Ja, his mother would be angry. And Cerdic, who had taken a woman and was now, he considered, ready to become a man, cared naught.
June 468
VI
The sea had a mild swell, with a few ponderous waves and an over-enthusiastic following wind that billowed and buffeted the square, blue-grey sail. There was no need for the oars. If this strength continued, the crossing down to the mouth of the Liger River would be fast. There was a way to go, however, and already rain clouds were gathering in a squall to the west; wind and sea could so abruptly change for the worse.
Arthur was leaning on the stern rail, peering at the white-foamed wake scudding behind the craft. The land was now only a thin, grey smudge on the horizon. Greater Britain, the last he would see of it for a month or two. He snorted private amusement; the weather might be more hospitable on the other side of the sea. Grey days and drizzling rain had persisted across the south coast of Britain for three weeks. The Liger Valley was normally more clement, kinder to weary bones and a marching army.
Another man joined him, walking unsteadily across the deck. He grabbed the rail, rested his hands on the curve of the smooth wood, stood as Arthur did, leaning forward, staring at the swirl of water below. Only, his fingers gripped tighter as his stomach rose and fell with the motion. His skin had tinged pale and his mouth curved distinctly downward. Bedwyr, for all his experience of adventurous travelling, was not one for the open sea.
“The horses settled?” Arthur asked, peering over his shoulder at the horse-line ranged along the centre of the flat-decked craft. A few had ears back, heads high and eyes rolling, but they had the men with them to stroke their necks, talk soft, keep them calm. They had all – save four – loaded well into this craft and the others of the flotilla. Those four they had left behind, it was not worth the risk or effort to force them up the narrow ramps onto the flat decks of the transporters.
Without speaking, Bedwyr nodded. At this moment he did not give a damn about horses, boats, or anything save blessed, firm, dry land.
“The swell will be somewhat stronger on the voyage back,” Arthur proclaimed, unsympathetically, “for we will be returning nearing winter, November happen, the seas can be rough at that time of year.”
“Are you so certain we will be away such a short while? I do not know this man Syagrius, King of Soissons and the Northern Gauls. Can he be trusted? We cannot hold off the Goths on our own.”
Those same thoughts had nagged at Arthur’s mind also, but it was too late to question now. They were committed to this thing, had to see it through. “I knew Syagrius when he was a young lad, preening his new-acquired feathers of manhood,” Arthur said. “I would not rate him high on my list of commanders to be well respected; but Rome has commissioned him in this fool adventure along with us. He has supplied us with these ships. I imagine he would not unnecessarily spend his treasury without expecting to make good use of the end result. We will know soon enough if he does not meet with us at Juliomagus.” Arthur casually shrugged his shoulders. “Well, then, we leave Gaul to sort its own affairs; we secure Less Britain; then turn around and come home.”
It all sounded so simple with the excitement of the sea rushing past the ship’s keel and the wind crying through the sail’s rigging. With everything ahead planned and hopeful.
“More important,” Arthur continued, “can we trust those fat-arsed bureaucrats in Rome? Too many of them are interested only in their own gain – offer a bribe of the right weight in gold and anything can happen.”
A stronger gust of wind bounded from the west, pitched the boat deeper into the swell. Bedwyr groaned, leaned further over the side and vomited. Arthur slapped his cousin hard between the shoulders. “Aye,” he chuckled, “talk of Rome often has that effect on me also!”
Bedwyr glowered at him. “Jesu Christ, Arthur, why did you agree to this damn-fool idea?”
“You were keen enough these last few days – feasted and drank as well as the rest of us last night.”
At the unwanted reminder of the indulgence of food and wine, Bedwyr again spewed what was left in his guts over the side. “To my regret.”
Seasickness was a curse not visited on the Pendragon, nor his father before him, nor Gwenhwyfar. Arthur folded his arms along the rail, his body swaying easily with the lift and rise of the craft. Last night. The traditional farewell feast, something the Artoriani had initiated years past. Gwenhwyfar had been there with them at Llongborth, where the ships were moored ready for loading, waiting for this day’s tide. She had sat beside him, laughing, joining with the rowdy singing; dancing with him, swirling around and around to the lively reels. Her forced smile had hidden her fears, her bright eyes the sorrow of parting. “Not for long,” Arthur had assured her during those few, brief hours of privacy they had shared in their tent. “I will be returning soon enough.”
Bedwyr wiped the back of his hand over the sour taste left on his lips. “I might be eager for a campaign in Less Britain, and happen across the borders into Gaul, but God’s love, I had forgotten the misery of these damn, wallowing boats!”
Arthur said nothing. He was looking again at where that distant land merged between sea and sky. His thoughts were there, with Gwenhwyfar and his child daughter. The land was almost gone. Was it land or cloud he could see? He had sounded so confident last night, so assured, as he had held her close, loved with her.
Why then, did that confidence feel as heavy as lead now? Because he knew in his heart he ought not be here on this ship? Ought not be so blind, trusting of an unreliable young pup of a king, nor of reassurances made by an Empire that, through its entire history, had broken more promises than it had kept.
VII
It took much courage, and a certain amount of bravado for Winifred to enter her maternal uncle’s settlement – were it not necessary for her son’s future, no enticement or threat would have brought her to within a day’s ride of the place. Aesc was much like his father, the big and brash Hengest, famed for his strength of muscle and mind, a bull of a man, set in his ways and proud of his inheritance. Hengest had been a soldiering seeker of fortune. The youngest brother of a vast brood, with little prospect of laying claim to anything of value before the seizing of the great opportunity of Britain. Vortigern, Winifred’s father, had been the key; a man as greedy and ambitious as Hengest, and a man with an eye for a woman. Little encouragement had been needed on Hengest’s part; he was a mercenary ready for the fight, and had a daughter ready for marriage. Vortigern, the Supreme King had willingly accepted both offers, and Hengest waited quiet in the wings for the land and gold he had been promised in exchange. Except, beyond a small, wind-swept, surf-washed island, and an occasional bag of coin, neither had materialised. It came as no surprise to Vortigern’s opponents that Hengest, tired of waiting for the pledged reward, had decided to take what he wanted by force. Only he had reckoned on Vortigern’s successors being as weak as that king. Had reckoned without the Pendragon.
Aesc, perhaps, was reaping better reward than his father. The Pendragon was no limp-minded king, to him went the strength of victories and the generosity of grants that went with peace. Aesc was allowed the title Rex, though, as a subject-king beneath Arthur, with all the dignities accompanying such a title. Aesc ruled as Arthur willed, conditioned upon annual homage and sufficient tithe paid – and the continuation of peace. Fight me and you lose; Arthur’s words. Words he meant. Aesc held prime land in a prime position for the flourishing of trade. To him, the longships called first on their voyages from across the sea; to him fell the first pickings of wealth. Aesc was content with the treaty of peace that he held with Arthur, for it allowed him the ability to collect what he wanted most: wealth.
Winifred had never much liked her mother’s brother. She saw him as the barbarian son of a Jute warlord, with the manners and stench to match a rutting boar. The feelings were mutually exchanged. Aesc saw his niece as a spoilt, arrogant woman who had turned her back on the tribal laws and beliefs of her kindre
d. Both were content to use each other for personal benefit when it suited a need.
As now. Winifred needed Aesc to persuade her son home. Rebellious, he was steadfastly ignoring his mother. She had no one else to ask for help: Arthur would prefer the boy dead, and Ambrosius Aurelianus had no place for him among his plans to restore Britain into Rome’s fold.
She rode through the open gate into the settlement, expecting to see the common graubenhauser buildings, dwellings of little more status than midden huts in her opinion. Winifred was surprised to find a grandly built, timbered Mead Hall, surrounded by a cluster of solid wattle-walled houses and barns. The place thrived, bustling and busy; the people brightly clad and with healthy skin. Wealth and prosperity oozed from beneath every reed-thatched roof, abounded in the surrounding hidage of fields, orchards and grazing land. Her uncle was doing all right for himself it seemed!
Aesc came open-armed to greet her, his smile and boom of accompanying laughter full of welcome. He lifted his niece from her mare, embraced her as valued kindred, Winifred responding with a smile that successfully masked her inner feelings of contempt.
From the Hall also, accompanied by her attendants and brood of sons, stepped Aesc’s woman, Anhild, fifth-born daughter to Childeric of the Franks. Her dress and jewels were lavish, her manner superior – she was a king’s daughter and a king’s wife. Her dowry had brought the basis of her husband’s present wealth and the accompanying extensive exchange of trade with northern Gaul. She greeted Winifred coolly, aware her guest was a divorced wife and daughter to a deposed, disgraced king, conveniently forgetting that her own father had been in the same position for a while. But then, Childeric held more friends than had Vortigern, and his exiled dethronement had been a temporary setback only. He was allied now with Syagrius of Soissons. While it suited him. Childeric could change his allegiances as often as the wind swung around.
The two women embraced, their cheeks touching in token of friendship; both felt the cold of the other, both broke apart with barely disguised dislike.
“The Pendragon is making much of a nuisance of himself in Gaul, so I hear,” remarked Anhild. “My father reports that the Gaulish landowners complain more of his Artoriani’s looting and whoring than they do against the Franks, Goths and Saxons combined.”
Winifred retained her pleasant smile – loathsome woman, as fat as a toad and as ugly. “The Pendragon is of no concern to me, Anhild, only his title and kingdom. The sooner he loses both the better. It is his son who occupies my thoughts. It is for Cerdic I have come to seek my uncle’s aid.”
“Ah yes,” Anhild replied, her Frankish accent distorting some of the Jute words, “your independent son.” Her condescending smile broadened as she motioned three of her boys forward, smaller images of herself, though they bore the red hair of their father. “My childer would never run away from their mother. We are too devoted to each other.”
Your childer, Winifred thought, would never have enough brain to find their way out of this settlement without someone holding their fat-fleshed hands.
Aesc invited Winifred inside his Mead Hall, called for wine and food, served his kinswoman himself. Congenial, outwardly friendly and welcoming. All smiles and laughter, an eagerness to please. It was a waste of time, this coming here, Winifred knew it the moment Aesc had lifted her from her mare. Her Jute kin would not give aid in attempting to persuade- -or force – Cerdic back to Winifred’s Castra. It had only been a vague hope that they would, a last resort.
She sipped her wine, ate the food, though the drink tasted bitter and the meal stuck in her throat. Aesc would not help. Her uncle was over-fat and over-full of his own laziness. He had his kingdom, his wealth and his pleasures. Why should he stir himself for a mere boy?
A young man entered the Hall, swaggering with self-importance, another reason for Aesc’s unwillingness to help her. Ten and five years of age and with all the arrogance of his untried, incautious age group, the newcomer paused within the shadow of the Hall, his hand resting on the pommel of his Saxon short-bladed sword, the Saex. Winifred caught her breath as the youth came through that open doorway. She saw the very image of her father. Her brother, Vitolinus, was another Vortigern: the same chiselled chin, long, thin face and nose, small darting eyes. There was even a scar to the side of his face. Involuntarily, Winifred’s hand went to her heart, its beating fast and startled. Only the hair was different, his being thick and fair: Rowena’s – their mother’s – hair.
He strode up to Winifred, acknowledging his uncle with a curt nod to his head; stood legs apart, fists on hips, before her, eyeing her, weighing her. “Well, I never thought I would see the day! My sister deigning to visit the poor relations of the family. Come to spy on us, have you?” Vitolinus thrust his pointed face forward, reminding Winifred of a weasel. “Whatever it is you want, sister dear, forget it. You’ll have nothing from us.”
Her composure returned, Winifred spread her nostrils as if some foul stench was before her. “I want nothing from you, little brother, I come for adult council with my uncle.” They were talking Latin, a language neither Aesc nor Anhild understood. She added tartly, “Go away, boy. My business does not concern a whinging brat.”
Vitolinus’s smile was more of a sneer. “No? I would have sworn you were here to talk of Cerdic!” He turned away, whistling, nodded again to Aesc, tossing, in English, “My men and I have brought home a fine buck from our day’s hunting. I’ll go help the butchering.” He sneered again in Winifred’s direction. “The stench of offal is more appealing than the company of your guest.”
One interesting facet: Winifred noticed Anhild’s expression of contempt, and Aesc’s own narrowed eyes. Ah! Did they dislike her brother as much as she did?
Aesc offered more wine, said as he gestured for a slave to pour, “I sympathise with the worry of a mother for her son, my niece, but Cerdic is better off where he is.” He sat back in his comfortable wicker-woven chair, folded his hands across his ample lap. “I am content with the ruling of my Kent lands, but that one there,” he pointed briefly to the door through which Vitolinus had just departed, “that one wants a kingdom of his own. He intends to gain back his father’s.” Aesc shrugged, accepting an inevitable outcome. “While your son remains on his acquired stepfather’s land, Vitolinus will forget him. If, when, your son becomes a man, he should have the notion of trying for what the Pendragon now holds… ” He spread his hands, shook his head. “Vitolinus has higher entitlement to that land than Cerdic. I gave a home to my nephew when he sought my protection from your… ” his insincere smile showed blackening, broken teeth, “shall we say, intended incarceration?”
Winifred too sat back, folding her hands. Murder would be a more appropriate term. Unfortunately, her plans for Vitolinus’s demise several years past had failed when the wretched boy had escaped her custody. Her frown deepened. He had disappeared the day Arthur had beaten her injured son, the day after that fire at her farmsteading. Aesc had been there to pay homage to the Pendragon and agree renewed treaties, and the boy Vitolinus had run to his uncle and his Jute kin, spreading tales and lies about his sister and his future. Well, perhaps not so far-fetched tales. Winifred had held every intention of being rid of the boy, her brother. But Vitolinus threaten Cerdic?
Could a worm threaten a wolf?
September 468
VIII
“Bull’s blood!”
Arthur savagely threw the parchment scroll he had been reading across the tent. It hit the leather wall, bounced a few inches, then lay, curled up on itself on the rush-woven matting. He was pacing the tent, arms waving, animating his deep, frustrated anger, his expression dark thunder. Bedwyr, his cousin and second in command and Meriaun, Gwenhwyfar’s eldest nephew, were seated on the only two stools. Wisely, they considered it prudent to remain silent. The officer of the Roman Imperial Guard who had brought the letter stood at rigid attention near the door flap, his indignation growing redder on his face, his helmet, with the splendid red-dyed horseha
ir plume and gold and silver plating, clamped tighter within the curl of his arm. Proud, rich dressed, his armour – and ego – were old but immaculate, both a reminder that Gaul was still very much a subservient province of Rome governed by and answerable to the Emperor. He disliked this pretentious British king, was affronted at being treated as if he were an imbecile.
“Have I this aright?” Arthur asked, scathingly. “The sender of this letter, the present Prefect of Rome who is, in this instance, acting in his capacity as Ambassador of Gaul, bids me welcome. He greets me with flowered words as a guest here, entreats that I make my men as comfortable as may be, as if I am here on some informal courtesy visit?” Arthur stooped to retrieve the offensive letter, rolled it tight, then changing his mind, shook the scroll loose, batting irritably at the perfectly neat script with the back of his other hand. He continued his pacing, the eyes of Bedwyr and Meriaun anxiously following his movements. “This Roman aristocrat,” Arthur glanced at the signature, “this Sidonius Apollinaris, then proceeds to inform me that a friend of his has been arrested for writing a treasonous letter against the Emperor, and he begs that I am to make no matter of it.” Arthur’s nostrils flared. The couched implications were plain enough. A sour taste spilled into his mouth. “By the gods,” he roared, “were I to lay my hands on such a treasonous turd, I would have his balls first, then his blood!” Gods, he thought, all this way, all these weeks and miles, all this damned wasted time! Is Rome playing me so easily for the fool?
The Roman officer coughed, unable to retain his pent silence any longer.
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