Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (53 page)

For several seconds
Arthur glared at them, his breathing
heavy, jaw clamped
tight. His eyes rested on Ider. ‘How many
dead?’
he barked. Ider answered, gave also the number
wounded.

‘And horses lost?’
Again Ider
answered, monosyllabic. For a long moment
Arthur
glowered at the young man, then let his furious eyes
range over the others before sweeping his cloak off his shoulders
and
striding across the wooden floor into his own, private chamber beyond the
public Hall. The men let go their breath
with
sighs of relief, squatted again before the heat of the fire. He
would be
back, of course, after seeing to the well-being of his
wife and son. And then, he’d have something to say. They were
not
looking forward to the prospect.

Gwenhwyfar was curled before the fire, drowsing.
Her head ached. She had thought of going to bed, but had not the energy
or inclination to move away from the warmth of
the comforting
flames. The blaze
stirred as the door opened, closed. She did
not look up or open her
eyes, knew it must be Arthur returned
from
wherever it was he had been. Only Arthur would enter their private chamber
without knocking. Or Llacheu, but he
was abed, asleep.

Arthur crossed the room
and hunkered down opposite her on
the far side of the
hearth, holding his spread palms to the heat.
He
said nothing for a long moment, watched his wife, then said
at last, ‘That
is quite a bruise to your head.’
Eyes still
closed, Gwenhwyfar answered, ‘I can’t let you have
the honour of all the
battle scars you know.’ She sat up, smiled at him, her fingers reaching to
touch lightly the lump to her forehead, ‘Though I think I’ll not take too many.’
He chuckled at her jest, added wood to the fire, watching as the log caught, a
jet of blue-yellow flame hissing from an attached, withered leaf. ‘What
happened?’ It was asked
professionally, as
he would of one of his officers. No criticism or
reprimand, just the
asking.

‘
We were
ambushed. Three miles along the road. Amlawdd’s
son.’ Casually, Arthur
added a second log, settled himself on his heels the more comfortably. ‘Na, I
know that, I mean what happened?’ She did not quite follow, shrugged her
shoulders slightly.
‘What usually happens in
an ambush? We were riding home, we
came
to where the scrub narrows into the track and they
attacked.’ Arthur stood,
his hand resting automatically on his sword pommel by his side. ‘So, my
Artoriani, my men whom I drill and drill and drill again, were not alert? Had
set no post rider? Sent no scouts ahead?’
Wearily,
Gwenhwyfar shook her head. He was angry, though
he was trying to hold it
in check. She supposed he had every right to be. All she could answer, justify,
was, ‘We were three miles from the Caer, Arthur. Would you expect to be
attacked so near your own stronghold?’ He let his hand drop from his sword with
a brief, conceding
gesture. Na, he would
not. But then, neither would he expect
his men, men assigned as escort,
bodyguard duty, to make assumptions. ‘They are answerable, Gwenhwyfar. Their
lax supervision put your life and my son’s in danger. I cannot do nothing about
it.’
He was returning to the door, had his
hand on the latch,
when Gwenhwyfar
twisted around to plead, ‘The error has
taught them –all of us – well
enough. I was as much to blame.’

‘
It has
not, and you were not. Failure to do their duty
efficiently is not a
mere error, Cymraes.’ And he had gone, shutting the door with a firm click
behind him. She knew she would hear every word he spoke to the men, for Arthur
in a temper could shout very, very loud.

Ider sat hunched against the outside wall of
the latrines. A safe location to sit and brood, knowing no one would come and
bother you in such a disagreeable place. Across
his knees was his
sword. He had
cleaned and cleaned it again these past few
hours, but still he could not seem to polish away those smears of
sticky, clinging blood. To any other eye the
metal would appear
to gleam, but Ider could see the stains, knowing that
the blood spilt this day – na, yesterday it was now – could so easily have been
his beloved Lady’s. He had failed her, and had failed his
Lord, and as the Pendragon had said, he was not fit
to call
himself Artoriani.

‘
Call yourself a soldier?’
Arthur had
sneered at them all, those
dejected,
embarrassed, worthless curs who had ridden as escort.
‘Call yourself
Artoriani?
Blood of
Mithras, my
son could do a better
job!’
He had not been scolding Ider alone, but the lad had taken the rebuke
personally, because he felt responsible. No matter
that the Turma was on latrine duty for the next month, with
their
pay docked and confined to the Caer, punishment could never be enough for Ider.
He was unworthy of his Lady, and nothing, nothing would atone for the fact that
because of him, she or her son could have died, as his friends had died.

They deserved to be avenged. The father of
that bastard who
had attacked them deserved
his heart cut out and fed to the
dogs.
It ought to be done, by God! Someone ought to take
revenge for a wicked
day’s work. I could do it! Ider thought. I
could
slay the whore-son’s father, were I not confined to
barracks. Fortunate that he had an excuse to
dismiss the planted
idea, shrug it aside. It was the Pendragon’s place
to deal with this thing, not Ider’s. But it had not been Arthur who had so
nearly allowed Gwenhwyfar to die.

§ VIII

Morning. Scudding grey clouds, fidgeting
across a sullen sky,
had blown in cold in
addition to wet; and there was not much of
a promise of improvement. The horses being made ready for the
day’s routine patrol snorted and stamped against
the chill
easterly wind. Gwenhwyfar was assisting to saddle them; she
enjoyed being at the stables, grooming, oiling the
leather of
bridle or saddle, tacking up. Since those first days of early
childhood she had helped with the horses, saw no reason why she should stop now.

A man, short of breath, came up behind her. ‘He
is not to be found, my Lady.’ Wrestling with the girth straps of the saddle,
she answered
irritably, ‘Nonsense. Lord
Pendragon has confined my escort to
the
Caer. Ider must be here somewhere.’ She prodded the
horse’s blown belly,
tried again with the girth.

Unwilling to disagree
with the Queen, the man had no
option. For over an
hour he had been searching the place,
asking questions, peering and prying,
in, under and behind.
Lady Pendragon had asked him to fetch Ider to her and he
could
not
find him. Emphatically he stated, ‘He is not within this
Caer my Lady.’
With a
grunt of success, Gwenhwyfar fastened the girth
buckle, stood, hands on
hips, considering. Ider was no boy to act churlish from a justified rebuking,
had faced harsher scorn on the drill ground. Surely he would not disobey a
punishment
and take himself off in a temper
of sulking? Llacheu would, were
Arthur to punish with his tongue in the
way he had lashed Ider and the men yesterday, but then Llacheu was a child,
Ider a grown man.

‘Have you spoken with last night’s officer of
the Watch?’ Gwenhwyfar queried, running her fingers down inside the now tight
girth, smoothing any wrinkles from the sensitive skin beneath. ‘Question him.
Discreetly.’ Where was Ider? Where would he go? Did he lie sodden in drink
somewhere? Gwenhwyfar had made a cursory search for him herself, first thing,
intending to ask how he fared this
morning,
for he had taken the death of comrades hard. A
difficult thing, to bear
grief alone.

The man returned,
panting harder for Caer Cadan was no small
site. He swallowed several times, bent forward, hands on
thighs to
gain breath, when
able to talk, gasped, ‘Ider rode out at first light.
Said
he had urgent business to attend. Direct orders.’
The fool, the damned, idiotic fool! Gwenhwyfar knew instinc
tively
where he had gone. And why. The horse she had been saddling was a war stallion,
well muscled, sharp tempered and agitated by the needling rain. No mount for a
woman, but
Gwenhwyfar had handled horses
nearly all her life. She hitched
her
skirt and clambered into the saddle, kicking him into a canter almost before
she was settled, heading for the Eastern gateway.

The horse responded eagerly, Gwenhwyfar’s
urgency communicating as excitement. The men, those not on given duties,
followed her across the Caer at a run, curious in the wake of
those drumming hooves. Pulling the horse up,
Gwenhwyfar slid
to the ground, flinging the reins at the nearest,
gape-mouthed onlookers and ran into the guard room, pausing only for her
eyes to adjust to the dim light within. She ran
up the two flights
of wooden steps, calling for Arthur, knowing he was
atop with his officers, inspecting some minor modifications to the watch tower.
‘My Lord!’ Her anguished cry as she burst out into the daylight brought heads
snapping round.

The Pendragon walked
with long strides to meet her,
shouldering aside
those in his way. What the hell was wrong? Had word come at the Western gate?
Several thoughts flashed
through his mind,
the most alarming concerning Hueil. That
he would soon be gathering an army was a certainty. The King’s
spies kept watch on trouble again flaring in the
North, although Arthur did not need spies to forewarn him of Hueil’s
intentions.
The day news had come that the old lord of Alclud had been
hounded from his own land into exile was
confirmation
enough. Hueil had proclaimed himself Lord, and Hueil would
not wait long.

Anxiously Arthur caught Gwenhwyfar in his
hands, held her
at arm’s length, steadying
her, searching her face for clues.
What she gasped was very far from
expectation.

‘
I think
Ider has gone to challenge Amlawdd!’ The hubbub of
voices ceased, all
attention fell on Gwenhwyfar.

Meriaun, Gwenhwyfar’s nephew, and, since Cei’s
death, Arthur’s second-in-command, called across from the rampant walkway, ‘Ider
is confined to barracks.’
Turning her head,
Gwenhwyfar glanced briefly at him,
urgently at Arthur, clutching
fearfully at his arm. ‘He was distraught at the shambles of yesterday. I fear
he has gone to prove himself worthy of the Artoriani and to take revenge! I
know he has! Arthur, he will be in grave danger!’
Arthur’s eyes flickered, several unreasonable thoughts
springing
to mind. How did she know? Was she, then, so close to Ider that she knew his
every move? Mentally, he shrugged
the
jealousy aside. Such a foolish gesture summed Ider up. A lad
of brave talk and heroic ideals, believing in more
than the
truth, and living in a world
of exaggeration and glorious
triumph. Ider was still wet behind the
ears; he needed a few
more sobering battles
to bring his young heels firmly back to an
old earth.

Gwenhwyfar was plucking
at her husband’s sleeve, her
fingers twitching
desperate concern. ‘You called the men worthless last night, Arthur, and worse.
Ider would have been so hurt.’ She moved her hand, laid her long, slim fingers
on
Arthur’s chest, her expression willing
him to understand and
not be angry. ‘He
is a good cavalryman. In years to come he will be one of your best, but for now
he is fresh from youth and angry
over the death of his friends.’ Arthur
had heard enough. Abruptly he tossed aside her arm.
‘So, am I not angry over the death of my men? An attack on my
family?
Did this whore’s whelp think I intended to do nothing? Expect me to let Amlawdd
get away with this insult from his
son?’ he
did not wait for an answer, was already swinging
towards the steps,
barking orders to make the men ready. ‘It is
not
for a young pup to take matters into his own hands. When I
give orders I expect them to be obeyed!’
Gwenhwyfar bit her lip.
She had not
succeeded in keeping her husband’s temper in
check then. At the first
step, he finished, ‘I was intending to let
Amlawdd
sweat for a few days. If Ider, the fool, has gone to slay
him, we could
have a full bloody war on our hands.’ He did not pause as he ran down the two
flights of steps and out into the grey-cloud daylight. ‘Amlawdd will kill him.’
He snarled over his shoulder, ‘Which will save me the bother of stringing him
up myself.’