And then, of course, there were the English.
There was little Ambrosius could do about the British tribes, as unruly, snarling a bunch as ever had been. Nor was there much inclination among the Council to consider them. The tribes, never truly Roman, would, it was widely accepted, revert to type. Let them! But the English?
Ambrosius had pledged to finish them, send them scuttling for their boats and the sea. For the Saex, he promised his loyal followers, Britain would become as uncomfortable as squatting on an ants’ nest.
The problem with rash-made pledges. Easy to make, difficult to accomplish.
Inexperience of soldiering did not deter Ambrosius, for he was a man of faith and he had good men beneath him, battle-hardened, war-scarred men who for all their previous questionable loyalty, would serve him well. At least until someone else lured their interest. As there was no one, now Vitolinus was dispatched – and even were he not, it was doubtful British men would follow a half-Saex cur – Ambrosius was safe, at least for long enough to achieve his aim to entrench the level of respect that Arthur had once acclaimed.
His first move was to occupy English-held territory, to dominate and suppress. He ordered a formidable line of fortresses and strongholds to be built at strategic points. He placed patrols and militia guards along the key trade routes. Arthur had never advocated such methods, preferring to be able to move his men fast and effectively when needed, where needed. To tie men to one area went against the use of his efficient cavalry, but Ambrosius was ever an infantryman. He would do things the Roman way. What was left of the proud Artoriani, Arthur’s elite cavalry, Ambrosius sent to man the new fortresses that set watch over the English settlements. They were no longer Arthur’s men, for they were his to command now.
August 471
XX
Amlawdd, for all his impatient character, was astute enough to realise he must wait, pick a right moment to approach Gwenhwyfar. Apprehension was behind his reasoning. Gwenhwyfar was no ordinary, demure woman. One false step and he could lose more than pride! The lady was too well practised with sword and dagger for any man’s safe comfort – as he well knew from past experience. Even the hope of amassing all the Pendragon’s wealth and land kept his hand steady on the reins. Whatever was Gwenhwyfar’s would, as her husband, become his. The prospect of making attempt for the supreme kingship, though, for all his dreams of ambition, was low on his list. Even Amlawdd, with his imprudent and ill-thought ideas, recognised his limitations. No, to be lord over such prestigious land was enough. With both the Summer Land and Dumnonia marching alongside his present, modest, coastal holding, he would be master of the entire southeast… a fine ambition.
It was not, then, until August was into full gallop that Amlawdd rode, intent upon his quest and with an escort of but four men, to Caer Cadan. He had chosen a fine, warm, day; a pleasant ride beneath a sapphire blue sky that was skittered with mare’s tail and distant mackerel clouds.
The marshes were already drained, for dry weather had come early and the Summer Land lay as a worked tapestry of flowers of many colours and the varying greens of grass and tree. No breeze stirred the alder or willow; running streams gurgled laughter, lazy rivers trundled their meandering course. The Tor, the whale-hump island that rose above these miles of flat, marsh levels seemed to be sleeping, drowsing under the heat. Ahead, the Caer lay camouflaged against a background of blue-hazed, grassed hills, with only a few thin, spiralling wisps of cooking-fire smoke to give notice of its being there.
No banner flew above its ramparts. Gwenhwyfar had refused her own and she would not fly her husband’s Dragon. There seemed to be no guard patrolling the walkway. A solitary gatekeeper snarled his growled challenge as Amlawdd drew rein at the summit of the cobbled lane’s incline. The visitor dismounted; handed, with jovial cordiality, a small wooden box to the man who came stumping from his guardhouse beside the open-thrown gates, bid him, with polite courtesy, take it immediate to Lady Gwenhwyfar. “With my good wishes and compliments.”
He could have ridden straight in, made his way direct to the Hall built on the highest ground, bold against the skyline. Could have marched in and demanded his right to hospitality. Did not. Ah no, Amlawdd intended to follow correctness to the letter. In case the lady should not be in a mild temper this day.
He waved his men to dismount, settled himself on the grass bank below the palisade fencing, lay back to enjoy the calm pleasure of early afternoon sun on his face. He had bathed first thing, been shaved, had his hair trimmed. Had even chewed on a fresh hazel stick to clean his teeth. His clothes: best doehide boots; leather tunic settled over linen shirt, and fine-woven woollen bracae, were recent made. His cloak, a favourite, a deep blue and red plaid, the slaves had cleaned and hung above a smoking fire for several days. There ought not be any remaining fleas or lice sharing it, not after such strenuous treatment.
He must have dozed, for the clouds seemed thicker bunched as he opened his eyes on hearing the tread of a shuffling, approaching step. Congenially, wearing an open, pleasant smile, Amlawdd bounced to his feet. The gatekeeper had returned without the box. A good sign. Promising!
He was a gruff man, the gatekeeper, elderly, his left leg swinging in a stiff limp; an old soldier. He nodded over his shoulder, muttered through toothless gums, “My lady will see you. You’re to go up.”
Polite, Amlawdd thanked the man, mounted, proceeded through the gate at a walk, did not see old Glewlwyd spit and make a contemptuous, horned sign as he rode past. If matters had been left to this trusted old man, scum such as Amlawdd would be sent, no questions asked, bouncing and rolling direct over the ramparts.
Were he to have known the nature and intention of the visit, Glewlwyd might have been sorely tempted to do so anyway.
XXI
The concentration on the little girl’s face would have looked almost comical had her intent not been so serious. Brows slightly furrowed, lips parted, she stared ahead, eyes directly focused between the pony’s neat, pricked, black-tipped ears. Archfedd would soon be five years old; it was well time that she learnt to ride, and Briallen, named for the spring primroses that had bloomed so profusely in the year that the mare was born, was to be as much her tutor as her mother, Gwenhwyfar.
“A little kick-kick with your heels to make her walk on… aye, that’s it!” Gwenhwyfar clapped her hands as her daughter again successfully moved the pony into a walk. Her legs were too short for such a fat pony’s round belly, but Briallen had known enough children, knew her job. A patient, steady mare, alarmed at nothing save the thought of missing out on her next feed. Sure-footed, pretty, intelligent, the colour of sun-dried hay, with a dark mane and tail that tumbled down like the wild waterfalls of her native mountain home of Gwynedd. All the Artoriani children of Caer Cadan had learnt to ride on Briallen, including Gwenhwyfar’s sons, Llacheu and Gwydre. Now her daughter, Archfedd.
“Good,” Gwenhwyfar encouraged, “keep her going, now turn her – well done!”
Horses were approaching the area running beside the Hall that served for courtyard and stableyard alike. Gwenhwyfar frowned, ignored the men coming to a halt, dismounting. Her back was to them as she watched her daughter ride, but the pony was going forward, she would need to turn with her – and Amlawdd was striding across the yard, both arms outstretched, smiling hugely. Politeness could dictate no other response: Gwenhwyfar would need to welcome him. She nodded a cursory acknowledgement and called for her daughter to halt. “Gently on the reins, Cariad, do not pull at her, the bit will hurt her mouth badly if you do.”
“A fine young lady,” Amlawdd observed, “every inch her mother!”
Ignoring the flattery, Gwenhwyfar instructed her daughter to dismount, watched with approval as the girl moved her legs from the saddle horns and dropped neatly to the ground.
“Shall I take her to a stall and brush her, Mam?” Archfedd asked, taking the reins over the pony’s head and patting her neck.
Na! Gwenhwyfar thought, desperately, do not
leave me with this imbecile! But what help could a child be, save as a distraction? She nodded, “Of course. Find her a handful of chaff as reward for her hard work.”
Grinning, Archfedd produced a chunk of stale, fluff-covered bread from the leather pouch at her waist, showed it proudly. “I have this for her!” Scenting it, the mare pushed her nose, eager to eat the tit-bit immediately, but the girl authoritatively shoved her aside. “You wait, greedy pony!”
Joining the conversation, Amlawdd attempted friendliness. “You will spoil her, make her fatter than she is.”
His effort failed, for Archfedd only scowled at him. Briallen was as round as a barrel of ale, but it was not for strangers to say so.
Indicating a side doorway into the Hall, flung open for the light and air, Gwenhwyfar gestured for Amlawdd to walk with her, ordered that his escort be comfortably attended. She served him herself, pouring wine, offering food, anything to delay the need to sit, converse with him; thanked him politely for the gift, the expensive myrrh from the eastern trade routes. A luxury few in Britain could afford to buy from the traders who sailed from those distant lands.
Genially he patted the bench with his hand, gesturing for her to be seated beside him, chatted pleasantly of his journey, the weather, the prospect of an excellent harvest. She answered him, able to talk of minor things, but her breath caught inaudibly as he slightly shifted position, took her fingers up in his hand.
Gwenhwyfar did not dislike Amlawdd. Indeed, he was a man so innocuous it was impossible to like or dislike him. It was his kindred, one brother in particular, long dead, she hated. Amlawdd had so much of his appearance, though without the rank stench of stale wine and dried sweat. She could never look at him without the tremor of memory returning. That brother had beaten and mistreated her husband, raped her, murdered her own beloved brother. She gazed, eyes tear-misted, across the Hall at the bustle of the women preparing the evening meal around the hearth-place. That was all so long, long ago, but the memories lingered. Memories would always linger.
Amlawdd had been talking. Gathering her wits Gwenhwyfar apologised, asked him to repeat what he had said. Her mind was so easily distracted these days. There was no inclination to do anything, to go anywhere, she would sit for hours, staring at nothing, her mind blank. She had once been so active and alert, but since… since he had gone…
“I said I have been into Gwynedd recently.” Amlawdd was stroking the skin along the back of her hand. Idly, Gwenhwyfar watched his fingers moving there, wondered why she did not withdraw from the touch.
“Gwynedd?” she asked, vague.
“Aye,” Amlawdd cantered his mind on his rehearsed speech. “Your brother Enniaun was most welcoming. We passed several weeks together in mutual pleasure, hunting through those deer-filled forests of his. There are still some small patches of snow on the tops of the highest mountains, you know!” He had been amazed at that, indeed, as a man born and bred along the coastal marshes of the Summer Land had been amazed at all the beauty and awe the mountains of Gwynedd offered. “I feel it a privilege to be honoured by your brother calling me friend. He is a most generous and wise man, will make a most pleasing kinsman.”
Dumbly, Gwenhwyfar stared at him. Why was he telling her all this?
For Amlawdd, the conversation seemed not to be going as well as he had hoped. Deliberately he had talked of her childhood home – an opening move to put her at ease. She ought to have responded with enthusiasm, with exchanged pleasure. Momentarily he fumbled for what to say next, decided to come straight out with his reason for being here. “As you know, I have no wife. I asked permission of your eldest brother for me to consider the taking of another.”
Frowning, the thought trundled through Gwenhwyfar’s sluggish brain; Why ask Enniaun?
Beads of sweat began to prickle Amlawdd’s forehead. “My dear, you are a woman alone, unprotected. Your daughter has no father.” He lifted her hand to his lips, turned it over, kissed the palm, his eyes on her face. Relieved she did not snatch away from him. “I offer you my sword and shield. I offer you myself as husband. I truly want you as wife.”
Blankly, Gwenhwyfar stared at him. The silence became embarrassingly long.
Gamely, Amlawdd stumbled on. “Your brother believes it to be an excellent match and already the Supreme Governor has given us his blessing. Our union can take place,” Amlawdd vacantly waved his free hand, “well, almost immediately.”
“No!” Gwenhwyfar shot to her feet, snatching her hand from his grasp, her startled cry echoing and bouncing between the timber, tapestry-covered walls. The heads of servants and Caer-folk lifted alarmed, one or two men came a step closer, hands on their dagger-hilts.
Hurriedly, confused, Gwenhwyfar waved their startled concern down. She was not in danger, needed no help. For all that, her faithful Ider, standing just within the shadows of the open doorway, checked his blade was loose in its sheath. He did not trust this Amlawdd of the Mount of Frogs. Never had. Amlawdd had once ordered him killed, only his men had bungled the doing. Ider had conveniently set aside the fact he had gone to Amlawdd’s fortress for the same purpose, to kill him.
Gwenhwyfar recovered herself, managed to smile at her visitor. “Sir, forgive me, your words have flustered me.” She kept the smile, though her heart was lurching. Enniaun, her brother, had agreed to this? How could he? Then the thought, how dare he! And Ambrosius had been consulted in this obnoxious thing – God’s breath, had everyone, save herself, been involved in decision-making about her future? She must find a way out of this without giving offence, gain time to think straight. Aye. Gain time. Her smile widened, reaching to her eyes. “This is so unexpected, so generous. I… ” she faltered, took breath, plunged on, “I would ask time to make a reply. My husband, you understand, meant much to me. It is a serious matter to take a successor, I will need to consider, and seek advice.”
Her answer seemed plausible for, coming to his feet, Amlawdd beamed pleasure. For a moment he had thought she was going to reject him. “Naturally, my dear, I understand. But this you must understand also, you need to take a husband.” He lowered his voice, glanced surreptitiously around to ensure none stood too close, could overhear. “Ambrosius needs to have you placed somewhere that gives him security. You are, however unintentionally, a threat to him. It would be wise to take a husband, to retain your freedom.”
The false smile vanished from Gwenhwyfar’s face, that muddled panic disappearing with it, a flare of anger interceding. She had not missed the subtle threat. “Freedom? What mean you?”
A second time, Amlawdd glanced around. “Ambrosius confided in me,” he shrugged his shoulder, flapped a hand, “oh, some while past, that he could not leave you to stir possible trouble. It is a steadying husband, loyal to the Governor, for you, my lady, or the safe confine of a nunnery.” He was lying, but Gwenhwyfar had no knowing of that. Were she to refuse him, the last was a suggestion he would most assuredly put to Ambrosius.
Wild, dizzying, angry thoughts chased across Gwenhwyfar’s mind. Breathing steadily, trying to mask her alarm, she controlled herself. By the blood of the Bull she must get herself out of this! She replaced the smile, her senses coming rapidly alert.
“I thank you for your confidence. A husband would be more acceptable than the piety of a convent!” She signalled for a servant to approach, gave orders for Amlawdd and his men to be found comfortable quarters.
“I trust you will enjoy your stay at Caer Cadan,” she said. “I will inform you of my decision as soon as it be made.”
Again, a dazzling smile set Amlawdd at his ease and, aware he had been dismissed, he had no choice but to withdraw from the Hall with the waiting servant. He bowed, smiled and left, encouraged that Gwenhwyfar had amicably returned his reverence. He would see her at the evening Gather, speak again with her, nudge her decision in the right direction.
Only, Gwenhwyfar was not at the Gather. A mild chill, he was told.
Amlawdd did not know enough of Caer Cadan to realise who was a
ttendant and who was gone. Had he been aware that Ider, captain of Gwenhwyfar’s guard – all her guard – were missing, and that horses had left the Caer through the western gate, their going muffled by the natural noise of the evening, he might have showed alarm. As it was, the food and the wine at Caer Cadan was, as always it had been, most plentiful and good.
XXII
They rode the best horses, not necessarily the fastest or most sensible, but the most valuable. Onager, the bad-tempered chestnut who had once been Arthur’s war stallion, Gwenhwyfar rode herself. He was difficult to handle, being strong of muscle and temper, with snapping teeth and perpetually flat-back ears and likely to kick any who came too close behind, but she was a competent rider and perversely, was fond of him. As Arthur had been. She rode him often, for he was a link with the past, something alive that had been Arthur’s.
They had packed hurriedly but efficiently, Ider agreeing with Gwenhwyfar, in hasty conference, it seemed likely they would not be returning to Caer Cadan for some while.
“I am not safe here,” she had confessed, pressing her hand on Ider’s arm as he dutifully protested she would always be safe within his protection.
A few clothes, items of value: jewels, rings, necklaces. Arthur’s great sword, wrapped in the tattered, bloodstained Dragon Banner, Gwenhwyfar carried rolled within her own saddle-bundle. It was never far from her, that sword. As with Onager, it had been a part of Arthur, an extension of his soul, his being, the last thing he had touched. Had been in his hand as he died. It lay in her bed at night, held close on those many occasions when the drowning loneliness swamped too deep.
Ider carried Archfedd, drowsing after a full hour’s ride, beneath the wrap of a cloak, though she had been awake at first, eager and excited at the prospect of a night adventure. Her only protest, which threatened wailed tears, that they should not leave her pony behind. So Briallen had come also, making herself useful by carrying one of the packs.
Shadow of the King Page 24