Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (6 page)

‘I
scorn your talk of peace,’ she continued, ‘because always will there be a
battle, somewhere, to be fought.’ He shuffled round on his buttocks and tipped
her face up to his with one finger. Mithras, how he loved this woman! ‘The
Morrigan may send her ravens flapping about my head, but by her triple guise of
beauty, hag, or carrion bird, my heart beats
glad
that I have you as wife.’ Arthur brushed her cheek with his
thumb, a tinge of self-consciousness touching his
beard-
shadowed cheeks. It was not
often he found the courage to
speak these deep-held feelings of love.

‘I
need allies, and peace among the English. I need to show Winta, and through him
other Saex settlers, that we can live as friends, that we can each achieve what
we desire without the need to kill. Winta is a good man and, I believe, a
trustworthy
one.’ Taking her hand, his eyes
implored her to back his
reasoning as
he admitted the last truth. ‘He intends, eventu
ally, to call himself King of the Lindissi, the people of Lindum.’
Her finger, that had sensuously been stroking his
back,
stilled. ‘Lindum will not much like that.’
Arthur slid a sarcastic smile across his face. ‘Is there anything
the
people of Lindum do like?’ He turned to her, serious again, his hands going
around her broad figure. ‘Ah Gwen, so many
are
against me. They see no further than the end of their noses.’ He chuckled,
touched his finger to the side of his own nose that
was a little over-large and prominent, though not
out of
proportion to the firmness of his other features. ‘Mine is large
enough, but I can see past it! I am doing right.’ The burst of
enthusiasm faltered. He lay back across the bed,
eyes closed. ‘I
think I do right.’ For a moment, they were silent.
Gwenhwyfar settled herself
under the
bed-fur, huddling into the slight warmth that remained
where she had
lain before. ‘What of Lindum?’ she asked
companionably,
the anger quite gone. She cared nothing for the
future of this withered town, in fact, took a delight in what would
be
greeted with horror by these arrogant, obnoxious people.

‘Trade
will prosper and inter-marriages will become
commonplace.
It is already happening where the Saex have
been settled for many years.
What was British is becoming English.’

‘And
that does not bother you?’ A
rthur climbed
into bed, wriggled down under the furs as his
wife had done. He jammed his cold feet against her for warmth.
Gwenhwyfar squealed and kicked them away. When
they stopped
laughing, he said, ‘It
bothers me. But it bothers me more that if I
do not do this thing in a sensible and practical way, then all that is
British may become swamped and destroyed. Better
to fight for the
little and win, than the whole and lose.’ Gwenhwyfar
caressed his cheek. ‘Do not doubt yourself, husband. You do the right.’ Arthur
beamed a sudden grin. He sat up, grabbed her hands. ‘Then you will ride north
with me on the morrow, to meet with Winta?’

‘What!’
Gwenhwyfar jolted upright.

‘He
holds a feast to celebrate – some long-standing feud prompts the excess of victory.
I have been invited, you also. Llacheu will love it! Winta has several sons,
one his age.’

‘But
I am pregnant! The babe will be born any day now!’ Gwenhwyfar put a hand on her
bulging abdomen, could not believe she was hearing this nonsense. ‘You have
been back a few hours and now you are riding off again? Oh, Arthur!’ Not
hearing her, Arthur rubbed his hands together, bubbling
excitement chasing away his tiredness. ‘It would set a future seal
on this alliance were my third son to be born at
Winta’s hearth.’

‘
No!’ Gwenhwyfar spoke with such venom
that Arthur drew back.’No?’ Astonished.

‘No.
I will not give birth in some squalid, Saex hovel!’ Winta’s Hall is finer than
some of our crumbling Roman buildings.’ Emphatic. ‘No.’
Arthur shrugged, left the bed and began searching for
discarded clothing, started to dress. Would he
never under
stand women? ‘That’s your final word?’

‘That’s
my final word.’

‘I
will take Llacheu – and Gwydre.’

‘Take
them.’ Winta hopes to welcome my Lady.’

‘Then
he will be disappointed.’ Arthur laced the last fastening of his tunic, ambled
towards the door. ‘I will see what food is in the kitchen, my stomach growls
like a wounded bear. Why are you being so obstinate?’

‘Why
are you being so inconsiderate?’
He paused,
said with his back to her, Winta and I are
justifiably suspicious of
each other’s intentions. To show good faith I told him you will ride with me.
No man intending war
would bring his
pregnant wife.’ He had the door open. ‘You will
come with me Gwenhwyfar. That is my final word.’ He walked
out.

Gwenhwyfar hurled a pillow, its stuffing bursting through
the
linen
as it thudded against the closing door, scattering a cloud of goose feathers.

‘Bastard!’
she screamed. ‘Tyrant! Saex-loving cur! I will not come! I will not!’

§ VII

Midday was not much lighter than evening, with persistent
drizzle
turning to sleet. Gwenhwyfar tucked a bearskin tighter around her body; for
what seemed the hundredth time she
attempted
to refasten the leather curtaining of the swaying
litter. Her numbed
fingers fought with the lacings; a gust of wind snarled through the opening and
tore the thing from her.
‘Damn it!’ she
cursed. The litter jolted, forcing her to cling
wildly to the side. She heaved herself back among the cushions,
turning
her back to the flapping curtain and icy swirl of sleet
beyond. A pain was niggling within her. She shut her eyes. ‘Let
this
not be the babe coming. Not yet!’ She felt sick, her head ached and her bladder
needed emptying again.

Hooves
drew alongside. Arthur leaned from the saddle and peered in. ‘Mithras! Are you
all right? You look like death!’

‘
Thank you very much!’ Gwenhwyfar’s response was as
barbed as the weather. ‘Since you are so concerned, husband, I assure
you I feel ten times worse than I look!’

‘
Do you want to halt a while?’ Arthur had to shout,
his
speech blown away by the wind.

‘
Aye, I want to stop. I want to climb
out of this wallowing bier. I want to be in the warm and dry, back within the
safe confine of my rooms at Lindum!’ She was screeching at him.

Cheerily.
‘Not far now.’ Through gritted teeth. ‘If you say that once more, I will slap
you.’
Arthur grinned. ‘In all truth, ‘tis
not far. But we will stop.’
He spurred his horse forward, shouting
orders.

The
litter lurched to a halt, a slave came to help her mistress from the
conveyance. Out here the wind stung, assaulting the brain like a battering-ram.
It tore Gwenhwyfar’s wrap from her head, whipping her hair free of pins and
combs. She stumbled from the road, crouched, uncaring that there was no shelter
to provide privacy. A pain shuddered through her.

At this moment, she also cared little that she might give
birth here
in this frozen, lifeless wasteland. She adjusted her clothing and struggled
against the wind back to the litter.

‘Lady?’
Always so formal, Cei. Always speaking in neat,
precise Latin. ‘Is something amiss? The child ... ?’ He
whirled
to Arthur. ‘I said this was foolishness!’
Others
were gathering around; Arthur himself swinging
down from his horse,
striding towards her. ‘Gwenhwyfar?’
She gave in to fatigue and despair. ‘I cannot, will not,
climb back into that ...’ she snapped her fingers at the litter, ‘that,contraption.’
Her legs buckled and she slid to the ground, sat
there hunched and exhausted, wishing she were dead. ‘I can go
no further.’ She sobbed then, her scalding tears
rolling down
her cheeks to drip onto her cold, chafed hands.

There came a lull in the wind, an eerie stillness
hovered above the winter-blasted landscape. The escort, sitting astride
impatient
mounts, glanced nervously at each other. Snow was coming.

Squatting beside his wife, Arthur rubbed her icy fingers
in his
rough
hands. ‘You cannot give up here, Cymraes. Not in front of the men.’

‘
I can. I have.’ The pain from the cold in her
fingers and toes
was unbearable, that
other pain, low in her abdomen, un
pleasantly insistent.

‘
We have only two or three more miles. There will
be warmth
and comfort soon and women to help you.’

‘I
had all that in Lindum.’

‘This
is not like you, Gwen. You are strong-willed and determined, a fighter. You do
not usually give in so easily.’ Arthur put cheery encouragement into his voice,
deliberately hiding the worry. They could not linger out here on this road. The
weather was closing in, they must press on.

Gwenhwyfar
knew it as much as he, but did not care. Cared for nothing except the pain that
was growing in her belly and
the cold that
was eating into her. ‘I do not
usually
have to travel in a sick-making
litter, in the depth of winter with a babe about
to be born!’ Her voice
was rising, her nerve nearing breaking
point.
If only she knew what lay ahead! She might have to birth
the child in a
hut which amounted to little less than a pigsty, with uncouth barbarians
looking on. None would speak Latin,
let
alone the British tongue. What food did they eat, what
customs did they follow? How did they regard
childbirth? What
if she bore a daughter, would they laugh at Arthur for
being presented with a girl? He probably had not thought of that possibility;
damn it, had not thought of anything! The few Saex Gwenhwyfar had met had been
among the British people. Never had she gone among the English. She
knew next to nothing of their domestic life. They
were a savage
race who it was said, drank the blood of their children in
sacrifice, the men were brutes and the
women drunken whores.
Arthur did not fear them, but he was a man in a
man’s world, not a woman fearful of approaching childbirth.

Arthur
chewed his lip, looked out over the bleak terrain.
There was a dark shadow away over to the west. He hoped it was
rain,
but knew it would be snow. The wind had risen again and
was tearing like a cast spear across the flat land, moaning like a
banshee
spirit come to announce death. ‘Will you ride with me on Hasta?’ he asked.

Gwenhwyfar
nodded dumbly, unsure whether horseback would be better or worse than the
litter. He lifted her, helped
her awkward
weight across his horse’s withers, mounted behind
her.

Another
mile and the first flakes of snow began to swirl, falling quickly, blinding
eyes and agitating horses who side
stepped
and snorted, trying to turn their tails against the
stinging whiteness.
Arthur grimly kept Hasta to a steady walk, his hand tight on the rein, the
animal dancing beneath the unaccustomed double weight. Once, Hasta’s hooves
slipped on
a patch of ice, his hindlegs
skidding. Arthur cursed as he heard
Gwenhwyfar,
leaning heavily against him, groan. He let the
reins slacken for the
horse to find his own balance.

The ride was a nightmare. Arthur cursed himself; the idea
had been a good one, an unparalleled gesture of
friendship with
the people of the
Humbrenses. What use gestures if he killed his
wife in
carrying them out? Even above the wind, he could hear
Llacheu wailing from the second litter, and Gwydre’s
accompanying screaming. The children had slept for
most of
this day’s journey, but they were now cold and hungry. Would
they never reach Winta’s settlement! Cei, riding to his left, pointed suddenly,
peering through the swirling whiteness. ‘There, smoke! Look, Winta Ingas Ham.’

‘
Thank the gods! Gwen,’ Arthur spoke soft in her
ear.
‘Cymraes, we are here.’ Gwenhwyfar did not answer. She burrowed her
head deeper
into his wolf-skin cloak. His
arms tight about her waist, Arthur
felt her body shudder.

‘
Cymraes? You are not afraid?’ She
nodded, desperately fighting back more tears. I .now nothing of them as people,
Arthur. Nothing