Shadow of the King (98 page)

than ever any battle-wound had. Without Gwenhwyfar here to soothe his

temper, this man could take the brunt. The officer stared ahead, standing

smart at attention. With the gates of the Caer about to close for the night, and

the Gathering in the Hall already delayed, the situation was beyond serious.

Gwenhwyfar was not within the Caer; nor, it seemed, was she anywhere

within close proximity.

Arthur had not been unduly worried in the beginning, when her handmaid

had come to report she could not find the queen. “She is with the young

horses,” he had said with a hint of irritation. Gods, was he expected to follow

every move his wife made?

And later, Ider had come to him with the same concern, received the same

answer. “With your pardon, Sir, she is not.” Ider had served long enough, and

was loyal enough, to contradict his king. Aside, his guts told him something

was wrong. Very wrong. He had informed the Pendragon of the muddied and

fretful colt the men had found later in the morning. He had been in the ditch,

they thought. But no sign of Gwenhwyfar.

“Have you searched the ditch?”

Ider had. It was his first thought, that she might have fallen, injured herself.

Another mild search. Nothing. Arthur kicked out at the leg of his desk,

swore. Where had she gone? She ought have informed him, not just ridden

off. Then a thought. Damn her, she had not taken it into her head to ride

to Archfedd, had she? Mithras, if she were to go near that swarming nest of

Cerdic’s…dangerous enough having Archfedd and her children remaining over

close! “What horse is missing?” he asked the officer, his words slurring slightly

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as his tooth grumbled. If she had taken her grey, she could be miles ahead by

now, for he was fast, covered the ground well.

“None, Lord.” Anticipating the next question, the officer added, “Her grey

is safe stabled.”

Again Arthur swore, more colourful. In his stomach, he knew something

was amiss. A thought. One that had, several times, already lurched into mind.

He shoved it firmly back into the recess of impossibility, too abhorrent to

contemplate. But it came again. Cerdic had her.

By full dark the dogs were restless; Arthur had not eaten and, ignoring the

hot throb along his jaw, had ordered his own stallion saddled, joined the men

in searching the surrounding area, calling her name, holding burning torches

and lanterns high, peering beneath hedgerows, along ditches, beside the rivers.

A feeble gesture really, for it was too dark to search thoroughly. They would

need resume at first light.

Few within the Caer slept. Ider paced the palisade walkway, staring out into

the hollows of the sleeping Summer Land, starting at the crack of every unfa-

miliar sound; hoping, each time, that it would be her. Always disappointed.

Arthur made himself go to his bed. He removed his boots, bracae, and tunic,

and drank three goblets of wine straight down. He lay beneath the bed-fur, the

dogs stretched out beside him for warmth and comfort. He might have dozed,

but he did not sleep. The medical orderly had given him something for the tooth,

with the additional advice, unheeded, that it need be removed. All the things that

could have happened to her paraded through his mind. He had never held much

belief for a god, Christian or otherwise; there never seemed to be a free moment

to think about a religion, or a deity. He blasphemed in the name of Mithras and

the Bull, occasionally even used Jehovah as witness to his oaths. Soldiering was

his religion; the truth, battle; the learning, military tactics. But he found himself

praying this night. Quiet, in half-breathed words, softening on a whispered breath

through half-parted lips. “Oh God of all men, let her be not harmed.”

Dawn, sunrise. The hours of night passed slow and achingly hesitant. The

Caer faced the new day hushed, dismal. Women standing around in bunched

groups, their usual burbling chatter muted and subdued, their children held

protective, the youngest resting on hips or clutched in their arms. The men

tended their duties with an automation of familiarity. All combined with many

solicitous glances towards the Hall and the king’s chamber, alert for news.

Ider strode down from the Caer as dawn freshened into a mildly sunny day,

determined to search for some clue, some showing of where she had been,

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

what she had done. Where she had gone. Ider would die for Gwenhwyfar. The

intense ache in his heart that she might be suffering was unbearable. She was in

trouble, maybe lying injured, or worse, and he could not find her, was unable

to help her…his worry heightened by the misery of remorse. Yesterday had

been a rest day, a rare bonus. He had taken his wife to Lindinis, a treat for her

also, to wander around the busy market, finger the cloth, inspect the pottery

and pewter, smell the exotic wonder of spices and the intrigue of a multitude of

herbs. The pleasurable enjoyment of the day had been shattered on returning

home. It was his fault, he felt, although Arthur had attempted to persuade him

otherwise. If he had been here, if he had watched over her! Nonsense, his wife

had said, Gwenhwyfar had her own mind, would she have expected a body-

guard to go down into the field with her to inspect the yearlings? She knew

she was comforting closed ears, for Ider had a separate love for his lady, one a

wife would never overcome. Ider was a good man, a kind father, and a faithful

husband in all other respects; from him, she had a fine home, well furnished,

warm and dry. Two tapestries on the wall, three good cloaks, and several gowns

to wear. A set of silver spoons and two bowls made from the old red Roman

ware—precious items, those bowls, for once such pottery graced every Roman

table; now there was little of it left. She had given him, in return, a home and

three boys, grown strong into manhood. They were Artoriani now, serving

in Bronze Turma. With them, two beautiful daughters, wed also to Artoriani

men. She was content. Her only regret that when a wild wind blew, Ider took

so much of its weight on his own shoulders.

When he burst into Arthur’s chamber an hour after sunrise, excited and

agitated, hope had spurted through those who had seen him running. Ider had

found important information, but the haggard, grey look on the Pendragon’s

face that was settled there from more than the raging of toothache, stopped the

big man short, curbed his hurried enthusiasm.

“My Lord!” Ider ran to Arthur, dropped to kneel at his feet, his head bowed,

tears sliding from beneath his closed eyes. “Forgive me, I ought have been

with her!”

Many—near all—the men held a love for Gwenhwyfar. For three of them,

more than love. One, Arthur himself. His love went beyond the bounds of

life. He had not remained faithful to her bed, had abandoned her during their

numerous squabbles and differences, but throughout, she had been within

him, as much a part of his being as was the blood that ran in his veins or the

thoughts that jangled in his head. How old had she been when first they met?

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Twelve, nearing ten and three? One summer short of two score years past. A

lifetime ago.

The second, Bedwyr. Bedwyr loved Gwenhwyfar, had loved her with an

intimacy that ought not have been between a man and the wife of another. That

was a happening the Pendragon had forced aside from memory, although it

slithered into awareness occasionally. In the murk of a troubled, sleepless night,

the faint hiss of its being taunted him. She had not always remained his, but

better it had been for her to turn to Bedwyr, a friend rather than a stranger.

And then there was Ider. There was no reason to mistrust Ider, for his love

was different. Ider’s feelings ran far from the needs of a man. There was no

lust, no longing. Gwenhwyfar was his queen, his sun, moon, his waking and

sleeping. Arthur would trust her life to Ider’s keeping was to trivialise a fact.

Arthur laid his hand on Ider’s bent head; how to offer comfort when his

own fear was lurching into the realm of the ridiculous? What thoughts had

gone through his mind during the tormented length of night! Rape, murder,

accident. Treachery. Worse, the wondering that she might have gone willingly,

stolen away to be with someone else. Bedwyr?

Ider lifted his head, the pain of worry etched deep, raised slightly by new

hope. “Lord,” he said, “I found this.” He gave Arthur a ragged tear of cloth

woven with shades of red wool. From a cloak? Like the one Gwenhwyfar wore

on days when the drizzle spattered from low-pressed clouds.

“It was caught on the brambles beyond the copse of willows. There were

footprints also, a man’s boot, and scuff marks, as if he had staggered, fallen,

while carrying something heavy.”

“Something. Or someone?” Arthur’s question was sharp, harsh.

“He circled to the road, keeping to the shadow of the hedge. I found a

place where he might have sat waiting, for the grass was flattened, the flowers

bent and broken. Two people, one lying, one sitting. And then, beside the

road, lying beneath the mile-marker for Yns Witrin, this.” The second item

Ider handed to Arthur brought the Pendragon’s breath sharp, the nagging of

his-tooth instant forgotten.

A battered, old gold ring, looped on a plaited strand of Gwenhwyfar’s copper

hair. Medraut.

Fifty

The mule and cart had been easy to steal from the tavern stables.

They were all into the business of drinking inside, the noise of talk and

laughter muffling the rumbling of wheels on the cobbles. An anxious moment

for Medraut when someone called out to him from the doorway, “Keep me a

tankard waiting—I’m to take a cask of ale up to the Caer!”

He tossed back, “Let the mule do the work, I say, I’m damned if I’m going

to break my back!” The man guffawed, went inside. No one queried why

the cart turned down the lane not up; few were out in the murk of a damp

evening. The Caer gates would be shuttered soon, those of the settlement

either warming themselves by their own hearth, or hailing the night with drink

inside the tavern.

He needed the cart for Gwenhwyfar. He had carried her some way, but she

was heavy, his own feet blistered and sore from ill-fitting boots. What it was

to be a king’s son in a king’s Caer with gold enough to pay for quality boots

to be made to fit the size of his feet! Another anxious moment later on, when

he heard horses and men’s voices. Of course she would be missed, they would

be searching for her. He had to think quickly, act fast. A gate ahead into the

mares’ field, urged the stubborn mule through, brought the cart up against the

high hedge on the far side, closed the gate. No moon risen yet—God’s truth, a

few days only to fullness and then it would be waning. The horses came nearer,

men were calling for Gwenhwyfar. Medraut prayed they would not have the

dogs with them at night. Recognised his father’s voice. Almost, he summoned

the courage to run out, call at Arthur, urge him to listen but they had passed

by, the moment was lost. He would need wait a while, safe in the darkness.

The searching, surely, could not last through the night, and Gwenhwyfar was

comfortable where he had left her.

Come sunrise the hill of Yns Witrin sat dark against the new-bright day.

He had travelled through the night, had bullied the mule to trot, had searched

5 9 6 H e l e n H o l l i c k

around the edge of the lake seeking a way onto the Tor. There were paths

beneath the gently rippling surface, he had heard, but where they were, where

they lay, only God and Morgaine, he assumed, knew. He found something on

the far side where the lane began to slope down into the Christian settlement,

an upward path overgrown and shrouded by the profusion of spring. It would

serve, although he would need abandon the cart.

Gwenhwyfar lay motionless, her eyes closed, skin pale. He regretted the

need to have tied her wrists and feet, using the halter ropes, regretted this

need to take her in such a shameful way, but he must speak with Arthur,

had to come away from the Caer where there would be men to overpower

him. The planning had come to him so quickly in those moments after the

colt had struggled from the ditch. She had lain, breathing, but unmoving,

not answering him, blood trickling from the back of her head. Unconscious.

He had lifted her, intending to seek help, had crouched beneath the trees on

seeing men in the distance of the next field. How would he prove it had not

been himself who had hurt her? Who would believe, at first sighting, this was

the result of accident, not his own action? From there, the plan had seeped

into his brain. He could take her somewhere, shelter her until she awoke, then