Shadow of the King (95 page)

raised from childhood. “Your father would see you hanged when he returns.”

“Then why not have an end to me now?” Medraut had asked, not under-

standing this seeming benevolence.

And there was so much grief in her voice as she had answered, that Medraut had

almost wept for shame. “Because,” she had said, “already your father has lost three

sons to the darkness of death, another to the maliciousness of hatred and treachery.

I would not have him be responsible for the loss of the fifth, and last, of his sons.”

He knew then, as he walked down the cobbled lane from the Caer, with no

knowing of where he was to go, he ought to take his own life. Open his veins

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with his dagger, drown himself in the river, obtain poison; but he could not, he

had not the courage even for that.

But was this exile the better choice? This living death? As he ambled through

the busy streets of Cerdicesora, he again wondered, as he had so many times

these past months.

Cerdicesora. A wealthy settlement, if first impressions were ought to go by.

The market stalls well laden, the children clothed, fed; the women bonny. The

two taverns he passed were full, ale flowing plentiful from amphorae and jugs,

the smell of hot pies and stews enticing. He would stop soon, fill his belly,

quench his thirst, but first he need find Stefan, in the street of the silversmiths.

Stefan had been recommended him as a buyer and as a useful contact, for

Stefan was silversmith to the ealdorman, Cerdic. Medraut asked directions,

found him in the street of the silversmiths, over to the east of the town.

“These pieces look familiar crafted,” Stefan remarked, his myopic eyes

squinting suspiciously at the wealas man, the foreigner, sitting opposite him on

the far side of his smith’s bench. “They are, I think, not from your hands?”

“Oh I could not work as fine as that!” Medraut admitted with an amiable

smile. “I bought them off a man who cannot make the journey to Cerdicesora

this season.”

The old silversmith nodded, again held the piece in his hand close for inspec-

tion. He allowed no expression onto his face, set the buckle down, picked up

the next item, an exquisite silver ring, emblazoned with the device of a griffin.

He scratched at the nape of his neck, rubbed his nose, sniffed a few times.

Coughed. “If you bought these pieces,” the old man said, “you’d be wanting

to make a profit.”

Medraut was leaning on his elbow, chin cupped between his fingers and

thumb, waiting patient and quiet throughout. He removed his hand in a brief

gesture of agreement.

The smith set the ring down, pushed the collection of pieces across the

bench, shaking his head. “I’ll not pay more than they are worth. Sorry, lad.”

Slowly, Medraut straightened his back, laced his fingers, as if considering.

He moved the pile back towards the smith. “I ask for no higher payment. All I

want for profit is something in kind.”

Stefan pursed his lips. There was some good silver amongst the things before

him. The three plate dishes in particular would fetch a nice amount, mayhap

from Lord Cerdic himself. “And what kind of a something would that be

then?” He asked.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 7 5

For the third time Medraut almost abandoned his plan. This was madness,

coming here—what in the name of God was he doing? Get up, go home!

Hah, he had no home! He had nothing, save the clothes he stood in and the

stained name of a traitor. His wife, that first dawn after the treachery of Caer

Cadan, had taken her belongings—aye, and his—and fled north, back to the

hills around Caer Rhuthun, had entombed herself in a women’s holy house

rather than be linked to the stench of the name Medraut. His father refused to

think of him as son, and Archfedd, his half-sister, had refused to see him. He

had gone to her to explain, to set his case, to try to tell someone he had been so

grievously mistaken, that he was a fool and ashamed. But Archfedd had ordered

him tossed beyond the gates of Caer Morfa as if he were a begging peasant. He

had nothing and no one. The apology he so wanted to give to his father and

Gwenhwyfar must hang unuttered, unpenanced. There was only this one thing

left him.

“I wish to be admitted into the Ealdorman’s Hall. To speak personally with

Lord Cerdic.”

The smith laughed, a wheezing, old man’s chuckle which crackled in his

lungs. “And you want me to see it so?” He shook his head, his eyes wrinkling

with mirth. “You wealas people are all fools! I have long known it!”

Close to losing his nerve, Medraut fought the instinct to bundle his wares

and bolt for the door at the front of this dark little smith’s bothy.

Stefan was sucking at a loose tooth. “How do I know you are not harbouring

plans to murder him?” He snapped, his amiability vanishing. “I would not have

blood on my hands because of you!”

Medraut stretched his right hand across the bench. Save for one ring, he

wore no adornment, no ornate rings, no arm-bands, though there were the

lighter marks against his skin where such things had rested. The one ring was

a battered gold thing. “This,” he said, “was given to my mother by my father,

from before the time of my birthing. It is all I now have of him.” He withdrew

his hand, rubbed his left thumb affectionately over it. “I have no honour of my

own left to me, but on my father’s honour.” He lifted his head, gazed earnestly

at the smith, “I do not come to murder Cerdic.”

He had thought of it. Oh, many nights he had lain, planning ways of putting

an end to the whore-son. But what purpose would it serve? He would need kill

the son also, Cynric, who was ten and eight, a man grown, and with a young

wife already swelling with child. She, too, would need ending, to ensure the

line was finished. Killing outside of battle was against God’s law. If Cerdic was

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to die, then it must be done openly, where Arthur alone could take the victory

from it. A knife wielded secret in the dark would not solve this thing.

“I have nothing,” Medraut admitted openly, “only these few pieces of silver

to sell. My father has cast me from him, my sister shuns me. My own people,

the British, spit in my face. What have I left, but to find for myself a new home,

a new people?” He shrugged, resigned to his fate. “Cerdic seeks men to fight

in his name. He gives them reward of gold and silver, spears and shields, food

in their bellies, his Mead Hall to lay under, and a woman to lay with. I have

none of this from the British. I wish to speak with Cerdic, for I wish to join

with him.”

Forty-Five

April 489

Walking down the cobbled lane running steeply up through the

heights of the ramparts, Gwenhwyfar could see Arthur on the far

side of the nearest paddock. There were a few foals already, the early born,

long-legged, and gangling, dancing beside their fat-bellied dams. The sun

was warm this day, the new-hatched midges bothersome, with the mares’

tales constantly swishing. Arthur had stopped to talk to one of the foals, a

handsome dark-coated colt—he would turn grey as he grew older, would

make a fine height if the length of leg was anything to go by. Gwenhwyfar

smiled as she watched Arthur offer the colt a crust of stale bread. He kept his

waist pouch full of morsels this time of year for the foals, though he was all

too often saying it spoilt them to offer titbits. He was good with horses, more

patient than with men. You could expect loyalty from a horse, and trust. Not

so with men, sons.

Gwenhwyfar stood, shielding her eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun,

watching as Arthur parted from the foal, walked to the small mound of earth

in the far corner that was only just beginning to grass over. Had she done right

to allow Medraut to run, to disappear into exile? At the time, she thought she

had, was not so certain now.

Britain was at peace. A golden age of content, they were calling it. Aye, even

the fusty, pedantic men of the Council. The English lands, too, were settled

and thriving. Intermarriages were common place, with the two cultures in

certain areas, especially the East Anglian and North Humbrian lands, mutually

blending together. English husband, British wife.

“They will grow stronger than the British one day,” Arthur had once confided

to Gwenhwyfar. “The English are a determined and rugged people.”

He had stopped beside the mound, stood with head bowed. If he mourned

Medraut’s loss, he had not outwardly shown it, though Gwenhwyfar knew the

wounding had speared deep. For Onager, however, Arthur openly grieved.

5 7 8 H e l e n H o l l i c k

She resumed walking, but had changed her mind about visiting Rhonwen at

the tavern. Rhonwen’s fifth child was due within this week, with the pregnancy

a difficult one, but Gwenhwyfar could always call on Rhonwen later. Instead,

Gwenhwyfar continued on down the hill, across the rutted lane, and let herself

through the hazel-laced fencing of the foaling paddock. She, too, put out her

hand to the grey foal, his soft, delicate nose whispering, curious, at her hand.

No bread from her. It was Arthur who spoilt the foals.

Without speaking, she threaded her arm around her husband’s waist, a

squeeze of understanding comfort. He, too, said nothing, enfolded her hand

within his. Onager, a bastard of a horse at times, but how often had his courage

and strength saved Arthur? No man among the Artoriani had thought it a

weakness when Arthur had ordered the great horse to be buried here, in this

spot where the sun settled for most the day. They all had special thought for

their horses—for some of the men, more so than their wives. A horse, they

would laugh, does not answer you back!

“Do you think it has truth behind it, this latest rumour?” Arthur asked.

What could she answer? Lie, and know he knew she lied. Reply with the

truth, and drive the spear further? “It is never wise to trust rumour that cannot

be substantiated, but aye, this one I believe.”

Where else would Medraut have gone? There were no other reports of him,

and few loyal to Arthur would have cared to take him in. The ring of truth

behind words whispered on the wind, was too sound to be ignored. Medraut

had been caught into Amlawdd’s net of intrigue, and Amlawdd had trudged

dangerously close to Cerdic’s heel.

Arthur sighed, linked Gwenhwyfar’s arm through his own. Truth or mali-

cious taunting, either way there was little he could do. They would know

about Medraut one way or another, eventually, soon, when Cerdic made his

mind to move the men he had been massing away from the thin line of his held

land, and into Arthur’s territory.

I ought have slit his throat when I had chance
,
Gwenhwyfar thought. “Come,”

Arthur said to her, “I have more productive things to be doing above standing

mewling over a horse’s grave.”

Forty-Six

The Feast, an occasion that symbolised more than the consumption

of food and drink.
Gegadorwiste,
the Assembly for Plenty, a gathering

intended for celebration and social pleasure; for entertainment, the exchange

of news and to pledge homage. To eat and drink at the provider’s table was to

declare openly, for all to see, the agreement of support and a pledge to fight to

the death. For the lord, the leader, to provide more than mere food and wine

or mead, to give an image of plenty, an atmosphere of wealth and harmony,

stability and coherence, in a world where conflict and uncertainty was the

experience of the many. The English Feast.

Medraut hated them, and Cerdic held them often. A great lord had the

need to show his wealth and status; for Cerdic, the extra need to instil into his

followers that he had every intention to become their king one day and that the

day of reckoning was fast approaching.

The summoning horn had blown three hours past—and what a gathering of

fine-dressed, strong men had made way to their benches! The usual shuffling

for position of course, the best place: to be seated at the end of a bench, to be

served first; the most prestigious of all, to be asked to the higher tables where

cushions made the seating more comfortable, and the choicest portions were

served. Some of the usual scuffling by those who considered they ought be

placed higher up the Hall, nearer the lord’s dais; one or two exchanges of

payment for the privilege to be seated at his table.

The Hall had looked splendid, draped with wall hangings threaded with gold

and silver, and all the shields, spears and weapons hung there. The higher tables

laden with gleaming silverware, brimming jugs of ale and wine, baskets of bread

and fruit; servants waiting with silver bowls for the ritual washing of hands, the

ordered effect disintegrating as the hours wore on, as the Hall became hotter,