Shadow of the King (91 page)

“Always a ship.” The man sitting his horse beside the Pendragon said. “One,

often two or three. They come in closer on days when the wind is favourable.”

Vortipor of Dyfed, a man barely into his thirtieth year, already high in power.

Dressed richly, blue cloak adorned by gold braiding and a brooch the size of a

man’s clenched fist. Rings on his finger, a gold hoop in his ear, at his throat, a

torque as thick as his wrist. Vortipor, probably the second wealthiest man of all

the British beneath the Pendragon. His land stretched from coast to mountain,

inherited from his father and secured by the benefit brought him by his recent-

taken wife—the benefit of gold. He had been fortunate with betrothing her,

the widow of a merchant, a man who had hoarded gold with the voracity of

a squirrel collecting nuts. Her young daughter was a problem, for by law, the

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father’s wealth would pass to her upon her mother’s death, not to the husband,

but she was just a child yet, the mother of no great age. Why worry about the

future, when the threats of now were more prevalent?

“They will be harassing my shores in greater number, now spring has

tumbled out of her bed.” Vortipor heeled his horse so he could regard Arthur

direct. “I need the assurance of more fighting men to aid me. Good men.

Your men. As you have seen for yourself, I have coasts to protect. Valleys

to patrol.”

Only the one craft was visible now, rain threading from the darkening clouds

was sweeping, curtain-like, over the restless toss of the sea.

“So far, they come only to plunder—taking slaves and women mostly, some

cattle—but last year the Land-Trotters arrived, seeking to settle.” Vortipor

briefly wondered if the Pendragon was listening, for his expression was so

immobile and distant. Damn it, he needed help! Was entitled to help! “We

drove them off, burnt their huts, tortured the men, killed the few women they

had brought with them. But I cannot continue to do so alone, not if more of

them come. As this year, we expect.”

More had been coming across the sea from Hibernia each year, seeking new

places, now Mon had been cleared of their rats’ nests by the Gwynedd lord.

Arthur was listening, but his thoughts were wandering, idling. He welcomed

being out here, in the open, beneath the wild touch of the wind and the first

spattering of rain. To have the smell of sea air in your nostrils, the sounds of

the rugged waves in your ears. Even darkness was un intimidating out here.

The golden glimmer of the moon, the silver sheen of stars, the call of an owl

or vixen. It was walls that shut all these things out. Walls that leant in on

you, crowding, crushing. Arthur filled his lungs with the unfettered smell of

the open. The winter had been long and long in passing. Fraught with the

physical pain from his leg and shoulder and ribs, damaged by the mental anguish

of knowing now that Medraut could never follow him as king. To be king,

you need be either respected or feared. Medraut they would always treat with

contempt and suspicion.

The sea. Wide. Open. On the other side, another land on a distant shore. The

sea, harbouring a different menace. He had Cerdic to worry about, Vortipor

had the Hibernians.

“You have enough to pay men handsomely for the use of their swords,”

Arthur said. “You ought have a sufficient army loyal to you.”

“Not an army such as yours.”

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

Arthur replaced his war cap, fastened the strap. He turned Brenin, heeled

him into a trot, heading away from the cliffs, dipping down into the hollow

of the valley, out of the wind, away from the heavier rain that was starting to

squall. “Then train them, Vortipor, as I have had to do.”

Vortipor watched Arthur ride down to join his waiting escort. “Four turmae.

That is all the men I need!” he called.

“One,” Arthur shouted back, trotting onward.

“Three!”

“Two.”

“I accept!” Vortipor scratched at the beard growth around his chin. Two

turmae of Artoriani. It would be enough, with his own men and those

mercenaries he already paid. More than he had hoped. The Pendragon had

spared only one turma for Gwynedd and Ceredigion together last year. None

for Amlawdd.

Vortipor kicked his mount into a trot, going in the direction opposite to

that which Arthur and his men had taken. The Pendragon was to head north,

up to Powys and Gwynedd. He, Vortipor, would ride for home, back to the

voluptuous delight of his wife. Amlawdd. Hah! He had tried to take her for his

own, had failed; it was Vortipor she had accepted as her mate.

A second time, then, that Vortipor had fared better than the contemptuous weasel!

He halted his stallion on a rise, turned, could just make out the Pendragon’s

banner disappearing into the shadowed cleft of the valley. For now, they all

relied on Arthur to sustain their strength and defence. God’s truth, it was

fortunate they still had him! The Artoriani were the most efficient gold could

buy. Under Ambrosius’s brief rule…Vortipor closed his eyes against the fear

shuddering through him. Best not think of it!

He pushed his mount into a trot, shook his head sorrowfully. They needed

Arthur but the man was a fool where women were concerned. Eight days he

had spent here in Dyfed, intended to pass as many in Powys and Gwynedd,

add as many more for the journey here and travelling back…almost the month

he would be gone from Caer Cadan. A month around and he had left his wife

alone with Bedwyr! God alone could guess what advantage they would take of

it, were even half of the spread rumours true.

And then there was Amlawdd, invited by the Pendragon to remain as guest

at the Caer while he was away.

The rain was scalding hard now, coming straight in grey sheets of coldness.

Vortipor urged his horse into a fast canter. He supposed the Pendragon knew

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what he was doing. Gods, he hoped so, for if Amlawdd was to take advantage

of his absence…” Christ and all the Holy Saints,” Vortipor swore the oath

aloud, “I would rather follow that Saxon whore-son, Cerdic, than bow to the

oiled bastard Amlawdd and his protege whelp, Aurelius Caninus!”

Thirty-Seven

April 488

If that bloody man does not leave here soon, I swear I shall slit his

throat!” Gwenhwyfar flounced to the couch, flopped into it, began removing

her boots, her fingers irritably unlacing the leather thongs.

“You must wait your turn then,” Bedwyr laughed, offering little sympathy.

“There is a queue from here to Rome for the privilege!” He was at Arthur’s

desk, sorting through the paraphernalia of letters and petitions; tossed the parch-

ment in his hand onto a growing pile of correspondence that needed primary

attention. “What is his latest offence?”

“Amlawdd,” Gwenhwyfar spoke the name as if it were poison, “has ordered

the men to go out on overnight patrol on the morrow.” There came no

response of indignation or anger. She lifted her head abruptly, frowned across

her chamber at Bedwyr, suspiciously asked, “Did you know about it?”

Bedwyr twirled a stylus between his fingers, had the decency to redden

slightly. He cleared his throat. “Urn, aye.” Embarrassed, he poked at the inside

of his cheek with his tongue. “Did you, er, countermand it then?”

“And allow the men to believe I am not in command while Arthur is away?”

she retorted. Added sharply, “Although it seems I am not.”

She kicked off the second boot, began searching for her house-shoes, peering

beneath the couch, a table, her agitated manner indicating al too wel her ruffled

temper. “If ever my husband invites Amlawdd as guest here again while he is gone

to visit the tribal lords, I’l ,” She peered around the room, her hands flapping like

wind-tossed flags, “I’ll slit his throat also!” She knelt on the floor, felt beneath

the couch. “I do not require him here for my protection. I have a Caer ful of

Artoriani—did have, until you stupidly agreed to have most of them sent off!”

“I’m here to protect you, not Amlawdd. And it was not stupid.”

Standing again, she did not hear him. “I spent all that while alone while he

was in Gaul.” Where in damn hell had she put those shoes? “Ider stays closer

to me than my own shadow.”

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“As do I.”

“And Arthur calmly suggests to Amlawdd I need protecting? From what?

Who? Inane morons who send the Artoriani on unnecessary patrols mayhap?”

She stalked to the hearth place, snatched her shoes from beside the log pile.

“I had reason, Gwen.”

“Damned insufferable, interfering bastard!”

“Who, me?”

Gwenhwyfar paused, the left shoe half on her foot. Relented, laughed. “No,

bonehead. Amlawdd.” She crossed to him, patted his shoulder affectionately.

Thank the gods for Bedwyr! If it were not for his humour she would probably

have thrown herself in desperation from the watch-tower by now.

Lightly, with one hand, she ruffled Bedwyr’s hair, idled her other through

the letters on the desk. Oh, Arthur had told her why he intended to encourage

Amlawdd and the boy, Caninus, to come to Caer Cadan. The whispering on the

wind had grown louder in its rustling through the winter. There was no doubt it

was Amlawdd who had supplied those traded weapons to Cerdic. No doubt, either,

he was aiming to advance Caninus as Arthur’s successor. Typical Amlawdd, to plant

one foot in either camp. No doubts, but no proof. “
My lands are vulnerable while I am

away,
” Arthur had told her, “
I would feel easier with those two firm in view.
”

He had not told her how he had intended to get them here, but whatever

it had been, it worked, for Amlawdd was at the gates of Caer Cadan no less

than two days after Arthur would have taken his leave from him. More than

four weeks past, that had been. Arthur had already promised Vortipor the men

he needed, and had visited Gwynedd. He was in Powys now, so his last letter,

arrived four days since, had said.

It was a wise decision to entice Amlawdd here, yet the mood between

Gwenhwyfar and Arthur had not been as warm and congenial as it ought when

he had left, and yet again she wondered at part of the reason behind the invita-

tion. For if she and Bedwyr were watching Amlawdd and his young ward, then

equally, had they eyes on them?

She tossed the insidious thought aside. Arthur trusted her; he did not believe

she was bedding with Bedwyr. Did he? Those vile comments Medraut had

disgorged—for all it was nonsense because he was angry with the pain of

hurting inside—it had rekindled those flickering doubts that she knew had

never entirely fled from Arthur’s mind. Once before, long, long ago, he had

fought with a man over just such a stirred lie. Who was it? Strange how your

mind forgot such things.

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

She had wandered over to the couch, sat, was fiddling with her earring—

my God, she thought, of course! It was Hueil! Hueil who had accused her

of adultery. They had fought, he and Arthur, and Hueil had drawn a dagger,

which had somehow wounded her eldest boy, Llacheu. She unthreaded the

earring from her lobe, held its delicate silvered beauty in the palm of her

hand. How the wheel turns in its circle. That time, Llacheu had escaped,

not badly hurt; but later, because of Hueil’s treachery, her son was to be

brutally slain.

If he had lived. Or had Amr not been drowned, Gwydre not gored by

that boar. She sighed. There was no unpicking the pattern once it had been

woven. She breathed deeply through her nose, re-threaded her earring where it

belonged. “The Artoriani, tomorrow. Explanation please, Bedwyr. And make

it good.”

Bedwyr set down the parchment in his hand, leant back in his chair, tipping

it slightly. “It is Amlawdd’s birthing day—had you forgotten? He has organised

a celebration feast for the Gathering and he suggested,” Bedwyr paused,

idly waved a vague hand—ordered would have been more appropriate, but

Bedwyr’s own pride was as near to bursting as Gwenhwyfar’s. “Has suggested

the Hall would become overfull with Artoriani and his own men. That could

cause trouble, which would look ill for your hospitality.” And would augur bad

fortune for Amlawdd during the coming year.

“What men?” Gwenhwyfar interrupted.

“Er, those arriving on the morrow.” Hastily, Bedwyr added, “A few only, he

assures me, guests, nobles, a few lords. Friends.”

“Friends? Amlawdd? Does he possess any?”

Seeing the rise of temper about to boil again, Bedwyr lurched on, “I did not

think it wise to insist our men pay honour to a man we have small patience

with. For them to have deliberately kept away could cause embarrassment for

you, so…”

“So you played into Amlawdd’s hands and have allowed the Caer to fall into

half-strength defence. My God, Bedwyr,” abruptly she stood, strode across the