Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (9 page)

Cursing, the adults wiped at the drink spilt down their
tunics.
One grabbed at Eadric others at Llacheu and Oswin, hauled them apart, shaking
them, bellowing their anger at the disturbance. Eadric’s nose was spouting
blood, Llacheu and Oswin each sported a blackening eye. A hush descended, men
stepped aside, the boys looked up. Winta stood before them.

‘
I like not such squabbling at my hearth!’ he
bellowed,
pulling the boys, one by
one, to stand in a row before him.
‘What
is this about?’ He regarded his eldest, received no
answer. With his eyes, asked Oswin. Nothing. To
Llacheu said.
‘I am waiting for explanation.’
Fingers gripping his nose, trying to
stem the blood, Eadric thought, Go on,
tell
him,
wealas boy.
Tell
tales.

Llacheu
felt no fear of Winta. The Saex man, for all his
authority, had a kindly face and gentle nature towards his
family. Aside, Llacheu had several times braved
his own
father’s fury. Nothing could
outstrip that! He took a small while
to consider an answer that would
convey the truth but not land any of them in further trouble. He decided on: ‘We
were about boy’s business, sir. Nothing more.’
Winta suppressed his spurt of laughter. ‘Boy’s business eh? Is
it
so important that you must spoil the peace of my Hall?’ Again Llacheu
considered. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, his head
bending
back to look direct into the tall man’s eyes, ‘matters are
better
settled straightway. Otherwise the thing festers and becomes out of hand.’ He
had heard his da say that. It had sounded good. And obviously worked, for Winta
was turning
away, saying, ‘Even so,
Pendragon Boy, I would rather you did
your settling beyond my Hall.’ Men
were laughing, moving aside to retrieve their gaming pieces or pour more mead,
the incident forgotten.

One hand still to his nose, Eadric extended the other to
Llacheu,
his grin broad behind the shielding fingers. He was impressed, said simply, ‘Pax?’
Llacheu hesitated.
‘If it be pax with Oswin also?’
Eadric exchanged glances with his young brother,
who
rubbed at the soreness of his
pulled hair. ‘If you’ve been
teaching him to fight so rough, then aye,
pax it had better be.’ Llacheu grinned, a smile as broad as a full moon, lifted
his fingers to touch his eye. ‘We’d best go find our mothers. Ask them to patch
us up, I suppose.’ The blood still dripping from his nose, Eadric reluctantly
agreed. In single file they trooped through the
Hall, made way past the laughing men to the women’s place. They felt no shame –
after
all, it was for the women to
tend a warrior’s brave gotten wounds.

Later,
when the trader had packed away his wares and the
women had all dispersed to their own hearth places,
Gwenhwyfar
herself settled Llacheu into his bed, leaving Enid
to tend Gwydre and Amr. The fighting had frightened her more
than she cared to admit, coming perhaps too close
to the
reminder of Winifred and her son’s existence.

‘You
must not make enemies, Llacheu.’ She stroked his hair back, that same
irritating flop across the forehead that Arthur had also. ‘You will find enough
need to fight without making cause of your own.’ Llacheu chewed his lip. He
knew his mam did not like fighting, knew she hated his da going away. And there
was
something more that troubled her, though
he did not know
what it was.

‘
I have not made an enemy of Eadric though, have I?
It ended
with us being friends.’ Gwenhwyfar smiled, tucked the
sleeping-fur tighter around
him. ‘This time
aye, but another time, such tactics may not
reap a beneficial reward.’
She blew out the lamp, made for her own bed.

She
undressed slowly, carefully folding each garment as she took them off. The lady
at
Venta
wishes
you and your sons
all
health!
Winifred would
never send such a greeting, not in
innocent friendship. What scheming
was she plotting now or was this just a chance to stab a reminder of her
presence?
Gwenhwyfar scuttled into her bed
for it was cold this
evening, the
heat of summer not yet upon them. She laughed to
herself as she wriggled
beneath the furs. So, Winifred was not quite the shriven woman of God that she
took such public care to make herself out to be! Other confessed holy women,
Gwenhwyfar knew, wore hair tunics beneath their outer robes, or wrapped
themselves tight in swaddling bands to hide their
sinful female bodies from God’s disapproving sight. Not
Winifred!
Fine silk for under-garments and nightwear? Hah!
Then the tears came through the insincere amusement.
Winifred and
her son. Llacheu was not more than four and one half years and from them, he
had death hanging over his head. Winifred would never allow Llacheu to take
place above her own Cerdic, not without a fight.

If
Arthur were here he would have chided her worrying, but he was not, and for all
the happy ease that Winta’s settlement
created
on the surface, beneath the every-day facade
Gwenhwyfar wanted, so
desperately wanted, a place, a home, of their own. A place where they could be
happy and together.

Where she, and her sons, could be safe from Winifred’s
poisoned darts.

§X

Arthur
disliked Aquae Sulis a fraction more than Lindum Colonia. Gwenhwyfar detested
the place, which is why he had
left her and
the boys with Winta. Sulis was by comparison with
Lindum and Eboracum in
the North, a flourishing and thriving town. Trade fluctuated with the seasons,
as it always had, and the buildings were in need of repair, but not to the
extent of
those towns on the eastern side
of the country. Their decay had
always been blamed on the disruption
caused by the Saex. Aquae Sulis’s grey cloak of dejection was being blamed on A
rthur. For Mithras’ sake! How was it his fault the
cobbles near
the old Minerva Bath-House were sinking, only one year
after they had been laid?
They complained
of this and that, these citizens of Sulis – or
Lindum or Eboracum, the
moans and grumbles were the same
wherever
he went – whined that the quality of goods were not as
they were, corn was overpriced, skilled labour
difficult to come
by, the roads were
full of pot-holes, defence walls zigzagged with
gaping cracks ... What
was it they wanted from him? Peace? Prosperity? He was riding his backside raw
trying for that, yet still they bellyached! With darkness falling and the
steady drizzle of rain that had
lasted for
three days now, people had gone early to their homes;
the shopkeepers
were beginning to put up their shutters for the night. Arthur walked alone, his
cloak hunched around his shoulders, head ducked against the rain. By the Bull,
even the weather was bloody miserable in this town! Lamplight from a
corner tavern spilt onto the rain-gleaming
cobbles, Arthur
glanced in as he passed; he would not say no to a drink.
For a
moment he was tempted, scrunched his
cloak tighter and walked on. He was late already and Emrys would be in enough
of a sour
mood. Damn it! What would another half hour late matter? He
ordered wine from the surly-looking bartender, smiled at
the girl cleaning the day’s used tankards and
dishes in the alcove
to one side of
the bar and sat at one of the four tables, his back to
the three men
seated at another. They had fallen silent as he entered, glowering at him with
the natural suspicion of regular customers regarding a stranger. The man
brought a terracotta flask shaped like a fox, and a pewter tankard, set them
down with a thud that sloshed a drip of red wine from the spout, the
fox’s open mouth. Amicably, Arthur thanked him,
tossed a
small battered bronze coin. Coins were becoming rare too.
Another fault of his apparently, although coinage had been rapidly declining
since before his birth – Vortigern had been hard pressed to keep an adequate
number in circulation. Aye, he would like to have a strong enough economy to
mint new coins – he would
like
to do many things. He sipped the wine,
poor quality but he had tasted worse, and
contemplated some of
those things.
Mostly things that he could envisage doing to
those pompous asses of his
Council.

Hierarchical worthies of the Church and towns and
estates of
Britain
. Older, wiser men (so they informed
him), established politicians who saw themselves as self-appointed guardians of
public morality, law and order. Their way was the only way,
they knew better and no four-and-twenty-year-old,
whoever his
father had been and
however talented on a battlefield, was
going
to tread on their toes or change the order of things.
Except Arthur thought differently. He had his path
laid firm
and was going to follow
it, Council or no Council. The meeting
had gone badly this afternoon,
ending with several of the older men walking out and leaving Arthur in a
blazing temper. He
poured more wine. He had
no liking for this additional
summons to see Emrys – Uncle he might be,
but to dictate to
the King ... Arthur sighed
and drank the wine. That was it
with family of course, the law of order
changed dramatically
where relations were
concerned. He would meet with Emrys, if
only to tell him where he and
the Council could shove their bureaucratic ideas.

The
girl had come out to wipe down the tables, she was a
young thing, ten and five, six? A slave undoubtedly; she had the
appearance
of a captured bird, thin cheeks, eyes that saw far
away, probably to the Northern hills, for she had the look of the
North
about her.

Idly Arthur read the scratchings on the plaster wall in
front of him, an exchanged feud of words.
Priscus loves
Julia Claudia
but
she says he
is
as useful as a
worn
lavatory sponge. ‘
Arthur
chuckled
at the indignant response.
‘Cadwallon
is jealous because I am
better looking,
know how to do it and
have
better equipment to do it
with!’
The other men, well into their ale, had forgotten
his
presence, had not realised who
he was, beyond a cavalry officer.
It
took several sentences before Arthur realised they were
talking of
Winifred, his Winifred, his ex-wife.

‘Are
you going to Venta then?’

‘
Aye, she’s offering good gold for skilled
carpenters. Lashing
out a fortune on this church and monastery that she’s
having built.’

‘Aye
well, she’s currying favour with the Church isn’t she? Getting her feet well
under the table.’ Arthur stole a glance over his shoulder. The smallest of the
three, a stocky little man with a drooping
moustache and
scarred face, was leaning back, tapping the side of his
nose. ‘And we all know why, of course.’ The others leant forward, expressions
questioning. The
Moustache paused for
effect, took a swig of ale. ‘She wants her
son recognised as the
Pendragon’s heir. She’s already hand-inglove with Emrys Ambrosius you know.’ Another
of the men chuckled, ‘They say as how she wants him in her bed.’ There was
derisive laughter, jeers. ‘Na’tis true, I heard it from Lord Emrys’s men only
yesterday! They were
here, in this very
tavern!’ He smacked the wooden table with
his palm, causing the flagon
and tankards to jump.

The girl smiled shyly at Arthur as she began cleaning his
table.
He lifted the wine flask for her. Pretty eyes. Dark blue. ‘We’re closing soon,
sir.’ Unmistakably from the North.

‘
You want to keep your ears open, Mab, if you’re going
along
to Venta. She pays highly for gossip of the Pendragon!’
The third man, a
burly type with only one eye and well full of
drink, caught hold of the slave
girl, as she passed. She struggled,
pushing
at him with her hands. ‘Aye, the pair of them, her and Emrys keep sharp on our
King, waitin’ their chance to hack off his essentials and take the royal torque
for their own.’ He attempted to kiss the girl.

Their shadows leapt along the wall, she trying to fend
off the man as he fumbled beneath her bodice, the other two laughing, cheering
him on. Sobbing, she begged him to let her go, raising
more
laughter. He had her breast now, was moving lower with his other hand to lift
her skirt.

‘Is
this tavern licensed as a whore-house then?’ The three men seated at their
table turned to look at Arthur.
The one with
his hand half-way up the girl’s leg laughed.
‘Happen not, but this one’s
fair game I’d wager.’ A
rthur had taken
intense dislike to the three, the one with the
moustache in particular. ‘I thought it was supposed to be the Saex
who were the bastards who raped British women.’
He set down his
tankard, slid one leg
over the bench, sat half facing the men, one
eye half closed, the other eyebrow slightly raised. His hand rested,
casually,
on his sword. ‘I suggest you let her go.’ The man held his grin, but the voice
was harsh, threatening. ‘And I suggest you shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for
you. Permanently.’ He thrust his hand higher up the girl’s thigh, and Arthur
was standing, his sword out and at the man’s throat.