Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  Rowing was no less tiring than walking, but by taking the oars in turns at least there was occasion to rest, to sleep. Not to remember. That was still, then, too raw to face. Thus, to the town of Caesarodunum they travelled; found there many questions and rising alarm. Euric, the citizens cried, would be upon them by the next dawn! The gates were to be closed, the militia stood to arms. A fuss and panic, with the wealthy taking to their horses or river barges. The poorer, wailing and crying for salvation in the narrow, crowded streets.

  None of the small, tired party of British or Saxons stayed longer than the one night, the excuse of their need to take word further afield readily accepted. They purchased sturdy, though malnourished, ponies; rode as fast as practical north, the nights and days becoming a blur of exhaustion and despondency. Heading, on that weary trudge through thick forest or floundering marshland for the nearest port with sea-going vessels. Where the second touch of the Wyrd laid help at Mathild’s feet.

  For most of the summer the seas between this northern coast and that of Britain had been high, with a rough, wallowing swell. Trade and fishing, seriously disrupted, had consequently suffered. Boats, those that had dared put to sea, had become damaged or had failed to return. There would be no crossing, Bedwyr was curtly informed, until conditions eased. When would that be? His polite question met with a shrug of shoulders and a blank expression. Only the Saex, the pirate traders who plied their adventurous living up and down the Gaulish coast were foolhardy enough to risk such doubtful seas. Eagerly they agreed to take Mathild north along the coast, past the Roman lighthouse at Bononia and on as far as the Elbe and her homeland.

  The British? They would need make their own passage.

  Mathild thought of them occasionally on that first day apart, with regret. Bedwyr had been a friend, uncensoring of her relationship with Arthur; the men, she had known these past, long months as they camped or marched as Artoriani. But for all that, they were British, not Saxon, and she had a task before her to face. To claim her right to title, wealth and land.

  That Arthur had given her these Saxons as her own guard was no mere gesture of affection. He had known well enough her intention, once free, to follow her own path. Delighted in it. Aye, and with the granting of these men and her manumission, encouraged it. She had not told him the full truth, however, for he had assumed Mathild was to confront the boy who had so presumptuously taken her uncle’s place, and be rid of him. It had been one comfort for Arthur, that last night, to believe Mathild would ensure Cerdic stayed not long in the world after his father’s passing. Her one doubt, one tinge of guilt. She had not corrected, at any time, that assumption.

  For all their fondness of the man Leofric, for all their loyalty to his surviving kindred, many a Saxon thegn would not support a woman returned from exile and widowed, against one who might, with the strength of Thor’s hammer, lay claim to land far richer than the wind-whispering marshes of the snake-pathed Elbe. They would not rally to her, not if it came to outright fighting. They might, however, if she put before them a tempting alliance. One which would secure no tarnish of blood feud, especially if she had a son.

  Arthur would have been horrified to learn of her plan – indeed, she was herself when, truly, she examined her intention. But the Wyrd thrust her a third sign of what was meant to be, for as the month turned to August she reached the first bustling harbour that nestled beside the sea estuary, and met with Cerdic disembarking from his own vessel. And all her schemes, her plans, her manoeuvrings, thought up through these long months during the quiet hours of darkness, were not needed.

  He was flush-faced, excited. His crew, who cared naught for difficult sea conditions, had tossed caution to the wind. Pirating, it seemed, suited Cerdic well. As did the pretty-faced woman, whose eyes caught his and whose enigmatic smile aroused his interest and rapacious need.

  Within the week, Mathild’s charms and expertise in the art of loving had him chained to her as fast as a caught thief to the whipping post. Her easy success heightened by the secret knowledge that what pleasured the son had been taught her by his own father. As the night of the dead passed, and there came no haunting spirit from the Pendragon to chide her conquest, Mathild subtly suggested they keep their shared bed warm with a more lasting arrangement.

  It suited Cerdic well; for all his youthful age he had a shrewd mind, was well aware that not all Leofric’s people willingly accepted him. Mathild was true kindred to the dead man; he was not. The solution to change that position was attractive, as attractive as the woman who would make him a most pleasing wife, though he was but one month short of the age of manhood. His would be a double celebration, his four and tenth birthing day would also be his marriage day.

  When that day came, and Mathild shared the marriage bed with her new, young lord, he had a third reason to salute Woden. For she was already swelling with child, his child.

  Or so she told him.

  July 470

  VIII

  Ambrosius Aurelianus was finding it difficult to control his temper. He sat presiding over Council where once his nephew had sat, in the padded, armed chair on the raised dais. They were bickering, the Councillors seated opposite each other along the narrow, gloomy chamber. Disagreeing, arguing. Like spoilt children squabbling over the last lick of honey in the pot. And Ambrosius had condemned Arthur for losing patience on occasions such as these! Hah, this would try the patience of God himself.

  He listened, brows furrowed, fingers clenched, for half of one minute more, then came abruptly to his feet. “Enough!” he roared as he strode down the two steps, along the central aisle. “What is this foolishness? This inane argument?” He glowered left and right, at the bishops, the elders, noble-born, merchantmen, the wealthy traders, petty kings and lords. “There is no case for disagreement here. I summoned you to discuss the basis of strategy, how we move and when, not if! Not should!” He had reached the end of the long, narrow room, turned on his heel, strode back again, amused, even through his anger, that Arthur too, had paced in this self-same manner.

  He stopped at the head of the right-hand row of stools, gathered his breath a moment before turning to face his Council; a softer, calmer expression forced onto his countenance.

  “Gentlemen,” he began patiently. “Last year the nuisance of Vitolinus was just that, a nuisance. He raided a few settlements, butchered a few cattle. He was an irritant, a flea, a buzzing fly. Nothing more. Last year, he was as much a nuisance – and an embarrassment – to his uncle, Aesc of the Cantii. Things have very much changed this side of the winter snows. Great things. Most notably, you have a new Governor of Britain. For many of us,” he smiled here, received the response he intended, “this is a God-sent blessing!”

  Most were listening to him, a few still mumbled between themselves. Stern, he boomed, “But that blessing is as advantageous for the Saex as it is for us!”

  The mumblings and mutterings were becoming fewer. “Aesc will not recognise my authority. We could have war on our hands before harvest!” Ah. He had their full attention now.

  Striding back to his seat, Ambrosius had a last chance to think – as if he had been doing anything else this last eight and forty hours.

  Emissaries had been sent with the snow-melt. The last winter had come hard throughout Britain, with falls of heavy drifting snow on top of settled, packed snow and ice. The people and farm-stock, cattle, sheep, swine, froze and starved. Only the healthy or wealthy had come through this winter past – and if the harvest proved as bad as some predicted… Ambrosius shut that thought firmly aside. Enough to worry on for the time being. One by one, messengers had returned. Few carried pleasing news – even from the British. Too many petty kings had sent scorn flying back – aye, Council had said that move by Arthur, to allow such men their independence, was a bad one. Had Britain continued under one government, one lord, had he not allowed so much freedom of self-rule… But what was the point of ifs and buts? The now had to be faced.

  These rebellious British
in the north would be content if left alone. Could be dealt with later. The Saex? The Saxons were waiting to see what happened with the British, and between themselves. Waiting to see who made the first move. Who would prove to be the stronger.

  Every leader’s nightmare: that the enemy would agree to settle their differences and unite. For a while, Ambrosius was safe there. The Anglians considered themselves too aloof from Aesc’s Jutes of the Cantii territory to join in a chosen fight with them. Aesc’s father, Hengest, had been a mercenary soldier, homeless, landless; the various independent lords of Anglia and the North Humbrenses were noble-born, princes, kings from their own birthright, they scorned the line of Hengest with as much distaste as they did the British. For the others, the South Saxons were too new-settled, with not enough strength to brave a foray beyond their insignificant lands; likewise, the Saxons along the Tamesis; the East and Middle Saxons and those settled along the South Ridge were no threat. At least, not yet.

  Aesc had little to lose if he decided to run against the British, and much to gain. He was wealthy enough to be able to buy himself into some other place should he come out of a fight the worse off. He held lands, through his wife, in Northern Gaul. As easy for a Saxon to live under Childeric’s law as under Ambrosius’s. He could lose his life and respect, but to a Saxon neither were of consequence when weighted against the kudos of possible victory. It was regarded as honourable for a Saex to be killed in battle; respect was given to the warlord, the leader, the Bretwalda. Ah, there was the danger! It needed only one man, one arrogant Saex who thought he had more strength than others of the English kind. One Saxon to award himself the title Bretwalda and become the Supreme, Woden-blessed, King. Aesc seemed to be courting that title. Little to lose. Much to gain. King of all Britain. King, at least, over the English.

  Ambrosius had reached his seat, settled himself comfortable. Could Aesc aspire to such a height? Or was that privilege waiting some other for the next year, or the next? For the lord Winta of the Humbrenses? For the Anglian Icel; or Aelle of the South Saxons?

  “My lords and gentlemen,” Ambrosius began. It was no good, he would have to be honest, could not conceal the situation with half lies, half truths. As Arthur would have done. “My emissary was returned from Aesc two days past, the last of those I sent out.”

  A few in the Council sat forward, interested.

  Ambrosius studied all their faces, their expressions. Some eager, glowing with the prospect of a fight – the tribal lords mainly, the petty kings, those who had agreed to remain under the supremacy of Ambrosius, men such as Amlawdd who expected much from the new supreme leader. Too much? Others seemed dour or irate. The bishops, the clergy. They could ill-afford a war. A few even seemed bored. One man, elderly, admitted, and known to be hard of hearing, was asleep. Ambrosius sighed. Arthur would have had his sword out to such an insult. Christ’s good name, why was he forever thinking what Arthur would have been doing?

  So, it was the whole truth, not hiding anything. “My entrusted man, who, in peace, had taken word that Aesc was to submit in homage to me as overlord, came back with his ears sliced from his head, his fingers severed and his tongue cut out!”

  Shouts of rage, men stamping to their feet, hands and fists waving. The elderly lord, as deaf as stone, slept on. Cries for action to be taken against all the heathen Saex.

  “Aesc has declared war!” Ambrosius called, raising his voice, attempting not to reach an undignified shout. “He has joined with Vitolinus! We need fight the Jutes of Cantii.”

  “Can we?” someone called, thinking practically. They were crowding forward, huddled together before Ambrosius. Anxious, alarmed, their given opinions and suggestions mingling.

  “Strike the impudent bastards now!”

  “Burn them in their hovels!”

  “Drive them back to the sea!”

  “Aye, we ought have done so years ago!”

  “Have we the men?”

  “Of course we have!”

  Patting the air with his spread hands, Ambrosius appealed for calm. “That is the point,” he emphasised. “We have not!” He stood to regain attention. Could see now why Arthur had spent so much of his time on his feet at these meetings. “Arthur had not as many men in his army as I – but his men, the Artoriani, were professionals, drilled and drilled again. I have but a few hundred with as much dedication and spirit as they, and half of them are what remains of that Artoriani. The rest, the bulk of our fighting men, come from militias and tithed quotas. Arthur relied on such as padding, extras for garrison duty and reserves. He could fight where and when and how he chose, not relying on any save his own bound, brotherhood of men.”

  “Then he had no right to take them from Britain.” Someone shouted it out, the Bishop of Venta Bulgarium, Ambrosius thought. The cry was taken up, variations on the same theme.

  Angry, Cadwy pushed forward, making way by striking out with his crutch, earning himself black stares, curses; but, determined, he thrust his way to the forefront.

  Ambrosius had been embarrassed to discover his son here, but it was an emotion he had been forced to swallow. The lad was here by right of being the appointed lord of a stronghold. Badon was his, the fortified Caer that dominated the Great Ridge Way. One of Arthur’s places – Gwenhwyfar’s. She had given it to him. Why, Ambrosius could not understand. A cripple with a hag for a wife, to hold and, God forbid, soon, too soon, a need to defend. There were others more suited to the granting of such a prestigious holding, but Cadwy had it and there was nothing Ambrosius could do against it.

  “My Lord, I wish to speak.” Formal, Cadwy addressed his father. Few in this Council followed correct procedure. Ambrosius nodded permission.

  “I have the floor, my lords! I will speak!” Cadwy found he had need to repeat his claim for attention several times. He rapped the foot of his crutch on the stone floor, gained attention.

  “May I remind you all,” he said candidly, “that it was Council who voted that Arthur Pendragon must take half of his men away into Gaul? He had no wish to go beyond the boundaries of Less Britain. You forced his decision. Must I also remind Council it was you yourselves,” and he lifted his crutch, swung it in an arc, pointing it at each and every man, “at Yns Witrin, who unanimously voted that Arthur, our King, was not to be encouraged home!”

  Disagreement, cries of “No!” “Lies!” and “Shame!”

  Cadwy countered swiftly. He fumbled beneath his toga – Council insisted on dressing in the traditional style – brought out a parchment, waved it at the dissidents. “This is a copy of the reached agreements, as written by the clerk of that Council.” He flourished it higher. “Your voting is recorded by black ink on a scrolled parchment.”

  Bolder than his fellows, recently appointed, the Bishop of Aquae Sulis spoke out. “We have no need of Arthur’s men. We will call out the militia and assemble our own men – and we will send for Rome to help us.”

  The suggestion was well received, was taken up. “Aye! Send to Rome!”

  “Rome will help rid us of these Saxon parasites!”

  Men were bustling to their seats, someone called for the vote, hands were raised, ayes had it. Cheering, patting each other on the back, men began to leave the chamber, assuming business for the day to be concluded.

  Ambrosius fumbled for his own chair, slumped, head in hands. For not even one year around had he ruled in Arthur’s stead and already his hopes and dreams were proving to be nothing but ash and dust. He groaned.

  Why had he not seen that Arthur, for all his arrogance and temper and faults, had been right?

  IX

  “I am thinking,” Cadwy said into the echoing emptiness of the Council chamber, “that it is no easy matter, to be a king.”

  His father lifted his head from his hands, though his fingers remained spread across his cheeks. They had all gone, save for Cadwy and the clerk, a scrawny noviciate who was gathering together his scribe’s equipment.

  “I am no king,” Ambrosius answered,
but without the strident conviction that this retort usually conveyed.

  Cadwy shrugged. “Title is unimportant, it is the doing that counts.” He walked a few paces nearer his father, his crutch tapping, leg dragging. “And what will you do? Nothing? Or follow Council’s blindness and make appeal to ears that will no longer hear?” His words were a direct challenge, he expected rebuke.

  Ambrosius sighed, eased the tiredness from his eyes and face by rubbing his fingers across the tight skin. “Do? What can I do?” He stood, spread his hands. “God’s truth, Cadwy, I do not know for certain what to do.” He snorted self-derision. “I am, unfortunately, not an Arthur.”

  Quirking a half-smile, Cadwy cocked his head to one side, uncertain whether he could tease his father. “There is no reason why you could not be. You only have to rid yourself of a few prejudices, learn how to lie and fight, and become a total bastard.”

  Eyes narrowing, Ambrosius regarded his son carefully. There was something different about him. The style of hair and the dress were unchanged; he still favoured his weight onto the undamaged leg, giving his body an imbalance. His eyes were brighter, more alive, but it was not that.

  To his son’s surprise, the father also smiled. “I thought you already regarded me as a bastard.”

  Cadwy laughed outright. “Oh aye, I do, but that is a personal viewpoint, others think of you as a saint. Hardly a description that can be applied to Arthur’s memory!”

  “His men thought him even higher. A god!”

  “Alas, gods are immortal. Arthur was not.”

  It occurred to Ambrosius this was, perhaps, the first amicable conversation he had held with his son. “Your wife,” he asked, after clearing his throat several times, “she is well?”

  Cadwy’s expression brightened, glowed with pleasure and pride. “Most well. The child is due within the next month.”