Shadow of the King (76 page)

lips nervously. She welcomed visitors, indeed counted on them, but it was usually

men who came to her hut by the causeway, not women. And this woman, with

hair dyed as black as a raven’s wing and penetrating deep-blue eyes that seemed

darker than they ought be, alarmed her for some unexplained reason.

“I will be preparing supper soon,” she offered tentatively. “You are welcome

to share with me, although,” she slid in a small, flustered giggle, “I may have

custom to attend.”

Morgaine raised her hand, dismissive. “You need not concern yourself over-

much. I ask only a bowl of broth and a bed for the night.”

The girl, her milking bucket wedged under one arm against her hip,

chewed a finger-nail. She had only the one bed, a blanket-covered pile

of dried bracken, and that, if any-men paid call, she would be needing.

Disconcerted, she wondered what to do. The law of hospitality bid her make

any traveller welcome, yet no woman had ever wanted to stay at her wayside

whore-place before.

Could this woman read her mind? It seemed she could, for Morgaine smiled,

reassuring, said as she rose, walked to the open doorway, “Mayhap this night

you will not have custom.”

Inside, the hut was dark, musty, as most small dwellings were. A hearth-place

situated centrally with the smoke-hole above it in the roof. A stool, the bracken

bed to one side, a stone-weighted loom. Cooking pots, pottery amphorae;

from one timber support hung two glass-bead necklaces, intertwined with a

bunch of drying herbs. It was humble but tidy. It would suit Morgaine. This

hut had once belonged to another whore, Brigid, who had been the messenger-

woman of Morgause, Morgaine’s mother. Brigid, who had also worked for the

Pendragon, feeding him suitable information. Oh, he had found out, eventu-

ally, that Brigid had two paymasters, that she was a traitor to his kingdom.

Morgaine had been misguided then, had thought Arthur to have the right of

it, had thought love was the most important thing. Not the commands of her

mother, given through Brigid’s tongue.

Aye, this whore-hut would suit Morgaine well. Easy, in the early light of the

next dawn, when a cattle-driver called by to ease the itch in his groin, to inform

him this was her place now. He never questioned further: one whore was much

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 5 7

the same as another. He had no reason to notice the patch of garden—even if

he had, would have assumed the fresh-dug earth was for the planting of new

herbs. Why would he suspect it made an ideal grave for the girl who had been

whore here the evening before?

Eleven

February 478

They located a small herd of five deer after about an hour’s easy

riding. The woods that spanned the undulating ground to the south of

Caer Cadan were winter-quiet, the trees dormant, lifeless in their naked state of

bare branches. The day had been dull, although the snow clouds trudging across

the skies these last few weeks had at last retreated. Pockets of snow remained,

huddling between tree roots in the lee of bramble and hawthorn bushes, lining

the shadowed places of ice-fringed streams. It was cold, the breath vapour from

rider and horse steaming, the light beneath the thickly crowded trees, for all

their lack of a leafed canopy, poor.

Arthur pointed with his bow, indicating the does feeding, some few hundred

yards distant, as yet unaware of the newcomers in the woods. He grinned at

Gwenhwyfar riding a few yards to his left. She smiled back, the prospect of an

easy kill cheering them both. The quicker they could bring down this night’s

supper, the sooner they could return home to the warmth of a hearth-fire and

a tankard of wine. One of the dogs whined, chastised immediately by Gweir

who had already dismounted, secured his horse. They were well downwind;

the deer grazed, unconcerned. Arthur, too, dismounted, signalled for the boy,

Medraut, to climb down from his pony, tether him alongside the others. The

dogs were similarly secured, the handler left to crouch with them, ready to slip

the leashes when needed. Hunting was a synchronised effort, each rider and

bowman working as a team, needing, necessarily, to work in silence without

command or communication; to act implicitly.

He was nervous, the boy, as the last hunt a month past had been disastrous;

not his fault, they all said, it was a thing easily happened, yet had he not stepped

on that dead branch, had the snap of its breaking not ricocheted around that

clearing…it had taken three hours to find their quarry again. Archfedd had not

let him forget it. She was not with them this day though, laid up as she was with

a swollen and bruised knee after a fall yesterday. He ought not smile, ought

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 5 9

not feel this gloat of pleasure; the girl was in pain, could have been severely

injured. At least the pony was unharmed, though the fall had been a crashing

one. Gwenhwyfar had told Archfedd not to jump Briallen over the ditches, not

in icy conditions. But she had ignored the advice, as ever, jumped the mare

anyway. There had been a terrible row after, Gwenhwyfar determined to thrash

Archfedd for putting a good mount in unnecessary danger, Arthur countering

the anger by saying the injured knee and the forgoing of a hunting trip was

better punishment. Medraut agreed with his father. Archfedd took a whipping

as stoically as a warrior faced a battle wound. Not coming today though. Hah!

That had hurt her indeed!

He attempted a smile at his father, put one finger against his lips to indi-

cate his awareness for the need of stealth and quiet. Arthur nodded, tested his

bowstring, indicating Medraut was to do likewise. Arthur, Gweir, and a third

bowman took position beside Gwenhwyfar and the two other mounted men,

Medraut staying close to his father as he had been instructed. Ready, arrows

knocked to the bowstrings, the horses moved off slowly, almost ambling. Deer

were not so mistrustful of four-legged creatures and, downwind, the scent of

human was masked. The bowmen, on foot, walked to the far side of the horses,

Arthur beside Gwenhwyfar, his hand upon her thigh. She playfully tapped his

fingers as they stealthily worked erotically higher, mouthing at him to wait

until later. He grinned up at her, boyishly winked. He was still handsome in

his rough, rugged way. Grizzled hairs were starting to show more pronounced

against the dark above his temple, but it was as thick as if he were still young, no

sign of receding from the forehead or balding on the crown. The skin around

his eyes, chin, and jowls was wrinkling, perhaps developing a slight sag where

once it lay firm, but the eyes themselves shone bright, mischievous. Later, that

wink implied, I’ll hold you to it.

Gweir stopped at the first position, stepping from beside the horse, shrinking

against the solid width of an old oak. The horses moved on. Arthur tapped

Medraut on the shoulder, their turn to drop aside. He had skillfully chosen

two trees close together, Medraut to stand a little to one side of and behind

his father. The third man positioned himself, the three experienced men and

the boy forming a V-shape ahead of the grazing deer. There they must wait,

immobile, poised, and ready, while the horses unhurriedly continued to circle

upwind, to manoeuvre behind the quarry. Walking in fits and starts, the

horses grazed a few mouthfuls of grass here and there. Unhurried, unsuspi-

cious, unalerting.

4 6 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Upwind, Gwenhwyfar and, spaced a few yards apart, the other two horsemen

began to tighten the noose, edging closer to the group of does, starting the

drive forward. The occasional click of the tongue, a light slap of a rein against

the leather saddle. Innocent noises, almost natural, but a doe lifted her head,

some half-doubt alerting her. The horses gave no threat, but there was a slight,

uneasy scent to the air. Chewing the mouthful of grass, she walked a few yards

downwind, head high, eyes alert, ears listening, nostrils scenting for that vague,

half-caught smell of human. The other four followed gradually, browsing

unconcerned as they went with her, nudged forward by the three innocuous

horses those few, distant yards behind.

Medraut held his breath. His arm was quivering, for the bows needed to be

held in the firing position. They, he and the three men, blended well with the

trees and bustle of hawthorn and hazel bushes, dressed as they were in natural

colours, browns and dark greens, their hoods pulled over their heads. He kept

his half-slit eye on one deer, as his father had told him. “Pick your prey, a deer

nearest you, one that looks likely to come to your side of the ambush.” He

had laughed, Arthur, when telling this, ruffled the lad’s hair. “Works as well

when ambushing men, only they have a better power of reasoning than beasts.”

Medraut had grinned at the advice. Ah, he so wanted to do well on this hunt!

It was a delicate task, herding the prey forward. Too slow and they could

simply trot away, melting into the shadows of the trees, too fast and they could

panic, running to one side or flee too soon. If they simply disappeared, it was

not too much of a matter, for the dogs would scent them out again, but it

would all be time, and daylight, wasted.

Gwenhwyfar, riding to the right, clicked her fingers. Another deer pricked

her ears, listened, attentive, watchful. A flurry of wind taking scent to wary

nostrils…and they were running!

The best shot was to aim for the centre of the chest as the deer came head-on,

from as close range as possible. If the animal ran to the right, a good aim would

be difficult, the bowman had to turn. To the left was desirable, for an arrow

could be loosed into the side. “
For Mithras’s sake though, boy
,” Arthur’s words

flickered through Medraut’s mind as the deer came nearer, his fingers tightening

around the drawn bowstring, “
do not shoot straight to your left or right—you could

easily hit another man and anyway, the quarry would be moving too fast in relation to

the arrow flight.”

Medraut gathered his breath, forced himself to wait, one eye shut, the other

squinting, intent on the doe with a pale muzzle. He had been practising with the

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 6 1

bow. It was easier to handle than a spear, for he could take better aim, aligning

his eye with target and arrow head…Just one more yard, one more…Medraut

released the strain on the taut bowstring, let the arrow loose, heard the whine

of its brief flight, fancied he heard the thud of its finding the mark. The doe

faltered, staggered, scrabbled a few more paces, her legs working, chest heaving,

fell forward. Dead. Medraut cheered. His exultation sweeping away caution, he

leapt in the air, hoisting his bow, yelling his delight, “I did it! I did it!”

Simultaneously, the second deer staggered, picked herself up, ran on.

The third was also hit, but the lodged arrow barely broke her stride. The

other two leapt away, unharmed. Arthur had reached for a second arrow,

knocked it quickly into place, but they were gone, too far to shoot accurately

between the trees and undergrowth. He was pleased, stepped forward, slapped

his son on the shoulder, took him to the fallen deer. “Well done, lad!”

Medraut grinned up at him, satisfied. Two arrows protruded from the carcass,

one, Arthur’s, clean through the chest, the other, Medraut’s attempt, penetrating

the neck. It was so much cleaner when the quarry fell easily. Gwenhwyfar rode

up, slid from her horse. “Well done,” she said to the boy.

“What about me?” Arthur chided, feigning petulance.

“What about you?” she teased.

Gweir trotted up, his face glowing. The third man was sounding his hunting

horn, the notes spiriting through the woodland, the baying of the dogs answering

almost immediately, aware of the oncoming excitement, the tracking of injured

deer. The two trails were found with ease. One was of clear, bright blood, a

long chase probably, for it would be a minor wound; the other dark, thick,

and sticky. They followed for one quarter of a mile, found the deer collapsed,

already dead, the arrow buried deep in its belly. For the other, they took to the

horses again, letting the hounds run free to follow the scent unhampered by

leash or handler.

The dogs brought the animal to bay after half an hour’s searching. Arthur

was tempted to let Medraut finish the doe, but it was senseless to prolong death

unnecessarily. He motioned for Gweir to do it. One arrow at close range. The

three carcasses would provide well for supper that night in the King’s Hall.

Riding homeward, while the adults exchanged teasing jests and bellowed

raucous hunting songs, Medraut dared ask his father a thing that had been on

his mind for several months.

“Da?”

“Aye, lad?”

4 6 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“Can I go to Ambrosius’s school?”