Shadow of the King (42 page)

those bogs!”

The bogs would be frozen, the ground hard and firm. On the dexter side,

happen he was right. The Wooded Ridge looked to be a wild place, straddled

by gnarled oaks and sturdy limes that marched up each side of the escarpment,

dense and alarmingly inhospitable.

They turned from the flat meander of the valley, rode up a rising track. A

short but steep climb, up through those shouldering oaks, to come out abruptly

onto the crest of a hill that gave view to a panoramic spread, as breathtaking

as the scramble upward. Bedwyr called a halt. The signal tower built here was

manned by five men, all eager to conduct their commander up to the top height

to inspect the brazier, kept ready at all times to send urgent signal southward if

ever there were need.

To compensate for the cold, the valley spread below was at least worth

looking at. The wide marsh, snow-covered, blue-gleaming beneath the

winter sun with the frozen river under its ice-covering making its ambling

way through the middle to join, a few miles further down, the father river,

the Tamesis. A herd of deer milled along one section of the snow-bound

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 5 3

bank, searching for water. The Dolydd broadened out further down, below

the Command Fortress of the Third Ambrosiani, but its width and depth was

unpredictable, variable. The flat valley formed a natural flood plain for the

high tide waters of the Tamesis, regularly engulfed the marshy ground. Wisps

of smoke, grey-trailing against the background of white snow, gave evidence

of small settlements and scattered farm steadings. Not all Saxon, as many were

farmed by British landholders. There were two Roman Villas even, though

neither were able to boast the same grand status as they had once enjoyed.

British and Saxon, living and farming amicably, side along side, sharing grazing

land, felling trees, ploughing fields, harvesting their crops. One farm using a

neighbour’s prime bull, another a best ram. A valley community, accepting

each other, intermarrying, becoming one people.

Beyond the ooze of marsh lay good farming land for crops, vegetables

especially, mulched by the regular floods. Livestock grew fat and sleek on the

verdant grass. Alder and willow dotted here and there in clumps and copses,

swathes of hazel and birch, hornbeam; on the edges, a few elms. The woods

that tramped this eastern ridge and gave reluctant way at the northern end into

the wild, thicket wood were home to boar, deer, and badger the bears, Bedwyr

had assured her, were long gone. Gwenhwyfar was relieved. She had once been

badly frightened by a bear.

They were riding to visit the two outposts under Bedwyr’s command.

Ambrosdun Prima and Secunda. “As commanding officer,” Bedwyr had laughed,

“I have to put in an appearance every so often in case the men forget I exist!”

For two days they had been at the main fortress, the command post of the

Third Ambrosiani—a grand title for what was in reality little more than two

Cohorts, one hundred and forty men, including the non-combatants, medical

orderlies, blacksmiths, armourers, clerks, and so forth. One third of this number

manned the two outposts.

Neither the Saxons, nor the British for that matter, particularly liked the chain

of fortresses Ambrosius had ordered built at such strategic sites. Unwelcome,

unwanted, their occupants found themselves faced with hostility and surliness.

Bedwyr’s Command Fort of the Third Ambrosiani, named, as with all the

constructions, after its Supreme Commander, and the legion manning it, sat on

the first spur of high ground to dominate the valley, surveying a commanding

view from the east bank up and down river. Striding to the north, the eastern

ridge began to rise ponderously up to its maximum height of around three

hundred feet. The fortress was, compared to what had once been built by

2 5 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Rome, nothing outstanding. Ditch and rampart with stone-built walls, albeit

badly morticed and lain. Within, a tumble of timber buildings: barracks, a

small hospital, stabling, commander’s house, headquarters building. The house

was built to Roman style, but without the comforts. No hypocaust heating,

no private bath house. Gwenhwyfar did not mind their exclusion, for she had

been without the luxury of either for many years at Caer Cadan. A bathhouse

was something Arthur had always been planning to have built.

The men whole-heartedly welcomed her, for many were ex-Artoriani.

Bedwyr had managed to persuade Ambrosius to keep them together, to retain

them as cavalry; how, no one was certain, although he had an acknowledged

glib tongue. These were the men who had not gone with Arthur into Gaul,

who felt bruised and heart-sore at being left behind. The remainder of their

comrades were settled into other such patrolling fortresses to the north and

south of Bedwyr’s command. For those who would have chance to serve

Gwenhwyfar again, a light came back into their lives. She was their queen,

their beloved king’s wife.

If anyone was to replace the Pendragon as her husband, then Bedwyr was an

acceptable candidate. No one resented her decision to re marry.

For her coming, they had ensured the house-place to be clean and tidied,

a vase filled with evergreens had been lovingly placed upon the table in the

entrance hall, a bowl of nuts and dried fruits set for her in the bedchamber.

The braziers were lit. Effort made, trying to make the place home for her. Each

man aware that it could never offer the same comfort and atmosphere of Caer

Cadan. Gwenhwyfar appreciated their under standing, pledged that she would

try to make the place her home, for their sake.

Archfedd, Gwenhwyfar had left for now with Geraint, for the girl enjoyed

being with others of her own age, and Enid was a capable woman. The child

would join with them soon, come spring, when the weather was more suited

for children to travel. One insistence however. She had brought her own guard.

Ider, Gweir, and the others. How their faces had lit with delight as they rode

through the open gates into the fortress that first late afternoon! So many old

friends, old comrades. The Artoriani together, almost. Aye, more than a few

heads were heavy and sore next morning! Wine and ale and memories had

flown fast and free that first night!

From this high ground, Gwenhwyfar asked, “What is that place?” She

pointed to a hazed smudge to the southwest. An officer stepped up beside her;

she recognised him as one who had been a good soldier under Arthur.

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

“Londinium, lady.”

She arched her eyebrows, shielded her eyes from the brightness of the low

winter sun. “Surely not?”

“Aye, ’tis not as clear today. On occasion you can see as far as the low hill of

the Cantii land, and the sun-glimmer shining off the Tamesis itself.” She looked

where he had indicated, then across to the lower ridge opposite and the wide

spread of land below this hill-height, all covered by a white-woven blanket,

blue-shadowed by the roll of hills and white-capped pockets of woodland.

“I had heard there were still those who made their homes in Londinium.”

Gwenhwyfar spoke her thoughts aloud.

“Those too poor to move home have little choice. They scratch a living

among the ruins, manage well enough. A few traders call at the decaying

wharves, but the Saex seem to leave the place be.” The officer was shading his

eyes, looking towards the distant smudge that was the town. “They seem not

much to like our once-splendid buildings,” he mused.

Gwenhwyfar laughed, turned away. She could hear Bedwyr and the men

clambering back down the four flights of wooden stairs within the tower. “Very

sensible of them,” she stated. “From what I recall of Londinium, there was little

worth the effort of liking.” Her opinion was clouded—her time in Londinium,

those many years ago, had been shadowed by tragedy and horror.

The entourage rode on, down the far side of the hill, across cattle-grazed

common land crossing brooks, skirting a willow- and alder-guarded lake,

looking faery-tinted in its lace-decorated whiteness. Laughed heartily at the

wild-fowl skidding and sliding, bemused on the frozen ice.

The first outpost, Ambrosdun Secunda, was the smaller of the two. Built as

a stronghold with its sister a few miles further north, long before Rome was

anything more than a few shepherd’s huts clustered among the Seven Hills.

Hanging to the top end of a valley, it dominated the north western approach and

the undulating, bog-bound trackway that Bedwyr had mentioned. Ambrosius

had ordered the ditch and ramparts refortified, a palisade fence built, the trees

that had encroached in the interim few hundred years to be cut back. Once

again, the place looked impressive, imposing.

They spent the night there, sharing a feast of venison and roast fowl, exchanging

laughter and gossip with the men. Then went on again in the morning, for the

short ride to the larger fortress where they were to spend several days.

Ambrosdun Prima. Squatting on the open ridge that commanded a view that

led the eye southward to where the Tamesis ran, and beyond, northwest to the

2 5 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

hazy escarpment of the chalk hills where the ancient track of the Iceni Way

strode. East, the valley that ran to that side of the Wood Ridge. Left to its own,

the wild wood would gradually return, reclaim what man had cleared. Oak,

beech, hazel, lime, elm, and birch. Those trees that had encroached during the

years that the fortress was kept only as a useful stockade for penning roaming

cattle, were now the timber of the palisade fence, the double gateway with its

watch-tower and the usual array of inner buildings.

Again, the welcome was eager, men pleased to be serving Gwenhwyfar. Men

who had been so proud to be Arthur’s cavalry. More than a few shook their

heads in sadness and regret for what had once been and would never be again.

Bedwyr was busy most of the day, inspecting the fortress inside and out,

hearing cases of military matters, minor squabbles, major needs. Gwenhwyfar

settled herself into the commander’s dwelling, a small but adequate house. The

evening meal was formal but pleasant. It was snowing again as the first watch

of the night came on duty, settling as Bedwyr darted into his bed, wriggling for

warmth against Gwenhwyfar, already burrowed into the bed-furs.

P

A man managed to struggle to the gates of the Third Ambrosiani a moment

before the guard slammed them shut for the night. He was ushered —cold in

his feet, hands, and bones, weary and stubble-faced—into the guard room. He

insisted the watch officer be summoned. Eventually the guard gave ground,

sent word for him to come, although they knew he would be annoyed at

having to turn out with the snow falling heavier and colder at the summons of

a mere, ragged Saxon.

The Saxon sat before the single brazier, head in hands. He could not believe

this. Could not believe the gods were being so cruel. His first question, first

demand, as he limped into the fortress, “Where be the Lady Gwenhwyfar?”

Was this some great jest that Woden was playing upon him? She had gone to

the outpost. Again, he had missed her.

Thirty-Two

If you agree to wed me come the spring, will you change your mind

to that also?”

Gwenhwyfar made no reply to Bedwyr’s impatient question, stirred her

oat-porridge with her spoon. Breakfast was growing cold. She ought to eat it,

but was not hungry.

A knock at the door. Bedwyr growled for whoever it was to enter. The

officer of the watch came with a flurried blast of cold air and the duty roster,

hastily rearranged to accommodate the piled snow carpeting the fortress and

blocking the gates. Bedwyr checked the list, nodded agreement. The officer

saluted, left. He knew Gwenhwyfar, had served with her dead husband since

the days when Arthur was a lad, wet behind the ears and taking orders from

Vortigern. Most of the men had been delighted when Arthur had set his first

wife, Winifred, aside and taken Gwenhwyfar instead—aye, even the devout

Christian men who were not so certain of the ethics behind divorce. God

said you should have but one wife, one husband. He shut the door behind

him, chewing his lip, thoughtful. Decided he would have a word with young

Ider when chance offered. Something was wrong with the lady, that look of

unhappiness went deeper than lingering grief.

Gwenhwyfar had to make reply to Bedwyr. What? How could she answer?

She set down the spoon, raised her eyes to him. “I am sorry.” Looked away,

focusing on a careful drawn map of Britain siting the Roman Forts of the

Saxon Shore. Incongruously, she wondered how many still survived. Portus

Adumi certainly, for it was safe at the edge of Geraint’s territory. Llongborth,