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‘There is nothing we can do for him, Cymraes,
save go and find his body and give him burial.’
Bitter, Gwenhwyfar pushed him from her, her hands
viciously
thumping on his chest. ‘So, you let Amlawdd attack your family and murder your
men without revenge?’
He contained an angry
retort, accepting her remark as
justified, misguided perhaps, but
justified.

‘
I
know what I am doing, Cymraes. Trust me. Please?’
She was on the verge of shouting
again, but something in his
voice caught at her, a hint of
intention, a self-made promise
that he was not lying, but waiting. ‘I do trust you,’
she
acknowledged, ‘where men are concerned.’
Her smile widened.
‘Well? Are we going?’ She picked up her saddle bag,
planted a cheery kiss on his cheek as she passed him on her way to the door. ‘But
trust you to keep your bracae on where a woman’s concerned? I’d have more faith
in a cockerel laying an egg!’ Arthur laughed, sauntered after her, linked his
arm through hers as they strolled down the incline to the waiting horses. It
was a fine day, the rain quite gone, the earth smelling rich and
dark from its wetting. The sun had risen in a
splendour of bright
hope and
Gwenhwyfar screwed her eyes against its morning-low
glare. When they
reached the horses, Arthur bent, took
Gwenhwyfar’s
knee and hoisted her into the saddle. She settled
herself comfortably,
walked her horse beside Arthur’s as they
rode
towards the gate-house. Asked, almost casually, ‘And does
Amlawdd know that Rhica will not be returning from
his
hunting?’ Arthur pushed into a trot, answered curtly, ‘No, but he
soon will.’
They found Ider where Brigid
said they would, lying beside the
curve of the river, half hidden by
last autumn’s dead bracken with the broken haft of a spear protruding at an
angle from his
stomach, the dried ooze of
dark blood staining his tunic.
Squatting beside the body, Arthur
massaged his face with his hand. No matter how many deaths he witnessed, each
brought
that rise of bile. The fool, the
damn-fool lad. What had he
hoped to
achieve? If it were an easy thing to be rid of that poxed
bastard Amlawdd, then Arthur himself would have
slit him
open years past. But to die
like this ... again, he wiped his
face, sat a moment, staring at the
spear shaft, thinking, saying, nothing. He heard a footfall behind and leapt
up, spinning around, grasped Gwenhwyfar and turned her aside in the one
swift-made motion. ‘You do not want to see, Cymraes.’
Her smile was weak, a brave face. ‘There are many
things I do
not want Arthur, but I seem to get them anyway.’
He let her go, stood with
her, his arm light around her waist as she too looked at the bloody mess that
had once been a promising young man.

Tears were trickling down her face as
Gwenhwyfar knelt
beside the body. His face
was bruised, one lip gashed. They had
beaten him first then. Did she
love him? Arthur had asked that
of her, and
now she asked herself. Arthur angered her so often, he was not always faithful
to her. To take a lover would be one
way of paying back the frequent
pain Arthur caused her, but then, you did not cure a wound to the thigh by
making another on the arm.

Ider? A lover? He had made her laugh when she
felt like
crying, made her feel safe when
Arthur was not around. She
had liked
him, but loved him beyond the love one gave to a
good friend? No, there was only one Gwenhwyfar loved, which is why she
choked down the pain and kept her eyes closed. She
tentatively touched
the bruised swelling on Ider’s cheek, drew
back
immediately with a squeal, leapt to her feet. ‘Christ God’s
mercy!’ she
yelped, ‘he’s alive, Arthur!’
The Pendragon
had instinctively drawn his sword at her
startled exclamation. He
dropped it to the grass, flung himself down beside Ider, reaching to search for
a beat of life. It was there! Faint, but there! They fashioned a litter from
blankets and spears for Ider,
riding
slowly, stopping frequently, and left Rhica’s body where
Ider had been found, impaled by that same broken
haft of spear.
Except now, it wore a dragon pennant so that Amlawdd
would know when they found his son — Arthur had already insured through Brigid
that he would be found — that Arthur had declared the war, and dared Amlawdd to
respond.

June 465

§ XV

‘
My head aches.’
Gwenhwyfar glanced up from the letter she was
writing at her
son. He did seem rather pale. ‘You have been in the sun
overlong, go sit in the shade a while.’

‘
But the fish prefer the sun, I’ll not catch anything if
I move.’
Gwenhwyfar
laughed, pointed at the rod and line. ‘You have not caught anything anyway!’
That was true, but the boy
had no intention of conceding her point. He fitted bait to the hook, cast his
line and watched the worm wriggle a moment beneath the cool, green water. He
sat on the bank, his feet dangling into the river; there were fish, he could
see
them further out sheltering in the weeds mid-stream. Once or twice he saw
one rise, take a fly. He would do better
with
a lighter weight line and a fly for bait, worms did not seem
to be
favoured this day. Happen the shade would be better; he
swivelled his head to study the overhanging trees up-river. Pike
might lurk there, in those shadows – his mouth
opened in a
silent oh as a figure
came from out of the shade, its finger pressed
firm to lips, head
shaking. Grinning, Lladcheu immediately understood, entered into the jest.

His father had been gone several days, buying
horses in
Dumnonia. Always they needed
horses. The breeding and
training of
a war-horse did not happen overnight, and illness or
injury accounted
for many a beast being put out to pasture or destroyed. Constantly, the stock
had to be kept up to number.
There were men
Arthur had especially appointed as horse
buyers, horse traders who knew
their job, whom Arthur paid
well, but
occasionally the Pendragon liked to go out for himself,
to barter and haggle, to see the bad against the
good. And to be
seen among the people of Britain.

He had returned to Caer Cadan to be told his
wife and son were somewhere down by the river, had ridden to find them.

Tethering Lamerei among the trees, Arthur had
crept beneath the cool shadows, intending to leap out and startle the both of
them, but Llacheu had turned his head, spotted his
father.
Arthur motioned him to stay quiet, grinned back at the boy as
Llacheu entered the game.

Gwenhwyfar had her back propped against a
tree, was bent
over a wax tablet lying
against her knees. The stylus was
between her teeth as she thought on
what to write next. So
difficult, trying to
be friendly yet formal. She added a few more words into the soft wax, yelped as
two hands dug into her waist,
the stylus scoring across the wax face,
scratching through the handwriting.

‘
You
turd!’ she chided, leaping to her feet, the stylus dropping
from her
fingers, falling into the grass. ‘You’re more the child than our son!’ Arthur
grinned at her, then across to Llacheu, ‘I’m a better
fisherman though – you’d do better in the shade, lad, it’s too hot
out
here.’
Gwenhwyfar was standing with her
hands spread on her hips.
With her copper-gold hair braided and wound
about her head and wearing a thin-woven, sleeveless tunic, she looked cool,
summery. Her cross expression did not fool her husband, he knew she was pleased
to see him. He tweaked a shoulder strap aside, kissed her shoulder, then her
neck.

‘Missed me?’ he murmured.

‘Not in the slightest,’ she replied, sliding
her arms about his waist and offering a more intimate kiss of greeting.

‘Can I see to Lamerei?’ Llacheu asked, all
interest in fish disappearing now his father was home.

‘Aye, lad, I’ve watered her but you could
take her up to the
Caer and rub her down.’
Arthur mischievously pulled a pin
from
Gwenhwyfar’s hair, loosening the wind of braiding so that
one side slid
down. She batted his hand, tried to refasten it as her husband walked with
their son into the trees towards the patiently waiting mare.

Boosting his son into the
saddle, Arthur handed him the reins. ‘No cantering, it’s too hot and she’s come
a long way
today.’
Llacheu nodded
his head. ‘I’ll only walk her.’ He did not feel
like doing more, even though this was a rare chance to
ride his
da’s horse. His head ached, and
his throat felt scratchy and dry.
He headed the mare for the roadway
leading up into the Caer, found he was not much enjoying the ride.

A
rthur,
wearing riding gear, felt hot and uncomfortable
under the mail and leather. The river beckoned cool and
inviting.
Returning to Gwenhwyfar he began to strip, dumped
his clothes in a pile beside her and plunged naked into the river,
sending
a spray of water across the bank and over his wife.

Gwenhwyfar squealed and
called him a colourfully expressive
name. He laughed and
deliberately splashed her again before diving under and swimming a few yards
upstream. The world
below the surface was
deliciously cool and green. Arthur smiled
to himself as a few fish swam
busily out of his way: Llacheu
needed some
tips in fishing it seemed! He surfaced, rolled onto
his back and let the
current float him back downstream, until, opposite Gwenhwyfar again, he sat in
the shallows, enjoying the coolness lap around his body.

‘Who do you write to?’ he asked, pillowing
his head on the bank, closing his eyes against the fierce glare of the sun.

‘Ider. He sent word that he is healing well.
I write to tell him that we are thinking of him and wish him with us.’
Silence. Arthur stirred his feet, sending rippling
waves
lapping at the reeds. ‘If you were free of me, would you take
another as husband?’ He let his legs float before
him, the
muscles taut, keeping them
straight against the flow of the
river.

‘
I have no
wish to be free of you.’ Gwenhwyfar smiled adding
with a jest, ‘At least
not most of the time. When you are in full flood with some raging anger, then I
might be occasionally tempted.’ The water swirled as Arthur began climbing out
and up the bank. ‘Na, I am serious here. It is a good wager that I shall not
live to old age. How many soldiers do you see
with grey hair and
wrinkled skin?’ Folding the two wooden halves of the
tablet together,
Gwenhwyfar secured the
stylus safely and cradled her up-drawn
knees, watching Arthur nib
himself dry with his under-tunic. ‘There’s many a good soldier who has received
his retirement
discharge.’ With a defiant
tilt to her chin, she added, ‘As you well
know.’ It was an uncomfortable
subject, talking of this was
tempting the
Fates. The old stories came to mind, how the three Goddesses wove the threaded
patterns of life. The shuttles could
so
easily become snared, tangled – it was never known when one
of them could be listening, and to talk of
something unpleasant
might just amuse the Goddess to weave it onto her
loom.

‘Would you?’

‘Would I what?’
He stood with his back to the river, bent over, drying his legs.
‘Take
another as husband.’

‘
What is
this?’ She took a breath, answered patiently but
with finality, ‘No, I
would not.’ He looked up, tossed his damp tunic to dry in the sun. ‘Not even
Ider?’ For a moment Gwenhwyfar thought he was still teasing,
realised he was not. She had to think carefully
before
answering. It was in her mind to storm to her feet, and slap his
face and stamp off in a temper, but that would not be the right
reaction. If he was deliberately goading her,
then he could play
this nonsense game by himself. ‘I am writing to Ider
for the
reasons I told you. Because he is
Artoriani, and lying wounded
in some far-off place away from his
friends, who he regards as family. Ider is a good lad, he does his duty to the
best of his ability, and he makes me laugh. For all that, I would not wed with
him, because I happen to love the man I already have as husband and no other
could ever replace him.’