Shadow of the King (97 page)

mind. In practice they seldom work out, as Medraut discovered. He sat in the

lee of Caer Cadan’s lowest rampart huddled against the pre-dawn chill. Many days

it had taken him to walk from the coast to the Summer Land; hard days, where on

occasion he went without food or shelter. His feet were sore and bleeding, his chin

in need of a shave; a bath would be welcome, dry clothes. The idea was to wait for

the gates to open at dawn, enter the Caer, and demand to be taken to Arthur. The

Pendragon would be delighted at receiving the news Medraut brought, so much

so, there would follow instant forgiveness and embracing, smiles and a few tears.

Ah, the stuff of harpers’ tales! The problem was, tales were seldom true.

Waiting, with a ragged cloak gathered around his shivering body, he realised

the joy of an errant son returning to a forgiving father would not occur. The

cloak, he had removed from a Saxon fisherman’s hut. It stank of fish. Now

he was actually here, he realised more probably, Arthur would have him run

through with a sword before exchange of a single word.

What he needed was to meet quietly with a friendly face, someone who

would intervene between himself and his father. Someone like Gwenhwyfar.

The sky was paling over to the east, the darkness easing into grey and colour-

less pink. He could not wait by the ramparts for he would be found, moved on

or arrested. Would that be an idea? It would get him into the Caer—aye, and

beaten, thrown into a cell.
Na
, he would wait for Gwenhwyfar, down by the

tavern walls where the beggars tended to collect, where she would occasionally

come as Lady of the Caer, to scatter bread or give discarded clothing. Hoped

he would not need wait over long, for the swelling crescent of the new moon

was drifting against the ocean of the sky.

P

“…And that beggar has been seen again, hanging around the young horses he

was, yeste-eve. Would you like him moved on?”

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 8 7

Examining a tooth in the hand-held bronze mirror, Arthur murmured a brief

acknowledgement to the end of the officer’s report. The usual stuff, the daily

roster for drill and training, for duties. The lists of illness, injury, a recommen-

dation for promotion. The tooth was becoming more painful, the gum sore,

swelling. It would need come out, for there was obviously poison building

beneath its rotten enamel. Not yet, the pain was bearable for a while longer.

Arthur knew nothing worse than facing the tortures of the tooth-puller.

This beggar. He was becoming somewhat of a nuisance, hanging around the

gates, scuttling into shadows when anyone approached, huddled and bent, his

hood pulled over his face. Of course, the Caer had its share of the poor who

clung to the ragged muddle of wattle sheds behind the tavern at the base of

the lane. Men and women—more than a few children—who came hoping to

receive the benevolence of their king. Arthur did not ignore them, but neither

did he encourage their presence. What was left from the meal at Gathering was

sent down for them, along with the occasional ragged cloak or worn pair of

boots. Hand-outs, charity. It was for the lord of a stronghold to take care of the

infirm, the ill, the ragged and the unwanted. But to a degree only.

“What was he doing by the horses?” Arthur asked, irritated. He had more

important things to tend this day without the need to be bothered by a stinking

peasant. Were Bedwyr here, he would pass the matter over to him, but he

was still away from the Caer, over at Aquae Sulis enjoying, it seemed from his

infrequent letters, the hospitality of the local women rather than paying mind

to matters of business.

“He was looking at them, Sir, nothing more, ran off when my men approached.”

Arthur rubbed at the ache in his jaw. There were several petitions he should

respond to this morning, and he would need seek advice about the increase of

import tax. Always an unpopular decision. He should be at Aquae Sulis himself,

discussing these issues, but he could not leave the strategic advantage of Caer

Cadan and his men. Not while these rumours of Cerdic were running at a gallop.

“Have this beggar brought in for questioning. Ensure he gives answers.”

The officer saluted, withdrew from the chamber.

Gwenhwyfar glanced up from finishing her letter to Archfedd. She would like

her daughter to move back to the Caer for, Natanlius’s stronghold of Caer Morfa

was too vulnerable, too close to Cerdic’s land, but Archfedd was as strong-minded

as her mother. Gwenhwyfar would never leave her husband or his men when the

tide of danger began washing against the shield-wall; neither would Archfedd.

“I will check the yearlings this morning,” she said, rolling the parchment and

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

dripping hot wax to seal it. “The bay with the white legs may be promising,

and the lame grey ought to be brought up again for examination.”

Arthur absently nodded. Gwenhwyfar had taken full responsibility for the

horses this season, for his thigh was aching more than it had in the past. Old

wounds, old scars, the reminder of a long past and an increasing age. He was four

and fifty, with hair more grey than brown, and all the aches and groans that went

with someone of more than half a century of age. It was no small achievement,

but when the east wind blew and the pain roared up from his leg, he wondered

if the acclaim was worth it. With this damn tooth adding to his misery, he found

himself asking that question more frequently. Had he a son to remove some of

the burden from him…Llacheu, Amr, Gwydre, aye, or even Medraut. He had

shown a talent for administration, a liking for the tedious, everyday bureaucracy

which went hand glove with kingship. Ah, no use regretting what was not to

be, that was as senseless as trying to catch a rainbow.

The letter marked with the imprint of her ring, Gwenhwyfar ambled to the

inner doorway, propped open at this busy hour of the morning, called for the

courier, awaiting her order. Arthur had several similar parchments for Natanlius,

already in the lad’s leather bag. The man saluted smartly, jogged from the Hall

to his horse, ready saddled. Arthur’s couriers were the best; reliable, innovative

men, who handled the responsibility of delivering the king’s word with all the

faith and expediency entrusted them. A light rain drizzled outside, though the

grey skies were lifting; there would be sun by late afternoon. Gwenhwyfar

tossed her thicker woollen cloak around her shoulders. She would be dry

beneath its adequate protection. Her boots and bracae were old, comfortable

friends; pointless dressing well when she intended traipsing around muddied

fields, checking horses for signs of lameness, cuts and harm.

She crossed to Arthur, engrossed in the first of the pile of legal petitions, his

hand cupping the pain of his jaw, placed a light kiss on the crown of his head.

“Get that seen to,” she advised. “It will only become worse if you do not.”

“My tooth, my business. Go check your horses, woman!”

Gwenhwyfar smiled, kissed him a second time, and walked with a light,

jaunty step from the chamber. She would not ride down to the fields, for

despite the rain it was pleasantly warm. The air was fresh, heady with the

smells of late spring, the may blossom in full spate, frothing white along the

hedgerows that formed boundaries to the horse and cattle fields. From the

height of the Caer the land looked magnificent, even below the colourless

grey of spring rain.

S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 5 8 9

Lower down, she walked along the puddled, muddied lane, two head-collars

and ropes draped over her shoulder. The hedges were alive with fledglings, black-

bird, thrush, sparrow, the peep-peeping of their demand for attention from tireless

parents and orchestra of sound. Gwenhwyfar smiled at the sight of an ambitious

young robin attempting to make a meal of a worm three times his own length.

Men were working at the hedge a few yards further along, repairing a place

where a mare had pushed through. They saluted, greeted her. She walked on, let

herself through a gate, crossed diagonally over the expanse of spring-grown grass

to the group of yearling colts gathered at the far side. Nine of them, brought into

the smaller, easier-watched field for a variety of reasons. One lame, one with a

deep cut to his knee, another not putting on the condition he ought. The others,

fillies and colts, ran loose in the meadows further out, running free to develop

muscle and sinew, strong bone, healthy coat, bold eye, and sound wind.

She made soothing noises as she approached, eyeing the overall appear-

ance of the nine—no, eight. Gwenhwyfar ceased walking, counted the

fidgeting group again. Definitely eight. The dun with that bruising kick

to his stifle was missing. Their field was not large, no more than five acres,

well-hedged with hazel and hawthorn, the occasional taller tree dotted in

between—the hole was in the next field, not this. To the eastern corner ran

a drainage dyke, one of several that criss-crossed much of the farmed areas

of the Summer Land. A copse of alder and willow had grown up in this

moist corner, provided shade from the heat, shelter from wind and rain. He

could be hidden beneath the trees, though he was a well-grown colt, already

standing above thirteen hands.

Two of the colts had ventured near her, curious. She petted them, ran her

hand along neck, shoulder, and rump, inspecting their healing damage with

touch and sight. One was almost mended, the other might need a week or two

more. At least the cooler weather had not yet brought out the flies. The laying

of eggs in open wounds caused such problems come the summer months.

She inspected a third colt, then made her way to the small copse, aware as she

neared no colt dawdled beneath the droop of spring-garlanded branches. She

ducked beneath the nearest willow, parting the sweep of new-budded leaves,

hurried forward, breath quickening as she found him, trapped, laying on his

back, stuck in the ditch.

He must have floundered there a while, for the ground was churned and his

coat muddied and drenched from his struggles to rise. Sweat lay dark along his

neck and flank, his ears back, eyes rolling, frightened.

5 9 0 H e l e n H o l l i c k

“Hush now, good lad, steady, my brave boy.” Gwenhwyfar dropped into the

slop of the ditch beside him, the black mud deep beneath the channel of water

slurping around her boots. She would need to push him over, roll him, so he

lay more on his side than his back. He might then be able to get his legs under,

heave himself up. Shifting the weight of a horse was no easy matter. Getting

behind him, she tried to push his quarters, but she had not the strength nor the

solidity of a firm footing, for her feet were slipping. Twice she fell down on her

knees. She would need help, need to run back to the lane, summon the men.

Gwenhwyfar gasped, startled, alarmed, as a man, ragged, in need of a wash, a

shave, jumped into the ditch beside her. His hood had been pulled forward but

had flopped back as he leapt down, his features familiar.

“I’ll push at his shoulder, you take your end…ready? One two, heave!”

he instructed.

Three times they pushed, their whole weight and strength behind the need

to get the colt onto his feet. The fourth time it worked. The colt lurched,

thrust at the right moment, and was suddenly, with much splashing of water

and dripping of mud, up, heaving out the ditch, standing winded, head down,

shivering. The man had leapt aside; Gwenhwyfar, her boot stuck in the ooze of

mud was not so fortunate. The colt caught her as he leapt, his hind leg thrashing

for a foothold, slamming into her belly, knocking her aside, winded. She fell

backward, her head slamming against an overhanging branch, lay there in the

black mess of oozing water, dazed, semi-conscious.

She was aware of being lifted. Aware of the sweep of trees around her face

as he took her further beneath the trees, carried her through another, small

gateway, his pace a loping run, his head ducked low, bent over her.

She tried to talk to him but the breath had been knocked from her. Tried

to tell him that surely he knew he was running the wrong way, did he not

remember the Caer was behind them? She could not have made sense, for

he did not hear or did not understand. Vaguely, she remembered the officer

this morning making his report to Arthur. Something about a beggar hanging

around the horses?

Was this him? Did they think him a beggar? And why was he carrying her so

fast and so far from the Caer?

Forty-Nine

Then where in the Bull’s name is she?” Arthur was bellowing at the

officer of the evening watch. He realised it was unfair to reprimand the

man, but life could be a whore-son sometimes and fairness rarely came into

the reckoning. Aside, his jaw thundered with a pain that screeched louder