaves

or furs?”

Amlawdd grinned, enjoying this show of amicable companionship. Arthur

had never offered such friendship outside his own ring of trusted officers.

Bold, he answered, “My lord, I seek but one thing.”

Ambrosius raised his eyebrows, gestured for the man to continue.

“You may have once heard that a certain lady promised to be my wife if

ever her husband had no further need of her?” Ambrosius stroked his clean-

shaven chin. Aye, so he had heard. “I ask, then, that you grant me permission

to take Lady Gwenhwyfar as wife.” Amlawdd held Ambrosius’s eyes, daring

him to refuse.

Pursing his lips, Ambrosius considered. It was indeed as Amlawdd had

said; Gwenhwyfar had once made such a bargain to secure Amlawdd’s loyalty

to Arthur, who had been in desperate need of fighting men. It had been a

trick, of course. Never had she intended to offer herself as his wife. Yet the

Pendragon had now been dead a few months short of two years around. Was

it not time the woman buried her grieving and gave herself to another? Add to

2 0 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

that, Gwenhwyfar was somewhat of an embarrassment. She was a figurehead;

technically, to those who opposed Ambrosius—and there were more than a

few—she remained queen. To those of the northern and western tribes, she had

the right to rule, not himself. Aye, she ought tobe put somewhere safe, where

she could come to no mischief.

Shrewdly, Ambrosius observed Amlawdd’s expectant anticipation, weighed

what he intended to gain from such a match. Merely a woman to occupy his

bed? Or did he see this as a chance of seizing power? To be consort of a queen

was no small achievement. Had Amlawdd the wit for that? Or would such a

granting be sufficient to ensure loyalty? Amlawdd could call on many men were

Ambrosius to need them.

Making decision, he nodded. “It is agreed, if the lady will consent to

have you.”

Amlawdd beamed his pleasure; this had passed better than he could dared

have hoped! “Were my lord to give specific request, could she refuse?”

Hah! Neatly said! Had Amlawdd more cunning than he was given grant for?

Well was it known that Gwenhwyfar was becoming a problem for Ambrosius;

he could not lock her away, nor ignore her for there was no legal cause,

yet he must be rid of her. She had not interfered with his running of the

country, beyond a few disparaging comments, had not openly opposed him,

but surely it was only a matter of time for both, and more, to happen. For her

to go directly against his wish—order—in this? Could that amount to treason?

Possibly. Probably, given the right lawyers, the right circumstances. And to

grant Amlawdd such obvious pleasure…ah, the gain would be much…

Ambrosius smiled, said, “We shall ensure she agrees. How can I do less for a

man I am honoured to call friend?”

Amlawdd inclined his head, acknowledged the extreme compliment paid him.

“You will, of course,” Ambrosius continued, “require her eldest brother’s

consent.” He selected a wedge of ewe’s milk cheese. “He is legally responsible

for her.”

Nodding vigorous agreement, Amlawdd answered, “I intend to ride to

Gwynedd within the week. Enniaun is a man of good sense, he will see it is

wise for his sister’s child to have a new father.” His grin of triumph was shaped

broader than a new moon.

Ambrosius knew what he was doing, even if Amlawdd was fool enough not

to realise it. All he wanted was to possess Gwenhwyfar, that much was clear, but

how soon would the other things come to ride high in his mind? Gwenhwyfar

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 0 3

held, as estate from her husband, much land. She was the wealthiest woman—

aside the Lady Winifred—in perhaps all Britain. If enough men remained

loyal to the memory of her husband, she could, with the ease of snapping her

fingers, try to resume her right to be Queen. Ambrosius knew all that. The

wager: was Amlawdd enough of an ass to think no further ahead than the

pleasures of his bed?

Sixteen

June 471

Winifred was perhaps the only woman to be openly unimpressed by

Ambrosius’s self-claimed achievement in battle. In fact, she was furious.

Vitolinus
she
had dealt with, not the Supreme Governor. Where was her acco-

lade, her triumph? And what of those who had so blatantly aided her traitorous

brother? Her uncle, Aesc, was he to go unreprimanded? And the Saxon Aelle

with his three bragging sons, was there to be no punishment there? How foolish

it was, she raged aloud, to leave the Saex be. What if they rose a second time?

What if Aelle or Aesc managed one day to take Britain for themselves? And her

private thoughts:
what if they take what is by right mine, through Cerdic?

By letter, she petitioned Ambrosius to take action, received no satisfactory

reply. She journeyed to confront him personally, only to be brushed aside with

patronising remarks addressed to her womanhood and lack of understanding

regarding politics. Ambrosius, it seemed, had come full into his rank of pompous,

superior male arrogance. He was supreme and would take advice from no one.

Hah! Should she be surprised? Was he not of the Pendragon family?

Seeing that potential danger—for herself and Cerdic, if not for Britain—

Winifred’s temper stewed, setting the servants scuttling, slaves cowering. Her

tempers were well known, this latest one matching anything that had ever been

initiated in the past by aggressive disagreement with Arthur. Even now, after all

these past weeks, Winifred shuddered when she considered what would have

been her fate had Vitolinus and his English rabble fared better at Guoloph…

Well, if Ambrosius would not listen to her, would not ensure such a rebel-

lion would not occur again…there was another who would! Commissioning a

fast craft, Winifred took sail to the Elbe.

Cerdic must be made to see sense. All this fool talk of not wanting Britain for

his own must cease. Britain was ripe for the picking, and it was the time to set

about the harvest. She would never be queen, but king’s mother held its own

particular power. It would need suffice as the next best thing.