Shadow of the King (86 page)

spear than a wounded boar!”

“Had you arrived a few days since, then I would have been up above the

Wall—but Gwenhwyfar is here, with Archfedd and her new-taken husband.”

5 1 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“Aye, so I have heard.” Bedwyr slapped Arthur’s back half in congratu-

lations, half in jest. “What manner of an untried whelp have you taken as

son-by-law, then?”

“One who has delusions of young love and romance.”

“Hah! That will soon be rubbed from him.”

They laughed loud, delighted with the company of each other, euphoric

at the reunion, strode down the hill towards the imposing ramparts of the

stronghold of Caer Arfon. The pleasure repeated with Gwenhwyfar, and her

daughter. Then the questions came, the whys, wheres, and hows. The demand

for tales of his long journeying, to hear of where he had been, what he had

seen. A louder demand to know what gifts he had brought home, especially

from Archfedd who had leapt to engulf her father’s cousin in an embrace of

fierce possession.

“Gifts?” Bedwyr jested. “Is my return not gift enough?” Relenting, he

accounted the truth. “I have left them at Caer Cadan, safe waiting your return.

Silks as fine and delicate as any maid could wish, perfumes and unguents, jewels

that sparkle brighter than the summer sun reflected on a mountain pool, fleeces

thicker than three skins of the bear, leather, ivory, skins…” Gwenhwyfar begged

him to say no more, Archfedd pleaded to return south on the morrow!

They dined, Gwenhwyfar’s nephew, Owain, commanding a feast of espe-

cially fine quality be prepared, and the best wine amphorae be opened. Late

into the night, Bedwyr entertained with his stories of distant, exotic countries

that baked under a sun hotter than the hottest summer’s day, of rivers wider

than the space between the walls of the Caer; of strange beasts and dark-skinned

people. A wondrous variety of language and foods. Inevitably, the delights of

the whores.

“They ride well? None of them Syrian then, I assume?” Arthur quipped, his

expression straight and serious as he sipped his wine. For a moment Bedwyr

was puzzled at the reference, remembered his jest from earlier in the day,

laughed outright.

More wine, more talk, more laughter. Archfedd had fallen asleep, her head

pillowed on her husband’s shoulder, Natanlius, his arm proudly around her,

attempting to keep his eyes from closing. Gwenhwyfar lay stretched along a

couch, a goose-down cushion clutched between her arms as a pillow, a deep

smile on her sleeping face. Owain had retired for the night. Arthur and Bedwyr

alone sat awake pouring yet another glass of fine wine.

“You heard of Syagrius?” Bedwyr asked.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 1 9

For a while, Arthur was silent, savouring the sweet taste of his wine. Then

slowly and with no tinge of regret, said, “I heard. Clovis of the Franks took

Soissons, had him executed.” Another mouthful of wine, thoughtfully swal-

lowed. “He was once, a long time past, a friend of mine. After Gaul, I will

never again trust any man who dares call himself friend.” The words were

poignant, tinged with those bitter memories.

Bedwyr, too, sat silent, swilling his wine around in his glass. He would not

argue with that. “He ought have come to our aid. Ought not have aban-

doned us as he did.” Bedwyr drained his glass in a quick, tossed motion. “He

tried seeking sanctuary with Alaric, the new king of the Goths. Even our past

enemies, it seems, did not trust his honey words. He was returned to Clovis.”

“Alaric.” Arthur ran his finger around the rim of his empty glass. “The

successor to Euric. I ought have been delighted to hear of that bastard’s death,

but somehow, as each year passes, the word death grows more menacing. It

stalks too close to my heels to be mocked, I think.” He snorted a puff of self-

derision. “I even found myself dismayed to hear Sidonius Apollinaris had died

of a fever. No more of his damned embellished letters, I ought have felt some

small pleasure at that.”

They sat a while, silent, each brooding his own thought. Bedwyr was about to

speak, realised Arthur had drifted into sleep. He looked so much older. More hair

greying at temple and forehead, skin more puckered and wrinkled. Contemplated

Archfedd with the fresh dew of youth radiating about her; her husband Natanlius,

eager in his pride, shining with his new found love. And Gwenhwyfar.

Ah, Gwenhwyfar would always be the beauty, even when she was old and

shrivelling. For all the excitement and adventure that he had experienced these

past few years, he had missed Gwenhwyfar.

Twenty-Eight

May 487

Coed Morfa: the marsh beside the woodland. The wind swept up

the channel, blustering aggressively, bending the reeds beneath the hiss

of spray, tossing the gulls and sea-birds as if they were of no consequence.

Billowing behind the sail of the Saxon long ship, which was cruising parallel

with the far bank, the blue-grey chequering of its weave undulating with each

freshening gust.

Natanlius was not a tall man, though stocky-built, deep-voiced; he held

Archfedd before him, his hand firm around her broadening waist, his expres-

sion grim. Oh, the Saex ships came frequently enough to their established south

settlement over there on the far side of the water, but rarely further up, never

before, this far—at least, not as openly. Archfedd gripped her husband’s forearm,

sharing his anger, hiding the flutter of fear within her belly, telling herself that it

was only the child moving. It was not so much the ship that caused their anger,

but the emblem streaming from the mast. The White Dragon. Cerdic.

The bitch, Mel, sensed the stir of unease. She nosed the wind, scenting for

danger, met only with the familiar smell of the tide and the salt tang of the

marsh. Pressed herself closer against her mistress’s legs, growled softly. Absently,

Archfedd ruffled her head, soothing, behind those flattened ears.

“Can he see us?” she asked. “Will he attempt to make a landing?”

“I doubt it, to both questions.” Natanlius had no need to sound optimistically

confident, common sense told he was right. They stood, not out in the open,

but against a cluster of wind-twisted trees that marked these patchy, irregular

coastal woodlands. Their cloaks, though fluttering in the wind, were the earth

colours of dark green and brown, and the horses were secured on the far side

of the copse. It was no good hunting for wild duck dressed in bright colours.

They had a brace already, had been stalking a fat mallard when the ship had

appeared. As for her landing, the wind was too strong to bring such an immense

craft—for all her sleekness and manoeuvrability—to this side of the channel,

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 2 1

and soon, the tide would be turning. “
Na
,” he said again, “we are safe.”
For

now. But for how much longer?
He kept the thought to himself.

The oars were out, they could see them dip and lift, see the wild cream of

foam as they swept downward into and out of the water, the power of that

craft immense, magnificent. Formidable. The ship shuddered, came to a halt as

the oars, in unison, backswept through the tossing, white-crested waves. For a

moment it stood, poised, waiting. Deciding?

Archfedd was certain she could see someone standing at the prow, a well-

built figure…Imaginative fancy, the distance was too great to make out such

detail, but did she need to see? Cerdic would be standing there, surveying this

empty stretch of coastland. His narrowed eyes would be sweeping the ripple of

wind-dancing reeds for sign of settlement and stronghold. To look for the rise

of hearth-smoke, the movement of riders, the shadowed smudge of wattle-built

walls. He would be disappointed, as there was nothing to be seen. As with all

marsh country, settlements and farm steads were wide-spaced, isolated dwellings

hugging the islands of higher ground, or squatting beside the shelter of the

trees that began their solid march a few miles inland. Nor would he see anyone

among the reeds, or softly paddling a coracle along the tide-filled channels. If

Cerdic could see, then so would the wild fowl, the occasional deer or boar, and

if they could see, then that man’s family would go hungry.

And if there was nothing to see, except the dull pewter of a wind-lashed sky

and the sweep of marsh below, why did he watch?

Her husband must have been pursuing the same line of thought, for he spat

saliva from his mouth, intending offence. Coed Morfa and its stronghold two

miles inland had been the domain of his father and of his father, and of how

many more fathers before? From the time before the legions had taken up their

belongings and boarded their ships to return to Rome, had one of his line been

here. Natanlius proudly placed his hand over the swelling of the child. Unless this

one was a son, he would be the last of that long, distinguished line. His brothers,

the four of them, had fallen at the bloodshed that was Llongborth. Their father

had never recovered from the wounds terrible about his body. He had gone to

join his sons and Lord Geraint one month exactly to the day after that wicked

battle. The fifth brother had followed their path into the next world six months

past, taken there by fever. Leaving Natanlius as Lord of Coed Morfa.

His hand around his wife, Natanlius stiffened, his grip tightening. Cerdic

would not have it from him! Would not take what was his! Not while he had

breath in his body to keep any poxed Saex shadow from falling here!

5 2 2 H e l e n H o l l i c k

The ship rose and fell with the swell; with the sail furled, the oars kept her

steady. What was Cerdic watching? This, the British shore? Or could he be

surveying that other side, the Saxon land?

“He has quarrelled with Port and his bastard sons,” Archfedd declared,

attempting to find some acceptable explanation, “and is contemplating a way

to land an army with the intention of marching, unexpected, to the rear of

his settlement.”

Natanlius guffawed. “If only!” A tempting idea, but doubtful.

Two gulls were noisily shrilling over possession of a fish. The waves were

flattening, rolling, as the tide came to its height, that short period of confronta-

tion between ebb and flow.

“Will you be sending word to my father?”

Natanlius nodded. “I may go myself.”

Grabbing at his hand, Archfedd spun around, eyes wide, anxious, her heart

bounding with sudden fear. “Leave me here alone?” She flickered a glance over her

shoulder at that White Dragon ship. “What if he comes while you are gone?”

Amused at her absurdity—as if he would leave her unprotected—Natanlius

caught her chin between his fingers, tipped her face so he may kiss her, lingering

over the pleasure of her eager response. “I have no doubt you would be more

than capable of putting a boot into his arse, were he to be so foolish.”

She batted at his nose with her finger. It was not true; she could not fight as

formidably as her mother. All the same, she pursed her mouth for a second kiss.

When they looked again, the ship had swung about, had loosed the sail and

was making heavy way, back down the channel into her own territory.

Natanlius hid the sigh of relief. Unlike Archfedd, for she did not yet know,

he had heard Cerdic was growing stronger, that soon there would not be just

the one ship making her way up the Coed Morfa water, but many. Only a

matter of time before Cerdic marched to join his acclaimed land to the south of

here with Port’s, over there, on the far bank.

Coed Morfa, British territory that lay in between the Saex lands, vulnerable

and exposed. Why had Cerdic come in his splendid ship?

Why else, but to gaze upon what he wanted. Would soon fight for. Coed Morfa.

Twenty-Nine

August 487

So annoying he need be called away these few days after his daughter

had arrived at Caer Cadan, but that was the unfortunate thing of being

king—the final responsibility of authority rested with him. Even were he to

have Bedwyr here—he had gone into the East Anglian territory on some other,

minor, business for Arthur—he would need sort this thing himself. Irritably,

Arthur curbed Onager’s eager stride, glowered at the rain-dark sky. If she

birthed the child while he was sorting this latest in a long line of disruptions

at the lead mines…nonsense, she had more than the six weeks to go until her

time. A grandsire. Him, the Pendragon! The thought filled him with elation.

The babe could be female, of course, but equally as much chance it could be

a grandson. A boy. A future Pendragon. That he already had a grandson was

immaterial. Cynric was a Saxon. Meant nothing. He would trace his lineage

back to Woden, not to the pride that was the title Pendragon.

They had left the flat of the Summer Land behind, were climbing into the

higher country of the first of the White Hills range. Slightly more sheltered