Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (14 page)

That
flutter of tension created by the Archbishop had eased, defused by Arthur’s wry
humour. Patricius needed to create
credence
again, to master the upper hand. He did not fear
Arthur for Patricius
was a man who saw only his own path of ambition. ‘We,’ he spread his hand
towards the Council, ‘will have an end. No more land to be given casually to
the Saex.’ Arthur sighed, held his tongue. ‘No more petty lords taking up these
preposterous titles.’
Enniaun
rose, signalled the need to speak. ‘We take our
independent titles, my Lord Archbishop, because were it left to
Council,
our swords would become rusty, our shields cracked and our spears blunted. Some
of us need to defend our lands against the heathen — we do so unhampered by the
humming and hawing of a Council that is, without doubt, only interested in the
welfare of the South.’
Several men applauded — Northern
men. Ceredig added, ‘Arthur sees that we have free rein to defend our own,
while
giving us the extra security of
knowing his men will come to our
aid if asked.’

‘Will
you so aid us, Archbishop, the next time the Scotti
raiders from Hibernia take sail and invade my Gwynedd coasts?’
Enniaun
asked.

‘I
cannot, will not, say aye to your suggestion, Archbishop.’ Arthur spoke
pleasantly, mildly, pronouncing the words clear and precise in Latin, as if he
were patiently explaining some peculiarity of life to a small, unintelligent
boy. ‘The Northern
lords have the right to
take what title they wish, providing they
pay homage unquestioned to me.
The Northern lords, Arch
bishop, have need
to keep their weapons burnished, their spears
sharp.’ Someone from the
far end maliciously called, ‘Even Lot?’ Several men laughed.

Arthur
glowered, snapped a response. ‘Aye, even Lot.’ To
Patricius he growled, ‘The first request I agree to. No more land
for
the English.’
The Archbishop bowed, returned
with measured dignity to
his seat. Councillors were nodding, a few
applauding, most smiling. They had achieved part victory.

Patricius
made himself comfortable, folding and patting his heavy clerical robes into
place. He twiddled the garnet of his curial ring, appeared intent on its
dazzle, said as if it were no
important
matter, a mere, informal, addition, ‘Vortigern
dispensed with the four Roman administrative divisions of
Britain.
We have made decision to restore them, in an altered form of two divisions.’ He
folded his hands on his lap, looked
up, along
the row at Arthur. ‘Britannia Secunda, the South,
will be ours to hold.
The North, Britannia Prima, save for
Eboracum and Lindum, is yours to do with as you will.’
Magnanimously, he added, ‘You may of course
retain your own lands of Dumnonia and the Summer Land; they will not be part
of
our administrative area.’
Arthur resisted the urge
to come to his feet, to join those angered tribal lords in their immediate,
loud response of rage. His first reaction was red anger, the second, raw
indignation.
The third stone-hard hatred.
They had thought this thing
through then, the ringleaders, thought it
through and made a decision.
We,
Patricius had said. Who were
we?
The outrage from the Northern lords was
thunderous. All
men were on their feet, bunching around the Archbishop,
outnumbered by his supporters, shouting the objections down. It was Enniaun,
Lord of Gwynedd who loudest voiced their
opinion.
‘Britain cannot be thus divided. Such an act will
weaken our borders
tenfold. The Saex, the Picti, raiders from
Hibernia
, will be the stronger if we tear our own
strengths apart
– even Vortigern saw that! Under the Pendragon we are
firmly united in our defence, for it is him and his Artoriani and our unity our
enemies fear.’ Agreeing, a group detached themselves, marched towards Arthur in
appeal, Ceredig among them, demanding the
Archbishop’s
immediate retraction. Arthur sat forward, his
elbow resting on the chair arm, his face stone, inwardly
seething.
Above the uproar he bellowed, ‘And just who, Archbishop, is to be your
principal governor?’ One man had remained seated, impassive to the running
emotion. The voices were calming, each man looking at the other, whispering,
questioning,
‘Who?’
Emrys rose to his
feet, heads turning as he moved through the
crush of men, stepping
around Enniaun, moving past the
Archbishop,
walking along the aisle, walking towards the
King’s dais. A tall, stately-looking man. Emrys ap Constantine, a
dignified, proud man, one of the few who retained the right of
wearing the purple-edged toga. Uncle Emrys, always
so serious,
youngest brother to Uthr
Pendragon; Emrys, a true, unflinching
Roman. One of the most powerful
civilians in authority below Arthur. Who could, if circumstance dictated, and
the army consented, make valid claim for supreme king. Except Emrys
passionately believed in the Empire, and for him that title was not legal. Was
not Roman.

Into
the hushed silence he announced simply, without need to raise his voice, ‘I am.’
There must have been only a chosen few aware
of the
decision, for there came too many gasps, too many astonished
faces into the heartbeat pause that followed. Only the prime influential men
stayed smug, satisfied.

Arthur
was shaken. It was cool in this high, slightly damp, stone-clad room, but he felt
a trickle of sweat slither down his
back and
armpits. Those great, high arches seemed to be closing
in, pressing forward, the room was cloying,
choking. A
childhood thing, this fear
of enclosed spaces. His throat was
dry, his skin clammy, but he mastered
the swirling sensations, controlled the feelings of nausea and panic. Said, his
voice
steady, ‘As Comes Britanniarum? Or do
you intend for the
higher title of Dux?’ Tagged on sarcastically, ‘You
cannot, of course, use the title "king".’ Emrys either missed, or
chose to ignore, the dry humour. ‘I
am not
challenging your personal preference, nephew, nor am I
challenging your
right to rule your own lands. All I take is Britannia Secunda.’ Someone else, a
noted landowner from the wealthy area around Aquae Sulis, called in a derisive
voice, ‘The lands that your friends, the Saex, leave you, anyway!’ Arthur
barely heard the remark. The sound of rushing water was gushing in his ears,
the room spinning in a whirlpool of dizzying confusion and fear. He must master
this! Must not appear beyond control! With effort he signalled for a slave to
bring him wine, took the goblet and sipped slowly,
directing his
full attention to the
tall, austere man standing a few yards
before him. This Roman traitor to
the Pendragon name.

The
wine was watered, but strong enough to chase the unsteadiness far enough for
Arthur to take a breath and fight it full off. The brief crisis of panic was
subsiding, retreating. He
took a last sip of
wine, gave the goblet back to the slave,
stretched, clasping his hands behind his neck. His fingers rested
a moment on the great dragon-head
shape of his torque, felt its smooth reassurance of power that was his. He
stood, stepped from the dais. Abreast of Emrys, he stopped, regarded the man
eye to eye. They were of similar height, build, though Arthur was the more
muscular.

For a while and a while, Arthur stood there, holding his
uncle’s gaze, no sign of his rapidly calculating thoughts reaching
his bland expression, then, with decision made, he nodded once, a minimal
movement. ‘Then it is yours, Uncle, aside
from the path of the Ridge Way. That will remain mine to use as
and when I
need. Your boundaries shall be within a triangle between Calleva, Aquae Sulis
and the Hafren.’
Emrys answered, unmoved by
the chill in his nephew’s tone, ‘A square, Pendragon, north and west as you
say, but to the east
I shall have from Venta Bulgarium.’ Arthur’s jaw
clenched, his hawk-brown eyes darkened, his nails drove into the palm of his
right hand, mastering the urge
to loose his
temper, ram his fist into this whore-son’s teeth. His
father’s brother had, until this moment, been
nothing more
than a nagging irritant, a slight disappointment, but the
rules
were of a sudden changed. Emrys had
become a serious threat.
The opposition. An enemy.

Arthur spoke
with quiet menace. ‘Venta. Why Venta?’ For answer Emrys spread his hands,
smiled. ‘Why not?’
The Archbishop Patricius had joined Emrys, other men
falling back
as the three stood, squaring up to each other,
defiance and anger rippling between them like flickering
lightning.
‘I am taking up residence within Venta’s new-built Holy House.’
Arthur’s eyes went from the Archbishop to his
uncle, back to
this pompous man of God. They were in this together then,
the three of them, Patricius, Emrys, and .. Winifred. He forced a
casual laugh; not for all his blood would he let
them see how this
had unnerved him. ‘Venta,
where the bitch I once bedded as
wife reigns as the whore queen she is.
Have it. Have her.’
The Archbishop
protested, stepping nearer to Arthur,
himself becoming angered. ‘My Lady
is a good, holy woman. Your true wife, and mother of your only legitimate son
...’ Arthur sprang across the small gap between them, his hand coming out as
fast as a snake’s bite to grasp the Archbishop by the throat. Into his face he
hissed, ‘I know what my ex-wife is. A scheming bitch who will try anything to
put her son in place of my first-born.’ The Archbishop’s hands were clawing at
Arthur’s, his throat gurgling and choking, face
reddening.
Emrys’s hands came up,
began to pull at the Pendragon,
Enniaun,
on the other side, persuading him to let the
clergyman go. Arthur heard neither, but released the man
anyway,
swinging round to snarl, ‘Remember this, Uncle, Winifred is a Saex whore and
the daughter of a bastard tyrant.’ He walked the length of the room, flung the
door wide, turned
to salute Council. ‘Remember
that when she demands more
than that poxed little town.’ He swung around
on his heel, left, as the last glow of evening sunshine streaked in patterns of
red and gold across the grimed and cracked marble floor. From outside, a thrush
sang its evening chorus. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and
rain.

December 460

§ XVI

Lot
enjoyed playing
with his daughter, a bonny little bairn,
with dimpled cheeks and laughing-bright eyes. She was dark of
skin, hair
and eye, different from his own fair colouring – and
Morgause’s sun-gold hair and pale, smooth skin. It was like that
with
some children, Morgause had said, they take after the grandsire. Her father,
she told him, had hair as black as night
and
skin as brown as a nut shell. Lot had no way of knowing that
his wife
held no qualms about lying.

Dancing
his daughter on his knee, the proud father gurgled and chuckled with her; she
was growing so fast! The smell of roasting meat wafted through from the Hall. Lot looked up as the child’s wet-nurse entered. He sighed, time for Gathering, and time for
his dear-heart to suckle for her milk and be settled for the night.

He
stood, and giving the babe a last hug, passed her to the
waiting woman. She smelt deliciously of mother’s
milk and babies,
a warm, comforting smell. Morgause would never smell of
children. She had not even allowed the child to suckle her first
milk, it would min the shape of her breasts, she
said. Lot supposed
she was right. In
everything else she was. Even that she was to bear
a girl-child. Again Lot sighed, more pronouncedly. He had so
wanted a son.
Guilt at this thought, meaning he did not love his
daughter, plunged into him; feverishly he kissed
the lass’s head,
watched proudly as she guzzled the woman’s milk. Fine,
large breasts, milk-swollen and round.

Hurriedly,
embarrassed at his thought, Lot swung from the room to welcome the men of his
guard and people of the settlement whose turn it was to dine in his Hall. He
wanted a woman, wanted Morgause! But she was away, up at the Picti settlement
on the banks of the Tava, sealing the agreement of marriage between their young
daughter and the son of Drust with Ebba’s Council.

‘Come
back before the snows fall, my beloved!’ Lot had pleaded and Morgause had
laughed, and kissed him goodbye
and promised
that she would. But she had not, and now the
snow lay thick with more to fall. She would not be home before
the
thaw. Which could be weeks away yet.

Morgause
curled, contented and warm, in Ebba’s arms before
the hearth-fire, wrapped in wolf-skins, lying on a thick bearskin
rug.
Ebba was so good at love-making. Almost as good as the
only other man who had been worth bedding with. Uthr
Pendragon; ah now he had been a man! Not the
snivelling little
whelk Lot had turned out to be. Why in the Mother’s
name had she saddled herself with him? Ebba moved in his sleep, nuzzling closer
into the softness of her naked skin. Why? Because marriage to Lot had been
convenient, and had, at the time, offered the
greatest poten
tial. No matter that he was as useless as a broken spear
shaft. There were others who could fill her needs.