Shadow of the King (4 page)

I will seek the aid of my mother’s brother. Unlike you, Aesc is faithful to his

kindred. He sees the importance of the spear side of the family—it is he who

is nurturing Vitolinus, my brother. He will find Cerdic and have him at his

hearth as well. Two to destroy you, Pendragon, two of my blood to bring

about your end!” She left, sweeping out into the night, calling for the horses

to be brought up.

The mixture of chatter swelled higher, incredulous, excited, indignant.

Arthur seated himself, motioned for the Hall to sit also, to resume their meal.

Gwenhwyfar selected a portion of duck, lifted her goblet for a slave to pour

more wine.

“You go to Gaul, but know this, I do not like it.”

“
Na
,” Arthur spoke through a mouthful of best beef.

“It is a foolish quest.”

“Aye.”

“You are beginning to annoy me, Arthur.”

He looked at her. Grinned. “Only beginning to?”

“Fool.”

The meal continued, the food finished. Dishes were cleared, wine and ale

served and served again. The king’s harper tuned his fine instrument in readi-

ness to entertain.

“Her spies, it seems,” Arthur said to Gwenhwyfar, as if he were talking

merely of the vagaries of the weather, “are not as efficient as mine.” He

took Gwenhwyfar’s hand in his own, their arms twining together, thighs

close beneath the table. They would seal the declaration of pax tonight

in the privacy of their chamber. Loving, a good way to end the storms of

disagreement.

“You know something Winifred does not?” she asked.

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

He retrieved his hand to join in the applause for the harper taking his place of

honour by the hearth. Along with a chorus of demanding and cajoling voices,

the Pendragon called his own suggestions for a song.

“I have heard talk of where Cerdic is.” He smiled impishly at his wife, relieved

they were friends again. “And if what I have heard is the truth, he can stay where

he is, as far as I am concerned, until the four winds forget to blow.”

Five

Cerdic knew his mother would be angry with him, but cared not a

cracked pot for it. Her screeching, those last few days before he plucked

the courage to leave, had been like a fox-chased, panicked hen. That, added to

her incessant scolding—by Woden, anyone would think he had murdered the

bishop, not merely lain with a whore!

God’s breath, but he would soon be ten and three years of age—was it not

time he became experienced in the matter of intimacies? He had started with

the youngest daughter of his mother’s falconer. A year older, as ignorant in

these things as he—but those first few embarrassed fumblings were soon behind

him, and by the third time in the cow-byre with her, he had mastered the way

of it. Well, enough to mount his pony and ride with confidence into Venta

Bulgarium—Winifred’s Castra they sometimes called it—to visit the whores’

place on the east side of the town’s walls.

Unfortunate that on coming out he had run slap into one of the priests, who had

marched him straight to the bishop, who in turn had vigorously informed Winifred.

The subsequent whipping might have been less harsh had Cerdic not insisted on

demanding to know why the priest had been intending to enter the place also.

The punishment he could have tolerated, regarding it as justified for being

caught—he would not make that mistake a second time—but the constant

recriminations, the tight, straight lips, the fuss! He was not a child!

His mother irritated him. She was thirty and one years and as soured as last

week’s milk. She had aged these past two years since taking the Saxon Leofric

as a second husband. Cerdic had liked him, wanted him as his father, preferring

him over the man who already officially held that title. Cerdic hated Arthur,

wanted to kill him. Knew that one day that wanting would come about. One

day, when he was a man full grown.

Leofric was not to have become a father though, for the marriage was short,

over before it had begun. It was the shellfish, they said around the settlement,

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

over-eating of tainted shellfish that had brought on a bloody flux which had

emptied his bowels and his life, one short, sharp night but two weeks after

the marriage. A few, a very few, and only people from a distance beyond his

mother’s place, had whispered of poison.

In those two short weeks Leofric had been a man of his word. He had taken

Cerdic as his adopted son, insisting a boy needed to know the ways of a man,

promising to teach him properly how to use a sword and shield. Promising

they would sail together to his lands along the Elbe River, he had talked about

sailing further, up to the North Way and even, if the Gods saw fit, beyond.

Cerdic loved the thrill of the sea—though he had never stepped foot aboard a

boat. It was in his blood, his spirit; the deck moving beneath his feet, the smell

and feel of salt-spray…Ah, Cerdic had loved Leofric!

But Leofric had died and Winifred was again a woman alone. Within a

week of the burial she had resumed her first married title. Lady Pendragon, she

claimed, carried more weight than that of wife to a Saxon. Her father’s name

was still spat upon; that of her mother and grandfather, the great Hengest, even

more so. It was an empty title of course, Lady Pendragon, for it was no longer

hers, belonging rightly to that other woman of Arthur’s. But then, Winifred

had never been a woman to care what was right or wrong, unless the rules

should happen to suit her own need.

Those few rumours of poison had been softly whispered, soon hushed, but

Cerdic believed them. For no other reason than it was obvious his mother’s

second marriage had been a mistake. She would be angry, he knew, for his

leaving without word of asking. And angered too, at the brief, final message he

had sent her. From spite, from revenge for all those years of her domination?

For proof of freedom?

I have gone
, he wrote on a wooden tablet, purchased and sent from Llongborth,

to use my manhood as I wish. Not as you order
. He had laughed as he had boarded

a Saex ship, paying his way with a generous bribe. Laughed aloud, not caring

about his mother’s anger, enjoying it. The message he had sent deliberately,

to provoke.

Let her weep or wail, shout and scream. He was gone to the River Elbe.

Gone to claim as his own all that had once been his legal stepfather’s; the ships,

the land, the wealth, and the trade; claim it as Leofric had requested. As the

father Cerdic had so wanted had written, signed, and had witnessed in his will.

It was all to be Cerdic’s now. There was some of the wealth to be divided with

a niece, a woman who had disappeared in Gaul during the time of the Saxon

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

killings—but she was dead, no doubt, and would not be coming again to her

birth-home. A niece? She could be forgotten, or dealt with.

Ja
, his mother would be angry. And Cerdic, who had taken a woman and

was now, he considered, ready to become a man, cared naught.

Six

June 468

The sea had a mild swell, with a few ponderous waves and an over-

enthusiastic following wind that billowed and buffeted the square, blue-

grey sail. There was no need for the oars, if this strength continued; the crossing

down to the mouth of the Liger River would be fast. There was a way to go,

however, and already rain clouds were gathering in a squall to the west—wind

and sea could so abruptly change for the worse.

Arthur was leaning on the stern rail, peering at the white-foamed wake

scudding behind the craft. The land was now only a thin, grey smudge on

the horizon. Greater Britain, the last he would see of it for a month or two.

He snorted private amusement; the weather might be more hospitable on the

other side of the sea. Grey days and drizzling rain had persisted across the south

coast of Britain for three weeks. The Liger Valley was normally more clement,

kinder to weary bones and a marching army.

Another man joined him, walking unsteadily across the deck. He grabbed

the rail, rested his hands on the curve of the smooth wood, stood as Arthur did,

leaning forward, staring at the swirl of water below. Only, his fingers gripped

tighter as his stomach rose and fell with the motion. His skin had tinged pale

and his mouth curved distinctly downward. Bedwyr, for all his experience of

adventurous travelling, was not one for the open sea.

“The horses settled?” Arthur asked, peering over his shoulder at the horse-

line ranged along the centre of the flat-decked craft. A few had ears back,

heads high and eyes rolling, but they had the men with them to stroke their

necks, talk soft, keep them calm. They had all—save four—loaded well into

this craft and the others of the flotilla. Those four they had left behind; it was

not worth the risk or effort to force them up the narrow ramps onto the flat

decks of the transporters.

Without speaking Bedwyr nodded. At this moment he did not give a damn

about horses, boats, or anything save blessed, firm, dry land.

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

“The swell will be somewhat stronger on the voyage back,” Arthur

proclaimed, unsympathetically, “for we will be returning nearing winter,

November happen, the seas can be rough that time of year.”

“Are you so certain we will be away such a short while? I do not know this

man Syagrius, King of Soissons and the Northern Gauls. Can he be trusted? We

cannot hold off the Goths on our own.”

Those same thoughts had nagged at Arthur’s mind also, but it was too late

to question now. They were committed to this thing, had to see it through. “I

knew Syagrius when he was a young lad, preening his new-acquired feathers of

manhood,” Arthur said. “I would not rate him high on my list of commanders

to be well respected; but Rome has commissioned him in this fool adventure

along with us. He has supplied us with these ships. I imagine he would not

unnecessarily spend his treasury without expecting to make good use of the end

result. We will know soon enough, if he does not meet with us at Juliomagus.”

Arthur casually shrugged his shoulders. “Well, then, we leave Gaul to sort its

own affairs; we secure Less Britain; then turn around and come home.”

It all sounded so simple, with the excitement of the sea rushing past the ship’s

keel and the wind crying through the sail’s rigging. With everything ahead

planned and hopeful.

“More important,” Arthur continued, “can we trust those fat-arsed bureau-

crats in Rome? Too many of them are interested in only their own gain—offer

a bribe of the right weight in gold and anything can happen.”

A stronger gust of wind bounded from the west, pitched the boat deeper into

the swell. Bedwyr groaned, leaned further over the side, and vomited. Arthur

slapped his cousin hard between the shoulders. “Aye,” he chuckled, “talk of

Rome often has that effect on me also!”

Bedwyr glowered at him. “Jesu Christ Arthur, why did you agree to this

damn-fool idea?”

“You were keen enough these last few days—feasted and drank as well as the

rest of us last night.”

At the unwanted reminder of the indulgence of food and wine, Bedwyr

again spewed what was left in his guts over the side. “To my regret.”

Seasickness was a curse not visited on the Pendragon, nor his father before

him, nor Gwenhwyfar. Arthur folded his arms along the rail, his body swaying

easily with the lift and rise of the craft. Last night. The traditional farewell feast,

something the Artoriani had initiated years past. Gwenhwyfar had been there

with them at Llongborth, where the ships were moored ready for loading,

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

waiting for this day’s tide. She had sat beside him, laughing, joining with the

rowdy singing; dancing with him, swirling around and around to the lively

reels. Her forced smile had hidden her fears, her bright eyes the sorrow of

parting. “Not for long,” Arthur had assured her during those few, brief hours of

privacy they had shared in their tent. “I will be returning soon enough.”

Bedwyr wiped the back of his hand over the sour taste left on his lips. “I might

be eager for a campaign in Less Britain, and happen across the borders into Gaul,

but God’s love, I had forgotten the misery of these damn, wallowing boats!”

Arthur said nothing. He was looking again at where that distant land merged

between sea and sky. His thoughts were there, with Gwenhwyfar and his child

daughter. The land was almost gone. Was it land or cloud he could see? He

had sounded so confident last night, so assured, as he had held her close, loved

with her.

Why, then, did that confidence feel as heavy as lead now? Because he knew

in his heart he ought not be here on this ship? Ought not be so blind, trusting of

an unreliable young pup of a king, nor of reassurances made by an Empire that,