Shadow of the King (89 page)

British and Saex, freeman and slave. His mother. Morgaine.

All these months had the anguish wrestled in his mind, his conscience. Why

now? Why had he made his mind to come now? He could have come on the

morrow, or the day before, but no, it had been this day. What cursed devil had

brought him here, this day!

And why had he come? To talk? To see her? To confirm what she was, to

hope he had been wrong?

Jesu, what a naive fool he had been!

He dropped his head into his hands, unable to believe what he had witnessed,

unable to accept the shrieking horror of it all. His mother, his own damned,

God-cursed mother, a fornicating whore. He had walked into that bothy—light

of the Cross, how could he have been such a fool—so sure he had been wrong,

that she would welcome him…He had just lifted the latch and walked in!

They had been coupling, she astride him, her head back in a leer of pleasure

as the man beneath had grunted and heaved.

Medraut had stood there, inside the doorway, frozen, horrified, watching

the ugly pleasure of it. And when they had noticed him? She had leant back,

exposing her nakedness, and they had laughed. Mocking, shaming.

His stomach heaved and again he was violently sick on the grass. Cerdic.

The man had been Cerdic. The Saxon. Mother of God, his own half-brother!

5 3 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

He groaned, shut his eyes, trying to stop the images slamming in his head. His

mother and Cerdic!

He plunged to his feet as he heard the grumble, then the great, monstrous

roar of noise from within the cave, and with it a sound like the clash of a smith’s

hammer on metal, a frightening, eerie sound. Terrified, he stood, immobile,

convinced some dreadful creature would emerge, teeth bared, slavering, drip-

ping blood. Nothing. Cautious, he crept to the entrance, peeped in, soft voiced

called. “Father? Gweir? Are you there?” Gained courage, tried again, louder,

ran inside a few yards, genuflecting for protection, realised he would be useless

without light. Ran to the bothy, searched, sobbing again when he realised

Gweir had taken everything.

He returned to the cave, stood at the entrance shouting. No answering call,

no muffled cry. No responding reassurance that they were unharmed, on their

way out. Nothing, only his own voice coming back to him.

What could he do? Fetch help? From where?

The road! The miner’s road! Fool, why had he not thought of that before now!

By chance he found the tethered horses, recognised Onager, took Gweir’s

dun, not trusting that brute of a chestnut—he might be an old animal now, but

he could still pack a kick like a mule. The dun was a good horse, sure-footed,

agile. Medraut mounted, headed him for the track, pushing him as fast as he

dared on the rutted, muddied, slippery ground. Smoke! A camp-fire!

His breath was sobbing in his chest as he came upon Arthur’s men, the

escort. Words tumbled in a confusion of anguish, he had to repeat himself to

make them listen, make them understand.

All day to search, to fetch up men from the mines, men experienced with the

underground, used to the dank and the dark. All that day, most the night. Dark

mattered not inside those caves where the lord of blackness ruled.

They brought Arthur out two hours before dawn. They had found him,

sodden, cold, shivering, and mumbling, his soul straying between the conscious

world and the merciful haven of a release into another. He was injured and ill

with a fever, but he was alive.

Medraut had spoken of a woman. Of her, they found no sign. But from that

day, the Whore of the Hills was never again in her bothy by the cave.

Gweir, they left to lay where he was. A covering of rock and debris, as good

as earth and mud.

The blackness of one lonely grave as good as another.

Thirty-Three

October 487

Cerdic knew they mocked him, the British—ja, and the English. No

easy thing to hide the embarrassment of riding for your very life birth-

clad through the woods, to meet, of all damned people, Amlawdd! That he had

been going up to Morgaine for himself was obvious—almost, at that instantly

suppressed snigger of amusement, Cerdic had been tempted not to warn him

of who else was up there at the bothy by the caves. Then they had heard the

noise, a boom louder than ever any roar of thunder could be, followed by a

sound that resembled the mighty clash of musicians’ cymbals, a great whoosh

of air from where the caves were. Amlawdd had stopped his laughter then, had

offered Cerdic his own cloak, and together they had made their way through

the woods south, to where Cerdic’s craft was moored.

Autumn was settling in now, firing the marshes into the reds and golds of her

fine, warm colours. The days were shortening, the nights coming with a nip

of frost that bit at your cheeks and fingers. If Cerdic had never unduly cared

to take Britain for his own before, he did now. For his father to find him with

that woman, to have seen the expression of contempt and loathing on Arthur’s

face, and to hear the laughter afterward. He could hear it now, the sniggering,

the pointing fingers, the lewd comments.

He stood at the quayside at Cerdicesora surveying the bob of trading boats

and long ships, waiting for his men to ready his craft, a beautiful ship, one of the

best. His wealth was steadily mounting, the trade coming into his harbour and

his prestige rising along with it. Most had now forgotten the shambles that had

been the battle at Llongborth, until that damned stupid episode with Morgaine

had reminded them. Curse Amlawdd for not keeping his tongue from wagging,

for spreading it to all who cared listen!

Those who had whispered against him after Llongborth were quick to revise the

old tales, of the fool Cerdic of the West Saxons was. “He ran from Llongborth,”

they mocked, “but at least there, he had his balls tucked in his bracae!”

5 3 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

Cerdic stood, legs spread wide, hands clasped behind his back. Oh they

would mock him on the other side of their faces, soon! One day, and one

day not too far distant, he would have the strength to call his father to war.

Damned annoying it was still not yet the time! He had not the men behind

him to call out an army, had not the superiority needed to face the Pendragon

in battle.

The craft was ready, the men waiting at the oars, the sail ready to be hoisted.

He stepped across the gang-plank, grunted an order that they were to cast

off. With allies he could do it, could fight Arthur and the British. There were

the sons of Aelle further along the coast with their men of the South Saxons,

and could he persuade the Cantii to join with him? They had been so sorely

defeated at Badon—was it not time to rise again, to prove their worth?

But first, he needed the alliance of Port and his sons. It was worth the

trying, again, to convince him to join with the West Saxons before oppor-

tunity was lost. Arthur was inactive, confined to his bed with a broken leg,

broken collar bone, and cracked ribs. He would not be out again this season.

Was it not a ripe time to raid into his territory, take what they could, stir a

few fires into life?

He had suggested it a month past when first he learnt of his father’s injuries—

unfortunate it had been the other one to die, the one they called Gweir. Damn

his father and his cursed luck!

But Port would have none of it. “Not yet,” he had said, “not this side of

the winter.”

“When?” Cerdic had asked, resentful of the need to have this other Saxon

as so firm an ally. “When can we raise a war-host against the Pendragon?” The

answer, “When we are ready,” was no comfort, even though Cerdic had often

said the same thing.

He would go to Port again, try to persuade him action must be taken, before

the glow of autumn turned into the snows of winter. He knew it was foolish to

contemplate rising against his father now—knew Port would again tell him so,

tell him to go home, gather more wealth, more men—but Arthur was bound

to his bed, damn it, in pain and discomfort. And he had been one of those to

laugh loudest, to spread the story further abroad of how he had seen Cerdic

fleeing naked through those woods with a backside raw with fear. And cheeks

at both ends red with shame!

May he rot in the fires of the Underworld! May the bones of his leg fail to

heal, twist and warp and cause him an eternity of pain!

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 3 9

Frustrated, Cerdic barked orders at his men to turn about, to put ashore,

abandon the voyage. What was the point of going to see Port again? He

was right, they could not fight yet, and knowing his bastard father’s luck, he

would be up, out of bed within a few weeks, strutting around as if nothing

had happened.

Ah, but one day…one sweet beautiful day, things would be so different.

Thirty-Four

Arthur thought if he kept his eyes shut and lay very still, he would

not wake but remain asleep. He did not particularly want to wake up,

not with the prospect of another tedious day drifting in front of him; not if

Gwenhwyfar’s black mood was as bad as it had been yesterday. And the day

before. He could hear her moving about the chamber, or could it be Archfedd?

She had arrived last evening—without Natanlius, for he had need to stay at Caer

Morfa. Something was dropped, a wooden bowl by the sound of it, followed

by a subdued but explicit oath. Gwenhwyfar.

Yesterday she had spent most the afternoon at her loom over in the far

corner. She was never one for enjoying weaving, always attempted it when

her tempers were foul. He could not understand her logic—why pull the knot

tighter if the rope was already tangled?

His shoulders hurt, his ribs ached, although he was healing; the bruises were

turning a putrid yellow now, the vivid purple easing. His damned leg was

itching beneath the splints and bandaging. He squeezed his eyes tighter closed.

It was no good, he was awake.

“Did I disturb you?” Gwenhwyfar said. She was squatting on the floor,

gathering the apples that had fallen with the bowl, inspecting each one to see if

it had bruised. A good fruit harvest this year, for which they were all thankful.

“I was already awake.”

Polite conversation, each of them treading warily around the other.

The bowl of apples in her hand, Gwenhwyfar stood, walked to the bed, set

the apples on the table beside it. “Do you want one of these, or shall I fetch

you something else to break your fast?” Why did she feel so tight inside? So

irritable? It was not her monthly course coming, as they had ceased over a year

since. She had a headache, but it was only mild, and she had awoken with it,

fresh air would see it gone.

“They’ll do,” Arthur answered her, easing himself into a sitting position,

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 4 1

wincing at the ache and pull of battered bones and muscles.
She looks tired
, he

thought,
her eyes are listless.
He supposed it was not easy for her having him

bed-bound and he would be the first to admit he was a poor patient, too restless

to be confined within doors for so long.

“Why not ride into Lindinis today?” he suggested. “A change may brighten

you up.”

“I have too much to do here.”

“Nonsense, there is nothing urgent that needs tending.”

Awake less than five minutes and already they were quarrelling!

The door from the courtyard opened slowly. Archfedd peered around it, her

face brightening into a smile as she saw her father awake and sitting up.

“Morning, Da, Mam,” she said cheerily as she breezed into the chamber

carrying two baskets, the larger crammed to its brim with gathered berries and

a smaller one filled with fungi. “For you,” she said, placing the fungi on the bed

beside her father and leaning forward to place a kiss on his cheek. “The hedges

are crammed with berries this year, a sign for a hard winter ahead, do you

think?” She sat on the bed heavily, drawing her legs up beneath her, Arthur

winced again. She put the second basket down beside her, atop the furs.

“It will not bother me if we are snowed in until next April,” he answered

testily, rummaging with his finger through the fungi and selecting a handful

of buff-coloured mushrooms. He sniffed at their fresh, pleasant aroma that

resembled the smell of new-sawn wood. “I cannot get out anyway.”

“You will be full mended within a few weeks,” Gwenhwyfar snapped in

response. “Why must you be so damned petulant whenever you are ill? If you

had not gone whoring in the first place…” Abruptly, she fell silent. Arthur

looked up sharply from the basket of mushrooms. Archfedd half-turned, her

breath caught.

For a long, awkward, moment no one said a word, then Archfedd cleared

her throat, picked up the basket of berries, stood. “I had better take these to the

store-room,” she said.

“Stay here!” her father snapped.