Intent on staying awake, he drifted off, came to with a jerk, startled. It was that sleep-filled hour when it was not quite night, nor yet morning. Something had roused him, some noise. He looked at the fire. It had burnt low, but the dried dung and wood were still glowing red, friendly, there were no logs that could have fallen or cracked. The rain had stopped, only the occasional drip, drip, from outside. An owl called, mournful, somewhere not too near.
Something was different, something important. Something, some sound, was missing: that harsh, clutching-at-life sound. Almost as if he could not bear to look, he leant nearer to Gwenhwyfar. Her hand felt cold in his, limp and lifeless. Breath held, fearful, anxious, he bent closer. Was this it? The end? And her eyes fluttered open! Vague, distant eyes, but eyes of tawny green flecked with sparks of gold; eyes that were blurred and tired, but eyes that attempted a smile. Alive, breathing. Here. Alive!
“Arthur?” she murmured, her lips dry, barely moving.
Cadwy’s insides twisted, lurched. No! Not Arthur! Me, Cadwy! Cadwy! But he did not correct her. “I am here.”
Her fingers moved in his clutching hand. “I have dreamed such frightening things.”
“They have all gone now.” Cadwy stroked the damp hair from her hot – hot but not feverish – forehead. “Rest now. Sleep.”
“Have I been ill?” Her voice was a whisper, hoarse. Hard to hear clearly.
“Aye.” His was choking, full of relief and despair and rage. Relief that she was alive, despair that he might never experience the deep love shared by a man and a woman, and rage against Arthur. Arthur, her husband, who ought be here with his sick wife, not off fighting some barbarian foreign king in a barbarian foreign land.
A slight, very slight smile touched her lips, a barely perceptible squeeze to his hand. “Stay with me,” she asked.
“I will stay.”
Her eyes closed, the lashes fluttering down. A light sigh floated from her lips and her body relaxed. She slept. A peaceful, unfevered sleep.
Bowing his head, Cadwy prayed – to which god he knew not – to the one Christian God? To the pagan deities? He cared not which one among them listened to his murmured, relieved, words of thanks.
May 469
XXI
One of Winifred’s greatest delights was the stirring of a still pond into muddied waters. The feasting had been a congenial affair, extravagant but satisfying. The selection of shellfish in particular, an extravaganza of mussels, oysters, whelks, cockles and scallops. The tender, roasted, stuffed hare also of exceptional, succulent taste. Winifred sat, relaxed, at ease with her guest; sipped her wine – best Greek, her last amphora. When – if – she would be able to import more of the same fine quality was anybody’s guess. The Saxon Leofric had been a mistake as a husband, but he had been able to secure the best goods for her. Most of these were used to furnish this private apartment within the holy abbey of Venta Bulgarium: fine carved tables and chairs; intricate tapestries; bronze candelabra, expensive Roman glass and the rare, red Samian pottery. The best wine and food, served to the few honoured guests Winifred received here.
“More wine, my Lord Ambrosius?” The polite, smiling hostess. Concealing her relief when he declined. “I hear,” she said, with that well-practised lightness of innocence, “your son is residing at Caer Cadan with Lady Gwenhwyfar.”
Ambrosius’s answer was a mere clearing of his throat, a lowering of his eyebrows. Winifred felt a warming glow of delight. They were true then, these rumours. All of them? Oh, she must know! She affected a little laugh. “People are talking.” Again, a light-hearted chuckle. “They say he sleeps within her private chamber.” They say, she thought, smugly, he sleeps with her!
“And who, Madam, are ‘they’?” Ambrosius retorted, setting his half-empty goblet of wine down sharply on the table beside his couch. “Tongue-waggers? Inane peasants? Illicit traders? What do they know of circumstances?” His anger gave away his embarrassment, his hurt.
Displaying feigned righteousness, Winifred laid her hand flat across her breast. “Tale-tellers indeed. Wicked people who would impart any lie to gain a bellyful of food and a night’s comfort.” The sort of people she entertained at her steading a few miles from here. People who kept her well-informed of news and tattle. Forcing aside the regret at using the last of the wine, she motioned for the slave to top up her guest’s drink, for she must loosen his tight-held tongue somehow. “Nevertheless,” she said with a loud sigh, “there is talk.”
And what talk! Whirling down the wind like a winter storm! Cadwy, the lame-leg, only child of Ambrosius Aurelianus, wooing and bedding the Pendragon’s Queen! She wondered, Did Arthur know of the rumours? But was it true? Could a lame-hobble lay with a woman who, so rumour also said, had been held in death’s arms not a month or so back? A second thought. Would Gwenhwyfar be unfaithful to her husband? Would she be so openly foolish? Winifred thought not, but then, Arthur had a whore in his bed over there in Gaul – a flaxen-haired slave-girl. Through her planted spies, Winifred knew of her. As, surely, must Gwenhwyfar.
She motioned for the slave to serve Ambrosius with honey and apple cakes. A Saxon recipe but she doubted Ambrosius would bother himself with such minor culinary thought. Common knowledge, of course, that Ambrosius was disappointed in his son – how much more so, now this scandal had occurred? As well known that the Governor of all Britain had never liked or approved of Gwenhwyfar. Feelings fostered and honed over the years by Winifred’s subtle interference.
Biting into one of the cakes – a little sweet for his taste – Ambrosius nursed his varied annoyances. Annoyance that this meddling woman, whose nose always seemed to be poking into the business of other people, was prying into areas that were not her concern. Annoyance that his son was behaving in this way – combined with the older, deeper awkwardness over Cadwy’s lameness. He had intended his son to be destined for high office within the Church, a bishopric certainly, but now? What could there be for Cadwy with this outrageous scandal dangling over them? Could Cadwy ever raise his head in public again? Huh, if Arthur came home, would Cadwy be left with a head? It must be stopped. This whole, intolerable, wickedness must be put to an end. But how? Already Ambrosius had written to his son demanding his return home. Short of sending his men to drag the lad away there was little Ambrosius could do to enforce the order. In the meanwhile, he had to endure the knowing glances, the sidelong nudges. Outright comments. Dirt and dregs. The things meddlers like Winifred thrived upon.
Curtly, he deflected the probing. “These tales are lies, there is nothing save malicious gossip behind them. Aside, my son is a man grown, his life is his own.”
The smile left Winifred’s face, replaced by an expression of crumpled sorrow. She said, with such sadness that Ambrosius’s head came up, “Sons. What aching heartbreak can be inflicted on us by our sons.”
A long silence. Embarrassed, Ambrosius thought that the normally hard woman sitting opposite him was about to weep. He finished the too-sweet cake, refused the offer of another. Searched for something appropriate to say, alarmed at this unusual revelation into Winifred’s personal vulnerability. Noisily, he cleared his throat, electing to alter the conversation. “You invited me here, I am sure, with the intention of discussing matters other than the wilful disobedience of our respective offspring.” Fervently he hoped so. Cerdic, Winifred’s son, was not a lad he was inclined to think over-much upon.
Her poise had returned; that fleeting glimpse of despair thrust aside. She was shocked at herself for allowing the flicker of grief so openly to manifest itself. See what the strain of Cerdic’s foolishness was doing to her! She folded her hands neatly in her lap, tilted her head, drew breath to tackle the subject she had invited Ambrosius here to discuss.
Her guest relaxed. Ah, this was the Winifred he knew. There, against the ice blue of her eyes was the familiar glower of hatred, the incessant quest for meddling or vengeance, at both of which she excelled.
“My brother,” she demanded. “What a
re you intending to do about him?”
For a wicked moment, Ambrosius was tempted to laugh. He might have guessed this was the reason behind such an appetising dinner! The half-Saxon whelp Vitolinus. A whoreson irritation.
Tentatively he asked, “What would you have me do?”
Several vapid suggestions rummaged through her mind, but Winifred kept the more unpleasant ones to herself, answered simply, “Stop him.”
“Ah.” Ambrosius leant his arm against the padding of the couch arm. His own furniture was impoverished, shabby by the standard of items in this luxurious room. “That would not be prudent.”
“Prudent?” she spluttered contemptuously. “In God’s good name! My brother is running rampage along the borders of the Cantii territory and you judge putting an end to him would not be prudent!”
“Dealing with a hot-headed, cocksure boy is one matter. Fighting a full-blown war another entirely.” Ambrosius attempted to phrase his answer politely but there was a hint of terseness in his reply. He was Governor of Britain; the Lady Winifred – for all her bloated self-importance, was not. He continued speaking, cutting off her retaliatory response. “Vitolinus is but an itching sore, no more than a minor irritant.” He held his hand up, palm outward, again silencing an interruption. “Would you have me start a war over a mere boy?” A war which he had every intention of starting when he was ready. A war that he had no desire to let Winifred know about. Yet.
“Vitolinus has burnt two or three peasants’ farm-steadings, stolen a few head of cattle, nothing more serious.” Ambrosius waved his hand, dismissive. “I have sent protest to your uncle, Aesc. He assures me the boy shall be dealt with.”
Incredulous Winifred gaped at him. “Arthur,” she sniped, “would have hoisted Vitolinus’s head on a spear ere now, aye, and for less reason!”
“I,” Ambrosius retaliated coldly, “am not Arthur.”
No, Ambrosius was not. They were opposite ends of the spear, these two men of one kindred. Arthur, a pagan, a battle-hardened warlord, a realist, willing to make peace and uneasy friendship with the English; understanding that the might of Rome would never rise to power again.
Ambrosius a man of God and learning, who believed passionately in the way things once were, and would, he was determined, be again.
Claiming a more mellow tone, Winifred asked, “Is it that you do not have the men or finance to put an end to my brother’s raiding?” Refrained from adding, or is it that you do not have the balls?
He must have read the unspoken thought, though, for Ambrosius retorted abruptly. “When I judge it the right time to fight, I assure you I will have all I need.”
Soon, within weeks, a few months at most, she would see the fruition of his words. When the harvests were safe in, when Aesc least expected a counter offensive, when Vitolinus overstepped the mark too far, gave Ambrosius the full excuse he needed to take the Cantii lands back into Rome’s possession. He was not about to impart all that to Winifred, however. Aesc was her uncle, and for all she wanted her brother dealt with, there was no certainty those same malicious feelings stretched to the rest of her Saex kin.
An uneasy silence. A minute dragged by, two. Unexpected, Winifred announced, “He should take a wife.”
Puzzled, uncertain of this sudden turn of conversation, Ambrosius frowned. Who? Who should? Vitolinus?
“Cadwy,” Winifred opined, fluttering her hand. “Find him a wife. That will put an end to this nonsense with the Pendragon’s whore.” Poor Gwenhwyfar, to lose her boy lover to a wife!
Ambrosius sat quite still. Was this woman totally mad?
“I am quite serious,” she stated, correctly interpreting that open-mouthed look of horror on her guest’s face.
“My son, Madam, is a cripple.”
Winifred curled her fingers around the stem of her fragile and expensive glass goblet, sat back into her wicker chair, her smile indulgent. Said, as if explaining some obvious matter to a child, “It is his leg that is crooked, not his cock.” She sipped the wine. “There are women who would not decline such a husband if the right compensations were agreed.”
“Compensations?” Ambrosius spoke slowly. The abhorrent idea had never occurred to him. Added tentatively, curious, “You know of such a woman?”
Winifred sat straight, the image of calm reassurance. “Of course.” She looked Ambrosius square in the face, holding his attention. Announced, “Myself.”
Spluttering through a mouthful of wine, Ambrosius half rose to his feet, incredulous. “You? Wed my son? Indeed, you are mad!” If he realised how rude his words sounded he made no notice of it. Emphatically, he shook his head, his mouth open, shocked, speechless. Horrified.
Similar thoughts occurred to Winifred. Whatever had made her say this thing? Her last marriage to Leofric had been a disastrous mistake, a mistake she had needed to rectify almost immediately. She did not want to repeat the experience – yet had this idea been entirely impulsive? Opportunities offered themselves at unexpected moments, and had to be grasped immediately, lest they escape usage. Ambrosius was not telling her all his thoughts, was hiding something. War with Aesc was a strong probability. He was also intent on taking Arthur’s place – whether he returned from Gaul or not, that much was obvious. When he became King – assuming Aesc did not butcher the man ten minutes into the first fighting – someone would have to be appointed as his heir and Cadwy, with his deformity, could not by law or in all practicality, become King. And Winifred, despite the present estrangement with her son, was still determined to see Cerdic declared King of Britain; would follow any path to gain him that royal torque. Any path.
Impatiently, she indicated to Ambrosius that he re-seat himself. “I am somewhat older than your son, I grant you,” she pronounced candidly, set, now she had spoken, with the preposterous idea. “He is but nine and ten to my two and thirty, but there is no reason why I cannot still bear a child. A grandson,” she promised, “could become all your son might have been.”
Winifred drained her wine a-flutter of doubt drying her throat. What in the good God’s name was possessing her? Cadwy, that limping crutch-hobbler as husband? She swallowed. And yet, in feature he was not dissimilar to his cousin, Arthur…and as wife to the son of the Governor of Britain, she would have another foot wedged firm in an opening door. That is what possessed her. The fault for not conceiving another child would, naturally, be laid to Cadwy. She relaxed. It could work, this union between herself and Ambrosius. It could – just – work.
She signalled for her glass to be refilled, lifted the goblet in a salute. “As wife to your son, my Lord Governor, I would bring you a generous dowry. Enough men, and their payment, to bring down not only my brother, but also my uncle, Aesc… ” Her expression clearly signalled, although no word passed her lips, “And Arthur.”
Her smile was self-pleased, smug. Ambrosius would never agree to such a suggestion, but the paleness of his skin, the way his tongue flicked over dry lips showed all she needed to know. It was enough. He was tempted. She savoured the wine, the last goblet of fine Greek. A pity if he would not accept her. It would be so very pleasing to steal Gwenhwyfar’s lover from her bed!
XXII
While Winifred dined with Ambrosius to encourage an ending of her brother, Vitolinus was watching as flames engulfed the house-place of a British farmsteading. The screams from inside had ceased, his men were sauntering away the amusement over; were beginning the slaughter of the livestock. They would only take the meat they could carry to their boat. The rest would be left to rot.
Cille stepped behind Vitolinus, stood, much as the boy, legs spread, arms folded. Watched as the final roof beam groaned and collapsed inward, sending a fresh eruption of flames into the night sky. Soon there would be nothing left to burn; come morning, only the charred timbers would remain heaped behind the stone pillars of the doorway. Among it all, the bodies, probably huddled in one place, the burnt flesh and bones fused and gnarled into a grotesque shape. Cille said, “It is a pity about t
he women, they would have provided extra entertainment for your young men.” Not for himself. He was becoming too old for this, for fighting, for war. Even for women. A warm hearth-fire and a belly-full of ale suited his needs better now. He sighed. This was the work for younger men, not for the likes of himself. He had been flattered that the lad had sought his advice and guidance. But was this, this shabby burning and killing, truly the work for a warrior such as he had once been? Nay, he would be away soon, back to his own hearth.
Vitolinus merely grunted. He had no urge for the forced taking of poxed British women. It was death he wanted. An ending to the British, to all that had once been Arthur’s.
“The old man here was a fool,” Cille added, “to hide his family inside.” He shrugged, but then, to his mind all born of the British blood were fools. Had this been his steading he would have taken the lives of his womenfolk quickly with his own knife, and then sought an honourable warrior’s death for himself, not cowered behind burning walls. He shook his head. Ja, a pity about the women, the men needed something to crow over, something more than the rise of flames and slaughtered meat. He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and chin. It did not matter. There would, no doubt, be other women.
“So, do you return to our boat, go back up the Meduway? Or do you try for some more sport?” Although he was an older man against the ten and six of Vitolinus, he tactfully looked to the younger lad for the decision-making. Vitolinus was the son, grandson and nephew of kings, to him fell the position of liege lord; this was his war. The sky would fall on the lad’s head when the Pendragon returned home, not on mere followers. Aside, Vitolinus was intelligent enough to look for guidance when it was needed. As he did now, for the lad was turning, with a distorted grin, his eyes reflecting the glare of orange, smoke-wreathed light, the scar running along his cheek giving him a look of hideousness.
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