Shadow of the King (78 page)

had been emptied, refilled.

“Cerdic has reneged to the Saxons.” Ambrosius’s pinched tone indicated that

the subject ought be ended, Amlawdd ignored the reprimand.

“Cerdic is half-British. He wants a kingdom, would as easily return to

being British if he knew he could have what he wanted. Have it handed him

on a platter.”

“Nonsense!”

“Nonsense, is it?” Amlawdd crammed the last of his meat pasty into his

mouth, spoke while he chewed. “I have it from Cerdic himself.”

Thirteen

Ambrosius was uncertain whether his sense of outrage was that

more intense because the man, obese from a cumulation of years of

over indulgence, crude-mannered and sprawling slovenly on the best couch,

was either an outright fool or a serious threat. Had he heard right? Had

he truly understood what Amlawdd implied—that Cerdic could be, was

willing to be, bought?

“Cerdic has only one want. To rule as his grandsire ruled.” Amlawdd

sublimely picked meat from between his teeth.

Spluttering protest Ambrosius rose indignant and angry to his feet.

“Vortigern?” he bellowed. “Christ and all the holy saints! You would return

us to that era of heretical darkness? For all Arthur’s faults, for all his petty

annoyances and irritations, he has taken better care of this land than ever that

poxed tyrant Vortigern did!” He took a breath, blustered on, “We have peace.

Prosperity and trade are again rising, there is law and order in our towns…”

“I merely meant,” Amlawdd brusquely interrupted the tirade, “that Cerdic

wishes to be king by right of inheritance. Bear in mind he could secure us a

much stronger peace, for he can dominate the English as no other British-born

could.” Added with a sneer, “Not even Arthur.”

“And you know all this?” Ambrosius barked. “How? Have you spoken with

Cerdic? By Christ, if Arthur hears of this!”

Lifting his buttocks to ease the discomfort of flatulence, Amlawdd passed wind,

making the action sufficient answer to the threat. “Things wil travel along one road

or the other,” he said. “One day, Cerdic will have sufficient men to fight Arthur.

The Pendragon is three and forty, Cerdic a much younger man, he will undoubt-

edly win. I see it as prudent to show favour to the fortunate now, rather than later.

When it may be,” Amlawdd’s black-toothed smile was obscene, “too late.”

The horror of what he was suggesting made the blood run cold through

Ambrosius’s body. As he reseated himself, he felt chill, his stomach, his guts,

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 6 9

turning uncomfortably. Amlawdd was suggesting a treaty of alliance with the

Saxons! By God’s grace and truth, was proposing that good, honest, sensible

men declare for Cerdic! He swallowed vomit, felt the pain of the flux twisting

in his bowels.

Amlawdd belched, stood, stretched arrogantly, drawing attention to the

muscles in his arms, his strength. “Well, it was a tiring day, I’ll be away to my

bed, my men ought have found a whore of some sort to be warming it for me

by now. Think about it Ambrosius. We put Cerdic as supreme over Britain,

and end all possibility of hostility. Or we look to having a bastard whelp, born

of the father’s own sister.” He had strolled to the door, was buckling his sword

and baldric into place. Ambrosius’s complexion had paled.

“The boy Medraut is here in your school, is he not?” Amlawdd said. “Arthur

bedded his own half-sister to get him. Did you not know? Ah, I see you did not.”

Sitting, arms flopped, head tipped forward, mouth slight open, unbelieving,

incredulous, Ambrosius attempted to digest what he was hearing. What evilness

was being spoken in the tranquillity of his private quarters? What foul, devil-

spawn had been set loose in Ambrosium? In Britain?

“It is true. The mother told me herself.” Amlawdd opened the door, admit-

ting the subdued night noises that drifted from the settlement beyond the

outer walls of Ambrosius’s private compound. Men, the worse for drink, dogs

barking, a young woman’s suggestive laugh, reminding him of Morgaine, a

delicious woman! Regrettably, she had moved on, away from her hut by the

causeway so closely convenient to Amlawdd’s stronghold. But then, she was

not so far away, was more suitably placed for contact with traders—Saxon

traders. Her whoring set so usefully near the busy, winding road to the lead

mines. He might well take that route home.

The bell hung beside the monastery chapel on the far side of the compound

tolled its calling to Compline.

“There’s your God wanting you, Ambrosius. I’ll be away to the more

enticing settlement. Of course, incest would not worry Arthur; he is a heathen,

so is she for that matter. Neither of them care who, or what, they rut with.

The brat could cause a problem though, do you not think? Do we really want

such a creature as our king?” Amlawdd tapped his finger against the side of

his nose. “Think on it. I am going with Cerdic; at least he was born from a

good Christian woman’s slit, not spawned on the lust of a devil’s ride. I would

rather not risk having my place in God’s kingdom tainted.” Amlawdd lifted his

eyebrows, emphasising his point, left the room.

4 7 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Ambrosius could hear the mocking, the scornful ridicule that crept and slith-

ered, black and soiled beneath the surface of the laugh that was not quite audible

on Amlawdd’s tongue. Amlawdd. Confessed as a traitor! How many, like him,

were tempted to turn to Cerdic? Cerdic, who ran like a rogue wolf with the

Saex. Cerdic who had hacked his mother, a good Christian woman, to pieces

with an axe. Cerdic, son of Arthur—and Medraut, the other son. Oh God in

His wisdom, how many knew of this, this sickening thing about the boy?

Ambrosius fell forward to his knees, his lips mumbling in fervent, desperate

prayer. What to do! What to do? He vomited, the muck spewing onto the

mosaic flooring, the mess staining the benign face of God, peering upward from

the pattern of the tiled picture.

Fourteen

There was another boy who could be a valid contender for the

royal torque when Arthur was gone. From the same family as Arthur,

claiming right of succession from a past Emperor of Rome. Aurelius Caninus.

Ambrosius’s grandson. How useful that he, too, was a pupil of Ambrosium.

Useful for Amlawdd’s purpose of setting his eggs in different baskets.

For the immediate, it was Medraut who had to be dealt with. Medraut, for

all his incestuous begetting, could become a problem in future years. Only the

devout, the fanatical followers of this Christian God, would trouble themselves

about the pedantics of kindred between a man and a woman’s intimate relation-

ship. Of course it was not encouraged, inbreeding was not a way to produce

healthy sons, but then, it did ensure a purity of blood line. There was many a petty

king or chieftain who had secured a line of inheritance through coupling with his

own sister or daughter—men who would not oppose Medraut inheriting from

his father for this reason alone. Ambrosius was such a dour perfectionist. You

would always find flaws in man, especially where women were concerned. Did

Ambrosius think old Caw to have been such a pure Christian? Hah! Not all those

sons and daughters were born to legitimate wives or taken whores. Amlawdd

knew of at least four children born to Caw on his own daughters. Cywyllog, that

pinched-faced girl he had seen on arriving yester-afternoon, being one of them.

Caninus? If Medraut were out the way Caninus could become king once

Arthur was dead. But who would back him? He might be properly born out

of a coupling between legally vowed husband and wife—but who would trust

the issue of a misshapen hag and a lame-legged father? There would be too

many whispering speculation as to where the unseen twisting and warping

would fall in the son. In the sanity? Or the spreading of his seed? Few would

readily follow Caninus without someone to urge his acceptability, someone to

guide him, advise him. Amlawdd would never be accepted as king, but the title

Regent sat well in his mind.

4 7 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

It was not by chance that he found the boy the next morning. Ambrosius was

ill, confined to his bed. It was natural Amlawdd would seek out his grandson,

express his concern for the other grandsire’s health.

In his eighth year, Caninus was a tall, lithe boy. Brown-haired, hawk-eyed,

carrying the trait of the Pendragon kin, the long, slightly overlarge nose. Easy

to draw the boy aside, engage in conversation. And the main thrust behind

its purpose falling like meat served onto a platter. Medraut came from the

scriptorium, head down, a scroll clutched between his hands as he trotted in

the direction of the latrines.

But this was too simple! Amlawdd easily recognised the wrinkle of Caninus’s

nose, the glint of sneered malice. “The Pendragon’s son,” Amlawdd vaguely

indicated the lad as he turned a corner, disappeared. “I hear he is a most prom-

ising pupil.”

“He is a bastard whelp, with the impotent balls of a mule.”

“You do not much care for him then?”

Caninus guffawed. “About as much as a pig cares for the slaughterer’s knife.”

For a while Amlawdd altered the line of conversation, directing talk to

hunting, fighting, things that would be of interest to a boy. Said, so casually,

“You seem the better lad, the more capable; it is a shame Medraut has prece-

dence over you. Were he not to survive into manhood, of course, it would be

you to become the next king.”

So easy done! Light came into the widening of the boy’s eyes, Amlawdd

could almost see the thoughts whirling in his brain. King! Power. Respect.

Amlawdd lightly patted the boy on the shoulder. “When you grow a little

older, I would think about clearing the dead wood from your path, lad, were

I you.”

Fifteen

The new dwelling place Amlawdd had suggested she move to suited

Morgaine well. This bothy was larger and more comfortable than the

damp hovel that had stood beside the marshland causeway. For a bed, she had

piled dried bracken and mosses scattered with sweet smelling herbs and covered

by a thick, soft-woven blanket. There was a stool, a wooden chest for her

few clothes, cooking pots and utensils, a selection of wooden bowls, and two

fine-made plates of Roman Samian ware. Both had chipped rims, but were

serviceable enough. The wattle-built bothy was her public place, where she

would sit and watch or dream when alone, and where her visitors came. They

were frequent, the men who came to her, men who travelled the road to and

from the lead mines. And the complex of caves that tunnelled deep into the

White Hills behind were ideal for her private needs. At first, she had avoided

the leer of the cave opening, going only to draw water from the river that

rushed from the dark, gaping mouth, but eventually she had plucked courage

to take up a lamp and duck into the darkness, using the rush of the river as her

pathway guide. Several times she had gone into the darkness since then, using

her tallow candles, thrilled yet scared by the crowding of the weight of rock

above her, the mystery and magic of this deep, dark world. It was surprisingly

warm and dry further in, once past the first cave with its mosses and lichens.

She found things on the dry floor: pots, tools, animal bones. People had lived

in here. For how long, and when, she did not know. And then she had found

the underground lake, dark and mysterious, lapping against a small beach. She

swam there regularly, delighting in its deepness and the cold bite that set her

skin crackling and glowing as she rubbed herself dry after. It amused her that

once again, even if only in secret, she was the Lady by the Lake.

These inner sanctuaries provided her privacy, and the pockets of eerie shadow

gave her mystery and concealment to those who came visiting. There were the

formations of rock that stabbed down from the ceiling or roared up from the

4 7 4 H e l e n H o l l i c k

limestone floor—places to silently hide behind and between should she not

wish to entertain a guest; places of darkness from where she could listen or

watch, unnoticed, unknown.

The men would come to the opening, peer into the darkness, call out, wait

a while then shrug and go. It was good to have their attention or not, as she

chose. Those she did lay with were generous with their gifts of payment of

grain or meat or fowl. Eggs, cheeses, bread, fish. A woollen cloak, an ivory

comb. Morgaine and her reputation, once she had settled herself as Lady of the

White Hills, rapidly spread along the road from the lead mines to the coast. She

became the enchantress, the woman who could pleasure a man and cure all ills,

the faery woman who came up from the Underworld into the land of mortals.

Once, soon after she had come to the caves, a man had not turned directly