Shadow of the King (43 page)

they called it now, the place where Rome had built and docked her great

warships, where Syagrius had sent the transport ships for Arthur. She closed

her eyes. Everything, everything always came back to Arthur! She drew

a deep breath, returned her gaze to Bedwyr who sat, both hands clasped

around his own, empty porridge bowl. She could only reply with honesty.

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“I am, have always been most fond of you, Bedwyr. I receive pleasure in

your bed, but…”

He interrupted, finished, with a sour taste in his mouth, “But you do not

love me.”

“No!” Gwenhwyfar risked a tentative smile. “No, I mean—” She shook

her head, spread her hands, “I do love you, in some certain way.” Brought her

hands together, toyed with her fingers, her rings. “I would marry you now, this

day, if it were not for—” She pulled her ruby ring off her finger, replaced it.

And in a rush said what had been scuffling in her mind these long weeks past.

“If it were not for the fact I cannot accept Arthur is dead.”

Vigorously pushing himself from his stool, Bedwyr snorted a single bark

of derision. He turned away from the table, from her, ran his fingers through

his thick, dark hair. “Christ, Gwenhwyfar!” He turned back to face her. “I

was there, remember? I saw him. Blood-covered, ash-faced, limp. Dead.” He

rubbed his fingers, for his hands were suddenly very cold. Said, quieter, “I

helped drag his body from that bloody place.” Then he lashed out with his

foot, sending the stool tumbling and bumping across the room. A leg broke,

the seat cracked as it slammed into the wall. Angry, resentful, and bitter. “Sod

it, Gwenhwyfar. I saw him! I was there!”

She bowed her head, laid her hands in her lap. She could not help or stop

the tear falling. “But I was not. I can only think of him as alive. I still expect

him to come blustering, angry at some imbecile’s stupidity, through the door.”

She looked up. “When I lay with you, Bedwyr, I will myself to remember that

I am no longer his wife.” She remained looking at him, although she wanted

to glance away. “I feel as though I am cheating him, that I am unfaithful.” She

raised her hand to stop the words that were about to leave his lips. “Stupid, I

know. Stupid.”

Shaking, her legs seeming as if they could not support her, she rose from the

table, steadying her balance by placing her hands flat on its surface. “Until I can

accept he is gone, then no, I will not wed.” And again, she said, meaning her

words, “but I will, soon, when I am ready. I have promised you. I will not go

back on my word, but please, do not force me into more than I can yet give.”

She walked to an inner door, let herself quietly out into the privacy of what had

been their shared bedchamber.

Bedwyr stood, looking, feeling blank. He ought to go after her, argue, tell

her she was wrong, that she must take for herself a husband. Why was she being

so damned stubborn?

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 2 5 9

Instead, he slammed out the door that led to the parade-ground, took up a

shovel, and furiously helped with the digging to clear the main gate.

Eight days the snow lay, a rising wind drifting each fresh fall into the cleared

gaps. Two roofs fell in under the weight, one a barrack’s block, the other

a small bothy where the geese were night-housed. All eight birds perished.

Ambrosdun Prima ate well that night, at least.

Gwenhwyfar was restless. She needed to be alone, needed to think. Damn

this snow penning her in, and damn Bedwyr for being so hurt. She would

become his wife, soon. After she had had time to think! The few personal

belongings brought with her, clothing, jewellery, unguents, oils, combs, and

pins, the paraphernalia every woman carried, were packed, waiting and ready

for her to leave. Each morning Ider tramped through the gateway as soon as

the men had it cleared, walked a few yards from the fortress. Each morning,

reported back to his lady that the track was impassable. Gwenhwyfar waited,

snared in an awkward situation, regretting the need to go, yet not regretting

a friendship that had flourished into something more intimate. Would yet

blossom into something permanent.

Bedwyr had not set aside hope. All she needed was time. Time to heal, time

to accept what was done, face what was to be. He could wait—but not without

her with him!

“Where are you intending to go?” he had asked her.

She had shrugged, uncertain herself.

“To Gwynedd? To your brothers?”

Shaking her head, she replied no. “Enniaun, my eldest brother, was never

a dreamer; his feet are firm set in this world. He would never see the sense

of my delaying an offer of marriage.” She had laughed at herself, her absurd

predicament. Half in jest, added, “I may decide on entering a convent for a

while. One founded by Winifred, happen?” He had not responded with any

shared amusement. Both knew a holy house was her only option if the likes of

Amlawdd were to be kept at bay.

The snow cleared as if a magician had swept his hand over the land,

commanding the whiteness to be gone. The wind had turned, bringing for

a few consecutive days a milder clemency. It would freeze again within the

week, turning the tracks into rock, thick-icing the rivers and streams, numbing

fingers and toes to the bone, and daubing trees and bushes with garlands of

hoar-frost. But allowing enough time for Gwenhwyfar and her guard to saddle

the horses and start south.

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Bedwyr would have left with them, but he opted to stay one more day,

preferring to say his farewell here, where there were fewer men to witness his

sorrow at her going. If only he knew when she would be back, would be his

without doubt! When? A month? Two? More?

There was some commotion at the gate. Ider grunted at his men to close

firmer around their lady as they rode out through the tunnel beneath the

watch-tower. They caught a glimpse of a man struggling to free himself from

the harsh grip of pinning arms. He tried to shout something as Gwenhwyfar

rode by, but a soldier’s fist caught him square in the mouth, splitting his lip,

knocking out two teeth.

Struggling, the man begged to be released, pleading his need to speak with

the lady. The watch officer saw Gwenhwyfar and her guard set safe on the

track. Aye, the weather would hold for a day or two. He turned to the Saxon,

kicked him in the groin. “Why would the Lady Pendragon have wish to speak

with scum like you?” For good measure, kicked him again, ordered, “Take him

to the punishment cell. See what mischief he had in mind.”

Not until evening, after the trumpets for the setting of the first watch had

sounded, did anyone think to inform Bedwyr that a Saxon lay battered and

beaten in the stinking, stone-built hovel that served for a place of punishment.

The commander was in no mood to bother with the problems of local

settlers—already, even before the serving of the evening meal, he was deep into

his drink. “Throw him out. Let him tell his sorrows to the wolves.”

Fortunate that the night was milder than any other recent night. Fortunate,

too, that several of the boys from the settlements in the valley had chosen this

full-mooned night to creep up through the woods and out onto the cleared,

cattle-grazed land to see what the British were up to in their wooden-built

soldiers’ fort. It was a game for them, seeing who had the nerve to wriggle the

nearest. The watch knew they were there, knew them to be youngsters about

their innocent games, occasionally would shout they had been seen, usually

ignored them, providing there were but only a few of them and they stayed

well out from the first ditch.

This night, the watch guard spat over the palisade fence, mouthed an obscenity.

The boys had found the Saxon, one of their own kind, were carrying, dragging,

him back to his own world. The guard had little care whether the whore-son

survived. One less Saex in the world would be of no consequence.

Thirty-Three

March 472

I intend to extend my territory.”

Aesc’s hand, pouring his guest a tankard of the new-fermented, stron-

gest brew of ale, never faltered. “Anderida be not enough for you, then?” he

queried with a mild chuckle, after settling himself in his own chair, with his

own, filled tankard.

Aelle, chieftain of the South Saxons, narrowed his eyes, lifted his chin slightly,

and formed a half-smile. “Would the Isle of Tanatus have been enough for

Hengest, your father?”

Conceding the point by saluting with his tankard, Aesc of Kent pondered the

implications of this news. Asked detail. When? How? Receiving for answer a

mere, mild shrug.

They were in Aesc’s private chamber, cleared, for the necessity of male talk,

of children and wife. She had gone with her nose pointed in the air, sniffing

disdain; they had scurried off happily enough. Aelle was a broad man, gruff-

voiced, stern-faced: children were not at ease in his powerful presence. Indeed,

were it to be admitted, few men, save his own three sons, relaxed comfortably

in the same room.

He took time to answer more ful y, enjoying the strong drink, helping himself to

dried meat and hunks of fresh-baked barley-bread. He intended to pursue his plans,

whatever the outcome of this visit to the Cantii lands. He would go further north

from here, seek out the Saxon leaders of the eastern settlers; on his return, those

along the South Ridge. If necessary, he would go for what he wanted alone, but

how much better it would be, how much more effective, more permanent, if they

were to unite and be one. “I have made no plans as yet.” He flapped his hand, idly.

“Mere ideas, an eagerness, if you like, to set thoughts on a more advanced step.”

“Ambrosius,” Aesc mused, stretching his feet to the warmth of his hearth-

fire, “is determined on his security. His string of bristling fortresses seem

reasonably strong.”

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Aelle formed his fingers into a derisive gesture. “Anything can seem strong

in the drowse of a summer heat. It is when the winds come that the firmness of

walls and the solidity of a roof matter most.” He shook his head, slow, mean-

ingful, emphasising his figurative point. “Nay, my friend, I assure you Ambrosius

Aurelianus’s playthings are about as secure as castles made in the sand.”

The Kent, Aesc, grinned. “We but have to wait for the tide to turn.”

“Ah no,” Aelle corrected, taking a deep, satisfying draught of his ale. “The

tide has turned already. We but wait for it to come in.”

Thirty-Four

April 472

Ambrosius Aurelianus had, as so often occurred during the colder

months of winter, been unwell. The bowel flux had eased, and the stomach

pains, but intermittent fever and weakness had lingered for many weeks. His

skin was a mixed tincture of ash-grey and liverish-yellow, clinging gaunt over

hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Although he was only forty and five years, his

hair was turning a premature grey, and was receding from the crown of his head

in a monk-like tonsure. He was constantly cold.

Cadwy, his son, was ambling around, picking at a bowl of fruit, touching

a gold crucifix, admiring a tapestry. He had flung off his cloak, loosened the

fastenings of his tunic, for the room was hot and smoke-stuffed with so many

braziers kept constantly stoked. His father wore two cloaks, yet still he chafed

at his fingers to bring warmth into them. A slave brought in a tankard, solemnly

handed it to Ambrosius, who reached for it, took a reluctant mouthful. Cadwy

watched his father drink, wipe residue from his mouth.

“Without this foul stuff, the stomach cramps return and I will be spending

the night shivering in that ice-hole of a latrine.” Ambrosius grimaced, took a

breath, and gulped the rest down, with the slave scurrying forward to take the

empty tankard. Sliding deeper into his chair, Ambrosius laid his head against its

high back a moment, closed his eyes. For all the disguising of spices and sweet

honey, the drug tasted bitter. “What I would give,” he sighed, “for a glass of

fine wine.” He drew in his breath as if savouring the aroma of a luxury imported

wine, opened his eyes, sat up straight. “However, my physician would never

allow me to drink it—even if I could get hold of some. What brings you here,

boy? Stop fiddling with my things and spit it out!”

Nervously clearing his throat, Cadwy limped to a stool, seated himself, laying his

crutch on the floor behind. “Ought you not be abed, father? You look tired.”

“I am perfectly all right!” Ambrosius snapped, “I have enough fussing

from my physician without your unwanted additions.” He was damned if he

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would spend all day and night pandering to the weaknesses of his body. He

shuffled himself into a more upright position. So much to do! Orders to send,