Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (47 page)

As suddenly the spell was lifted. Movement,
noise. Screams
from women, confusion, a
babble of angry shouts and jeers. The
crowd
surged forward. Someone, a friend, had the sense to drag
Hueil aside, usher him away out through the
servants and slaves
gathered beyond the kitchen archway. A sword was
pressed in his hand. Go they urged, take a horse, go quickly! Gwenhwyfar was
cold. She was shivering. She fought to get herself to her feet, could not, gave
up the struggle. Her body ached, her head throbbed. She wished she would die,
here and
now, wished death could end this
misery and pain. A shadow of
movement, a figure ran, breathing heavily,
crouching low through the garden. He ran to the far wall, flung a handful of
stones at square panes of time-dusted glass.

‘Morgause!’ The voice was slurred, urgent
with breathless fear. ‘Morgause!’
She came
to the window, opened it, peered out. ‘Hueil?
What in ... ?’

‘Quiet! Listen to me.’

‘Dare you use that tone with me!’

‘Silence, woman! I need to leave. I have
slain Arthur’s son.’ Gwenhwyfar struggled to her feet, the words slamming into
her like a spear thrust. Arthur’s son? My son? She staggered forward.

‘You cannot leave without me, Hueil!’
Morgause squealed, sudden panic rising in her.

‘
I must,
I have no time to take you. Arthur will be after me for
this, after me for my life, and I shall have no
chance of survival
if I am caught.’ Hueil shuddered at the thought of
the death Arthur would impose. Buried in sand, with the head only displayed, a
blunted sword to hew at the neck ... torn apart by horses crazed with
firebrands .. .

Gwenhwyfar let go the support of the wall and
crumpled to the gravel pathway. Her son. Her son was dead? Which son? Gwydre,
Llacheu .. .

‘
I hear
the hunt; they are coming.’ Hueil swung aside, darted
for the shadows, calling, ‘I’ll be back for you,
Morgause. When I
have taken my kingdom and Arthur dare raise no hand
against
me,
I pledge I shall come back for you!’

§ LIX

Arthur stood at the end of Llacheu’s bed,
body slumped, head
bowed. One of the few
remaining lights was flickering, the wick
burning low; a wraith of smoke spiralled upward from it. Dawn
must
not be far off. He rose, walked with acute stiffness to the irritating candle
and snuffed it out. For a long while he stood
looking
at it. Empty of feeling, empty of thought. The boy
slept. The injury
looked worse than it really was. Within the passing of a few months, there
would barely be a scar. Not on the skin; not for Llacheu. But for himself and
Gwenhwyfar?
He crossed the room, opening
the door with care, slipped out
into the dim-lit corridor beyond. Bedwyr
sprang to his feet, jumping to attention. He was dishevelled, dark beard growth
shadowing his chin. One hand resting on the
door catch,
Arthur regarded his
cousin, snorted, ‘Do I appear to you as you
do to me?’ Bedwyr attempted
a lop-sided grin. ‘At least I don’t have those livid cuts and bruises.’ Closing
the door, Arthur placed his arm around Bedwyr’s shoulder, began walking with
him. ‘Remind me, next time you quarrel, lad, to let you sort it out on your
own.’ Arthur touched his fingers to his swollen cheek, winced. ‘There must be
less painful ways of settling an argument!’

‘Arthur, I ...’

‘Leave it. There is no need for words.’
Arthur paused, made his decision. ‘I intend to leave as planned. Morgause
remains
here but I need someone to watch over
her. I want you to be
that someone.’ Bedwyr hung his head, bit his lip,
found the courage to say,
with trembling
voice, ‘Then you do not want me near you. You
do not trust me.’
They had reached Arthur’s chamber. He
peered inside,
Gwenhwyfar
was asleep. They had found her, huddled and exhausted, and carried her here.
Arthur himself had undressed her, held her close while he told her that their
son was going to be all right.

To Bedwyr, he
explained, ‘I ask you to guard Morgause, lad,
because,
beyond my wife, you are the only other person I can, do, trust implicitly.’ The
night passed quiet; Arthur had lain beside Gwenhwyfar on the bed, intending to
rest for a while only, had fallen asleep
almost
before his eyes had closed. It was mid-morning before he
awoke. As he
moved, Gwenhwyfar said, ‘Do you sleep fully clothed now, then?’
Arthur opened one eye. She sat propped beside
him, her hair
tumbling around her face, cascading down her shoulders.
Her
eyes were puffy, her skin pale as
fresh-settled snow. He sat up,
groaned
as seemingly a thousand muscles roared protest. ‘It
saves the bother of
dressing.’ He swung his legs to the floor, groaned again. ‘Mithras love, but I
am stiff.’

‘
I expect
your body aches too.’ With a smile, Gwenhwyfar
slid in the lewd jest.

Arthur shifted, slowly, to look at her. He
cupped her face ii’ his hand. ‘You scared me last night, Cymraes.’ Instantly
she flashed back. ‘As you scared me!’

‘What was I to have done? Laughed it off? Let
them walk away?’

‘
You are
the King. There are better ways of proving
something a lie than fighting
over it.’ Arthur could not answer that. His body told him the same, but when
Gwenhwyfar quietly added, ‘Or were you not sure it was a lie?’ he caught his
breath.

Arthur sprang round,
grasped her hair, jerking her head sharply
back. He was leaning very close, his breath angry on her
face. ‘Let
me say this once, and once only. If ever
I find you in a compromising situation with a man, then I would not bother
fighting for you. You and he would be instantly
dead. That, I shall
personally see to.’ The force behind his anger took
her breath
away, for they were not words
stated for effect. He meant them.
’You love me that much?’ she whispered.
‘That much.’

§ LX

Two people, many miles
from Caer Luel, were interested in the
animosity
that had overspilled into hatred between Arthur and
Hueil of Alclud. One was the Lady Winifred. Her ears pricked
with interest when traders from the north-western
coast
brought embellished gossip of
the fight. A pity that the boy had
not been killed after all, but he was
young still, he might well
not reach
maturity. For Arthur she was a little more sympathetic – it would not suit her
purpose to have him dead, not
until those two brats of Gwenhwyfar’s were
safely out of the
way. As for Gwenhwyfar
herself, well, once tales were
rumoured they were hard to set aside, and
Winifred had every
intention of ensuring the
gossip of the Queen’s infidelity
received much airing. Morgause she did
not know, nor wanted to; Arthur was a fool not to have the woman dispatched,
but then, Arthur always had been the fool where women were concerned.

It was Amlawdd, a petty
lord with a smallholding of land over
to
the western coasts beyond Aquae Sulis, who was the most interested in the
spiralling gossip. Hueil’s mother and his own mother were cousins, and the boy
from the North had come to live in the South for several years. Amlawdd and he
had run as cubs from the same pack, learning to hunt and ride and fight
together. But young whelps grow to manhood, and
the
friendships of childhood dwindle
with age, the distance
between the two boys who had become men
greatening when Hueil joined with Arthur.

Amlawdd was no friend of the Pendragon. A
family feud, begun with Arthur’s father taking the wife of Amlawdd’s eldest
brother as his own, had expanded through hatred and murder.
The enmity separated the two as effectively as
the Roman-built
Wall had once separated North from South. Delight
abounded at Amlawdd’s marsh-bound hill-fortress when, as spring
flourished into full blossom, he received
personal written word
from his boyhood companion, confirming the gossip.
So Hueil was to go against the King? Hah! Amlawdd would be behind
him in that! It was too early yet to call a
war-hosting, but never
was it too early to start forging swords,
crafting shields and fashioning war spears!

June 464

§ LXI

It was time Arthur had a permanent base —
well past time. He needed a home for his wife and his sons, a stronghold to
lodge
and train his cavalry, and pastures to
breed and graze his horses.
He needed, above all, to establish a secure
and permanent base from which to rule. Until now everything was scattered, or
transitory. Marching camps, temporary grazing, a
small herd of
mares here, youngstock
there. He needed somewhere of his
own. The Summer Land and Dumnonia was
littered with abandoned old hill-forts that had seen their use before Rome came with her tidy ideas of building towns and legionary fortresses. Some of these he
knew well, others were vaguely remembered from those days of serving as a raw
youth in
Vortigern’s army. The place he
needed would be well within his
own
undisputedly held land; somewhere from where any
activities along the
Saex borders could be dealt with quickly and efficiently. Not too far from
where he could keep close
watch on Ambrosius
and Amlawdd — especially Amlawdd — and
from
where he could ride north, should, or rather when, the
need to face
Hueil came.

For some weeks, during
the blazing heat of this early June, he
had
felt a prickly sensation of unease regarding this peaceful indifference that
had settled on Britain like a quietly fallen mantle of contented sleep. It was
welcome, this peace, most welcome, but then, was there often not a dropping of
the wind or a ceasing of rain before the real storm thundered its anger?
Agreed borders were too quiet; sea lanes almost
empty save for
the trading ships. The economy was picking up. The
harvests had been good. Ambrosius, and even Winifred, were being congenial.
Hengest was getting old, his son, Aesc would soon be ruling in the Cantii land
so it was rumoured. Would the treaties hold? And for how long would the young
men of the English — all the English, not merely the Cantii — be content with
growing their crops, grazing their cattle and raising their
sons to be farmers, not warriors? How long before
another such
as Icel decided to rattle
the peace into a bloody wave of
excitement?
There had been no movement from Hueil, no
raiding, no killing. But could
it, would it, all last? A
rthur doubted it,
but it was best to cut the hay while the sun shone – and while the blue-skied
warmth of June smiled on the
world, he would take time to establish his
own stronghold. A place fit for a king.

Easing the chin strap of his helmet with one
finger, Arthur glanced behind at Gwenhwyfar who rode with the boys. He
pointed ahead, answering her weary expression of
appeal. ‘If my
memory serves me
correct we will see the place I’m thinking of
just beyond this rise.’ He
had to assume this was a temporary
hold on
war. Had to make ready for the next upsurge of wanting
and greed. He was
the Pendragon; was supreme.

And he intended to stay that way.

Gwenhwyfar was laughing,
and again Arthur turned, his
frown creasing his
face. Llacheu and Gwydre had joined her delighted laughter as young Ider said
something that increased
their amusement.
Arthur could not catch the words. Irritably
he faced forward, stared hotly between his mare’s ears. Ider was
a boy still, for all his size and strength. He
showed promise, but
then, so had Hued at first. Had placing the lad
among the men
of Gwenhwyfar’s personal bodyguard
been a wise decision? The
lad took too much on himself, assumed too
great a liberty
between that fine line of
devotion to his Lady for her protection
and that other kind of devotion. Arthur clenched his teeth.
Stupid,
unjustified thoughts! But thoughts, for all their unwarranted beginnings, that
would not, could not, leave him.

Ah, Morgause had known
full well what she was doing when
she
had used her lover to plant seeds of doubt against
Gwenhwyfar
in Arthur’s mind! Except that it was no longer Bedwyr who posed a threat to
Gwenhwyfar’s love and loyalty, but a gangling, over-sized youth who grinned and
eyed her inanely, like a love-sick moon-child. Ider followed at her heel like a
motherless pup, was always there.