He was bewildered. Why this anxiety, this distress? Please him! She already pleased him. “Be beautiful for me then.”
She bit her lip, astonished, a little hurt. “Then others will sneer and talk. They will say, “Look at the hag Cadwy has taken as wife!”
Cadwy countered, “Then wear your veil in public.”
Her expression of horror deepened, she caught her breath, exclaimed, “You, then, cannot bear for them to see me thus? I knew it!” And she rushed to her feet, scuttled to where her veil had fallen, retrieved it and fastened it, with trembling hands, to hide her face as well it could.
As quickly, for all his lameness, Cadwy was at her side, removing it again. “Truly, I am not concerned over your looks. What you are is within you, not shaped outwardly on the parts we all see.” He smoothed her ruffled hair, smiled warmly at her. “Wear your veil as you see fit, when and where it pleases you. Where it helps you feel comfortable, at ease, with me or in the public eye. I care not, for I care only for you, Ragnall, for you.”
He kissed her again and took her, before she could protest, to the bed that was Gwenhwyfar’s and Arthur’s. Claimed her for his wife, to prove to her, truly, it was not her appearance that mattered, not to him. It was what you did together as man and wife that counted. She was so trusting, so truly innocent and blithely unaware of his possible inability as a husband. Other women may have mocked, but not she.
It was Ragnall who needed the confidence, the kindness and understanding of a man for a woman, and incredibly, to his immense joy, Cadwy discovered for himself that a lame leg made no difference whatsoever to the ability of his manhood.
For Ragnall, the night brought a swathe of emotion and pleasures that never would she have dreamt of experiencing. And greater was the sheer, utter delight, for the first time in her life, of being informed she could have her own choice. She was free to choose for herself what she did, when and how.
For any woman, but especially for Ragnall, who had been ordered by the whims of others, the greatest desire, the keenest pleasure: to have her own mind.
XXXVIII
At the rustle of silk and waft of expensive perfume, Gwenhwyfar turned her head to see Winifred seating herself. She made no gesture of welcome, but equally no protest at the uninvited intrusion. For a while they sat in silence, surveying the dancing, the whirl of activity circling and cavorting along the centre of the Hall. Each aware of, and steadfastly ignoring, the other.
“That was neatly done, the diversion from the unpleasant necessity of bedding the marriage couple.”
Gwenhwyfar inclined her head in acknowledgement. Made no answer, however.
“You are full recovered to health now then, my dear?” Winifred enquired, her voice light, pleasant, seemingly genuinely interested.
“Quite recovered, I thank you.” Gwenhwyfar’s retort was shorter-breathed, sharper. She had no wish for conversation with this woman.
Winifred persisted. “Your daughter? She is well also?” Craning her neck to search around the crowded Hall, added, “I see her not here.”
“Most well.” Archfedd was outside with the children of her own age, being too young to mingle with such honourable company. As Winifred well knew.
“There are fine numbers here, some many notable people.”
There seemed no point in answering. Gwenhwyfar kept her counsel, forced down a scathing retort.
“Though I see there are as many missing. Geraint of Dumnonia for one.”
Blood of the Bull, but this woman could be insufferable! Those not attending were Arthur’s most vehement opposers, and for each of those, twice as many supporters were here. Geraint, the exception. “A first child is about to be born to his wife,” Gwenhwyfar retorted, although she saw no need for explanation.
Another long, silent, pause. The noise of excitement was rising, the drinking taking precedence over most other entertainments. “You have not heard when Arthur plans to return?”
“Soon,” was the terse answer.
Winifred chuckled, nodded meaningfully in Ambrosius’s direction. “Ah, but is soon not already too late?” She patted her gown straight, smoothing a few creases. In public she wore the plain black of a Christian woman, but even this was of fine-spun, softest wool, worn with a gossamer-soft silk veil to cover her sun-gold hair. “Will he be happy to leave his whore behind, do you think? Or will he bring her back with him, secrete her away somewhere?” Winifred had the ability to offend while wearing such a pleasant, friendly smile.
“If you are hoping to goad me into anger, Winifred, you had best try a different tactic. I know of Mathild. From Arthur himself.” Aye, Gwenhwyfar was jealous of the fact, but she was practical. No man such as the Pendragon could be expected to pass this length of time without the company of a woman.
“And do you know that Euric was, according to my last received communication, moving northward? That, very likely, the two armies have, by now, met?” She could see, by Gwenhwyfar’s quick, indrawn breath and sudden paling skin, this was indeed unknown news.
Mastering her composure, Gwenhwyfar countered the woman’s smug gloat, her words coming in a rush of protest. “There has been no exchange of communication these past many weeks. I understand the sea-crossing is made fierce by strong winds.” Nor do we know for certain where my husband encamps, I have no knowledge that my latest letters have reached him. But that, she had no intention of admitting or confiding.
Satisfied at achieving the reward of reaction, Winifred began the thrust of her second blow. She folded her hands onto her lap, deliberately took time before expanding her information.
“The Saex pirates, as they are still insultingly termed, have little fear of these high, summer winds at sea. Their longships handle well under any condition. For the right price.” She applauded an acrobat who had performed some incredible contortion routine within a small space at the side of the Hall, her praising hands clapping politely, joining other, more exuberant delight. “I, my dear, have always made it policy to pay more than what is right.” Turning her head towards Gwenhwyfar, her condescending smile was as rancid as stale cheese. “The reward far outdistances the commitment.”
Tartly, Gwenhwyfar sniped, “I have no fear for Arthur. He is a capable warlord, has the best men with him.”
Indulgent, Winifred nodded agreement, infuriatingly patted Gwenhwyfar’s hand. “I agree with what you say, but even the best will not be sufficient against five, happen six times his number.”
Sharply removing her hand, Gwenhwyfar made to rise, thought better of the action, remained seated. Her response was curt. “The Pendragon does not fight alone. Syagrius is to… ”
Winifred interrupted with an amused laugh. She came, gracious and with dignity to her feet. “Syagrius? Oh my dear, you ought use Saxon messengers. Have you not heard that news either?”
Blankly, Gwenhwyfar stared at the odious woman. The question was rhetorical, for Winifred, already starting to walk away, tossed the answer over her shoulder. “Syagrius marched only as far as Letetia.”
She halted, swivelled her head to regard the Pendragon’s second-taken wife, to observe how pale her cheeks had turned, how wide her eyes, how fast her breathing. “He dismissed his army. Went home.” She feigned shock, her hand going to her chest. “My dear, were you not aware the Pendragon is to fight alone?” She walked away, her words trailed after her through the noise and laughter of celebration. “I happen to know Euric follows my policy of paying high to ensure his success. I could tell you how much he has paid Syagrius to go home, if you were enough interested.”
Winfred beckoned to a slave. “Take wine to Lady Gwenhwyfar. I believe she is a little unwell.”
XXXIX
Restless night; the long darkness before a battle. It always seemed so very long, as if the stars hung there in the sky, paused, breath held, their timeless dance suspended, quiet, and unmoving. The waiting, the reluctance – the anticipation – of what would come on the morrow at this place called Vicus Dolensis.
The horses grazed or dozed, fidgeting, their ears flicking, legs shifting, sensing the underlying tension of the men, few of whom slept. Gathered around the hearth fires, men squatted, checking war-gear for loose stitching, blunt edging, cracks, breaks. Others lay huddled, curled beneath their cloaks, dozing from one anxious dream to another. Many sat, putting an extra edge to the blade of sword or dagger or axe, exchanging tales of past battles and brave heroes; of women loved and women lost. Some kept their council, caressing the treasured memories of the past, regretting a future unfulfilled.
Always, Arthur walked through the encampment on the night before battle. It pleased the men; gave heart to those in doubt or wrestling against fears, cheered the old campaigners, gave chance to exchange shared laughter or give comfort or courage. But who was there this night to prop the sagging weight of his own heavy heart? Who was there to talk to him, to give an encouraging smile, a friendly slap to the shoulder or a hand-clasp of faith? Who was there to hold close, to caress, to touch, to give and receive love? The especial love that could only leap between a man and his wife. The wife he mourned.
Arthur stood to the edge of the camp, aware the watch-guard was uneasy at his presence so near to the danger of the unprotected dark. The trees here, covering the higher ground sloping down to the vast stretch of flat land below, were tall, straight and thick-shadowed beneath the moon. He could so easily take two, three paces and be lost within their sheltering darkness. He could slip away, now, be many miles gone by dawn. No doubt there were already a few – huh, on an uneasy night such as this, more like many – who had already done so. Had slid quiet away, to hide, to wait, watch for a few hours then disappear, go home.
If he, Arthur, were to go, would there then be a fight on the morrow? Or would the men talk between themselves, lay down their weapons and ride away? Would Euric the Goth accept that inglorious way of winning?
Before, there had always been some point, some reason for the fighting: honour; to control the land, to retain or gain what was his by rights. To fight for revenge or power, or glory, or gain… whatever, there was always a reason. What reason was there for this? Gaul was not his, most of these men sitting anxious around their fires waiting for a dawn that they did not want to arrive, were not his men. This was not his fight, his problem. Why in all the gods’ names had he not turned around months past and simply gone home? As Syagrius had.
Pulling a thin branch off the nearest tree, Arthur absent-mindedly shredded it of its leaves. Why? Gods! How those damn questions trundled around and around in his brain! Why had he come? Why had he stayed? Why did Gwenhwyfar have to die!
His throat was dry and taut, his chest hurt from the tight, choked breathing that clutched like a clenched fist at his lungs. Arthur bit his lip, threw the mangled branch from his hand. He wanted to shout, scream, roar his anger, let loose his great grief. Started as a dead branch cracked loud in the stillness, not four paces from him.
“Mithras, Bedwyr,” he laughed, shaken, “you nigh on set me leaping like a frightened deer!”
Bedwyr stepped forward, his white teeth glistening behind his wide smile. “Thought I might find you out here.” He stood next to his cousin, looked out into the darkness of the trees a moment. He had been searching for Arthur this past hour – had understood the need for solitude once he realised where Arthur had gone. “I know I have said this before, Arthur, but I must say it again – she may not be dead. That messenger said only…”
The Pendragon swung irritably away. “I bloody know what that messenger said! She was mortally ill, not expected to last the night through. Damn it, man!” He faced Bedwyr again, fists bunched, body rigid, so wanting to hit out, to punch someone, something. Release the anger of losing her, of not being with her. Of being here instead. “If she had survived, do you not think I would have heard?”
Lifting his hands in protest, Bedwyr was about to express a contradiction, sighed, let them drop again to his side. They had travelled this path before, what use to say again that aye, Arthur might be right, but equally they had heard no further message confirming the first. Had heard nothing of Britain since that grey-faced youth had brought them such immeasurable sadness.
“I came to say our officers await you for final orders. Do we move down onto the plains come dawn, meet Euric as we planned?”
Arthur nodded, realised Bedwyr would not see his slight movement in the dark. “Aye. We will make this a fight to be remembered. One way or the other.”
There was no reason behind the fighting, which was sure to be bitter and bloody come sunrise, but it would be good to release all the stored anger and frustration. Good for all of them, not just for Arthur alone.
And then, after this thing was finished, those who could would go home without any shadow of shame or regret clinging to their shoulders. Those who wanted to go home.
Those who had something – someone – worth going home to.
XL
Vicus Dolensis. This was marsh; stretching as far as the horizon; a flatness, oozing runnels of bog-bound, shallow river and sluggish, stream-laced, marsh. Unsuited to cavalry, ground Arthur would have avoided if given choice. The decision had not been his to make. Three hours past the site of this battle had been in Arthur’s hands; three hours past, his cavalry had been drawn up almost two miles northward, where the ground was firm, suited for horse.
The two armies had met, fought. The Goths, thousands of men, skirmishing half-heartedly, their slow, backward pacing unnoticed at first, unforeseen. For all his experience and gift for fighting, Arthur could not oversee a whole battlefield, not when the enemy had so many men dispersed. Steadily, the Goths had drawn Arthur’s cavalry forward. No choice, once the strategy was realised, but to follow, to go with them, trying, struggling to break that slow step, back-pace, knowing that the marshes, the vastness of this water-bellied wilderness, lay behind Euric’s men. Marshland: where infantry could fight on foot, where horses would be next to useless.
Arthur had never, save once, fought within a marsh without it being him to choose the ground, him to call the tune. That once had been his first fight, long, long past, when he was a raw youth in service to King Vortigern. He had learnt since then. Learnt never to trust the treachery of marsh and bog, unless it suited his tactics. And this day, this long, sun-scorching day, it did not suit him at all. It fitted well for Euric, and it was he, it seemed, who paid the harper to sing.
The Pendragon seemed almost not to care, but pressed forward, recklessly trying to outmanoeuvre the enemy. The alternative was to turn and run like whipped dogs – and that, Arthur could not, would not do. The Artoriani had never retreated, save as planned strategy. To fall back now would be their certain end for already their numbers were dwindling, the horses tiring. To retreat would be the end of them all. Huh! Was it not the end anyway? But it was one thing to finish with honour, quite another with the defeat of shame.
Not half of one mile to the east the waders and waterfowl went unconcerned about their business of feeding. The geese, honking and clamouring their annoyance, had taken flight in great skeins when one wing of Arthur’s cavalry, led by Ecdicius the Gaul, had swung about in a brave attempt to cut any further backward movement of Euric’s damned horde. Startled into flight, screaming protest, the geese had circled, only to land further off, to begin again their preoccupied flat-footed dabbling among the wind-teased, whispering reeds and water grasses.
The sun was high, a bright, glaring ball against the vivid, heated blue of a cloudless sky that swept as endless as the marshes into the distance. Since sunrise had the battle flurried, swaying back and forth like the relentless sweep of the tide. Two armies intent on savagery. Kill or be killed. With nothing, no compromise, in between. So many already dead. Among the first, Meriaun, Gwenhwyfar’s nephew.
Arthur’s horse foundered. He was a good stallion, a dark, polished-elm bay, with bold eye and deep chest. A good horse, yet the Pendragon would rather have had Onager beneath him; that bad-tempered, unpredi
ctable bugger of a chestnut. Onager, who could fight with teeth and heel as bravely and efficiently as any soldier. A second time, the bay’s legs went from beneath him, and this time he went down, his hooves skidding in the churned ooze of mud. Arthur grabbed for the mane, saw, too late, an axe scything down, rolled desperately, felt the whish of air as it thudded past, taking the bay’s head from its neck in the one, savage, blow.
On one knee, the gush of horse-blood spouting, the mud thick and squelching, Arthur raised his shield, deflected a second blow, though the pain from a sword-slash that had lain open his arm from shoulder to wrist was ramming like a ballista bolt. He knew, knew, this was the end. And he did not care. He thought he would have minded when the end came. Minded losing, minded dying.
Already he was bleeding from too many wounds to count, from shoulder, arm and thigh. One more blow from that axe to his shield and surely his arm would shatter as thoroughly as the wood. One more blow from that axe…
The axe did not come for a sword was swinging from behind, the bloodied, dulled blade forcing through the air…
The end. Arthur never knew the end of that battle, for it came from behind. Unseen, almost unfelt. A great exploding end of sudden, brief, pain across his shoulder, down his back.
A stunned nothingness that turned, slowly, slowly, from red to black.
Part Two
The Empty Loom
I
“Oh Christ! Christ Jesu!” Over and over, with struggling, tortured breath, Bedwyr repeated the oath, with every stumbling, exhausted step. He fell, staggered again to his feet, pushed on, willing his trembling, aching legs to move; dragging his precious burden. “Christ, Jesu Christ!”
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