Twelve of them left Caer Cadan, heading almost due south for the coast and Durnovaria. Gwenhwyfar and Archfedd, Ider and her personal guard. Among those men, another as loyal and devoted as Ider: Gweir. He was ten and nine now, a young man, although it could be one year more or one year less, for he was not certain of his birthing year. Arthur had found him, a ragged, scrawny boy of ten summers, while campaigning up beyond the Wall. He had been furious at first, the boy, at the thought of being taken as slave, but with no family, no home and no hope, he had soon seen sense. The sense turning to awe and within a short time, love, when he discovered the identity of his new master. Gweir lived for the Pendragon, even after being awarded his freedom. Would have died for him too, at that last, awful battle, had he been given chance, but the lad had been out of things almost from the first, when a club had knocked him senseless. He had awoken to find the sway of battle had drifted from where he had fallen, and it was nearly all over. Gweir was one of the few to have returned, to have struggled, weary and heart-sore, home to Britain, to Caer Cadan. At least the hurt of Arthur’s passing had been eased by the joy of finding his lady alive, that the report of her death had been false. Most of those who came back elected to continue soldiering, it was their life, their being. They joined with Ambrosius for the sake of Britain, but Gweir stayed with Gwenhwyfar, promoted as one of her trusted guard.
“Will Lord Geraint give us the protection we need?” Gweir had pushed his horse forward, rode beside his Queen, giving respectful distance to Onager’s quick heels. She nodded at him. “Aside the men who ride here with me this night, Bedwyr and Geraint are the most trusted among all those I know.”
Although there was no moon they rode easily, for the road was maintained here, crossing as it did the ridge of hills running as a border between the Summer Land and Geraint’s Durotrigia. Gwenhwyfar lifted her head confidently, spoke again to Gweir. He may not be able to see her movement in the darkness, but he would hear the sincerity in her voice. “I can trust all those men who loved my husband.”
Gweir bowed his head, beneath his breath muttered, “Amen to that.”
Gwenhwyfar regarded him curiously a moment. For how long had he been a follower of Christ? She said nothing. A man’s religion was his own business.
The distance between the two strongholds was not far in miles – not many over twenty – an easy ride, even in the dark, but in the measurement of safety, Geraint’s land was immense. Protected on the west and north by the strength of Arthur’s – Gwenhwyfar’s – land; southward by the sea and high, rugged cliffs; and east by a firm-fortified ditch and rampart earthwork. Unless overwhelmed by an army the size of a legion, Durotrigia was safe enough.
Geraint was proud of his heritage. Green, rolling hills, gentle breeze-whispered woodland, fish-filled rivers and streams, all nursed by a subtle, warm climate. The father of his fathers had settled this south-western corner and thrived… until the General Vespasian had come with his Roman Eagles and massacred men, women and children in the name of the Emperor. Geraint’s kindred, the Lord of the Durotriges, had been slaughtered defending his vast and impressive stronghold of Maiden-Hill. One daughter, a babe in arms, lived, carried away by a woman as her own; one of the few, on that sad, bitter day, to survive. From her, and the few of her kind, the memories lingered through the telling of tales of the time before Rome. Geraint was lord now, as that distant, shadowed lord had once been, but the Maiden-Hill would never be a lord’s place again. Too many spirits wept upon its high, rampart walls.
On the surface, Gwenhwyfar had no idea why she was riding through the night like a cutpurse thief. She only understood the heart-thump of panic and clamour of danger screaming a warning. She had not imagined it, for Ider had seen and felt it with her, he had not hesitated when she had summoned him, urgent, into her chamber, told him quickly, succinctly, of her need to leave and its reason.
Ider’s only objection, which he sensibly kept to himself, was that it might have been better to have finished Amlawdd and had done with it. But then, happen that was what Ambrosius hoped for. The murder of Amlawdd would give him excuse to destroy Caer Cadan. Aye, better to leave, gain time to think this thing through. One thing Ider – all the men, although none need voice opinion – held for certain. With their last breath they would fight to prevent their lady marrying against her will. Aye, they rode eagerly into the land of the Durotriges. Geraint’s tribal people held dear to their hearts the way it had once been, the way it ought to be. Arthur, as Geraint’s lord, had been their cherished king. Under their protection, Gwenhwyfar would be safe.
None dared consider the consequences for Caer Cadan and the Pendragon’s lands. That bridge would need to be crossed when the track led to it.
XXIII
They arrived after everyone had been settled for the night, with all but the lamps of the watch-guard extinguished, hearth-fires smoored and the lord of the stronghold gone some hours to his bed. The gatekeeper eyed them suspiciously, holding his burning torch high to examine their faces. Gruffly acknowledging recognition of the lady, he sent a lad to waken his lord, directed the party to ride inside, slamming the gates shut again almost on the last horse’s swishing tail.
The place was a rambling, hotchpotch of wattle and timber dwellings and shops, erected haphazardly among and against the remaining Roman buildings. Durnovaria. The main road that ran north-south was empty, except for a dog chained before a closed tavern and a one-eyed, ear-torn cat, which hissed disrespectfully at them from the top of a crumbling back-garden wall. The hooves echoed and clattered on the dew-wet cobbles, but no light shone from behind shuttered windows, no door creaked open. For all that, there was a feeling of being watched; aye, those disturbed from their sleep peeped out to see who rode by at so early an hour.
The Hall was situated where once the basilica had dominated the forum-place, and was partly built with the stonework of that once opulent building. Smaller than the Hall at Caer Cadan, though no less impressive, it stood by far the largest building, dominating the town with its solid air of indestructibility and security. Geraint was there, on the steps to welcome them, cloak thrown over old bracae and tunic, the first garments to hand, with hair tousled, eyes sleep-blearied. He came forward to meet them.
If he was surprised to see the Pendragon’s Lady, he made no sign out here in this public place, though there were only a few of the watch and a handful of the curious to see. Enid came bustling down the steps, a wool cloak tossed over her nightshift. She hugged Gwenhwyfar, took Archfedd from Ider, the child waking briefly. She would be settled with Enid’s own children, wriggling into the warmth of their bed like a hound-pup pushing into the comfort of her litter-mates.
With her men allotted quarters, the horses taken off to stabling, Gwenhwyfar asked Ider to enter Geraint’s private chamber with her and their host. As Captain of her guard he would need to be involved with plans or decision-making.
It was near dark inside, with only one night-lamp burning; Enid lit more while Geraint poured wine for them all. Ider squatted before the hearth-fire to stir life into its embers and offered a smile of encouragement to Gwenhwyfar, who seated herself wearily on a stool before the reviving flames. She looked so tired, her eyes black-bruised, skin taut over her thinned cheeks. He wished he could do more to help her, but what could he, a mere captain, do for a queen?
Enid resisted a longing glance towards her rumpled bed. Geraint sipped his wine while Gwenhwyfar gave reason for their being here. He asked a few questions, digested the answers.
“Amlawdd will not be much amused when he learns of your departure,” Enid observed with her usual practicality. “May he not even be offended?”
Her husband snorted. “Hah! Let him, he’s naught but a troublemaking, frog-footed marsh-wallower.”
“He is close to Ambrosius,” Enid retorted as a reminder.
“I could not stay,” Gwenhwyfar stated, agitated. “I have no explanation. I just…“ She broke off, lifted her hands, let them fall into her la
p. “I just could not.”
“May I speak?” Ider said, tentative, eyeing his host for permission, addressing Gwenhwyfar. “We did the right thing in coming where Amlawdd will not dare follow. He may well be angry, but we have gained the time we need to think, to plan.”
“To plan for what?” Geraint asked. “A war with Amlawdd? That is a high possibility given his aptitude for stupidity!”
Sighing, Gwenhwyfar studied her hands, the ring on her marriage finger. The ring Arthur had given her. A ruby, the colour of blood. His blood. She choked back tears. “I need to make decision on my future.” She looked up, anguished. “But it is so hard, facing tomorrow and tomorrow, when all I want is yesterday.”
“It will ease,” Geraint said, leaning forward to touch her hand. “The grief does ease.”
She nodded, attempted a smile. How could she disagree? They thought they were right. She knew they were wrong. If only he had been brought home to a grave. If only she had been given chance to say her goodbye, send him safe into the Otherworld.
“I think we ought send word to Amlawdd, explain your coming here.” That was Enid. “If we can make him think there is a possibility of you accepting his proposal, he may be diverted from any anger.”
Geraint agreed. Gwenhwyfar, with a show of venom, did not.
“I will never marry that toad!”
“Mayhap not,” Enid interjected. “But it will do no harm to allow him to think otherwise. At least until,” she paused, searching for a way to put her thoughts tactfully. “At least until you have settled yourself.”
Her husband was not so delicate with his wording. “It needs to be faced, Gwen. You must remarry – no, do not jump up in some rage. Look at the sense of it, woman!”
Sense! Gwenhwyfar’s face had flamed red, her anger taut. Never, she wanted to scream, never!
Ider would have offered himself as husband, were he of higher rank. Ah, but dreams and wishful thinking were of no help.
Geraint spoke again, practical and insistent. “Gwen, you are too vulnerable, too useful. You need a husband – if for nothing else, to keep ambitious wolves from your door.”
“Geraint, I… ”
“No, listen! Amlawdd will not take no for answer. Only the taking of a husband can block him, and others. For if not Amlawdd, there will be others. You are too wealthy, too alone, for there not to be.”
She knew Geraint to be right, knew he spoke sense and truth. But to have another man touching her, lying with her? She had only ever known and loved Arthur, save for that one abuse by another.
Enid had picked up her sewing, was darning a hole in her son’s bracae. There was always mending or weaving, or spinning to be done. Her thoughts were cantering with the pace of her quick-fingered needling. “What of my Lord Bedwyr?” she commented.
Geraint rubbed at the stubble of his chin. It would be dawn soon, no chance of returning to his bed. He would go straight to the bathhouse when this was all settled. “Think you it necessary I send a messenger for him? Ought he to know of this?”
Indulgent, Enid smiled at him. “I did not mean that,” she laughed. To Gwenhwyfar, coaxed, “Is there not something more than kindred and friendship between you both?”
The daughter of a high-born family, Enid had come to Gwenhwyfar as nurse to her sons, had become, through the passing of years, through the sharing of laughter and tears, much valued as a friend. She was well qualified, and astute enough to make intimate comment.
Bedwyr? Aye, Bedwyr was a good friend, more than a friend. Gwenhwyfar had some love for him, but not the sort of love you gave to a husband. Bedwyr, as husband?
Hating himself, Ider offered, “You could not do better than to take him, my Lady. None would dare challenge him.” Except myself! He bit the feeling of jealousy down, swallowed it. He had a wife of his own, and a brood of sons and daughters. He ought not think of his Queen in so intimate a way, for all that his thoughts were kept secret to himself.
Toying with the ruby ring on her finger, twiddling it around and around – it was looser than once it had been – Gwenhwyfar tried to sort her swirling mind. What to do? Oh, what to do?
The hole darned, Enid set her mending aside, tucking the needle safe into its holder. She stood, her expression and air efficient, authoritative. “It is not wise to come to decision now. You are tired and distraught, you need calm and peace. Stay with us a while. Send word to Amlawdd – and my Lord Bedwyr – that you are here to think in quiet and peace, that you will make a decision before the winter snows fall. God has his guiding hand on the shuttle of life, give Him time to weave a pattern for you.” Enid was a firm believer in leaving the uncertainties of the future to God and the tapestry of fate.
XXIV
Bedwyr arrived at Durnovaria with a flurry of joviality and a saddlebag bulging with presents. His coming was like a summer whirlwind, swirling everything in its path and setting it down again blown, flustered and breathless. He had that effect, particularly on the women, both unmarried and those with husbands. A good-looking young man: tall, muscular but not heavily built, with unruly brown hair and a constant twinkle in his eye and grin to his lips. Every maid lost her heart to Bedwyr.
Stretching his long legs from his offered stool to soak the warmth of the central hearth-fire in Geraint’s Hall, he happily accepted the exuberant fuss that flurried around his evening arrival. The day had been grey, with a light drizzle and a chill sea wind hustling from the south. Even as he had entered the town, he had acquired a crowd, those who knew him tossing generous greetings, others admiring the new horse he rode. A spirited chestnut, a present, he shouted to those who asked, from Ambrosius himself! A bribe, more like, but why question a good gift over-closely?
Gwenhwyfar was the only one to greet him quietly. Standing with Geraint and Enid to give welcome her smile was simple, her embrace equally so. For his part, he had slid his arm around her waist, placed a light kiss on her forehead and given her a boyish wink. There was no need for more between the two. An exchanged greeting between friends who needed no opulent gesture, a plain acknowledgement that he was here, for her, for no other reason. They would talk later, alone.
Already she felt better. Bedwyr’s presence could light a dark room with sun and gaiety, his easy chatter and endless absurd stories lifting the dullest of moods. Several times he glanced at her, watching as she sat, quiet, to one shadowed side of the Hall, hands folded in her lap, legs crossed at the ankles. She was troubled, he could see that. He knew part of the reason from the letter Geraint had sent, urging him to come down to Durnovaria as soon as he could arrange leave from his command. Bedwyr enjoyed soldiering, enjoyed the position of authority and high command, but Gwenhwyfar was more important.
One thing Bedwyr would never understand was how Arthur could have placed his country’s needs before his wife’s. Had she been some hag-bound old harpy, then aye, it would be explainable, but to leave Gwenhwyfar? For so long? Bedwyr commanded because he had rank and title, but he had no ambition, no aspiration for power. All he wanted was a woman in his bed, a warm fire to sit beside, a bellyful of good food and a goblet brimming with best wine. Soldiering was a way to pass the time until he found a woman willing to share these modest wants.
He had been greeted at Durnovaria with wide smiles and friendly laughter. As with any stronghold, Geraint’s no exception, visitors with news were highly welcomed – and Bedwyr had much news to tell.
The land above the Tamesis river, settled by the Saxons and Anglians, had surrendered to Ambrosius without blood being shed. The fortresses he had ordered built were full-fledged garrisons, establishing regular patrols, with the British presence beginning to dominate the English settlements. Trouble would come, Bedwyr said. It was only a matter of the right time and the right opportunity. All agreed with Bedwyr on that.
Well into the evening, Bedwyr talked, relating stories, news and gossip, not all of it true, but again and again he returned to Ambrosius. “These fortresses of his, they are built to keep peace w
ith the English.” Bedwyr’s tone implied, were you to believe that, you would believe the Earth circled around the sun. “Their very presence is stirring the Saex to thoughts of war. It might cleanse a wound to rub salt into the bleeding, but, ah, we all know the pain of the treatment.”
To Gwenhwyfar, he talked of marginal things. Later, when most had sought their sleeping places he had the chance to exchange a brief, quiet word with her, to hear from her own lips Amlawdd’s proposal, her rejection of it.
Though Amlawdd had angrily retreated to his own stronghold with a grievance as furious as a winter tempest, Bedwyr agreed wholehearted with Gwenhwyfar’s tactics. Amlawdd was no great threat, they could ride his storms. Before they parted for their own beds, Bedwyr jested to her, “If you are in desperate need of a husband, I would consider obliging you.”
Gwenhwyfar added her laughter to his, lightly kissed his cheek with affectionate fondness. It was only later, unable to sleep, watching the dim-lit shadows moving across the walls of her allotted chamber, that she wondered just how much Bedwyr was jesting. And how much he was serious.
As with most nights, sleep came for her only after the tears of despair had dried on her cheeks. She missed Arthur, his smile, his tempers and irritating habits. His embrace, his loving. Their relationship had often been tempestuous, but their passion as strong. Gwenhwyfar was a woman who needed the intimacy of love, and for that, she needed Arthur. Or a husband to take his place. It would be good to have someone to cling to in the loneliness of the dark. To be held and comforted by a man’s touch. By Bedwyr? If she could never again have Arthur’s love, would Bedwyr, with his bright eyes and sun-shimmering laughter, do instead?
XXV
With so many living within a busy stronghold, privacy was a luxury awarded to the very few. An honoured guest such as Gwenhwyfar might be offered accommodation within a small dwelling-place, but Bedwyr slept among the unmarried men of Geraint’s house-guard in the Hall, comfortable on hay-filled pallets, covered by animal furs or thick-woven woollen cloaks. By day, there were always people around, free-born, servant or slave. Enid with her brood of children, Geraint himself. This huge, extended family arrangement was ideal for someone who wanted to avoid, for whatever reason, the embarrassment of being alone with someone. Unless the chance was deliberately sought, there could rarely be opportunity for lengthy private conversation.
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