Shadow of the King (64 page)

dais, Geraint’s table, took the white banner decorated with the leaping red

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 8 5

dragon from Bedwyr. His banner, the Dragon that Gwenhwyfar had made for

him and his Artoriani.
Must I preserve my kingdom from Saxons, so my own whelped

Saex-breed may one day take it from me?

Geraint knelt before him, unsheathed sword in his hand, given in offering

of homage. “To you, lord, I give my sword and shield, my heart and soul. To

you, lord, I give my life, to command as you will.”

None could possibly hear those words, through the exultant roar of voices.

The combined voice of the Artoriani.

Seventy-One

Winifred, Lady Pendragon, as she obstinately referred to herself,

had not finished with her one-time husband. Once decision was taken that

he and his Artoriani would be riding from Durnovaria at first light, she found it

next to impossible to seek him out for private audience, but she had always been

persistent; she final y caught up with him as the hour approached midnight. It had

been his custom, in the past, to walk through his men’s encampment on the eve

of marching or battle; they appreciated his presence. This night, his tour was even

more important. He needed to re establish his authority and his friendship, needed to

greet each and every one of the two hundred and seventy-four men who would ride

with him on the morrow. Arthur had the gift of making every man special, every

man important. Duach, who carried a stiffness to his shoulder from one of their first

battles together; Drwst, who had a fist and a punch as hard as iron. Glewlwyd, who

had the strength in his grasp to hold a sword all day in battle and not once let go that

grip—he too had been with Arthur from the first, aye, and with his father, before

him, with Uthr Pendragon. Anwas, who they called The Winged because of his

fleetness of foot; Hael, The Generous; Halwyn The Unsmiling; Gwrhyr, who could

speak any language within a day of hearing it…many men, many old and so very

dear friends. Peredur, as ever, had a jest to share that was as bawdy as a whorehouse.

He was called Long Spear for his well-endowed manhood, a good man, Peredur.

Chuckling at the jest, reminding himself to repeat it to Gwenhwyfar, Arthur barely

noticed the shadow emerging from behind the next tent, felt his heart lurch and race

as it materialised into a cloak-flapping shape. “Mithras, woman!” he raged. “What in

the name of all the bloody gods are you doing here?”

Winifred stepped into the feeble light cast by the few campfires, tossed back

her hood, and laid her hand on Arthur’s arm. “You never used to startle so

easily. What, are you growing old and tired?”

Irritated, he walked on, thumbs thrusting through his sword belt. Why did

he let this damn woman annoy him so? If the gods were ever good enough to

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 3 8 7

allow him to live his life over, he would certainly ensure this item of baggage

was not loaded onto his wagon!

To annoy him further, she threaded her arm through his, ignored his attempt

to shake her off. “Has it occurred to you, Arthur, it is not I who lie? Why

would I have wanted you dead? There is another who may have desired that

convenient ending.”

Arthur managed to brush her intimate hold aside. “Ambrosius?” He snapped,

tetchily, “I do not see him behind murder.”

“Ambrosius?” Winifred scoffed, “God praise him, he is too pious for such

a sin.” Determined, she again threaded her arm, walked to match his striding

pace, “I do not talk of him.”

He knew she was stirring mischief, knew he ought give her a few choice

words and send her away, under armed escort if need be. Damn her, the ques-

tion came out! “Who then?”

Winifred had two voices, one strident and harsh, used more often than

anything to get her own way; the other wheedling, drowning in caring inno-

cence, bordering on the sickly sweet. Also used to obtain her way. It was the

second she used. “Are you aware Gwenhwyfar was to marry?”

Arthur had slowed, decided it best to ignore the informal way that she was

walking with him. His lips compressed, his left, free hand, going to the pommel

of his sword for self reassurance. Walked on. There was much to do before

daylight: weapons to have an edge put to them, horses examined for lameness,

harness and armour checked for loose stitching, cracked leather, loose joints

and buckles. “Aye, I understand Amlawdd sniffed around. I would not expect

ought else of that web-footed toad.”

She had to lengthen her stride to keep up with him. “Not Amlawdd, dear-

heart, he is but a predictable fool kept deliberately sweet-fed by Ambrosius.

’Tis better to keep a rogue under close eye.” She cocked a knowing eye at her

ex-husband. “As I believe you often did?”

Absently, he nodded agreement. Which is why he tolerated her nearness. Better

to keep her in clear sight than hidden away. What did she want? Trouble, he was

certain. Trouble by stirring clear water into black mud. Winifred excelled at that.

“It is not my place to tattle idle gossip,” she oozed. Arthur snorted, almost

laughed outright at her hypocrisy. “But it is well rumoured that Bedwyr and

your wife are not innocent of each other.”

“Gods, you’re a bitch!” Arthur halted abruptly, fiercely shook her arm away,

faced her, angry.

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

They were at the end of the row of pitched tents, Winifred had not halted

with him, but walked on. She swung left, heading away from the muted dark-

ness of the encampment, returning to the bustle and light of the royal place.

Over her shoulder, she tossed, “That I am. How else would I have survived

being the wife of such a bastard?”

Seventy-Two

They could, perhaps, withstand a siege for a few days, food was

not a problem—they could always eat the horses, although even among

the most cynical, this would be considered unlucky, a legacy surviving from

pre-Roman paganism. Horses had been valued by those early British tribes,

valued and prized, worth as much as gold or any splendid jewel. The concept of

not eating horseflesh had never faltered, standing during four hundred years of

Roman belief, and unwavering through the doctrine of Christian values. There

was nothing to show the Christian faith honoured the horse, but British men

would not eat one. Unless a great need meant they had to.

Water was the problem. The Ridge Way fortresses were built as intimidating

watch-places, designed to mark the ancient track striding from southwest to

northeast, not intended to withstand siege. The old tribes, those who had

built them, would have had each of the four main strategic forts along this

stretch of the Way occupied against inter-tribal raids, not against the massed,

amalgamated force of the Saxons. Until Rome came, sieges would have been

superfluous, the British warrior would have come out to fight, not remained

trapped and cowering behind walls put there for the safe-keeping of women,

children, cattle, and ponies. Warfare had changed so much since Rome had

decided on the taking of might and power by force.

Like the other three, Badon was above the water line. Taking the horses

down for daily watering was no difficult task; collection and carrying by leather

bucket similarly no more than a part of a day’s expected toil. The constructed

dew ponds provided enough water for need, but not for an army seeking shelter

from Saxons that had swept, so unexpectedly, up the Cuneito Valley, shrouded

so cleverly by the heavy woodland, short hours of daylight, and murky, low

cloud. The forts were there to glower down upon the Way as it marched past

the soaring, impressive ramparts. The southern side was vulnerable, and Aelle

chose to exploit it.

3 9 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

A second, inconvenient problem. Ambrosius was again unwell. He had fought

the returning sickness and diarrhoea off before that first fight, that victory, had

swallowed powders and mixtures one end, inserted other such things at the

other, to no avail. Even prayer had failed him. When he needed his strength,

when he needed to be seen, to enforce courage and endurance, to instil the

protection of the Good Lord, all he could do was lie on a bed and wretch into a

bowl. When he was not squatting over a chamber pot. Ragnall, may God bless

her, was his strength, constant at his bedside, spooning unpleasant-tasting medi-

cines, emptying the results. Ambrosius marvelled that any had ever doubted her

sweet nature, her uncomplaining goodness. Like his son, he no longer noticed

the puckered scarring, the clumsy limp, or the twisted fingers. Mind, he was

too ill and too preoccupied to notice anything beyond the clamour of derisive

shouts and abuse that hurtled from beyond the rampart walls, and the pain in

his belly.

The second day. Two, three days more, they could survive, not beyond.

What hope of the messenger getting through to Geraint? Huh! Even if he did,

help would not arrive in time. Their only hope was that word had reached

Durnovaria of the Saxon advance. That Geraint had realised the implications.

And acted.

Cadwy had helped his father—all but carried him from the Hall and up the

steps to the walkway. Ambrosius leaned heavily on the boy, sweating profusely,

his breathing coming in pained gasps. His belly and bowels were empty, had

nothing else to eject, but the feel, the belief that he must soon visit that stinking

latrine persisted. The day was duller than yesterday, the cloud billowing lower. It

might rain later. Beyond the palisade and high, grass-topped, chalk-cut ramparts

and ditches, the ground sloped down into the crowded swell of woodland that

strode too close to the lower slopes of Badon.

“Why were they not cut back, those trees?” he asked, his accent critical.

His son’s answer was brusque. “Because I have not the manpower to fell so

many, nor has there been a need.” Cadwy resented the question. He had tried

to keep the creeping scrub tamed, had cleared to one half mile all around the

ramparts. Always intending to do more, go further, when he had time.

The Saxons appeared in no hurry to flush them out, were unconcerned at

the grey coldness of the day. The current work parties were piling branches,

leaves, turf, into the outer ditch, steadily filling it in, a few British spears and

arrows found their targets, but the men were mostly under orders to preserve

their weaponry. Those arrows that went wide would be gathered, sent back

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with the next Saxon uprush. The last had endured for most the morning. Not

enough of the enemy had fallen, too many of the British lay awaiting burial,

when someone found time or thought to order it.

The woods, deeper, denser between the undulating hollows of the hills,

were full of Saxon men, some scurrying, busy about given orders, others taking

their ease, tending wounds, adding an edge to their weapons, relaxing, playing

dice, drinking or eating a meagre meal. Aelle was down there. His spread-

winged raven had been sighted on several occasions during that last assault. No

doubt he was discussing the next move, the next tactic. As Ambrosius ought

be doing.

But what in the Lord’s name was he to do? Several of his officers were shuf-

fling a few yards away, their helmet-straps hanging loose, blood staining here

and there, awaiting him. He wished—he snorted at the irony—that Amlawdd

was here. For all the man’s irritations, he had a sense of bravado and gut feeling

for these situations. It had been Amlawdd who had pressed home the victory

at Radingas, but it was no good dwelling on what was not. Amlawdd was

commanding at Castellum Prima, had precise orders to remain there, whatever

happened here at Badon. The small force he held there could do nothing

against the hundreds of Saex crowding these slopes, would be needed to hold

that fortress when they had finished here. Ambrosius groaned aloud.

Cadwy, too, had been dwelling on the fancies of wishing. “If only those

rumours of Arthur had proven true.” Stoically, he watched the Saxons finish

the filling-in of a few more yards of ditch. They would be across soon. Were it

summer-dry, not winter-sodden, the British could have sent fire arrows down,

burned the wood and grass.

His father made no answer, he dared not, for those officers were within

hearing, along with too many of the men. But aye, as reluctant as he was to

admit it, even to his own thoughts, he would have embraced that rumour were

it true.

Ambrosius Aurelianus closed his tired eyes in prayer. He had so wanted to

succeed, to lead with pious and clear-sighted wisdom. So wanted things to be like

they were in the days of his father and grandfather. Now, would give anything

to see the Dragon Banner, and Arthur, come riding out of that valley.

Seventy-Three

They camped overnight beyond Sarum, the Artoriani. The few