Shadow of the King (38 page)

She nodded, attempted a smile. How could she disagree? They thought they

were right. She knew they were wrong. If only he had been brought home to

a grave. If only she had been given chance to say her good-bye, send him safe

into the Otherworld.

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“I think we ought to send word to Amlawdd, explain your coming here.”

That was Enid. “If we can make him think there is a possibility of you accepting

his proposal, he may be diverted from any anger.”

Geraint agreed. Gwenhwyfar, with a show of venom, did not.

“I will never marry that toad!”

“Mayhap not,” Enid interjected. “But it will do no harm to allow him to

think otherwise. At least until—” She paused, searching for a way to put her

thoughts tactfully. “At least until you have settled yourself.”

Her husband was not so delicate with his wording. “It needs to be faced,

Gwen. You must remarry—no, do not jump up in some rage. Look at the sense

of it, woman!”

Sense! Gwenhwyfar’s face had flamed red, her anger taut.
Never,
she wanted

to scream,
never!

Ider would have offered himself as husband were he of higher rank. Ah, but

dreams and wishful thinking were of no help.

Geraint spoke again, practical and insistent. “Gwen, you are too vulnerable,

too useful. You need a husband—if for nothing else, to keep ambitious wolves

from your door.”

“Geraint, I .. “

“No, listen! Amlawdd will not take no for answer. Only the taking of a

husband can block him, and others. For if not Amlawdd, there will be others.

You are too wealthy, too alone, for there not to be.”

She knew Geraint to be right, knew he spoke sense and truth. But to have

another man touching her, lying with her? She had only ever known and loved

Arthur, save for that one abuse by another.

Enid had picked up her sewing, was darning a hole in her son’s bracae. There

was always mending or weaving, or spinning to be done. Her thoughts were

cantering with the pace of her quick-fingered needling. “What of my Lord

Bedwyr?” she commented.

Geraint rubbed at the stubble of his chin. It would be dawn soon, no chance

of returning to his bed. He would go straight to the bathhouse when this was

all settled. “Think you it necessary I send a messenger for him? Ought he know

of this?”

Indulgent, Enid smiled at him. “I did not mean that,” she laughed. To

Gwenhwyfar, coaxed, “Is there not something more than kindred and friend-

ship between you both?”

The daughter of a high-born family, Enid had come to Gwenhwyfar as nurse

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to her sons, had become, through the passing of years, through the sharing of

laughter and tears, much valued as a friend. She was well qualified, and astute

enough to make intimate comment.

Bedwyr? Aye, Bedwyr was a good friend, more than a friend. Gwenhwyfar

had some love for him, but not the sort of love you gave to a husband. Bedwyr,

as husband?

Hating himself, Ider offered, “You could not do better than to take him,

my lady. None would dare challenge him.”
Except myself!
He bit the feeling of

jealousy down, swallowed it. He had a wife of his own, and a brood of sons and

daughters. He ought to not think of his queen in so intimate a way, for all that

his thoughts were kept secret to himself.

Toying with the ruby ring on her finger, twiddling it around and around—it

was looser than once it had been—Gwenhwyfar tried to sort her swirling mind.

What to do? Oh, what to do?

The hole darned, Enid set her mending aside, tucking the needle safe into

its holder. She stood, her expression and air efficient, authoritative. “It is not

wise to come to decision now. You are tired and distraught; you need calm

and peace. Stay with us a while. Send word to Amlawdd—and my Lord

Bedwyr—that you are here to think in quiet and peace, that you will make a

decision before the winter snows fall. God has his guiding hand on the shuttle

of life; give Him time to weave a pattern for you.” Enid was a firm believer in

leaving the uncertainties of the future to God and the tapestry of fate.

Twenty-Four

Bedwyr arrived at Durnovaria with a flurry of joviality and a

saddle-bag bulging with presents. His coming was like a summer whirl-

wind, swirling everything in its path and setting it down again blown, flustered,

and breathless. He had that effect, particularly on the women, both unmarried

and those with husbands. A good-looking young man, tall, muscular, but not

heavily built, with unruly brown hair and a constant twinkle in his eye, and grin

to his lips. Every maid lost her heart to Bedwyr.

Stretching his long legs from his offered stool to soak the warmth of the

central hearth-fire in Geraint’s Hall, he happily accepted the exuberant fuss

that flurried around his evening arrival. The day had been grey, with a light

drizzle and a chill sea wind hustling from the south. Even as he had entered

the town, he had acquired a crowd, those who knew him tossing generous

greetings, others admiring the new horse he rode. A spirited chestnut, a present,

he shouted to those who asked, from Ambrosius himself! A bribe, more like,

but why question a good gift over-closely?

Gwenhwyfar was the only one to greet him quietly. Standing with Geraint

and Enid to give welcome, her smile was simple, her embrace equally so. For

his part, he had slid his arm around her waist, placed a light kiss on her forehead,

and given her a boyish wink. There was no need for more between the two. An

exchanged greeting between friends who needed no opulent gesture, a plain

acknowledgement that he was here, for her, for no other reason. They would

talk later, alone.

Already she felt better. Bedwyr’s presence could light a dark room with

sun and gaiety, his easy chatter and endless absurd stories lifting the dullest

of moods. Several times he glanced at her, watching as she sat, quiet, hands

folded in her lap, legs crossed at the ankles to one shadowed side of the Hall.

She was troubled, he could see that. He knew part of the reason from the

letter Geraint had sent, urging him to come down to Durnovaria as soon

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as he could arrange leave from his command. Bedwyr enjoyed soldiering,

enjoyed the position of authority and high command, but Gwenhwyfar was

more important.

One thing Bedwyr would never understand was how Arthur could have

placed his country’s needs before his wife’s. Had she been some hag-bound

old harpy, then aye, it would be explainable, but to leave Gwenhwyfar? For

so long? Bedwyr commanded because he had rank and title, but he had no

ambition, no aspiration for power. All he wanted was a woman in his bed, a

warm fire to sit beside, a bellyful of good food and a goblet brimming with best

wine. Soldiering was a way to pass the time until he found a woman willing to

share these modest wants.

He had been greeted at Durnovaria with wide smiles and friendly laughter.

As with any stronghold, Geraint’s no exception, visitors with news were highly

welcomed—and Bedwyr had much news to tell!

The land above the Tamesis River, settled by the Saxons and Anglians,

had surrendered to Ambrosius without blood being shed. The fortresses he

had ordered built were full-fledged garrisons, establishing regular patrols, with

the British presence beginning to dominate the English settlements. Trouble

would come, Bedwyr said. It was only a matter of the right time and the right

opportunity. All agreed with Bedwyr on that.

Well into the evening Bedwyr talked, relating stories, news, and gossip,

not all of it true, but again and again he returned to Ambrosius. “These

fortresses of his, they are built to keep peace with the English.” Bedwyr’s

tone implied, were you to believe that, you would believe the earth circled

around the sun. “Their very presence is stirring the Saex to thoughts of war.

It might cleanse a wound to rub salt into the bleeding, but, ah, we all know

the pain of the treatment.”

To Gwenhwyfar, he talked of marginal things. Later, when most had sought

their sleeping places, he had the chance to exchange a brief, quiet word with

her, to hear from her own lips Amlawdd’s proposal, her rejection of it.

Though Amlawdd had angrily retreated to his own stronghold with a

grievance as furious as a winter tempest, Bedwyr agreed wholehearted with

Gwenhwyfar’s tactics. Amlawdd was no great threat; they could ride his storms.

Before they parted for their own beds, Bedwyr jested to her, “If you are in

desperate need of a husband, I would consider obliging you.”

Gwenhwyfar added her laughter to his, lightly kissed his cheek with affec-

tionate fondness. It was only later, unable to sleep, watching the dim-lit shadows

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moving across the walls of her allotted chamber, that she wondered just how

much Bedwyr was jesting. And how much he was serious.

As with most nights, sleep came for her only after the tears of despair had

dried on her cheeks. She missed Arthur, his smile, his tempers and irritating

habits. His embrace, his loving. Their relationship had often been tempestuous,

but their passion was strong. Gwenhwyfar was a woman who needed the inti-

macy of love, and for that, she needed Arthur. Or a husband to take his place.

It would be good to have someone to cling to in the loneliness of the dark. To

be held and comforted by a man’s touch. But Bedwyr? If she could never again

have Arthur’s love, would Bedwyr, with his bright eyes and sun-shimmering

laughter, do instead?

Twenty-Five

With so many living within a busy stronghold, privacy was

a luxury awarded to the very few. An honoured guest such as

Gwenhwyfar might be offered accommodation within a small dwelling-place,

but Bedwyr slept among the unmarried men of Geraint’s house-guard in

the Hall, comfortable on hay-filled pallets, covered by animal furs or thick-

woven woollen cloaks. By day, there were always people around, free-born,

servant, or slave. Enid with her brood of children, Geraint himself. This

huge, extended family arrangement was ideal for someone who wanted to

avoid, for whatever reason, the embarrassment of being alone with someone.

Unless the chance was deliberately sought, there could rarely be opportunity

for lengthy private conversation.

And that Gwenhwyfar was avoiding Bedwyr was as plain to Enid as it was

to the man himself.

So it was, on the third day, that Enid suggested her guests ride to the

ancient stronghold where once Geraint’s ancestors had held court. The day

was pleasant, Bedwyr was enthusiastic. Gwenhwyfar had no choice to disagree

without seeming churlish.

They took six men as escort. Geraint’s domain was safe territory but

Gwenhwyfar was still the anointed queen; she rode nowhere without Ider and

her guard. Many years ago, when she had assumed herself out of danger while in

similar safety, her small guard had been attacked, herself injured by Amlawdd’s

son. Arthur had been so furious at the careless lack of precaution. Never again

had any of his Artoriani allowed their lady to be placed in danger. Whenever,

wherever, a guard escorted her.

They left the men and horses, under Ider’s watchful eye, at Maiden-Hill’s

eastern gate and walked together up what would have been a busy trackway

passing through the banks and ditches that reared one behind the other. A few

young, green-shooted saplings were trying for a foothold along the lush grass

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of the first ditch, but wandering sheep and deer would not give much chance

for them to survive.

Congenially, through panting breath, Gwenhwyfar and Bedwyr debated

theories of how the impressive pattern of gates would have been structured,

the size and number of buildings that would have been inside the enclosure

ahead. At the third bank, Bedwyr called a halt; stood, hands on his hips,

catching his breath.

“This is some climb!” he panted. “No wonder Geraint’s ancestors thought

themselves safe, tucked away up there.” He ducked his head behind him, indi-

cating the rest of the steep incline.

Gwenhwyfar had her hand on her chest, taking lung fulls of air. As fit as they

were, the climb had winded them. “The Romans were too new here, then,

for their threat to be understood.” Her breathing easing she studied the ground

below and above. “They could not have defeated this stronghold without the

sophistication of their fighting machinery.”

Holding out his hand to haul her upward, Bedwyr answered, “Family tradi-

tion, Geraint told me, relates his ancestor was killed outright by a ballista bolt

between the eyes.” He winced. “Messy.” He received a nod from Gwenhwyfar

by way of response, this last haul too steep for talking.