Shadow of the King (96 page)

the participants rowdier.

Medraut—although he was half-brother—did not warrant a seat at Cerdic’s

5 8 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

table among the honoured lords and thegns. He was seated lower down: not,

for him, an honourable position, but Medraut did not complain—indeed, the

further from his brother, the better.

The two hated each other with a distaste as strong as rancid cheese, yet

Cerdic saw the wisdom of keeping eye on the one who could oppose him,

and Medraut had no choice but to stay, although there were times when the

temptation to walk out the stronghold gate and not return were often great.

He had settled well among the fighting men, learning to disregard their lewd

humour and rough ways. He was not treated unkindly or made to look the fool.

No man would openly insult the brother of their lord, even if that lord made

such things regular habit. Cerdic made Medraut’s life into misery whenever

the two came into close contact—which was rarely, as Medraut saw to it that

where his brother was, he was not. Until a Feast was called.

Feasting highlighted Medraut’s harboured resentments. Cerdic had for himself

a fine Hall, retainers, loyal men, and a pleasant woman to serve the wine, to share

his bed. Cerdic had the courage to decide his own law, his own fate. What had

Medraut to his name? A mother who had been a notorious whore, who had

produced him through the sin of incest, and a father who now despised him.

They were bellowing laughter at the high table, the boom of merriment

hitting the smoke-swirled rafters with the thunder of a thrown boulder. Cerdic,

with Cynric his son sitting aside his right hand; Cerdic’s woman, his wife, to

his left. A small, demure lady who rarely spoke, rarely lifted her eyes. There

was no reason to believe Cerdic treated her cruelly, yet there was no show of

love between them either. She had borne him no children. Cynric himself had

three daughters by different women—and one in the belly of his taken wife.

They were sweet little girls, with dimpled smiles and flaxen hair, welcomed at

Cerdicesora as all Saxon men welcomed their offspring, whether legitimate or

no. Another bellow, more laughter. Cerdic’s wife rose to bring the wine again

to the men of the three highest tables. Medraut, sitting at the far end of a bench,

was one of the last for her to serve.

“See,” Cerdic roared, wine dribbling from his lips, “my wife pours wine for

the whore-son bastard! The boy who poked his thumb at the great Pendragon,

our father!” Cerdic was well into his drink, the gluttony of over indulgence

almost a prerequisite for the rules of enjoyment. He belched, pointed with

unsteady hand at Medraut.

“On your feet, boy, let us all look at you so we might recognise a traitor

when we see one!”

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No use Medraut protesting, for that would only enrage his half-brother, and

Cerdic in a temper was an ugly experience. Already Medraut bore scars on his

shoulders from where Cerdic had ordered him a beating for defiance. On his

feet, Medraut judiciously kept his head lowered, schooled the anger from his

reddened face. The taunts would continue a while until Cerdic found another

unfortunate to condemn, or a loyal friend to praise.

“Before you,” Cerdic’s voice boomed, “stands a dog turd who slithered from

the womb of a mare who could be ridden by any who fancied scratching at the

itch on his piece. She had breasts like a cow’s udder and a sex as open as the sky

in summer. I know, for I rode her often—and I rode her at the gallop, no fancy

trotting and prancing for me!”

Enduring the insults, Medraut could feel his heart beating faster, the pump of

his veins thudding. He would insult Arthur next. As always. It came.

Cerdic had stumbled to his feet, was waving his tankard of wine around as

if it were a banner. “My father,” he sneered, “has not the stamina I possess.

He hides behind the woman who is his whore-wife—the bitch who takes his

cousin to her bed. Why? Because, so I have heard, he prefers the company of his

men!” They all jeered, the entire Hall mocking and contemptuous, ridiculing

the Pendragon. “I have reason to believe,” Cerdic shouted, regaining attention,

“I am the only true son born from him. My mother was a virtuous woman, a

noble, wise lady.”

Aye
, Medraut thought to himself,
was that why you so brutally killed her?

“The others, they were not of his seed—and neither are you!”

Appalled at the sudden thrust of venom, Medraut dodged, as Cerdic threw

the tankard at him. It caught his shoulder, tumbled to the floor. “Are you

then,” Cerdic screamed, “an impostor? Eating at my table, begging warmth

from my fire under the pretence of being a brother?”

“No, Lord!” Medraut countered hurriedly, “I come to fight with you against

the man who treated me with as much wrong as he did you!”

“Fight? You, a snivelling boy, fight?” Cerdic put his fists to his waist, threw

back his head and howled derision, the Hall echoing his mockery.

“I am three and twenty!” Medraut protested hotly, this insult one too many.

“Older than the boy who calls himself your son!”

The skin on Cerdic’s face became blotched, patched red and white, the

loose jowls beneath his chin quivering. “How dare you!” He swung around

from behind the table, striding the distance between himself and Medraut, took

him up by the collar as if he were a recalcitrant pup, and shook him. Almost,

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Medraut’s teeth and bones rattled. As if he were something unpleasant, Cerdic

abruptly dropped him; Medraut crumpled to the floor, winded, more than a

little frightened. What had he said, for God’s sake? He had only meant he was

of an age more fitting to fight than Cynric. To his relief, there came no blows

or kicks. Instead, Cerdic hauled him upright, held him painfully by the throat,

his fingers squeezing and bruising his windpipe. Medraut, choking, gasping for

air, tried to pluck at Cerdic’s grip.

“Do I want your poxed presence tainting the glory of my proud men?” Cerdic

was shouting, his eyes pig small, cheeks puffed. “How do I know the stench of

a traitor does not cling to your foul breath? You? A snivelling whore-son against

that bastard, my father? Ah no, you will not fight with us come the next waning

moon, you are not worthy to be among those who call themselves Cerdicingas!”

Cerdic let go, pushing Medraut into the arms of a man standing close by. “Get

him from my sight!” Cerdic roared, his wrath suffused with contempt. “Throw

him to the sea, let the Mer people feed on his miserable guts!”

Medraut could not protest, make an attempted plea for forgiveness, for

his throat was aching, tight, as he tried to swallow. The pain became almost

unbearable—but anyway, did he want clemency?

Rough hands took him by the collar, the shoulder, the elbow, dragged him

from the Hall, accompanied by ribald, drunken laughter, the finger of disdain

and derision at his fall from grace, pointing firmly and unforgiving. Across the

night-dark courtyard lit with the flare of smoking braziers and torches, they

took him. Loud voices hailing for the small water-gate to be opened. They

marched him through, manhandled him along the echoing wooden walkway

of the wharves, and tossed him over the edge into the black coldness of the sea.

Cynric was the only one to remain seated at the high table. He watched his

father’s torrent of rage, knowing it to be unjustified, felt regret at Medraut’s

humiliation. Such was not the way to treat a man who had come to offer

his sword. Even if the offering was riddled with suspicious patterning. Cynric

would have won Medraut over, would have showered him with gifts and good

feeling, made him one with the family. How much more that would have hurt

the Pendragon—the knowing another son had full and whole-hearted turned

against you?

But too many men pledged loyalty to Cerdic through the colours of fear.

Fear of his anger, fear of being left with nothing after the day of fighting finally

came. His father was too demanding, too harsh. Regrettable, but many a man

would not miss his going when the Reaper of Death came for him. For all that,

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all those in this Hall would be with him when the battle came, with him to the

death. That was the way of the Saxon.

He would miss Medraut. They had held some good conversations together,

discussing the differences of religion and culture between Briton and Englishman.

Had talked of Arthur, the Pendragon. Cynric would have liked to have met

him, his grandsire, under better circumstances: under conditions other than

those of hostility, for although he would never dare breath word to his father,

Cynric admired Arthur. A good leader, an excellent military strategist, and—

even Medraut had admitted this—with exception of the one son, Cerdic, a

good father.

With the exception of Cerdic? If he, Cynric, was to examine his heart for

the truth, he would find the admission that he intensely disliked his own father.

And if so, then why could a father not dislike a son?

Forty-Seven

May 489

The coldness brought Medraut to his senses, although the pain in

his throat caught alight with the rush of salt-water entering his mouth

and nose. He could swim, but the weight of his boots dragged his legs and

the leather of his tunic hampered movement. The tide was on the ebb, with

the current already strengthening. He would need grab hold some solid object

soon, or be swept out into the eddies of the channel. He forced his arms into

a few pathetic strokes, groping blindly. Everything was dark, the blackness of a

moonless, heavily clouded night. Rain was falling, a soft drizzle.

As each wave lifted and tossed him, he could hear the voice of the wind and

a soporific, swishing, rhythmic sound; dull, repeated, distant. It seemed a while

that he had been in the water, was probably only a few minutes. Once, to his

left, he saw the darker shapes of the wharves and moored ships; beyond those

would be the Hall, people. The current pulled him further away, outward

along the open desertion of the coast.

Something bumped against his shoulders, something hard and unforgiving.

He cried out. What now? Had they come to hit him? To finish him off? He

thrust out with his arm, knocked against a cask, bobbing on the tide. His breath

sobbing, Medraut pulled it to him, leant his arms and chest over it, the effort of

heaving himself partially out of the water draining the last particle of strength.

His vision swayed, the roar of the sea increased in his ears and a blackness

darker than the night leered into his numbing mind and body. If it were not

for that empty, floating cask, he would have drowned, would have sunk into

the oblivion of the sea.

For what seemed a long while he drifted there, aimless, carried by the disin-

terested tidal pull. Dark, so dark, with no light, no sound, save for the constant

movement of the sea and the rhythmic pulse somewhere, way ahead. Had there

been the bathing light of the moon he might have been able to see how far he

had drifted, whether it was worth trying to swim, to save himself. But there was

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nothing, only darkness. And why would he care to live? What was there to live

for? Better to close his eyes, let the sea have him.

No moon. When would the moon return? Soon. Full moon. His mind was

slurring, tiring with the cold, numb ache of his limbs. There was something he

had heard about the moon. Something Cerdic had said, and Medraut snapped

his eyes open, alert, awake. To march at the waning moon. Cerdic intended to

march into Arthur’s lands, to fight within the month.

The next thought tumbled after the first. Did Arthur know? Was the

Pendragon aware of the number of men Cerdic had beneath his banner now?

Of the strength, the determination of those who called themselves Cerdicingas,

the People of Cerdic?

And then the sound registered. The familiarity of it jerked his senses, shouted

at his shattered will to survive. He lifted his head, saw, not too far away, the

shore resting darker than the pale gleam of the sea, the wide expanse of night

sky. Recognised the sound of the sea caressing the reeds. For a moment, as he

attempted to propel himself forward, he found himself in a new danger, for the

energy of the tide swept him back, then hurled him forward, the waves strong,

reluctant to release him from their snare. He had to make land, had to get

himself from this current, else he would be swept out into nothingness. With

one hand he paddled forward, determined, persistent. His feet touched on the

muddied ooze of sand, scraped shingle. He had made it.

Arthur must already know of Cerdic’s movements. But what if he did not?

Forty-Eight

Good intentions remain good while in the sublime regions of the