Shadow of the King (37 page)

Governor, for you, my lady, or the safe confine of a nunnery.” He was lying,

but Gwenhwyfar had no knowing of that. Were she to refuse him, the last was

a suggestion he would most assuredly put to Ambrosius.

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

Wild, dizzying, angry thoughts chased across Gwenhwyfar’s mind. Breathing

steadily, trying to mask her alarm, she controlled herself. By the blood of the

Bull, she must get herself out of this! She replaced the smile, her senses coming

rapidly alert.

“I thank you for your confidence. A husband would be more acceptable than

the piety of a convent!” She signalled for a servant to approach, gave orders for

Amlawdd and his men to be found comfortable quarters.

“I trust you will enjoy your stay at Caer Cadan,” she said. “I will inform you

of my decision as soon as it be made.”

Again, a dazzling smile set Amlawdd at his ease and, aware he had been

dismissed, he had no choice but to withdraw from the Hall with the waiting

servant. He bowed, smiled, and left, encouraged that Gwenhwyfar had amicably

returned his reverence. He would see her at the evening Gather, speak again

with her, nudge her decision in the right direction.

Only Gwenhwyfar was not at the Gather. A mild chill, he was told.

Amlawdd did not know enough of Caer Cadan to realise who was attendant

and who was gone. Had he been aware that Ider, captain of Gwenhwyfar’s

guard—all her guard—were missing, and that horses had left the Caer through

the western gate, their going muffled by the natural noise of the evening, he

might have showed alarm. As it was, the food and the wine at Caer Cadan was,

as always it had been, most plentiful and good.

Twenty-Two

They rode the best horses, not necessarily the fastest or most

sensible, but the most valuable. Onager, the bad-tempered chestnut who

had once been Arthur’s war stallion, Gwenhwyfar rode herself. He was difficult

to handle, being strong of muscle and temper, with snapping teeth and perpetu-

ally flat-back ears, and likely to kick any who came too close behind, but she

was a competent rider and perversely, was fond of him. As Arthur had been.

She rode him often, for he was a link with the past, something alive that had

been Arthur’s.

They had packed hurriedly but efficiently, Ider agreeing with Gwenhwyfar,

in hasty conference, it seemed likely they would not be returning to Caer

Cadan for some while.

“I am not safe here,” she had confessed, pressing her hand on Ider’s arm as he

dutifully protested she would always be safe within his protection.

A few clothes, items of value: jewels, rings, necklaces. Arthur’s great sword,

wrapped in the tattered, blood-stained Dragon Banner, Gwenhwyfar carried

rolled within her own saddle-bundle. It was never far from her, that sword. As

with Onager, it had been a part of Arthur, an extension of his soul, his being,

the last thing he had touched. Had been in his hand as he died. It lay in her

bed at night, held close on those many occasions when the drowning loneliness

swamped too deep.

Ider carried Archfedd, drowsing after a full hour’s ride, beneath the wrap of

a cloak, though she had been awake at first, eager and excited at the prospect

of a night adventure. Her only protest, which threatened wailed tears, that they

should not leave her pony behind. So Briallen had come also, making herself

useful by carrying one of the packs.

Twelve of them left Caer Cadan, heading almost due south for the coast

and Durnovaria. Gwenhwyfar and Archfedd, Ider and Gwenhwyfar’s personal

guard. Among those men another as loyal and devoted as Ider: Gweir. He was

2 2 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

ten and nine now, a young man, although it could be one year more or one

year less, for he was not certain of his birthing year. Arthur had found him, a

ragged, scrawny boy of ten summers, while campaigning up beyond the Wall.

He had been furious at first, the boy, at the thought of being taken as slave,

but with no family, no home, and no hope, he had soon seen sense. The sense

turning to awe and within a short time, love, when he discovered the identity

of his new master. Gweir lived for the Pendragon, even after being awarded his

freedom. Would have died for him, too, at that last, awful battle, had he been

given chance, but the lad had been out of things almost from the first, when a

club had knocked him senseless. He had awoken to find the sway of battle had

drifted from where he had fallen, and it was nearly all over. Gweir was one of

the few to have returned, to have struggled, weary and heart-sore, home to

Britain, to Caer Cadan. At least the hurt of Arthur’s passing had been eased by

the joy of finding his lady alive, that the report of her death had been false. Most

of those who came back elected to continue soldiering; it was their life, their

being. They joined with Ambrosius for the sake of Britain, but Gweir stayed

with Gwenhwyfar, promoted as one of her trusted guard.

“Will Lord Geraint give us the protection we need?” Gweir had pushed his

horse forward, rode beside his queen, giving respectful distance to Onager’s

quick heels. She nodded confidently at him. “Aside the men who ride here

with me this night, Bedwyr and Geraint are the most trusted among all those

I know.”

Although there was no moon, they rode easily, for the road was maintained

even here, as it crossed the ridge of hills running as a border between the

Summer Land and Geraint’s Durotrigia. Gwenhwyfar lifted her head confi-

dently, spoke again to Gweir. He would not be able to see her movement in

the darkness; he would hear the sincerity in her voice. “I can trust all those men

who loved my husband.”

Gweir bowed his head, beneath his breath muttered, “Amen to that.”

Gwenhwyfar regarded him curiously a moment. For how long had he been a

follower of Christ? She said nothing. A man’s religion was his own business.

The distance between the two strongholds was not far in miles—not many

over twenty—an easy ride, even in the dark, but in the measurement of safety

Geraint’s land was immense. Protected on the west and north by the strength of

Arthur’s—Gwenhwyfar’s—land; southward by the sea and high, rugged cliffs;

and east by a firm-fortified ditch and rampart earthwork. Unless overwhelmed

by an army the size of a legion, Durotrigia was safe enough.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 2 5

Geraint was proud of his heritage. Green, rolling hills, gentle breeze-whispered

woodland, fish-filled rivers and streams, all nursed by a subtle, warm climate.

The father of his fathers had settled this southwestern corner and thrived…

until the General Vespasian had come with his Roman Eagles and massacred

men, women, and children in the name of the Emperor. Geraint’s kindred, the

Lord of the Durotriges, had been slaughtered defending his vast and impressive

stronghold of Maiden-Hill. One daughter, a babe in arms, lived, carried away

by a woman as her own; one of the few, on that sad, bitter day, to survive. From

her, and the few of her kind, the memories lingered through the telling of tales

of the time before Rome. Geraint was lord now, as that distant, shadowed lord

had once been, but the Maiden-Hill would never be a lord’s place again. Too

many spirits wept upon its high, rampart walls.

On the surface, Gwenhwyfar had no idea why she was riding through the

night like a cutpurse thief. She only understood the heart-thump of panic and

clamour of danger screaming a warning. She had not imagined it, for Ider had

seen and felt it with her, he had not hesitated when she had summoned him,

urgent, into her chamber, told him quickly, succinctly, of her need to leave

and its reason.

Ider’s only objection, which he sensibly kept to himself, was that it might

have been better to have finished Amlawdd and had done with it. But then,

happen that was what Ambrosius hoped for. The murder of Amlawdd would

give him excuse to destroy Caer Cadan. Aye, better to leave, gain time to think

this thing through. One thing Ider—all the men, although none need voice

opinion—held for certain: with their last breath they would fight to prevent

their lady marrying against her will. Aye, they rode eagerly into the land of the

Durotriges. Geraint’s tribal people held dear to their hearts the way it had once

been, the way it ought to be. Arthur, as Geraint’s lord, had been their cherished

king. Under their protection, Gwenhwyfar would be safe.

None dared consider the consequences for Caer Cadan and the Pendragon’s

lands. That bridge would need be crossed when the track led to it.

Twenty-Three

They arrived after everyone had been long settled for the night,

with all but the lamps of the watch-guard extinguished, hearth-fires

smoored and the lord of the stronghold gone some hours to his bed. The

gatekeeper eyed them suspiciously, holding his burning torch high to examine

their faces. Gruffly acknowledging recognition of the lady, he sent a lad to

waken his lord, directed the party to ride inside, slamming the gates shut again

almost on the last horse’s swishing tail.

The place was a rambling, hotchpotch of wattle and timber dwellings and

shops, erected haphazardly among and against the remaining Roman buildings.

Durnovaria. The main road that ran north-south was empty, except for a dog

chained before a closed tavern and a one-eyed ear-torn cat that hissed disre-

spectfully at them from the top of a crumbling back-garden wall. The hooves

echoed and clattered on the dew-wet cobbles, but no light shone from behind

shuttered windows, no door creaked open. For all that, there was a feeling of

being watched; aye, those disturbed from their sleep peeped out to see who

rode by at so early an hour.

The Hall was situated where once the basilica had dominated the forum-

place, and was partly built with the stonework of that once opulent building.

Smaller than the Hall at Caer Cadan, though no less impressive, it stood by far

the largest building, dominating the town with its solid air of indestructibility

and security. Geraint was there, on the steps to welcome them, cloak thrown

over old bracae and tunic, the first garments to hand, with hair tousled, eyes

sleep-blearied. He came forward to meet them.

If he was surprised to see the Pendragon’s lady, he made no sign out here

in this public place, though there were only a few of the watch and a handful

of the curious to see. Enid came bustling down the steps, a wool cloak tossed

over her night-garment. She hugged Gwenhwyfar, took Archfedd from Ider,

the child waking briefly. She would be settled with Enid’s own children,

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 2 7

wriggling into the warmth of their bed like a hound-pup pushing into the

comfort of her litter-mates.

With her men allotted quarters, the horses taken off to stabling, Gwenhwyfar

asked Ider to enter Geraint’s private chamber with her and their host. As captain

of her guard, he would need be involved with plans or decision-making.

It was near dark inside, with only one night-lamp burning; Enid lit more

while Geraint poured wine for them all. Ider squatted before the hearth-fire to

stir life into its embers and offered a smile of encouragement to Gwenhwyfar,

who seated herself wearily on a stool before the reviving flames. She looked so

tired, her eyes black-bruised, skin taut over her thinned cheeks. He wished he

could do more to help her, but what could he, a mere captain, do for a queen?

Enid resisted a longing glance towards her rumpled bed. Geraint sipped his

wine while Gwenhwyfar gave reason for their being here. He asked a few

questions, digested the answers.

“Amlawdd will not be much amused when he learns of your departure,”

Enid observed with her usual practicality. “May he not even be offended?”

Her husband snorted. “Hah! Let him, he’s naught but a troublemaking, frog-

footed marsh-wallower.”

“He is close to Ambrosius,” Enid retorted as a reminder.

“I could not stay,” Gwenhwyfar stated, agitated. “I have no explanation. I just—”

She broke off, lifted her hands, let them fall into her lap. “I just could not.”

“May I speak?” Ider said, tentative, eyeing his host for permission, addressing

Gwenhwyfar. “We did the right thing in coming where Amlawdd will not dare

follow. He may well be angry, but we have gained the time we need to think,

to plan.”

“To plan for what?” Geraint asked. “A war with Amlawdd? That is a high

possibility given his aptitude for stupidity!”

Sighing, Gwenhwyfar studied her hands, the ring on her marriage finger. The

ring Arthur had given her. A ruby, the colour of blood. His blood. She choked

back tears. “I need to make decision on my future.” She looked up, anguished.

“But it is so hard, facing tomorrow and tomorrow, when all I want is yesterday.”

“It will ease,” Geraint said, leaning forward to touch her hand. “The grief

does ease.”