The air moved as the outer door opened, another young man entered, joined them at the hound pen.
“Thought I would find you here,” Cuthbert grinned. “A fine litter – I would like one of the bitches when they are weaned.”
“You’ve nothing to barter for such a hound!” Aelfred teased, “Vitolinus has enough blunt spears and worn, holed cloaks already!”
Playfully, Cuthbert batted at his friend’s shoulder, laughed, “Mayhap not, but he needs sharpened spears and willing hearts to form the basis of an army!” He spoke to Aelfred, looked at Vitolinus.
Aesc’s nephew, resting his elbow on the gate, nestled his chin on his cupped hand, pointing with the other, offered, “You can have that black and tan, she’s small but seems game.” He straightened, threaded his fingers through the baldric slung diagonally across his chest. “I need no payment, only an oath of loyalty.”
There was no hesitant thought, no decision-making; Cuthbert was instantly on his knees before his young lord. “Need you offer reward for such a thing?” he asked, “You have my loyalty without condition.”
Aelfred too, knelt, “And mine.” His features were earnest, sincere. “And many another, were you to ask!”
Touching their heads with his fingertips, Vitolinus nodded grimly. He was heartsick of this unquestioned obedience to the Pendragon, heartsick of being treated as a child, a useless nothing. He was ten and six, old enough to lead men; the son of Vortigern, grandson of Hengest, old enough to try for a kingdom of his own. His father’s kingdom; the Kingdom Arthur had stolen.
As if reading his thoughts, Cuthbert stated, “If Aesc will not help you gain what, by birthright is yours, then there are plenty of us who will. We are warrior-born, the sons of warriors, we wish to use the spear and sword not the plough and pitchfork.”
Vitolinus smiled, a scheming, unkind smile that sat well on his weasel-like face. He knew those sentiments ran in the blood of the young men, knew and fostered them. He would be King of Britain! To take everything from Arthur and with the same sword-thrust, keep the prize from the greed of his sister Winifred. That was his double ambition. And ambition had to be tickled at the right moments. If Arthur’s hold was to be defeated, it had to be done now. Now, while he was over the sea, while the God-mumbling Ambrosius Aurelianus was fumbling his way around in the dark.
His smile widened, the glint in his blue eyes triumphant, gloating. “Then I see no reason to plod behind dull-minded oxen any longer!” He raised his companions to their feet, cuffing each of them affectionately around the ears. “Pass word to all who would give me their pledge. I will be going from here at the rising of the new moon, five days hence, to prepare to take my kingdom. I will wait at Cille Ham, while the moon swells three nights, for any who wish to join me.”
Stroking the shadowed beard-growth around his chin, Aelfred considered Vitolinus’s proposal. “It will not be easy to send out word without the older folk knowing but it can be done.”
Cuthbert asked, hesitant, for he had no wish to offend, “Cille is old, is he trustworthy? ‘Tis the older men who side with Aesc’s decisions.”
Vitolinus sauntered across to the door, patting his friend’s shoulder in a fatherly manner as he passed. “Cille, in most circumstances, I would not trust even if my life depended on it! But he fought when he was our age with my grandsire, the great Hengest, against Arthur, at that time when the British took final victory. I know for certain he has an old itch that he yearns to scratch.” He had reached the door, had it open. “He will support us.”
April 469
XVIII
Never before had Cadwy defied his father. Never before had he found the courage to do so. But this? This was unacceptable, horrible.
He stood before Ambrosius, uncomfortable from the press of the crutch beneath his armpit despite the leather and straw padding along the crossbar. Stood as straight as his deformity allowed. “No,” he declared, raising his chin with as much pride as he could muster. “No, I will not offer myself to God. I will not take holy orders!”
Ambrosius was clearly shocked for he seated himself, took an over-large gulp of wine. No? No! What was this from his son, what was this defiance? Calm, swallowing anger, Ambrosius said, “There is nothing else suited for you. A bishopric would sit well. The duties are demanding, I grant, but mentally, not… ” he paused, licked his lips, tried so hard not to look at his son’s deformed leg, “not physically.”
Wanting to sit down himself, to take the weight from the pain that ushered from his hip to knee, Cadwy forced himself not to glance for a stool. His father was a good man, had a weight of problems as heavy as the drag of his own lame leg, had only the best of intentions at heart, but always, always where Cadwy was concerned, the wrong intentions. He did not understand, could not see beyond this wooden crutch and dragging leg that Cadwy was in all other respects a normal man with the desires and ambitions of any young male of ten and nine years.
Slowly, measuring his words, Cadwy tried to explain, tried to show his view of this thing without hurting or wounding his father’s pride. “It is an honour to be recommended as taking the new-vacant position of Bishop of Aquae Sulis, Father, and I thank you for your concern in putting my name forward, but… ” His eyes sought his father’s, failed to hold them, instead, he took a clumsy step forward, “But I cannot give myself to a life as a priest. I want a wife, children.” His expression was pleading, begging, “A grandson for you.”
The hurt came deeper, more wounding when his father bitterly laughed, stood, and turned away from him.
Fighting tears, tears that would not become a lad of his age, Cadwy said through a choking throat, “As a priest, even as an exalted bishop, I could never find a way to prove to you, Father, that despite my lameness I am, inside, as much a man as any other.”
He half-held his hand, pleading. Ambrosius did not turn back. Cadwy made for the door, his crutch loud tapping on the flagstone floor, his left boot dragging.
As he reached the door, Ambrosius spoke, his voice taught, rasping, emotion raw. “Along but one path could I have found pride in you, along a path to God. Reject that route and you reject me.”
No choices, no regrets. “Allow me to live my life as I choose, Father, or equally, reject me.”
There came no answer, no movement, only a solid-turned back. Cadwy opened the door, shuffled through, closed it silently behind, not seeing his father’s disappointed misery.
Ambrosius sank to his knees, clasped his hands in prayer. Why, he questioned, why does naught come easy for me? I try, I give my heart and soul into doing what I believe is right, yet each time, along every path, around every corner, I meet failure.
Bitterly, he moaned, bowed his head. Why could he not be strong, successful, obeyed and respected like his elder brother Uthr had been? Why could he not achieve, as the son, his nephew Arthur, seemed always to achieve?
Why, for Emrys, as his British given name had been, did everything always take a wrong turn?
XIX
It was raining when Cadwy rode up the steep, cobbled lane into Caer Cadan. His twisted leg was aching horribly, his teeth clenched to ignore the torturing stabs that seemed to lance his entire body.
The past days had dragged through the sullen anger of an interminable week of glowering half politenesses and barely veiled displeasure. The decision to come here to Caer Cadan had formed yester eve, an hour or so after the messenger had ridden in. Gwenhwyfar was taken seriously ill, he had told Ambrosius, was dying.
“I will go,“ Cadwy had offered, “I will see how she fares.”
His father had responded with a sharp, instant forbidding of no, and there had come another bitter quarrel.
Was he to be kept prisoner then? Cadwy had demanded, shuttered away, snared, because he would not do as his father bid? In anger, Cadwy had saddled his horse and left his father’s household with no word of farewell. He would see the Queen for himself, could not believe her life was so desperately near its end. Gwenhwyfar an
d Arthur had always offered him kindness and respect, had never patronised or pitied him. He would go to her, if for nothing else, to show his respect for the sadness of death.
The gatekeeper acknowledged him with a nod of recognition, directed him to the King’s Hall where lord Geraint would be, and in answer to his question said, with a slow shake of his head, “My Lady be no better, my Lord. The medics say there’s nothing more to be done for her, save pray.” And that they had been doing these past three days without the need of asking.
With his good leg, Cadwy kicked his mount forward, a fresh burst of pain jolting from the movement. It was a dismal day, for all the fresh growth of a new spring and this great Caer echoed the flat, dull, greyness. The place seemed empty, where was the familiar bustle and pride? The air of power and authority? Those few people about their daily tasks passed barely a nod at him as he rode; no one smiled, there was no idle chatter, no laughter or merriment. The women were mostly inside their dwelling places; the men, those who had not ridden with Arthur to Gaul, must, Cadwy concluded as he approached the Hall, be away drilling, or training or something.
There were few children about. One or two only, hurrying on whatever errand they had been sent. Even the geese and chickens were quiet. This great place was hushed, its breath held, shuttered. Waiting. A darkness stalked beside the cobbled track. Lurked, unwelcome, uninvited, beside every building, behind every fence; in every corner, every hollow. The darkness of death waiting to claim Arthur’s Queen.
He dismounted, stiffly, grateful to a young lad who ran from the Hall to take his horse; as grateful to enter through the doorway into the dry.
He had expected more people to be in here, the people of the Caer, a settlement in itself. There were always men in a Hall, mending leather, fashioning a hunting spear, putting an edge to a blade… The women would be cooking, sewing or weaving, but this place, the spacious interior of this vast King’s Hall, was all but empty, apart from a few small groups huddled in the shadows to each side. They were looking up at him, their faces ashen, sleep-lacking and lost. It was like a tomb, this Hall, which ought to have been vibrant with life; a dank, inhospitable tomb.
Someone was coming from the far end, his hand stretched out in welcome. Cadwy limped forward to meet him, grateful to be greeted by someone he knew – Geraint of Durnovaria. He walked quicker, the drag of his leg more pronounced, took Geraint’s hand firm in his own. Asked straight away, “How is she?” Nothing seeming so important as this asking. Nothing more urgent to know.
A sudden, grasping thought hit him with the strength of an axe blade. Had this been the reason for his father’s forbidding him to come here? The cause behind the enmity that had been steadily growing between them? Had Ambrosius realised that which Cadwy, until this moment, had not? That the son would rather sit at the Pendragon’s hearth than at his own father’s? Cadwy thrust the uneasy thoughts aside. He would need to examine them later, in his own time, when there were less important things to ask. He gasped at his own dawning truth. Important? Aye, Arthur’s Queen was more important to him than was Ambrosius.
Geraint too, had the dark rings of sleepless nights under his eyes; he too had that same pale skin, taut, drawn cheeks, as others of this grieving place. The dreadful hush, the sense of foreboding and waiting pressing in from the timber walls, down from the height of the vaulted, dust and cobweb-strewn rafters. Even the spirit faces carved along their length sat quiet, anxious.
Geraint helped remove Cadwy’s cloak, escorted him nearer the central hearth fire, a blaze of brightness and warmth in this dismal place. He had not initially answered, reluctantly blurted, “She is dying, we think. The fever has raged for several days. Beyond prayer there is nothing more we can do for her.”
Geraint served two bowls of hot venison broth, indicated they should sit at a nearby trestle bench. Cadwy complied, spooned the steaming food, the warmth chasing the ache and chill from his body. Geraint swallowed only a few mouthfuls, did not taste the goodness of the meat. No one felt much like eating, no one felt much like doing anything while Gwenhwyfar lay in her bed so ill, courting death.
A door at the far end opened, a woman came through. Everyone in that Hall looked up at her, their eyes enquiring, several of the men and women half-rose to their feet. The woman motioned them to be seated with a slight shake of her head. No change, nothing of any difference. She came, with quick, firm steps across the timbered flooring, her smile wide and welcoming. Cadwy recognised her as Enid, Geraint’s wife, one-time nurse to Gwenhwyfar’s sons.
Pushing himself to his feet, Cadwy mastered the urge to wince as his leg violently protested. Wearily, Enid waved him down, sat herself, taking a place next to her husband on the bench.
“Her breathing comes a little easier,” she said as she took the bowl of uneaten broth from her husband, ate a few spoonfuls. With a slight shrug to her shoulder added, “But it may only be my fancy it seems so.”
Cadwy thought she was going to weep, but the tears did not come, for Enid was a strong woman, and the time for tears was not yet here.
“My father knows of a doctor who resides in Venta Bulgarium,” Cadwy offered. “Happen he… ”
Enid touched his hand, her smile soft and grateful, her eyes so very tired and saddened. “There is nothing more that can be done.” She left her spoon in the bowl, sat with her chin in her cupped hands, weary. “No one can do the fighting for her now.” And then she added, so very softly Cadwy barely heard, “Save Arthur.”
The young man came to his feet, the pain ignored. “I could fetch him! A fast horse, the wind behind a good ship… ” It was something he could do, some useful, welcome thing!
Geraint patted the air with his hands, gently bade the lad to be re-seated. “Na, na, ‘tis well meant and we thank you. Do you think we have not already considered it? The journey would take weeks, we have no sure idea of where Arthur is. We have only a few more hours, at most a day or two.”
Reluctant, Cadwy sat.
In an attempt at consolation, Enid said, “It is good of you to come. Your father would… ”
Cadwy looked up sharply, his eyes flashing. “Would not come,” he finished bluntly for her. “My father has, for all his life, nursed a grudge of jealousy against his elder brother.” He shook his head, offered unexpectedly, “It must come hard upon him to also live beneath Arthur’s shadow.” He shrugged, was amazed to see, as he stretched his hand to pick up his goblet of wine, that his fingers shook. “Even harder to accept the Pendragon left him with the responsibility of Britain on his shoulders and that he has not the strength to keep it as Arthur left it.”
How often had Cadwy talked of one day learning to fight from a horse, one day joining the Artoriani, being with Arthur? Arthur, always Arthur. Never had he expressed a wish to fight alongside Ambrosius. He had assumed his father did not want him, was disappointed because he would not be able to fulfil those dreams of being a normal man. The truth hit him as hard as a hammer blow. Did Ambrosius resent his son, not because of the lameness, this twisted disability, but because he was jealous of Cadwy’s regard for Arthur?
He groaned, swallowed the wine down. And this day he had compounded that jealousy by riding away. All he had wanted was for his father to be proud of him. It was too late now, he was here; he could not re-weave the threads he had so wantonly unravelled.
“Can I see her?” he asked tentatively, expecting to be denied. For all the realisation of his father’s feelings, Gwenhwyfar meant much to Cadwy, for he had few friends, few people he could trust enough not to mock him behind his back, remark on his disability or sneer at him for being weak and unable. He wanted a wife, a child, but was enough of a realist to fear he would have neither. Most women seeking a husband respected only the strength of a man, not the awkwardness of a crutch and a stumbling gait.
Enid rose, her head nodding in agreement, led Cadwy along the length of the Hall past the few dejected, sorrowing occupants who stared mournfully as they passed. While hands worked, min
ds were turned to that private chamber where Gwenhwyfar lay, covered by the shadow of the next life. All hearts tore and ached for her safe keeping in this one.
Through that private door, Cadwy stopped, gasped, his hand covering his nose and mouth against the stench of sickness and clutching death that assaulted him, all thoughts of his father clean forgotten. Gwenhwyfar lay, small, withered, against the expanse of the bed, beads of sweat proud on paper-thin skin stretched over gaunt cheeks; her eyes closed in deep, dark-ringed sockets, while her fingers plucked, restless, at the bed covers. The room was hot, airless; a fire burned in the hearth, the hiss of steam rising from a cauldron of boiling water.
Distressed, Cadwy shuffled across the room, dragged a stool from beside a table, sat by the bed. Was it any wonder Caer Cadan shouldered such heaviness of heart? He took up her hand, held it firm in his own, willing her to know he was here, willing her to live.
XX
Cadwy sat with Gwenhwyfar through the night, listening to the spatter of rain dribbling outside, hearing the hiss and crack of wood on the hearth-fire and her harsh, laboured breathing. He wiped the sweat from her face and hands with a damp linen cloth, dripped the potion Enid had left between her dry, cracked lips. Held her hand, holding her, keeping her in this world.
The night seemed long, endless. His thoughts came crowding, insistent, whispering and fluttering in his mind. Fleeting thoughts that flickered from one subject to another like a leaping hearth-fire, dancing around and around in a never-tiring, engulfing circle. His lameness, unvoiced hopes and dreams; his disappointed father; the future. Arthur. Gwenhwyfar… His lameness… Around and around.
Even in his drifting sleep they came, those thoughts, entering disguised as dreams; dreams where he was trying to run to save Gwenhwyfar, to run and run, but he was caught by cloying mud or the grip of an incoming tide, bound by tightening ropes, held by clutching hands. He could not run, could not save her. Dreams where his father stood, condemning, disappointed. Dreams where Gwenhwyfar’s life was fading, ebbing into final darkness.
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