Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (16 page)

‘Na,
I was only a lad myself then, but the title of Pendragon gave me the right to
become King. As my father had hoped to have been.’

‘Uthr?’
Arthur nodded.

‘Your
Uncle Emrys is his brother.’
Again Arthur
nodded, but said, ‘Ambrosius. We must call
the wretched man by his adopted Roman name now.
Ambrosius
Aurelianus, not Emrys.’ Llacheu was only half listening, was peering again
beneath
the great capstone. ‘It seems a
curious thing to bury someone in
this way. Far easier to dig a deep hole
like we do.’

‘I
don’t think they buried everyone like this. Someone of importance was laid
here. A king? Winta of the Humbrenses once told me that the high kings of his
people are sometimes
laid in a ship with
their armour and weapons and food, then the
whole thing is covered over
into a great mound to be seen and
remembered
by all. Hard work aye, but is not such a man worth
the effort? An easily
dug hole in the ground is soon forgotten.’ The person buried here has been
forgotten.’
The
person but not his burial place. Men are still feared tocome here after dark,
still make the sign for protection as they pass. The belief and the people are
forgotten – forgotten even
long before the
Caesars came, but enough remains to remind us
that once, others walked and loved, lived and died.’ Arthur
seated
himself on the grass mound, picked a flower, began absent-mindedly shredding
its petals. ‘Remember that flint arrowhead you found? And the stone axehead?’
Llacheu nodded, they were treasures indeed. He felt for
the
pouch at his neck, unfastened it and
tipped the contents into
his palm,
showed the arrowhead solemnly to his father. ‘I carry
it with me always,
as my luck charm.’ Arthur took the thing from his son, examined it closely,
said with straight expression, ‘You don’t haul the axehead around with you as
well then?’ Llacheu laughed. ‘It is in the bottom of my clothes chest! I made
Mam swear never to touch it.’
Overhead, a
lark was singing, fit to burst his feathers. On and
on went his song of joy, singing and singing –
and then sudden
quiet as he dropped
down to his mate, nesting somewhere
among the sun-warmed, wind-whispered
grass.

‘I
wonder if this was made by the same people who built the
Henge?’ Arthur mused. ‘I do not believe it was
all fashioned by
magic. It is my experience that mortal blood and sweat
form a large part of hard labour.’ He gave the charm back to his son, watched
him slip it safely away.

A
fox trotted from the copse, disappeared among the low
bushes to reappear further down the slope, heading at an easy lope
down into the valley. Arthur watched him go, the
chestnut red of his glossy summer coat against the brilliant green of new-grown
grass. It was almost like being atop
the world up here. Not as high
as Gwenhwyfar’s mountains of Gwynedd, of
course, but the
stillness, the sense of
being alone created the illusion. The only
man – and boy – in the world.
A sudden fancy, a sudden weird
feeling of
nothingness. They were already dead, he and Llacheu, were spirits taking a last
look at the sloping hills and the winding
valley before passing into the other world, the world beyond this.
Over there, way away, beyond that bank of
darkening cloud, lay
the sea, and beyond that .
‘I
think,’ said Llacheu, breaking his father’s thoughts, ‘that I
would rather be beneath these stones than buried
in the earth.
It would not seem much
different from going to sleep in a cave
would it? The darkness of cold
earth is a bit frightening.’ Arthur drew his son to him, held him close. ‘Any
death is frightening.’
Llacheu looked up
quickly into his father’s face. ‘Even to
you?’

‘Even to me.’ Death. This place stank of it.

The sun had gone,
evening clouds were rolling back to claim the sky. The air felt chill. ‘A lad
your age need not worry about
death. You have years
of life stretching before you.’ Arthur
shivered.
A spirit stalking over his future grave? He stood, said with forced jollity, ‘Your
mam will be wondering where we are
—and
my belly tells me it is time for eating!’ He whistled to Hasta
and hoisted the boy into the saddle, made to
mount himself and
checked. Grinning, he looked up at his son and without
word walked forward, clicking his tongue for the stallion to follow. Llacheu
sat proud and straight, realising the honour his father was granting him by
letting him ride alone.

Watching his son’s riding
ability with a discreetly critical
eye, Arthur thought
how well Gwenhwyfar had taught the lad. He sat a horse naturally, with no fear,
hand contact on the rein
gentle but firm,
grip from thigh and calf relaxed. The saddle was
too large of course, the four horns not fitting across the thighs or
into
the buttocks firmly enough for security, but still, the boy had a good seat.
The ground began to drop away, the hill descending steeply down into the
valley. Llacheu adjusted his balance, leaning back, shifting his weight, his
body swaying
with the movements of the
horse as Hasta picked his way down
the grassed slope. Arthur smiled,
pleased. A good horseman, his son.

Walking in silence, Arthur allowed his
thoughts to wander. Who had been buried in that lonely, high place? Then, would
he one day end up in some equally lonely
grave or would he be
left unburied on the battlefield, left for carrion
to strip flesh from bone? He peered back at the stones, no longer visible,
hidden by the crest of the hill. Those of the past might be
forgotten, but their passing lingered on in
superstitious fear. Or
was it the
inevitability of death that brought the fear?
The stallion’s forefoot slid on the wet grass, Arthur put out his hand to
take hold the reins, turned in the same movement
to hold the boy’s leg,
relaxed, let go his grip. The lad was fine, his natural balance going with the
unexpected movement.

‘You ride well,’ Arthur said with pride. ‘You
are almost six years now are you not?’ Llacheu nodded.

‘You will be wanting a pony of your own soon
then.’

‘Mam said she would ask Uncle Enniaun to find
one for me when we get to Gwynedd.’ Did she.’ The reply was blunt, curt.

Llacheu bit his lip. Last night his parents
had argued again about going north to Gwynedd. He had lain in the family tent
opposite Arthur’s place of command pretending to be asleep,
listening to the harsh quarrel. Mam wanted to see
her family, to
go where there would be a welcome and peace. Da insisted
on going south.

‘So you want to go north also?’ Arthur said
stiffly.

The boy was unsure how to answer. ‘I want a
mount of my own and, although they do not breed so many now, Gwynedd
still breeds the best.’ He stroked Hasta’s silken
neck. The
stallion had been bred in
the pastures of Gwynedd’s rich valleys,
bred from the descendants of
Roman-imported Arabian stock.
Hasta and his
kind were beautiful, short springing stride, arched
neck, bold-eyed and
brave-hearted. He desperately wanted a horse like Hasta for his own.

‘So, if your mam decided to go you would
accompany her?’
Arthur knew it was an
unfair question, but he did not retract it.
Life was unfair, Llacheu had to learn that lesson sooner or later.

His son toyed with Hasta’s mane, winding the
long white strands between his fingers. ‘If you would take me with you,
then I would stay with you. But you always say I
am too young so
I suppose I will
have to stay with Mam and go where she goes.
And I do want my horse.’
Arthur laughed, his tension dissipating. Good
enough
answer. He squeezed his son’s knee. ‘One day soon, boy, you
will not be so young. Then you may ride with me.’
He winked.
‘Happen you ought to have a pony first though. I’ll see what
I can do.’ Llacheu grinned, then risked a question. ‘Why do you not want to go
to Gwynedd?’
Walking
at Hasta’s head, Arthur was silent a long while. The lad felt his lip
trembling. Why had he asked? He had spoilt everything.

When Arthur did answer,
his voice was not laced with anger as the boy had expected, but full with
sadness. ‘Gwynedd is the
one place where I do
not, yet, have to watch my back for a dagger plunging in the dark.’
The boy was puzzled by this. ‘But then, why are we
not
there?’ A
rthur put his shoulder
into Hasta’s chest, halting the
animal. He stood looking up at his son,
his hand on the boy’s
knee. ‘I must be
seen, must make my voice heard, my presence
known, must try and repair
the damage which has been done.’
He sighed.
How to explain to a child? ‘There are many
influential men, followers of
Emrys –Ambrosius – who dislike me, dislike what I am trying to do. If they can,
they will stop
me. They have already made a
start of it by attempting to divide
Britain, but while I command the
Artoriani I am a force to be
reckoned with.
Should I ever lose the loyalty and respect of my
men, Llacheu, I am lost, we all are.’ He squeezed his son’s knee.
‘Should I expect my men to stand in the front
line while I sit on
my backside in comfort and safety?’
Llacheu stared at his boots. They were muddy, he
would have to clean them when they got back. He said in a quiet voice, ‘I do
not
like it when you argue with Mam.’

‘
By being
in as many places
as
possible, I am showing defiance
to those men who are against me.’ Arthur took
hold of the bridle,
walked Hasta on,
said to the sky, ‘I do not like arguing either lad,
neither does your
mam. It is a thing we seem to do of late.’ Darkness had come by the time they
reached camp, and a fine drizzle had begun to fall. Gwenhwyfar said nothing as
A
rthur ducked into the tent, delivered the
boy and immedi
ately ducked out again.

Was it interesting?’
she asked as she helped remove the boy’s wet clothing, began to rub him dry and
warm. He talked almost
without
pause through mouthfuls of steaming broth,
Gwenhwyfar
listening, asking the occasional question. Her eyebrows rose when he said, ‘Da
has promised me a horse. 1 hope I can have one like Hasta.’
Tactfully, ‘Hasta is a stallion. A gelding for you,
and
something a bit smaller?’
Llacheu pouted slightly. Brightened. ‘The same colour?’
Gwenhwyfar laughed. ‘I expect that can be managed.’
By
full dark, the boy was abed and asleep, curled with his two
brothers, Gwydre four and
Amr now almost two. Gwenhwyfar
stood holding
the tent flap open, staring at the night and the
rain. It was not cold
and the rain had scented the earth, grass and trees, the air was fresh and
pleasant. Lamps glowed from inside other tents, the sound of men laughing or
preparing for
sleep drifting across to her
ears. Arthur’s tent over the way was
well lit. Laughter came from there
also.

She sighed. The past
months had been filled by petty
squabbles
over silly, meaningless things. They never seemed to
talk
these days, to laugh. Or to love.

She let the flap fall,
wandered to her own bed, sat on the edge
unfastening
the pins and braiding of her hair. Was it her fault, this conflict between
Arthur and his uncle? She removed her
tunic,
sat for a while in her under-shift. His frustration and
anger had to
have an outlet, a vent, but it was so hard taking these constant blows. Arthur
was not one to let things drop, to
leave
water unstirred. The argument that had sent him
storming from Lindum had
spread ripple upon ripple, creating
waves
that slapped angrily against the shore, and, as each
season had passed
risen into a darker storm.

He led a mounted force
that could, if he so commanded,
bring any man opposing
him to his knees. His allies welcomed
the
strategy of his mercenary force. His enemies did not, but for
all their opposition, Arthur remained Supreme King
over all
but this new-named Britannia Secunda. His men patrolled the
borders of the English territories. His men were
quartered in the
shore forts along the south coast, effectively
dissuading any
newcomers. Arthur’s men,
allied with Gwynedd, held the
peace
in the unsettled North. Arthur himself controlled most of
the Summer Land and Dumnonia. And Arthur’s men had dug
and
built the great earthwork to separate his land from
Ambrosius’s, built
it to stride east from Aquae Sulis before bending south towards Venta. They had
thrown up the earth
banks and erected the
wooden palisade along the top, patrolled
the walkways or sat by night in
the mile-apart wooden watch towers. The Artoriani kept Ambrosius Aurelianus,
Emrys, and
his cronies firmly encased within
a prison of their own making. From his guarded and patrolled borders, Arthur
controlled what
came out of and into Britannia Secunda.