Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (26 page)

Standing, Arthur walked
to the edge of the bank, stood
looking down at the
lazy current so slow here, this close to the sea. The tide would turn soon.

He did not say that it was not Winifred’s
interfering that he feared, not that the few Saex who were joined with Lot were
insignificant. That it was Morgause he was
after. Instead, he
said into the gathering darkness, ‘Caen Arfon is not
the same
without your da. He was a good
man, a man worth listening to.
He would have enjoyed returning to take
back the North with me.’

‘He would have liked to have seen our boys.
Enniaun has
given them both ponies, but Da
would have enjoyed the doing.’
Gwenhwyfar released a shaking breath,
overfull of the sad memories of death.

Arthur stood
silent a long while, nursing his own thoughts of the same theme. Then he said, ‘I
could not come, Cymraes, before this. I have no reason – I have been busy
dealing with
Ambrosius’s irritations and the
building of my defensive work –
my own attempt at irritation – but that
is only an excuse. I just could not come.’
It was her turn to remain silent. A bat fluttered past.
‘I understand, but it is none the easier to bear.’ Tears threatened,
she choked them down, she would not cry. Could
not, there
had been enough tears. ‘The understanding makes none of it
easier.’ It had not been his fault that she had
left him. It had
been her decision, hers alone.

Cloaked by the darkness, Arthur let go the
deception, let his
despair rise and break
through the surface of his shield-wall. He
had held it in for so long, this grief and loneliness. To the night
he
said, ‘I would that I could change everything, change the passing of time.’ His
voice cracked into a desperate sob. He squatted abruptly, burying his head on
arms folded across his
knees. The last time
he had cried like this was as a child. When
his father, the man he had
loved but had never known in life to be his father, had been slaughtered by
Vortigern in battle.

Gwenhwyfar did not
move. Once, she would have comforted
him, held him close
and showed warmth and love.

Muffled, he said, ‘I am the all-powerful
Pendragon. I can do almost anything I please except hold your love, and bring
him back.’

‘Who?’ she asked, deliberately obtuse. ‘Bring
who back? Da or Amr?’

‘
Both.’
Arthur snapped his head up, defiant, the thin moon
lit the pale,
silvered streak of unchecked tears. Admitted the truth: ‘Amr.’ He swallowed. ‘He
haunts me. I see him still, drowning in that water. I struggle to save him, but
I can never
reach his outstretched hands. I
try and I try, but never can I
reach him.’

‘
Amr is
dead.’ Gwenhwyfar spoke flatly, remote and
hardened. ‘He has been dead
many months. Here among the mountains I have grieved for him.’
Grieved
for
so
much, she
thought. For
you,
and
you never came.
‘The tears stop.
Eventually.’ Arthur rose to his
feet but made no attempt to move, feared she would flinch from him should he
try to touch her. Feared the rejection. ‘You ought not to have left me,
Gwenhwyfar.’

‘
Ought
I not?’
He could see
her eyes flash in the dim moonlight, knew all
too
well, how their colours would be swirling in mixed shades of
green
behind flecks and sparks of tawny gold.

‘
Not in
anger. If you had waited it would have passed; would
have eased. We
could have shared our grief, made it the easier
for both of us.’ Arthur sighed, spread his hands helplessly. ‘You
are
still angry with me. Blame me.’
Gwenhwyfar
wrapped her cloak tighter around herself,
absently rubbing her arms
against the rising chill of night. ‘It took a long while for the grief to
subside – not go, it will never
go, but the
hurt you give me, Arthur, will that ever subside?
You wound me again and
again and again. All I can do is fight you, learn how to hate where once I
loved. I have to be angry because otherwise the hurting is too much, too great.’
Arthur walked a few paces along the bank, watching the pattern of moonlight
dazzle on the river. A mist was rising. ‘I learnt from childhood to shield my
feelings, to hide my fears
and grief. For
all my life I have been lonely, with no one to turn
to for comfort. I
learnt early that anger smothers the pain. I learnt that at three summers of
age, when the woman who I
eventually
discovered was my mother slapped my hand from her
skirts, kicking me aside like a cur. Then I learnt
to hate
Morgause, Uthr’s whore, who
treated me like dog-shit and
locked me in dark places as punishment. And
later, there came Winifred to hate.’ He was fiddling with the gold buckle of
his baldric, his fingers tracing its intricate pattern.

‘
And for
me? Has the hate now come for me also?’
Gwenhwyfar asked.

With his back to her he
replied. ‘Amr was my son as much as
he was yours.’ He
stared at the faint glint of gold beneath his fingers. ‘I could accept you
leaving, Gwenhwyfar. Although I
was bleeding
inside, I knew why you had to run here to
Gwynedd. But did you have to
take my other two sons?’ He turned to face her. ‘On that day 1 lost Amr and
Llacheu and
Gwydre. And you.’ He bit his
lip, stared a long while at the
grass
beneath his feet. ‘What do I feel for you?’ Again he looked
at her, his
expression pleading, painful. ‘I made no attempt to
stop you leaving, I told myself that I did not need you – I could
find
a woman to keep me warm at night without adding the daytime demands of a wife.’
He swallowed tears, his voice dropping to a
choked whisper.
‘After a while, I even
convinced myself that I had decided
right.’ He crossed the space between
them in three strides, squatted beside her, his hands hovering, uncertain
whether to
touch her. ‘I seldom admit to
being wrong Gwen, in my
position I cannot afford to do so, I must always
seem assured –right – yet I am admitting it now. I have been wrong over this
thing concerning you and me.’ He turned his head from her, wiped his face with
his hand, rubbing the stubble of beard growth, clearing the fall of tears. ‘Mithras
help me, Cymraes, I have no idea how to put things aright between us. I can
handle men, battle. But this aching inside me ...’ He spread his hands, bowed
his head.

Why did you come here?’
Gwenhwyfar too was fighting
tears. ‘I was growing
used to being without you.’

‘To ask Enniaun to join with me against Lot.’ Gwenhwyfar answered sharply, ‘Anyone could have done that! Cei, Geraint, a messenger.
It did not need the Pendragon Lord himself to summon Enniaun to a hosting. I
want the real reason!’
He answered with the
same whetted hostility, on the
defence,
attacking her sudden anger. ‘Gwynedd is my strongest
ally. I have no
wish to fight a few skirmishes with Lot. It is
important I win the North and keep it. I needed to ensure
Enniaun
also shares that importance.’
Gwenhwyfar
laughed, scornful. ‘And I thought, for one
stupid moment, that you had
come to see me and your sons!’ She scrabbled to her feet, spun on her heel and
walked quickly
away, up the slope heading
for the wind-rustled trees. Her cloak
snagged on a thistle, she snatched
at it impatiently, hurried on.

A
rthur
cursed beneath his breath, made after her. Why could he never express what he
wanted to say in the way he intended?
Why
did his words always come out with the wrong meaning! In
the darkness
his foot caught in a mole hill, he sprawled to his knees, a stab of pain
shooting up his left arm. Cursing vividly, he climbed to his feet. The night
spun, a haze of blinding red and brilliant white. He swallowed the rising wave
of nausea, stumbled, cradling the intense pain stabbing from his wrist and up
his forearm. Gwenhwyfar was nearing the trees, he might never catch her once
she reached their shelter.

Ignoring the pain, he ran, caught up with her
under the first night shadows of the dark canopy. Hearing his breathing, his
running step, Gwenhwyfar too broke into a run. He pitched forward, bringing her
down in a tumble of cloak and skirts, found he was fighting her.

Gwenhwyfar was
deceptively strong. Her slender figure gave
her
an appearance of mild gentleness, but childhood years of running with a pack of
brothers had developed a skill that once acquired was never lost. She fought
Arthur now, with all the ability she possessed.

Lunging with her fist, she caught him square
on the jaw. As
he reeled, she rolled away
from his grasp, rising to her feet in the
same movement, but this time,
she did not run. Already he was getting up. She brought the hem of her skirt
between her legs, tucked it through her waist belt, forming crude bracae,
freeing her for movement.

Arthur licked his lips, calmed his breathing,
shut his mind to the throbbing pain spreading rapidly up his arm. That dagger
wound Elen had given him was barely healed, he could do
without the jagged tear ripping open. What was she going to
do?
Run, or fight this thing out? Gwenhwyfar’s moods were as tempestuous as a
summer storm. It was difficult in the dark, an opponent could usually be judged
by the eyes, that brief flicker
of movement
preceding action. But he could not see her eyes so
well in the poor
light beneath the trees.

She feinted right, pretending to run. Arthur
stepped swiftly
into her path, grunting as
she spun aside, her leg catching
behind his, tripping him. He caught her
as he fell, bringing her down with him, their bodies rolling down the
embankment out
onto
the moonlit meadow.

For a moment they struggled, neither gaining
a hold; then A
rthur managed to pin her arms
above her head. Straddling
her, he knelt over her. She was breathing
heavily; let her body fall limp, submissive. He relaxed. Her knee rammed into
his groin, her body arching to tip him sideways. Before he hit the ground she
was up, her foot slamming into his stomach.

‘Mithras,’ he hissed, ‘if that is how you
wish it.’ He removed his sword and baldric, let the weapon fall to the grass,
and tore
the gold brooch-pin from his
shoulder, freeing his cloak.
Winding it around his left arm he pulled
the initial fold as tight as he could to act as a support against his injured
wrist and the
sticky feel of welling blood
from that dagger wound. Using the
thing as a shield, he circled,
watching her, waiting for the right moment to spring.

When he chose to move she anticipated well,
darting aside beyond reach. The second time he lunged, she repeated her action,
but on the third stepped forward to meet him, her hip thrusting, knocking his
body, disrupting his balance. He had expected it. Arthur knew how well
Gwenhwyfar could fight, knew also her tricks.

He swivelled to counteract her, his right arm
encircled her waist, spun her on her own momentum, sending her sprawling into
the damp grass.

‘Had enough?’ he panted.

She kicked with her leg
making him jump aside, allowing her
time to rise. Then she
came at him with her dagger.

For a moment Arthur found he was in trouble.
Again and again he parried her blade with his cloak shield, found he was
facing a wildcat intent on doing damage. He let
her fury fly, for
she had to release the anger and pain. He dared not
draw his
own dagger. He backed steadily
away, letting her drive at him,
letting
her do the attacking, letting her become the more
winded and tired. When
he was ready, judging the timing with skilled practice, he blocked her,
striking upwards with his fist, hitting her jaw harder than he intended.

Gwenhwyfar crumpled and lay still.

Tossing his
cloak aside, Arthur knelt beside her, desperately anxious. He patted her face,
called her name. Oh Mithras’blood, he had hit her too hard! Relief whooshed
from his held breath as her eyelids fluttered.

As consciousness returned, Gwenhwyfar brought
her hand back and swiped feebly at him, he blocked it easily enough, holding
her hand tight in his own as he knelt over her. Words,
some angry, some downright obscene, chased through his
mind, none reached his lips, instead, he covered
her mouth
with his. She answered him, her mouth seeking his, her arms
going around his shoulders, drawing him down, closer.