Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  The enemy had fled to the sanctuary of the hills, unaware of how few their attackers were in number compared to their own. What chance had a poorly armed, common footsoldier against the crushing, terrible deadliness of a cavalryman?

  Ecdicius had swept through on that first charge with the ease of a hot knife through goose fat. He had wheeled, pursued the fleeing numbers, leaving behind the dead and the screams of the dying. A few, the more experienced, the harder-armed warriors, had tried to cover the rear, tried to salvage some dignity from the blind panic, but there had been no attempt to rally or re-form. Shattered, defeated, stunned and appalled, the Goths had kept going, up into the hills and away.

  They would be back, of course, on another day, at another town probably, before long, back to Augustonemtum for another try at taking it as their own. But for today and tomorrow at least, the citizens were safe. They opened the gates and poured out in a great spill of joyful cheering and shouting. Ecdicius grinned at his men, ordered their banner to be held high, and rode leisurely towards the procession flowing out to meet them.

  A multitude of hands reached to take the bridles that were thick with foam and blood, clasped manes, tails, saddle straps; others reached to kiss away the dirt and grime from the faces of the eighteen men. Proud, they were led back into the crowded streets of the town. At the Forum they dismounted, eager helpers unfastening armour straps, helmets and grieves. The few wounds were marvelled over, reverently touched. Jostled and cheered, hugged, embraced, the eighteen Gauls found themselves carried high on shoulders, eighteen exultant men, grinning and laughing, enduring the high enthusiasm with good grace, though their bodies ached and their tiredness was immense.

  At the steps of what the Bishop proudly called his cathedral, Ecdicius was deposited on his own feet. Slowly, as if he were faced with climbing the steepness of a mountain, for his aches were many and his limbs heavy, he ascended to meet with the man waiting there at the top. The Bishop himself, his brother-by-law, Sidonius Apollinaris. The most important man – save for Ecdicius!

  Eager, Sidonius swept half-way down to greet his kinsmen, clasped hands, stood back for a few heartbeats, then took the town’s hero tight in close embrace, tears streaming his face, words for once lost to this eloquent priest’s voice. They cried together a moment, laughed at their absurd emotion; then, with arms about each other, led the way inside the grand, stone-built church that stood as tall as three storeys and could seat along its benches the prominent citizens of all the town.

  Ecdicius sank to his knees before the central altar, his men forming behind, their banner furled in homage to their God, heads bare and bent in submission and thanks. His mind only half listening to the Bishop’s inspired prayer, for he was idling, mulling over his own wonder and praise. His plan had been ambitious, formed of desperation, but it had worked, against all the sensible, wise odds. It had worked! He closed his eyes, let his heart and mind drift. Among his thoughts, the realisation that today, this day, was his birthing day.

  “May our God be praised for this glory… ” The Bishop’s words were booming and resounding around the echoing building.

  Sidonius had balked at this position of Bishop, had been forced to take it, or face ruin and exile, but since this was now his vocation he plied all his mobile strength and character into doing the job to the very best of his ability. He was judged a fair-minded man who cared much for the ill and poor; a revered man, loved by the people. He was wise and educated; some even believed him to possess powers, for did he not, at that time when the prayer books went unaccountably missing, recite the entire Mass from memory? Did Sidonius Apollinaris not have the wondrous ability to read from the scrolls without the need to move his lips? Today’s prayer of thanksgiving was one of his best delivered, and would be remembered for many a year to come, but Ecdicius heard little of it, for he was making his own prayer, his own thanks. And he was thinking of one other, one who had not held the fortune that was blessed for them this day. Of Arthur, the Pendragon.

  The Bishop was ending, giving the blessing, and they were being shepherded outside, into the bright sunlight and great tumult of cheering. Tonight and for the next few nights to come, there would be feasting and dancing – such celebration as the town had never witnessed before, and would not see again.

  Ecdicius turned to grin at his brother-by-law and at his sister, Sidonius’s wife, who had come to greet her beloved brother. “Is it not fortunate,” Ecdicius shouted above the din and clamour, “that the Pendragon taught me how to drill cavalry, how to lead and fight a charge?”

  Sidonius half-heard, catching only the words Pendragon and cavalry, but he returned the grin, nodded vigorously. Refrained from saying that if the Pendragon had fought the harder, the better, Gaul would not have need to fear the Goths now. Best left unsaid. Ecdicius had always held these silly notions put into his head by the dead and defeated British King.

  December 471

  XXIX

  Saturnalia, the time of winter feasting and merry-making, had become, for the Christians, a celebration of the birth of Jesu Christ. A pagan feast that they had blatantly adopted as their own, its symbolism nearly fitting their beliefs. The evergreen for eternity, the blood-red berries for the shedding of the mother’s birthing-blood and for Christ’s own; the giving of gifts as the Magi had given Christ; a season of peace, goodwill. The symbolism of renewal, the passing of the old and the coming of the new. An opportunity for Gwenhwyfar to cast aside the past and look ahead to the future. A new life. New husband.

  Geraint’s Hall was crowded and jovial. Garlands of holly and ivies were draped along the rafters and placed behind the warriors’ shields hung along the walls between the coloured, exquisitely woven, tapestries. A great log burned in the central hearth-fire; lamps, candles, torches, brought much light and warmth. At one end, the children played, Archfedd with Enid’s own, and others of Geraint’s officers and companions, their childish laughter shrieking with excitement, hands and faces sticky from honey-sweetened nuts and fruits.

  Gwenhwyfar had dressed elegantly, wearing her favourite emerald-green gown, her amber necklace and earrings. Green ribbons were twined and plaited into the complicated braiding of her rich, copper hair, her green eyes sparkled in the dance of fire and lamplight. She smiled widely, amused, at Bedwyr who, rather drunk, was making a good-natured ass of himself in trying to imitate the three professional acrobats. He fell heavily from his fourth attempt at walking on his hands, lay on his back, spreadeagled, puffing like a stranded fish, while his audience cheered, clapped and guffawed. Geraint suggested he try balancing on someone’s shoulders, Enid protested, alarmed that Bedwyr might take the jesting encouragement seriously.

  “Great God, husband, he’ll break his neck!”

  Geraint chuckled happily, he too had partaken of too much wine. But why not? It was midwinter, the rain and cold was as hostile as a barbarian army outside while in here, inside his Hall, it was warm and dry and pleasant. They had plenty of good food, good company. Good wine. Aye indeed, if a man could not enjoy his drink at Saturnalia, what was the point of celebrating? “As long as he does not break his manhood, does it matter?” he jested, nudging Gwenhwyfar who sat beside him.

  She also had consumed a glass or two too much of Geraint’s fine, imported wine. She giggled, made a ribald answer. “I suppose a crutch would not be suitable for all parts of the anatomy. Could a sling be fitted, I wonder?”

  Geraint roared delight. “Have we material wide enough to fit Bedwyr’s adventurous piece?”

  His wife tutted, shook her head, though she was laughing as much.

  The subject of their amusement had scrabbled to his feet, was boldly fiddling inside his woollen bracae. “Na,” he announced, “everything appears functional!” Earned for himself more laughter and cheers.

  Beaming, his face red from drink and exertion, Bedwyr settled himself on Gwenhwyfar’s left, took his wine glass up from the table and saluted her with extravagant gesture. “I would do nothing that m
ight jeopardise our partnership.”

  “You had best take yourself off to your bed then, stay there in safety,” Gwenhwyfar teased.

  Rolling his eyes, lips sporting a leer of approval, he answered rapidly, “A fine idea! Come with me! Let us ensure all my equipment is kept practised!”

  “Fool!” Chuckling, she batted at him with her free hand, her other had been taken by him as soon as he had seated himself. Bedwyr was proud to claim Gwenhwyfar publicly as his own, made much of ensuring all knew he had won her, not caring to take regard of the disparaging comments that had drifted southward. The stirring was done by Amlawdd, of course, sour jealousy behind the widespread malicious gossip. As personal friend to Ambrosius, Amlawdd saw himself as a figure of high importance, felt slighted by Gwenhwyfar’s refusal, and therefore justified to make loud and continuing protest against Bedwyr. He was all hot air in pumped bellows, all words and mouth. Amlawdd would never find the courage – or stupidity – to openly make a challenge for Gwenhwyfar’s hand. Did the imbecile not realise the lady would never have him? Bedwyr let the fool spit his venom and slander, allowed him to save face before others of Ambrosius’s court. Time enough to deal with anything more serious, should it arise, after the winter snows had fallen and melted again. Come spring, Bedwyr would be a month or two blessed as Gwenhwyfar’s lawful husband, she could even be carrying his child. What could Amlawdd do about losing her to the better man then? It was said that empty amphorae made hollow noise. Hah! Amlawdd was as empty as a dry, fire-baked, new pot!

  Sliding his arm around Gwenhwyfar’s waist, Bedwyr brought her nearer, enjoying the supple feel of her slender body against his, relishing the joy of knowing what lay beneath her garments. Silk-smooth skin, long legs, and even though she had borne children, firm breasts and a flat stomach. The anticipation of sharing her passion, her immodest need, was already rousing him, the excess of drink doing little to dampen his eagerness. The Hall would be rising soon, drink-filled men and women seeking their dwelling-places within the settlement or, for the unmarried and the servants, beds within the protection of this Hall.

  Gwenhwyfar, for all Amlawdd’s protest and blustering, had emphasised she was committed as Bedwyr’s lady, though they had not yet been blessed by the priest and were not joined in legal marriage. They shared a need, and a companionship, the warmth of a bed; the formal details could come later, after Saturnalia. Gwenhwyfar had promised him that after the feasting they would exchange vows, make the thing legal. They were already bound together in companionship, she said, was that not enough for a while? In turn, Bedwyr had a concern she was not going to consent to the formalities for they were supposed to have been wed two months past, on All Hallows Day, the day after Samhain. She had balked, suggested Saturnalia instead. He was impatient to slip the security of a marriage band on her finger, but, ah, surely he could wait until she was ready? She was his woman, no one else’s – only that memory of Arthur formed a rival. And he had no fear of the dead.

  The professional acrobats were performing a fabulous, breathtaking contortion, earning themselves splendid applause. Slaves were distributing wine as if the amphorae could never be emptied. Merrymaking, happiness. It was Saturnalia, a season for enjoyment and pleasure. Gwenhwyfar twined her fingers tighter into Bedwyr’s clasp, joined the enthusiasm. Pushed back the voice whispering a name, a memory.

  She would forget Arthur. She would! She had to. But that damned, persistent voice would not let her.

  XXX

  The night lay quiet, except for the normal sounds – the bark of a dog fox, the call of an owl. No wind. With the temperature dropping there would come a frost. Bedwyr slept on his back, hair tousled, arm outstretched, facial muscles twitching as his sleeping mind chased some dream. Beside him, Gwenhwyfar lay awake, listening to the darkness outside their small, private, dwelling-place, her eyes watching the pale hearth-fire shadows creep across the far wall. Archfedd was asleep in the other bed, curled safe and warm against her nurse, a young lass of not more than ten and four, given by Enid to care for the child. Beside the last warmth of the hearth the dogs were piled, Bedwyr’s three brindle hounds and Gwenhwyfar’s two, Blaidd and Cadarn. Both presents from Arthur: Cadarn for herself, Blaidd for her son, Llacheu. She remembered Arthur’s face as he had held the two squirming pups, both from the same litter, his smile wide as he had dumped one in the boy’s lap, the other in hers. The touch of his lips against her forehead as he had followed the giving with a light, almost casual-given kiss. Llacheu, playing with them when they reached that gangling, legs-longer-than-the-body stage… his wild shout of laughter as Blaidd had stolen a boot, the resulting game around their room as he had attempted to claim it back… Arthur’s extensive cursing one wet night when the dogs had come in from outside and shaken their coats vigorously. Memories.

  Bedwyr was more good-natured than Arthur, would shrug insults and nuisances aside with an indifference that could so easily be taken as uncaring. He believed more in the law, in the judicial intervention of right. Arthur would never have trusted to such unreliable uncertainty. If something angered or offended him, he would see to its sorting himself. Never would Arthur have allowed Amlawdd’s tongue to shout the insults that had reached their ears these last few weeks. If Arthur had heard those vile things Amlawdd had called her, the man would have been dangling by his balls from his own stronghold walls by now. Bedwyr had taken the man as a jest, had laughed, slid his arm around her and loudly proclaimed they had nothing to fear from the jealous defeat of a toad-spawned, mannerless boor.

  Nothing to fear? Happen not, but the words had stung. No woman liked to be called harlot, whore and slut. No woman cared to have her children cursed, her honour tainted.

  Bedwyr would be returning to his garrison soon, within the week – before the snows came he had said, as they were preparing for bed. His leave had finished, three weeks taken, he could not reasonably extend the time away from duty.

  “Oh,” was all she had answered.

  “Are you to come with me this time?” he had asked, as he had blown out the last lamp and scuttled beneath the fur-coverings. His place of command was a wooden-palisaded fortress set above the marsh-spread valley of the Dolydd river and command of two further outposts set at stages up the valley. Nothing grand, he had said, a plain fortress. “We keep a weather eye on the coming and going of the Saex as they bring their boats up the river to their little hovels.” He had told her that when first he was posted there, oh, back into the new-end of summer. An out-of-the-way place, where Ambrosius had hoped to keep him apart from the likes of Geraint and Gwenhwyfar.

  “I will come.”

  She sighed, closed her eyes to try again for sleep that would not visit. I will go with you, she thought, said soft, aloud, into the darkness, “but I will not wed with you. Not yet.”

  Amlawdd had called her a whore, and worse, for deceiving him. Amlawdd had said she had promised herself to him, aye, promised, even before the Pendragon was fool enough to get himself bloodily slaughtered. He was right, she had, but as a trick, as a means to gain time for Arthur.

  Bedwyr mumbled something in his sleep, shifted, lumbering his body over onto his belly, taking most of the fur coverings with him as he turned. Gwenhwyfar lay a moment, her feet and body growing cold. No use trying to retrieve them, Bedwyr seemed to weigh as much as two oxen when he slept, was as possessive of his bed-coverings as a cat was of a captured mouse. It was being a soldier, she supposed. Arthur had been the same. He would roll himself into the bed-furs, leaving little for her. The difference, Arthur had been easy to wake. One prod, one mild kick. One kiss.

  She sighed again, deeper, more drawn, left the bed to fumble in the dark for her cloak, hunkered down beside the fire with the dogs, who flapped their tails with a welcome, happily allowed her to wriggle into their heaped warmth.

  To gain time. Why was she stalling the deadline of marriage? Why would she not consent to make this new-begun thing binding between them? She ate with Bedwyr, laughed with him, s
lept with him. Had agreed this very night to go with him as a commander’s lady. Why would she not go as his wife?

  It was warm among the bundle of dogs, and comforting. She had her arms around Blaidd, Cadarn was resting his old, grey-grizzled muzzle across her feet. Warm and soothing. She slept.

  A stranger trudged wearily along the lane that trundled steeply up the incline between the ditches and ramparts. It was an hour after sun-up but still the gates at the top were closed; beyond, only a few thin wisps of hearth-place smoke spiralled into the frost-blue air.

  He hammered on the iron-studded oak-built timbers, shouted for entrance. He had come a long way on foot. A long, weary trek, his heart as heavy as his tired, blistered feet.

  A face, grizzle-bearded, sleep-riddled, peered over the top rampart of Caer Cadan, demanded who made so much noise so early in the day? “I have come to speak with Queen Gwenhwyfar. I have word for her, important word.”

  “She ain’t here. She’s gone. No one’s here save us few.”

  The man, a Saxon, though he had taken care to dress himself British-fashion so as not to draw over-much attention, ran his fingers through his dank hair.

  “To where has she gone?”

  “Durnovaria, south of here.”

  The Saxon almost wept. He had just come north from the South Saxon Coast. He sat, desolate, tired, head in hands. For weeks now he had been living like a beggar, walking the roads, sleeping in ditches and sheepfolds, constantly looking over his shoulder in case she had found his trail.

  He had masked it as well he could, travelling through the great dark forests of Gaul, first, working his way to the River Rhenus to put her off the scent, before finding a ship to bring him across the sea to Britain. A waking nightmare! He was the last alive, for she had dealt with the others, torturing them, his companions, his friends, before ending their lives. Dealt with them as she had dealt with their mistress.