Shadow of the King (71 page)

ning, told him what to do and when or how. Mathild had discovered that, and

his mother. No one openly mentioned murder. He took several deep breaths,

calmed himself. They would need make sacrifice to ensure luck and fortune.

Blood must be sprinkled over the lintel, hearth, and threshold of the Hall, in

the name of Woden.

Easy enough to arrange the chosen one to be Oslac.

Four

May 476

The ride north. Tiring, rain-sodden, aggravatingly slow. The mud

thick and cloying, the horses bad-tempered and unwilling in the face of

continuous, needle-tipped, rain-squalled wind. And all for nothing!

Ambrosius Aurelianus sat hunched, cold, and aching before the feeble heat of

a sulky brazier, nursing a bowl of venison broth between his chapped, stiff hands.

He dipped the wooden spoon into the bowl, brought out a chunk of meat. At

least this was hot! It tasted good, too, the meat tender, root vegetables not soft or

mushy, subtly flavoured with herbs. He ate hungrily, enjoying the meal.

The Hall was busy with many people indoors on such a foul afternoon, yet

the building was quiet. Not silent, for the bustle of everyday movement created

sound—footsteps coming and going across the timber flooring, the clatter of

cooking pots and utensils, the growl and snarl of squabbling dogs, the slap

of leather as one man cut and shaped the straps he would need to fashion a

new bridle. A hen sat brooding, crooning to herself, unmolested, in a dark,

straw-piled corner—though the dogs would find any eggs soon enough. The

women talked as they worked at the two looms, their voices muted, dulled into

a respectful murmur, but they had all, everyone in that Hall, stopped, fallen

silent, looked up from whatever busied their hands, as Ambrosius had entered,

wet and chilled. And he had known, as he walked into that dismal silence, an

hour past, he was too late. Caw, a man devoted to his God, who had once been

a king in the north, his friend and kinsman, Caw was dead. The illness had

taken him to the Holy Kingdom before his request, uttered on dry, cracked,

pain tensioned lips could be fulfilled. “Bring Ambrosius to me. I would make

confession to Ambrosius.”

“Why me?” Ambrosius had asked himself on that journey north, to the

Gwynedd stronghold that Lord Caw had made his own, for himself and his

great, many-numbered family. Why me? Because they had known one another

in the innocent time of childhood? Because Ambrosius’s wife had been Caw’s

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 2 9

favourite sister? Because and because…Who could unravel the many possible

answers to an obscure riddle? Caw had asked, Ambrosius had come. Too late.

Caw had died two days previous.

A girl, dark-haired, dark-eyed—as many of them from north beyond the

Wall were—came a second time before him, offering to top his bowl with

fresh broth, the harsh, red bruising of tears still swelling her eyes. She was

Cywyllog, Caw’s youngest surviving daughter. Ten and seven years of age,

quiet-voiced, neat, precise movements that gave an air of calm, rooted effi-

ciency. She was dressed plain in dark colours, muted browns and greens, her

black hair bound in a single braid. No jewellery or decoration to ears, neck,

or arms. A few of her elder sisters carried, from their mother’s pagan influ-

ence, the blue tattooing of the north, the needle-pricked patterned markings

on cheeks, forehead, and arms, but not Cywyllog, for the girls born to the

second and third wives were raised in their father’s Christian faith. They were

married to northern men, those older girls, several had grandchildren born.

Cywyllog barely remembered them, for she had come south to the sanctuary

of Gwynedd with her father and mother, his second woman, in the late spring

of 464. Had lived here since, within the seclusion of Caer Rhuthun’s palisaded

walls, mostly in peace. Save for that one short time, when the eldest of her

brothers had come seeking sanctuary.

Caw had produced a large family. Daughters, a sprinkling of sons; some were

married and settled, many, after coming south, had entered into the service of

the Church; as many were dead. The first-born had been male, as was the last.

Cywyllog had nurtured a deep, personal affection for them both—although the

one was dead, murdered, she insisted, ten years past, and the other was merely

three years of age.

Ambrosius accepted the second helping of broth with gratitude, invited her

to sit a while, to talk. She shook her head. There was much to do, much

to arrange. Lord Enniaun was soon expected, she explained; they must make

ready to receive their honoured benefactor. With a smile that brought no light

or sunshine to her face, she whisked away. Ambrosius felt cheered. It would be

good to meet with Enniaun, Lord of Gwynedd. Happen the journey north was

not wasted, after all.

As he spooned the broth, he glanced around. Caw’s Hall was small, frugally

furnished, parsimonious in comparison to a lord’s usual necessary splendour. But

then, Caw had been a dispossessed king. His land, his title, his wealth—some

had even whispered among themselves, his manhood—had been forcibly taken

4 3 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

from him by the stronger eldest son, Hueil. That last had proven malicious

gossip of course, but for the rest…

There were not many younger people within the Hall; most, the majority, a

tired, older generation. A few children had trotted, shoulders hunched against

the discomfort of drizzling rain, beside the horses when Ambrosius and his

escort had made way through the open gates, up through the mud-slush into

the stronghold. It was not a place of the young, this, for the younger men had

not ridden southward with their ousted lord, opting for the better excitement

of the prospect of war against Arthur with Hueil. Caw had made the same

mistake as Ambrosius. It was all very well putting your faith firm and solid into

the goodness of God—but a devout monk could not be a successful king.

Hueil. Ambrosius set his empty bowl topside-down on the floor, a tradition to

show he had finished, enjoyed his meal, and practical, to dissuade the wretched

dogs from scrambling for it. Hueil.

A young man of such potential promise. Where—when—had it all gone

awry? Ah, with the evil of pagan mischief and the lure of a woman! Hueil

would have been ten and four when his mother had died, the woman who had

followed the heathen ways of the Priestess. With her pagan influence banished,

Caw had turned his mild interest into whole-hearted Christian faith. For a

while Hueil followed, eager to imitate his earthly lord and father. But Caw’s

devotion was perhaps too rigid, too blind to the path of greed, and Hueil was a

young man who had the strength and passion of the warrior in him.

At twenty years of age, Hueil had left Alclud in the north and ridden south

and south, to join with Arthur the Pendragon, to fight with, and under, him.

But Caw would not fight for his own land, had trusted too deeply that God

would triumph over the sea-raiders who came in more numbers every spring

to steal his land, his cattle, his women. And Hueil, turning against Arthur,

had been lured by the witch-woman Morgause to the taking of his father’s

kingdom by force. Ambrosius leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees,

chin propped on his clasped hands. The war that followed had been bloody and

bitter. Many men had died, men from beyond the Wall and from the south.

Arthur’s son, Llacheu, among them. He sighed, long and slow.

“That is a sound of deep regret, my friend! What troubles you so?”

Ambrosius looked up sharply, saw a tall, tall man, red hair grizzled and streaked

with grey, eyes merry, lips firm. For that brief, quick-glimpsed moment, he

thought he was seeing Cunedda, the Lion Lord of Gwynedd, but he was dead,

gone these many long years…

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 3 1

“Enniaun! My dear Lord Enniaun, I did not hear you enter!” Ambrosius was

on his feet, pleasure lighting his solemn expression, hand out-stretched, greeting

Cunedda’s eldest surviving son, aware the Hall was filling with newcomers,

men, cloaks drenched, dripping puddles on the floor, their accompanying dogs

trading aggression with those of the Hall.

“Your reverie was certainly deep!” Enniaun laughed, straddling himself

before the brazier. “Guilt of conscience or musing for the future?” His laughter

resonated through the Hall, raising smiles from those within hearing. For a

moment the gloom of the place lifted, colour returned, life seeped through the

walls, drifted among the roof-beams.

“My uncle knows no guilt; he is a man of God.”

Ambrosius swung around, startled at the sarcastic remark, a faint gasp issuing

from his lips. Arthur! Arthur, here? In this place? “I was thinking of Hueil.”

The words sprang from his mouth unchecked, unbidden.

Arthur swung his heavy, rain-sodden cloak from his shoulders, handed it to

his body-servant, moved to the poor, insufficient warmth of the brazier.

“It would be difficult not to, I suppose,” he said after a short while. “It

was to here he forced his father to flee; it was to here he later came, seeking

safety for himself.” Arthur was the only man to have entered who retained

his weapons. He was the Supreme King, he would not shed sword or dagger,

leave them on the threshold. As he spoke, he rested his hand on the hilt of his

sword, aware of the silence, the rabid course of mixed feelings; on some faces,

barely veiled hostility.

A woman was threading her way through the crowd of newcomers, copper-

haired, although that too was bearing streaks of silver. Her features, eyes, nose,

similar to those of Enniaun. Her green eyes were sparking, forcing down the

huddled press of animosity.

“Hueil,” she said, loud so al heard, “was rightly executed by the king for the

traitor and murderer he was.” Gwenhwyfar stood beside Arthur, the gold of the

torque at her throat gleaming as vivid, as royal, as her eyes. “We have come to pay

our respects to his father, the man Hueil would have also murdered, had he not

taken the wisdom to flee into the safe protection of my brother, Lord Enniaun.”

Low murmurings as the rise of aggression faded, the Hall went back about

its business of welcoming those new-arrived. None could dispute the truth of

what Gwenhwyfar said.

Only one kept the steady clench of hatred in her jaw. Cywyllog was chiv-

vying the younger children out from their corner. Her father’s Hall was small,

4 3 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

of no size to accommodate so many comfortably. Those who had no reason to

remain must leave, find for themselves some other place out of the rain. She

steered her brother before her, taking him through a side door, directing him

to the dwelling of Christen, his nurse. He was reluctant to go, for he wanted to

see the splendid men and the king, Arthur.

“You ought have no wish to see him! He murdered our brother, there,

over there on that rock; he threw Hueil against it and struck off his head!”

The boy swivelled his eyes from the shelter of the door-way to the grey slab of

limestone, watched the rain heave and bounce against it, pictured his brother’s

blood streaming down its sides instead of the shiny wet of the rain. “I know

what happened,” Cywyllog hissed in his ear, “for I was here, I saw. It is Arthur

who is the murderer, not our brother Hueil. Now be off with you, I have

much to do.”

The boy wrenched his gaze from the rock—he would go nowhere near it by

night, skirted it by day, for it scared him. It had been used as a savage execution

block and he feared he might see the blood, hear the scream. His sister had told

him of it all often, of how one day she would take revenge on Arthur for the

death of their brother.

“Will you kill him?” the boy asked her. “Will you do as you have said you

will one day do? Take a dagger and cut out his heart, or blacken his belly with

poison or…”

Cywyllog slapped her hand around her three-year-old brother’s mouth.

“Hush, child! Do you want him to hack your head off also? He will do if he

hears such unguarded talk!”

Fearful, Gildas glanced through the open door into the crowded room,

caught a glimpse of the Pendragon: tall, powerful, austere. He ran, hurtling

through the rain to the safety of his nurse’s warm lap.

Five

Does it not make you feel,” Ambrosius searched for a tactful word,

“uncomfortable? Being here at Caer Rhuthun?” They were walking back

from Caw’s burial in the family plot a mile beyond the stronghold’s walls, were

lingering, politely, to the rear of the family. It had been a reasonable ceremony,

efficient, correct, with a suitable number of mourners. Ambrosius had made

a fine eulogy, Enniaun had spoken a few words. Arthur had assumed it wise

to be silent, remained on the edge, faded into the background. Thankfully