Shadow of the King (80 page)

mouth, chin. Christ God, would it not be kinder to finish the man, swiftly,

with a blade across the throat?

“I have not long, it will soon be ended.”

Arthur physically jumped, his facial skin blushing red. Bull’s blood, how had

Ambrosius read his thoughts! He searched for something to say. “You have

suffered a long while, Uncle.”

“As Christ suffered. I cannot ask to be less than my Lord.”

There was nothing Arthur could answer. He did not believe, did not have

enough knowing of the right words even to pretend.

Ambrosius coughed, a dribble of blood-tainted spittle trickled from his

mouth, a slave bent forward to wipe it away tenderly, tears in his eyes. “Marcus

has been a good body-slave,” Ambrosius said, his voice rasping. “I have written

his manumission release on my death.” Marcus turned away, not caring to

show his grief. Ambrosius summoned energy. It was so tiring to talk, but talk

he must. He must tell this to Arthur.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 8 1

“I asked for you to come. You must arrange for Medraut. He is condemned

to the fires of hell if you do not.”

“Medraut? What has he done? I understood he is in everyone’s favour since

the episode with the pups.”

That had been two weeks since, but word of it was still buzzing around

Ambrosium, monastery and settlement, one of the first things told to Arthur on

his arrival early this morning. To his credit, Medraut found the matter highly

embarrassing and had, on his father’s questioning, shrugged the incident aside

as nothing of much importance. For all that, Arthur had ruffled the lad’s hair,

muttered something about being proud of him.

“Not that, that is of no consequence.” Ambrosius closed his eyes, had to take

several painful breaths. Arthur knew full well what he was referring to, damn it!

“Though, my grandson’s part in it was not to my liking.”

“What do you intend to do with Caninus?”

Ambrosius’s eyes snapped open, his withered fingers sought Arthur’s

hand. “You take him. His mother, God rest her departed soul, spoiled him

over much. Take him to Caer Cadan. Whip some discipline into him. He

is not for the peaceful life of a monastic order. He will be better placed as

a soldier.”

Arthur laughed wryly. “Exchange your lad for mine, eh?”

Urgently, Ambrosius’s fingers picked at the bed linen, had an intensity about

his eyes. “Aye! ’Tis the only way to save him!”

Assuming he spoke of Caninus, Arthur agreed to the request. “I’ll not have

him at Caer Cadan, though. He can go to Geraint, he has a better talent than I

with boys. He will knock some sort of shape into him.”

Agitated, Ambrosius attempted to sit up his hand reaching for Arthur.

“Ensure Medraut makes his vows to God. Keep him under God’s hand, ’tis the

only way to salvation for him!”

Recoiling from the touch, Arthur retrieved his hand, wiped away the clammy

feel of death on his tunic. Bluntly, he answered, “I need Medraut. He is my

son, he must follow me as king.”

“He is God-cursed!”

Then the Pendragon understood what this was all about. Medraut’s birthing.

He sighed. “Your God, Ambrosius, not mine.”

The retort snapped back, clear, forceful. “His! Medraut is of the Christian faith!”

“Not if your God has rejected him for something that is not his fault.” The

thought remained in Arthur’s mind, he could not taunt a dying man with

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deliberate irreverence. Said instead, “It is for Medraut to choose, not for me

to order.”

Curling his hand into a clumsy fist, Ambrosius thumped the bed-covering.

“He does not know of the sin that covers him! How can he make a choice?”

“Then, if he does not know, how can he suffer? To sin, you must be aware

of the offence.” Arthur could not quite believe this. Here he was, sitting beside

a dying man, discussing the Christian religion!

“Promise me you will tell him, you will let him make his choice!” The

appeal in Ambrosius’s eyes was brutal in its demanding. Arthur chewed his

lip, his fingers toying with the buckle of his belt. It was hot in this room, with

the shutters closed, hot and stifling. He would need to go soon, he had always

disliked being enclosed within walls. He nodded.

“Promise me, Arthur! Avow it!”

Arthur shrugged, grunted.

“On your life, and his, Pendragon! Swear it!”

Arthur spread his hands, stood, scraping the stool backward as he came to his

feet. “When the right time presents itself, I will tell him.” It was a lie, but lies

never bothered Arthur.

Closing his eyes Ambrosius nodded, content. There was something else he

meant to tell his nephew. Something important? Later. He was so tired, so

dreadfully tired. He would tell him later when next he woke. What was it

about? Ah, yes. Later then.

Before the day ended, Ambrosius Aurelianus died. He had not woken again,

had not told Arthur of Amlawdd and Cerdic.

Eighteen

May 482

Cerdic stood at the edge of the wharf, legs apart, fists on hips,

his smile generous and welcoming. The two ships eased alongside, both

with sails furled, splendid in full regalia of shields hung at prow and stem,

along the rails, each one exhibiting bright-painted motifs of eagles, boars,

coloured patterns or magnificent creatures. Men stood behind, oars uplifted

like line-planted wooden forests, their grins wider than the depth of a ship’s

keel. As the leading ship bumped alongside, a great impressive roar left the

lips of the two crews. Ropes were tossed, fastened in a flurry of activity,

the second ship manoeuvred, moored behind her sister. One man, standing

much as Cerdic, fists nestled on hips, balancing with the sway of the boat,

leapt from the deck of the first onto the wharf, his arms outstretched, pleasure

immense. Cerdic strode to meet him. They embraced, clapped each other

on the shoulder. From the second craft came two more men, all three with

similar features, same-coloured hair, but these two were younger, sons of the

first. Cerdic embraced them also, the pleasure at their coming genuine. Port,

with his sons Maegla and Bieda, come from the Saxon lands to join with his

kinsman-by-marriage.

“Cerdic! Husband to the daughter of my mother’s sister!”

“Port! Noble warrior, cousin!” More embracing, more enthusiastic

back-slapping.

Bieda, the younger son by one year, noticed the boy hanging shyly behind

Cerdic. Guessed him to be Cynric. “A fine lad!” he announced, gestured

with an exaggerated sweep of the hand for him to step forward. “Come

boy, show yourself.”

Self-conscious at being singled out, Cynric stepped up beside his father who

put his hand, protective and proud, to his shoulder. Cynric straightened his

back, lifted his chin, stared this man, Bieda, straight in the eye as seemed natural

to do. They were here to help begin the fight for a Saxon kingdom, Father

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had said, and must be honoured with all respect and greeting. Port, he had

explained, was an important man.

“As important as you, Papa?”

“Almost.” Would Cerdic have answered the truth? That Port was, possibly,

more so than himself? For, unlike Cerdic, these were men experienced in

battle, hardened men, warriors, who could boast the scars of wounds received,

aye, and tell a tale of the many that had been given! Port had twenty and one

hundred warriors to his name, each and every one of them experienced, tough,

frightening men, men who knew the exhilaration of the victory, the anguished

pain of losing. Cerdic had an advantage, however, for Cerdic had the higher

wealth, an edge of status, and the claim of a right to territory. Port had nothing.

Save for his men, two ships, and a ravaged homeland.

The Saxon lands were disintegrating, worthless, becoming ragged around the

edges, for the Franks, with Clovis as their new-chosen king, were becoming

too much of a nuisance. Securing for themselves a wider and vaster territory,

Clovis was pushing the tribespeople from their settlements. Port had fought

against the Franks, had realised the impracticality of a few hundred needing to

face, again and again, the many thousand.

With good chance the Franks would soon turn south again, leave the Saxon

wetlands alone; instead, harass Soissons, the Alamani and, if the men of Clovis

proved as strong and determined as all indication gave, even press the Goths and

Burgundians. But it was the Saxons who were being pressed at this moment.

Cerdic had sent invitation to any who cared come, to any who cared join with

his intention of taking a portion of Britain for his own. To Port, and many

a chieftain of lesser rank, the prospect was alluring. An only choice. Try for

something better rather than stay and drown as an unstoppable tide rolled in

with the force of a moon-heightened spring flood.

They answered. They came. Many as crew members onboard trading ships,

working their passage across the sea channel; a few, in their own small craft.

Port was the only man of rank to equal Cerdic, to own two such superb long

ships. Warriors’ craft these, not the heavier-built, shorter trading vessels; these

were by far more beautiful.

“He has the look of his mother about him,” Port observed, referring to the

boy. He had been fond of his cousin Mathild, a girl with laughing eyes, a wise

smile. A pity she was dead, but these accidents happen. His own wife had died

in much the same way; a fall, a tragic blow to the head. Like Mathild, she had

never opened her eyes again.

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“Has the look of the Pendragon also!” The older son, Maegla, scuffed the

boy’s dark, slightly curling hair with his callused-palmed hand, before lightly

tapping the tip of the boy’s long, straight nose.

Cerdic’s jaw stiffened. Port noticed the pinched anger. He chuckled. “’Tis

all the proof we need, to show we come to fight for the man who has the right

to wear the royal torque of Britain!”

That slight tension eased, the shoulder slapping resumed, the laughter.

The crews were coming ashore with shouts and hilarity, leaping from the

deck, striding across the two gang-planks, eager to receive the welcome of the

men, the shy kisses of the women. Eager for the feasting that would come at

dusk and, with that, the giving of gifts.

Battle was all-important. It warmed the blood, kept a man’s heart and desire

alive. But the preliminaries, the making of new allegiances, the crafting of new

friendships? Ah, that was as good!

Mead, ale, beer, wine. Roasted, fattened bullocks; pork, lamb. Duck,

hen, wildfowl. Fish and cheeses of all kinds. Fine-ground wheat and barley

loaves, spiced or scattered with the seeds of poppy, caraway, and fennel.

Fresh-made butter.

The feasting would be grand and special for these next three days, when

the men Cerdic had asked to come to him and join as one under his banner

would unite together in his Hall, in his stronghold of Cerdicesora. Partake of

his hospitality and declare for him, for Cerdic.

And then, when the time was right, together they would fight.

Nineteen

June 482

Like most of the men, Arthur did not care to make his way through

the dark to the stinking latrine, away to the northern corner of the strong-

hold. As they all did, he used the wattle fence of the pig-pen behind the rear

door of Geraint’s Hall. Geraint himself stood beside him, their urine puddling

the mud at their feet.

The late-night sea-damp air was chill, casting their breath in clouds of vapour.

Both of them were the wrong side of sober—Geraint was noted for his selection

of fine wines and strong beers—but who would stay clear headed for a parting

feast? The ride tomorrow would be long and hard, with the day after facing…

ah, no man would think too far ahead when there was feasting in the lord’s

Hall. The time for dwelling on battle was during that half-dark hour of dawn,

when the wind stung your face, the shout of the enemy and the crash of spear

on shield reached your ears. That was when death leered over your shoulder,

not now, when the wine flowed and enjoyment was to be chased.

Arthur adjusted himself, waited for his friend and cousin to finish. From

beyond the fencing a snuffling, sucking sound of feet in mud and a huge snout

lumbered over the top of the fence, wet, hairy, scenting the wind. The sow,

ready for farrowing any day, was investigating the smell, the sounds. Startled,

Geraint jumped backward, his urine splashing over his boot. He swore. Arthur

doubled in laughter.

“Damn the bloody thing!” Geraint cursed, “I’ll have her for my supper when I

return! Sod it!” He wiped at the wetness spreading over his bracae, shook his foot.

“Frightened of a pig’s snout! Pissed yourself, eh, Geraint?”

Geraint growled something non-complimentary, earned for himself more