Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  Ahead of his father, Cadwy missed the relief that passed across Ambrosius’s face. The rumours were not true then, thank God!

  “I need your support, son,” he implored. There were more than a mere few who were saying that Ambrosius could not keep his own house in order, let alone an army, a country.

  Cadwy turned, intending to sneer some caustic retort, checked his hurtful words. His father was ageing, though he was barely forty and two years. Grey was flecking his hair and his skin was drawn, tense. He looked ill. Sympathy lurched into the son. He made to step forward, to offer his hand to his father. The crutch tapped on the stone floor, and the man, Ambrosius, involuntarily recoiled. The brief moment of reconciliation was lost, tossed away.

  Some half-heard rumour that would hurt his father turned from thought to words and Cadwy snarled, “I would almost think this was a planned scheme of Lady Winifred’s, were I only to see her purpose.” His father’s face had drained paler, he plunged on, determined to ram the knife deeper. “She needs to be rid of her brother, Vitolinus, needs also to ensure Arthur never returns, the both to make way for her son. And she has always used you for her purpose. Is that how it is this time also, Father? Save she would not want me back with you, would want to continue the further soiling of Lady Gwenhwyfar’s name.”

  Cadwy froze when his father said, with a tone of ice hatred, “On the contrary. The Lady Winifred wants you as far as possible from the Queen’s bed. In her own, in fact. I am considering agreeing to her suggestion of alliance. Of marriage with you.”

  Stunned, speechless, Cadwy stared at his father; then the anger came, the outrage. “I will not be ordered into such a marriage. You shame me, Sir, shame me!” The path was narrow, on a steep incline and wet from the rain. Cadwy could not, leaning on his crutch so, walk fast away, but he made an effort at it.

  “It would be a way of showing you were with me, boy, not the Pendragon,” Ambrosius called.

  Cadwy stabbed his free hand into the air, an obscene gesture.

  “You will obey me, boy!”

  Cadwy halted, spun around, his crutch skidding, flying out. “I am no boy. I am a man grown and I choose my own life. My own wife.”

  Ambrosius strode up to him, pushed past, sneered into his face, “You prove you can be a man then I will treat you as one.” He stalked away, angry that he had lost his temper, angry that he had mentioned this idiocy about Winifred. Damn the woman, this was her doing, putting the fool idea into his head. Never would he want her as a daughter-by-law. Yet, yet, it would put Cadwy in his place to enforce such a thing… and there were other benefits. He marched on, his body screaming from the pains shooting up and down his legs and spine. Marched on, angry. Try as he might, he could not find love for his son.

  XXIX

  Unfortunate that it need be this night that the Lady Branwen, haughty Abbess of the Glass Isle, discovered to where Ragnall so often disappeared.

  Chance brought events colliding together on a course set for harsh words. Lady Branwen arose from her bed shortly before dawn with a headache thumping as if all the horses of hell were pounding across her forehead. These past days had been full of distress for her – the Isle in turmoil with the influx of so many come for this Council; and in consequence a few too many of her women turning attention to the lure of the outside world rather than God’s pure Word. And her own memories, long forgotten, had re-surged, unbidden, unwelcome. Heavy with lack of sleep she splashed cold water on her face, dressed, elected to walk a while. The freshness of a new day might chase the weariness from her. She would welcome time, alone, to think.

  Without making disturbance, she let herself out of her private chamber, slipped past the little building that housed the sleeping nuns. Her boots scuffed the dew-wet grass, leaving silvered tracks. To her left, among the thicket of ash and alder a few birds were tuning their morning song. Ahead, the Tor rose devil-black against the paling grey of early dawn. You could never escape the presence of the Tor, for it glowered there, a constant reminder of the heathen, God’s cursed. Trying to ignore it, to pretend it was not there, she walked up the rain-muddied lane, setting a good pace despite the soft footing.

  It was Gwenhwyfar who had aroused these memories, she who had brought these troubles flooding back into mind. Always, in the past, it had been Gwenhwyfar who vexed Branwen so. She breathed deep as she walked, filling her lungs with the crisp air. She had known Gwenhwyfar from childhood, for she, Branwen, had been wife to one of her brothers, the second eldest-born of Cunedda’s large brood. Ah, so many of them dead now. Cunedda himself, her husband, Osmail; their second-born son. Why had Gwenhwyfar come here to haunt her with the past? Stirring those things that ought to have been buried deep.

  Branwen halted, looking up to the swift-lightening sky. Eyes closed, head back, arms spread wide she pleaded in her mind for God to give her comfort, to ease the ache in her heart. It had been His will that her man had been taken – that she should remain here, in this mist-bound place. His decree that she ought to raise His word above the old beliefs that so obstinately would not die. But why, why did these wretched memories have to return?

  She opened her tired eyes, looked up, straight at the ancient miz-maze path that descended from the Tor and her head cleared, her brows furrowed, lips thinned. Hussy! Heathen-spawned whore! An anger more bitter than any poisoned berry poured through Branwen, a choking, all-grasping, all-consuming rage.

  Ragnall, making her way carefully down the dew-wet steepness of the slope, saw the Abbess standing in the mud-rutted lane. She stopped, fear gripping her. Here, on the slope of the Tor there was nowhere to hide, to run. She searched frantically back up the path behind her, up to the summit where the Stone was showing clearer, blacker, against the sky. Had Gwenhwyfar gone, descended on the other side? Alone, she had to face the wrath of Lady Branwen.

  The girl had known that one day she would be discovered; knew the consequences. Until this morning, she had taken such great care never to be seen; never to walk on these slopes unless the safety of darkness cloaked her, for the Tor was forbidden to the Holy Sisters. It was a place of evil, and it had many times been made clear that harsh punishment would be meted to any who flaunted a preference for the darkness of the Devil. Only one, to Ragnall’s knowledge, had broken that rule. A girl, much of her own age, three years past… Ragnall shuddered, tried hard to blot out the fearful memory of what had happened to that girl.

  The Abbess hurried up to her, her face contorted with the indignation of one defied and disobeyed, her breath hot, eyes wide, blazing disgust and anger. Her fingers clamped around Ragnall’s wrist, dragged her without pity or care away from the place of the Goddess.

  The girl wanted to scream, wanted to plead for forgiveness, to defend herself, but no words would come as she slithered and fell, dragged behind the enraged woman. A scream, so terrified, so engulfing, was lodged in her throat. If she opened her mouth it would be let out, never to stop, for too clearly, far too clearly, could she see that other girl’s death.

  As a child, Ragnall had fallen into the flames of the hearth-fire of her father’s Hall. The terrible scars on her body were nothing to those that remained in her mind, nothing to the screams that still choked her in the dark hours of night when her hand and face and body throbbed from the remembered pain of that terrible day. Ragnall knew the pain of fire and could see before her eyes, as the Abbess Branwen took her back to the holy place of the Mother Mary, that other girl’s tortured death by burning.

  XXX

  Gwenhwyfar elected to stay a while longer, savouring the unique, comforting solitude the Tor offered. She was in no hurry to make her way back down to the Christian settlement – was in no hurry to be further humiliated and angered by the arrogance and ambition of men who were plotting to destroy her husband.

  Although many came to the Glass Isle for the benefit of their soul, earthly curiosity still sat with a greater need on their shoulders. This calling of Council had attracted an unusual amount of visitors to t
he holy place, some of whom, it had to be admitted, were more interested in the ramifications of politics than the peace and blessings of the Christian God. The settlement was a small, clustered town of taverns, dwellings and trading stalls, set cheek by jowl against the timber-built abbey with its attendant chapels and buildings. They slept where they could find space, crowding the taverns or guest places within the monastery; word had spread that this Council met with an intention to overthrow the Pendragon. They gathered with a morbid interest in the verbal murder of their King.

  Gwenhwyfar sat looking eastward, her back comfortable against the granite of the Stone, watching as the sky paled, the light spreading like an army on the march across the Summer Land. Darker clouds were gathering in the distance. It would rain again soon. Once she thought she heard a girl’s scream, but the wind was powerful up here, it could as easily have been some small animal taken by an owl. She felt weary, with no energy or spirit. Was it her recent illness that caused such languor? Or an inner failing? Arthur was losing his kingdom and there was nothing – nothing – she could do to stop it, save wait and watch. And hope he would come home again, soon.

  The sun was rising, a red-golden, warming orb. A rain-laden mist rose, coming from nowhere, covering the sunken lands that nestled lower than the high-tide level away over at the coast. It was a mist that swelled with the onrush of day, breathing over the willow and alder-pocked grassland that even in the hottest days of summer held soggy, bog-bound areas of waterlogged marsh.

  The birds were busy at this first coming of the day: the cries of the lapwing, the piping of plovers mixing with the harsh calls of rooks and the shrill chattering of starlings. Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes, rested her head on the Stone. She was so tired, so bone-weary, heartachingly tired.

  The mist had gone when she next looked; she must have slept. Day had begun in earnest and she was of a sudden hungry. Raking a hand through her tousled hair she came to her feet, took one last, long gaze around the panorama of land that belonged to her husband, Arthur’s own held dominion. Over there, where the hills were smudged against the skyline, lay Dumnonia, also his, and beyond that, Cornovii – and the Land’s End, a few, wave-tossed islands… and the sea. The sea over which he had gone. Gwenhwyfar fancied she could hear it; hear the swoosh and rush of waves darting on a shingle shore, smell its salt tang. Maybe it was only the sound of the gulls that brought the fancy, those birds that, even in these finer days, preferred to ramble for food among the dykes and marshes.

  Slowly, she picked her way down from the Tor, ambled along the lane, idling here and there to admire a plant, watch a bird. This day would need be faced, and the next. And the next. It was how she was surviving this vast, empty loneliness, staggering from one day through to the next.

  “My Lady! Lady Gwenhwyfar!”

  She stopped, startled, as she lifted the latch that would open the door into the tavern where she lodged. Turned her head at the urgent calling of her name, saw Cadwy running, as best he might, up the narrow street that sneaked between the outer wall and this row of higgle-piggle traders’ shops and dwellings.

  She stood, waiting for him, took his arm to steady him as he came up to her, panting, red-faced, distressed: He gasped a few incoherent words, none, save the name of the girl Ragnall, making sense. Firm, a little irritable, she commanded him to regain breath, start where things made sense.

  He shook his head, waved his hand, urgent. There was no time! No time!

  “Ragnall,” he gasped again. “Caught coming from Tor.” He had his hand on his chest, trying to ease the pounding of his heart and the burning of his lungs. “You were up there. You told me you were going there. Did you meet her? Ragnall? You must do something!” His frantic eyes sought Gwenhwyfar’s, willing her to understand the urgency, the importance. He swallowed, tried again. “I have been looking for you. You must stop this!”

  Something was terribly wrong with the girl Ragnall, that much she realised. “Stop what?” she asked, calmly.

  “They intend to burn her. They accuse her of being a devil child!”

  Irritation flashed into Gwenhwyfar’s mind and expression. She was tired, drained of energy. “We shared each other’s company through the night. She seems a pleasant girl. We laughed together over many things.” Aye, Gwenhwyfar thought, and comforted a few tears. What nonsense was this Cadwy saying? “Who accuses her of such an absurdity?”

  “Lady Branwen, the Abbess.”

  Gwenhwyfar almost laughed. Almost, but not quite. The gravity of Cadwy’s expression, the knowing of Branwen’s capabilities stopped her. Oh aye, Gwenhwyfar knew the cruel side that lay behind Lady Branwen’s pious bigotry! She had been victim of it herself back in the days of childhood.

  Cadwy had his breath easier. He grasped Gwenhwyfar’s arm, began to urge her along the street. “Hurry!”

  She brushed his clasped arm aside, “Wait, wait! What can I do about it?” She was at a loss, confused. Tired, a little disorientated.

  Blank, Cadwy regarded her slow-witted dullness. “You are the Queen. The Pendragon’s wife. You can speak for her.” She seemed not to understand. “The Abbess has called for an immediate trial. They are gathered in the Council basilica, my father presides in judgement.” Again, Cadwy pulled at her arm. “There will soon be a decision made!” Tears were welling in his desperate eyes. If they did not hurry, it might be too late.

  Trial indeed! What folly was this? It was no crime to walk on the height of the Tor – why, if it was then… Gwenhwyfar smiled to herself. Aye, she had a glimmering of an idea. Deftly, she spun Cadwy around, pushed him from her. “Go, delay things. I come as soon as I may.”

  His face brightened. “You will hurry?”

  She nodded, thrust open the door to her lodging-place. “Go!”

  XXXI

  The anger welling inside Gwenhwyfar was aroused by more than the injustice that seemed to be thrown at an innocent young girl. She swept through the doors into the crowded Council chamber, pushing aside the two sentry guards who stood as a matter of formality on such an occasion to either side. Taken by surprise, they hurriedly crossed their ceremonial spears, barring entrance, but she sliced them apart with her drawn sword, strode into the building, creating a stir from inside as the crowd turned their heads, tutting and frowning at the disturbance.

  Here were the nobles and eldermen, high-born merchantmen and free-born traders. Bishops and the clergy. The Abbot of the Glass Isle and, seated opposite him, the Abbess, Lady Branwen. At the head of the room, beyond the crowd, swollen by those of the settlement who had managed to push their way in, Ambrosius Aurelianus dressed formally in a purple-edged toga, was seated on a chair of state. Sprawled at his feet, visibly shaking from cold and fear, Ragnall. They had stripped her of outer garments, displaying her disfigured body. Proof of her devilry, they said; proof God had punished her for her sins.

  Although hurried, Gwenhwyfar had attired herself carefully. It would not be wise to appear dishevelled and slovenly before such austere and august company. She had chosen a robe of green silk, the colour of new-budded spring, and a cloak of finest woven wool that draped to her ankles in a contrasting, darker shade. It billowed behind her, like a green cloud of rustling leaves and wind as she strode through the parting crowd, seeming like a visiting Goddess herself.

  Her copper-gold hair was braided and decorated with the glittering sparkle of emeralds and garnets. At her throat, her gold-twined torque, shaped as a dragon. And in her hand, blade down now that she was through the doors, her unsheathed sword.

  She stalked forward, head proud, green eyes flickering tawny sparks of outrage. It occurred to her, in a moment of fleeting sorrow, that it ought be Arthur where Ambrosius sat, presiding over this gathering. But had Arthur been here there would be no need for her anger. Had this court of judgement been called with Arthur as King… No use pursuing that brief thought. Arthur was not here. She need deal with Ambrosius. And Branwen.

  Politely, if somewhat restrained, Ambrosius acknowledg
ed her entrance, waved aside the two guards hurrying after her. The Council and gathered onlookers – mostly men – pressed behind her, heads craning, standing on toe-tip, not wishing to miss a single moment of this excitement.

  She had reached Ambrosius, halted before the first step of the raised dais and watched by all present, offered her sword to him, hilt first. Hesitant, puzzled, sensing some trick, Ambrosius came to his feet, took it.

  And Gwenhwyfar sank into a deep reverence of obedience. Save to her own husband, she had never before offered such humility.

  Murmurs of astonishment; mutters of incredulity. All in that Council knew Gwenhwyfar too well, reckoned her to hold as much force, self-will and impudence as Arthur himself.

  Gwenhwyfar had decided how to fight this thing as she hastily dressed. Ah, there was more than one way to win a battle! Straight out, with brute strength – or by stealth and cunning. She had no hope of winning by force, there were not enough of her men present to back her. Oh, there were a few who would remain loyal to Arthur, but not many. Ambrosius had seen to that. Arthur’s men had either gone with him or had not been invited here… Gwynedd was not summoned to Council at Yns Witrin, nor Dyfed, Rheged, Caledonia… only representatives of the south were here, the wealthy south who ran spear against shield with Ambrosius.