Shadow of the King (55 page)

eventually, come staggering through the door with boots muddied and clothes

rain-sodden, wearing a sore head and a poor temper.

She had company, for old Livia had arrived, seemed set to stay a while. A

well-intentioned woman, but a nuisance on occasion, for she was not one to

notice subtle hints.

“Arthur not here?” she had queried, in her high, old-age creaking tone,

stumping through the always-open door, setting herself firmly in the only

chair. “Part of my roof is off. That storm did much damage the other night.”

Impossible to say no to Livia, she asked as a command, but then, no one would

say no to an old woman who had no man or son of her own.

“I will send him over tomorrow.” Morgaine knew Arthur would be annoyed

at the offer, but Livia could hardly be expected to repair such damage herself, and

they were her nearest neighbours. The two women drifted into other, varying

conversations, Morgaine taking up her distaff and spindle, Livia, enjoying the

companionship of idle gossip. Medraut busied himself with his third attempt

at carving a pony. Da made shaping the wood appear so simple, but the blade

never seemed to obey his fingers as neatly. It was an odd-looking pony, with

stumped, uneven legs and too square a head, but Medraut was pleased with his

efforts. Morgaine chided him for the mess of shavings on the floor. Medraut

ignored her.

Night had set, and Livia was content to stay, for she had no reason to return

through the dark to an empty and lonely dwelling place. She enjoyed company,

and Morgaine always made her welcome, at least whenever Arthur was not

around to grumble his objections. They had been talking of the latest child born

in the village, a sickly girl, expected not to live long. Livia, as was her right as

3 3 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

an elder, had attended the birth. There was not much the old woman did not

know, few things she missed; her opinions, and more important, her blessings,

were regularly sought throughout the community—aye, and beyond, for her

knowledge of healing and use of potions were unrivalled.

“Business, has he?” she asked suddenly, almost in mid-conversation. “Arthur?

Over in that Christian Valley?” She spat her contempt for those Ladies she

called putrid love-lacks.

Morgaine could not hide her startled surprise, covered it as well she could

with some vague, excusing answer, her mind simultaneously hurling a roar of

complex questions. Why would he choose to go there? Why had he not told

her? Was this connected with Arthur’s silence and distracted mood of these

past two days? He had been more reticent than usual, abrupt, and even coarse

when he had to speak. After that stranger had come. Arthur had said he had

taken a wrong track, lost his way, but Morgaine had not believed it for one

moment. No one could mistakenly follow the narrow, half-hidden path that

began between two straggly bushes from the main road. Ah no! The rider of

that dun horse had come for a purpose. A purpose that had set Arthur into

quiet brooding.

He was not content here, had no caring for her company, no need for her as

a woman save for her ability to sew and cook. He had never made attempt to

share her bed, sleeping always where old Livia would sleep this night, wrapped

in a fur before the hearth. He had not made this place his home, not looked

upon it as his. This was Morgaine’s dwelling, and though Medraut called him

Da, he did not acknowledge her as a wife, or as his woman, the mother of his

child. Not that Morgaine would be prepared to let him go. He did not sleep

with her, on occasion did not speak to her for days on end, but he was here, he

was hers. And better to accept him as he was than not to have him at all.

“He is usually at the tavern,” Morgaine said, flippant, attempting to deflect

the matter by offering her guest a second, large, helping of stew. It had been

intended for Arthur but as he was not here…“Arthur keeps his own mind, his

own company. He will return home when hungry, I have no doubt.”

“Aye. No doubt.” Livia chewed the meat on toothless gums. Morgaine was a

talented woman with a stew-pot, and Arthur kept her well supplied with good,

fresh game. Ah, if she were but a few years younger, what she would have

done with such a man! Wasted on Morgaine. Fool child. She let him have too

much of his own thinking, did not use enough of her bed to keep him in the

house-place. Keep a man content and occupied during the night, and the days

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

would look after themselves. “You ought to be breeding him more children,

lass, then he would have no cause to go a wanderin’ after other women!”

Morgaine flushed. Livia noticed, guessed at the wrong conclusion. “You

have a seed growing?”

“No.” The accompanying sigh was revealing. “No, there is no chance of

a child.”

Livia snorted her derision. “Babes do not get made by chance, girl! They get

put there. If he will not willingly come to your bed, ought you not make your

way into his?”

Morgaine pressed her lips together. She had tried that once, some while after

Arthur was healed of his wounds, was well enough to begin work around the

shabby place that was her home, mending fences, building a byre for the goats, a

pen for the geese. She had held him, touched him, made it known she was his if

he wanted her. Never would she repeat the shame of that night! The shame, and

the hurt as he had turned his back, told her to go whoring with someone else.

She would not tell Livia of that; would not admit, even to herself, the jealousy

had started to seep its insidious roots into her from that night. He went some-

where else for his needs, probably to the little slut who served at the tavern…

“Why didn’t Da take that big sword with him?” Medraut’s question broke her

thoughts. He had only partially listened to the conversation, most of it women’s

stuff, falling meaningless on his ears. Morgaine attempted to make light of the

boy’s words, although her heart started lurching like a wild, Beltaine drumbeat.

“What sword? Your Da does not have a sword.” Sword? Why would he need

a sword? From where would he obtain a sword?

“Yes, he does. He has it hidden in the woodpile. That man gave it to him. I saw

him, when you sent me back to fetch your cloak. I saw them talking, saw him give

it to Da.” With self-pride, the boy added, “They did not see me, of course!”

Livia busied herself, scooping the last of the stew from the cooking pot, but she

had noticed Morgaine’s sun-darkened skin turn almost white. “A man came here,

did he?” the old woman asked. “Would that be one of the men keeping watch on

the riders staying at the Place of the Lady?” she added, sucking gravy from a hunk

of bread. “Or one of the riders themselves? The British woman’s escort?”

Fifty-Six

Through the night Morgaine worked up her own storm, until, by

morning, her anger was as furious as any wild wind. Anger fuelled by

fear, stirred by jealousy. By asking subtle, seemingly innocuous questions, she

had gleaned valuable information, for Livia was readily eager to pass on her

accumulated gossip and speculation—information that fermented during those

quiet, dark hours into a potent, black brew.

That Arthur had gone to see this British woman, she had no doubt. Who

she was, why she was here, she could only speculate. And guessing could so

easily make for wrong answers. Come dawn, she had narrowed her mind to two

choices. Follow him to the Place of the Lady, see for herself who this woman was

and make an end of her, or seek out the two Saxons camped, as they appeared to

believe, secretly in the woods. There were no secrets in the Avallon Valley! Too

many knew too much of another’s business. As Arthur ought to well know.

How dare he assume to steal away without consultation, without informing

her! That he might not be coming back never occurred to Morgaine, perhaps

because she did not want to consider such a thought. Admitted, Arthur had

been with her, living with her as nothing more than a kinsman, but rarely

had he talked or shown a longing of going back to Britain, of picking up the

dropped and shredded threads of his old life. Those days, she was sure, had gone

for him, were as dead and left for the crows to pick over as the men he had left

to rot on that battlefield.

But as, come noon, she made her way up through the steep hang of dark

woodland, she began to question her own assurance. Was the past dead? Arthur

did not talk beyond a basic necessity of conversation. He never talked of himself,

his hopes his fears, his plans, his daughter. He shared some of himself with the

boy, encouraging and teaching him, but was that from mere duty? Was there

any love for the lad, his own son? Certainly there was no love for the mother.

Polite courtesy, obligation, nothing more than that.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 3 7

And from where had this sword come? From this British woman—why was

she here? Why now, after all this time had passed? “
She could be his wife.
”
Livia

had been convinced of her opinion. “
He had a wife, did he not? Two, I believe.
”

There was no deliberate intention to be malicious, but Livia had an unequivocal

habit of hitting where it hurt. “
Or a mistress. He had several of those.
”

Morgaine was not listening to the ramblings of the old woman. No, it would

not be Gwenhwyfar; she was dead. Morgaine stumbled over a gnarled root,

tumbled to her knees, scraping the skin. She knelt there among the dead leaves

and new grass, watching the blood ooze without seeing or feeling its sting.

But was she? There had been something said, months past, something she had

heard muttered on a wind from Britain, something about Lady Gwenhwyfar’s

grief? She licked her finger, brushed the spittle against the grazed skin, walked

on, ducking beneath the sweep of branches, more watchful of where she put

her feet. Britain thought Arthur to be dead. But someone must have heard he

was not, someone had come all this journey to make sure. What had Livia been

saying about these men in the woods, the Saxons? Why were they here? Who

had sent them?

She found the two men easily, guided by the lazy smoke of their fire. A

slovenly pair taking few precautions, for they thought themselves safe up here

in these uninhabited woods. Concealing herself, she watched them a while,

bickering and snapping at each other like two spoilt children. One lost the

argument, hauled himself, grumbling and complaining, to his feet, lifted up his

hunting spear, and disappeared into the trees in search of evening supper. The

other man lolled, bored, half-dozing in the shade, supposedly keeping eye on

the road that snaked downward below their hidden vantage point. He did not

hear or sense Morgaine approach, felt only the cold death-touch of her dagger

against his throat. She smelt the trickle of his urine, the dark stain on his bracae

spreading, obvious. A coward as well as a fool.

“Why are you here?” she hissed, her voice an insistent snarl in his ear.

“We watch the travellers.”

She knew that. “Why?”

“Because the one who hired us believes they will lead us to a man who ought

be dead.” He answered open enough. But then, the blade was biting harder, a

trickle of blood meandering down his throat. Morgaine thrust more questions,

her knee digging hard, uncomfortable, into the small of his back. “What man

might this be?”

“The Pendragon.”

3 3 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

So it was the lure of Arthur that had brought them here. She narrowed her

eyes, pushed her dagger deeper, determined, her disgust erupting against this

puke-smelling worm. “And the name of the one who hired you?”

The man hesitated, fearing future consequences more than the immediate

threat. Morgaine persuaded him to think otherwise. “Winifred!” he blurted, as

the dagger prodded in a more intimate area. “Lady Winifred paid us!”

Winifred! Not a mistress then. Morgaine knew of Winifred, knew the open

hatred she had for Arthur. Once—aye, and not so long past—she had never

understood it. How could a woman love and yet hate with such equal ferocity?

Now she knew. The hate came with the threat of loss. While it—he—was

yours, you could love, but hatred came in so easily, stepping hand in hand

with jealousy.

“And is it Lady Winifred who rests at the Place of the Lady?” Doubtful, but she

asked anyway. The name that came brought a cold, heavy dread to her stomach.

“No, not Lady Winifred. Gwenhwyfar, it is Gwenhwyfar.”

Almost, she was tempted to kill him. Tempted to slide her blade in between

his ribs and end his miserable excuse for an existence. Almost. Something held

her hand. Something sinister worming its blackened way into her red-enraged

thoughts. She let the dagger dangle loose in her hand, sat hunkered to her heels,

thinking, planning, barely noticing that he scuttled a few yards away, putting