Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  Oh ja, it was known it had been her, Winifred, that half-British witch who had been behind the murder of Lady Mathild. He did not believe the lies they had said about that good woman. Not as most of them had! That she had tried to kill her own son.

  At least the boy was safe. Cerdic had proclaimed that, as the funeral pyre had burnt high, taking Mathild’s spirit on her last journey to the gods. “Cynric is my son,” he had said, “my son and hers. In him, her spirit shall live on!” Ja, it had better or Cerdic would answer for it! There were those along the Elbe who had never trusted Cerdic. He was not one of them by blood, for all his adoption by the lord Leofric. Adoption was not blood-tied, not blood-bound kindred. Cynric was of her blood. And his. Arthur’s, not Cerdic’s. Though that was their private view, those men who had come with Mathild from Arthur’s camp, after he had set them all lawfully free from the misery of slavery.

  They had served Arthur with loyalty, repaying his asking of no questions of whence and from whom they had come. Had served Mathild, as one of their own, with loyalty even deeper. And now he was the only one left alive, the only one who knew two things of importance. That Cynric might not be Cerdic’s son. Oh, the dates, the calculations might be wrong, that was all women’s matters and women’s words, but he knew this for certain: Mathild had been as sick as a poisoned dog each morning on that journey from Gaul to the settlement along the Elbe. It could have been the fear, the grief; the poor food, the fast-set pace. Or it could have been for a woman’s reason.

  And that the Pendragon might be alive, not dead as they were all meant to believe. A secret Mathild had kept to herself, sharing it only with them, her few trusted, loyal, personal guard. “Tell Gwenhwyfar,” she had commanded of them. “If ever something should happen to me, tell Gwenhwyfar I believe Arthur to be with the ladies of the Goddess in Gaul.”

  He looked up at the bright sunlight, heaved himself to his feet. Durnovaria. More than twenty miles. Ah, at least it was not raining.

  January 472

  XXXI

  It had snowed overnight, although it only amounted to a light fall of a few inches. The air was dry but the wind came direct from the east, bitter, with a bite as raw and mean as a boar’s temper. The skin on Gwenhwyfar’s cheeks felt as though it were being ripped apart by dozens of small knives. She had ceased to feel her fingers curled around the leather reins, after five minutes of riding. It did not help trekking along this part of the valley that was open to the full exposure of the wind, but the other track threading through the density of trees, Bedwyr assured her, was an inadvisable route. “Impassable at times,” he had explained heartily, his usual boyish grin decorating his face. “The earth around here is mostly heavy clay- the Green Track is well named, bright green grass in every hollow – God knows how many poor souls are at the bottom of those bogs.”

  The bogs would be frozen, the ground hard and firm. On the dexter side, happen he was right. The Wooded Ridge looked to be a wild place, straddled by gnarled oaks and sturdy limes that marched up each side of the escarpment, dense and alarmingly inhospitable.

  They turned from the flat meander of the valley, rode up a rising track. A short but steep climb, up through those shouldering oaks, to come out abruptly onto the crest of a hill that gave view to a panoramic spread, as breathtaking as the scramble upward. Bedwyr called a halt. The signal tower built here was manned by five men, all eager to conduct their commander to the top height to inspect the brazier, kept ready at all times to send urgent signal southward if ever there were need.

  To compensate for the cold, the valley spread below was at least worth looking at. The wide marsh, snow-covered, blue-gleaming beneath the winter sun with the frozen river under its ice-covering making its ambling way through the middle to join, a few miles further down, the father river: the Tamesis. A herd of deer milled along one section of the snow-bound bank, searching for water. The Dolydd broadened out further down, below the Command Fortress of the Third Ambrosiani, but its width and depth was unpredictable, variable. The flat valley formed a natural flood plain for the high tide waters of the Tamesis, regularly engulfed the marshy ground. Wisps of smoke trailing grey against the background of white snow, gave evidence of small settlements and scattered farm-steadings. Not all Saxon, as many were farmed by British landholders. There were two Roman Villas even, though neither was able to boast the same grand status as they had once enjoyed. British and Saxon, living and farming amicably, side along side, sharing grazing land, felling trees, ploughing fields, harvesting their crops. One farm using a neighbour’s prime bull, another a best ram. A valley community, accepting each other, intermarrying, becoming one people.

  Beyond the ooze of marsh lay good farming land for crops, vegetables especially, mulched by the regular floods. Livestock grew fat and sleek on the verdant grass. Alder and willow dotted here and there in clumps and copses, swathes of hazel and birch, hornbeam; on the edges, a few elms. The woods that tramped this eastern ridge and gave reluctant way at the northern end into the wild, thicket wood were home to boar, deer and badger; though the bears, Bedwyr had assured her, were long gone. Gwenhwyfar was relieved. She had once been badly frightened by a bear.

  They were riding to visit the two outposts under Bedwyr’s command. Ambrosdun Prima and Secunda. “As commanding officer,” Bedwyr had laughed, “I have to put in an appearance every so often in case the men forget I exist!”

  For two days they had been at the main fortress, the command post of the Third Ambrosiani – a grand title for what was in reality little more than two Cohorts, one hundred and forty men, including the non-combatants: medical orderlies, blacksmiths, armourers, clerks and so forth. One third of this number manned the two outposts.

  Neither the Saxons, nor the British for that matter, particularly liked the chain of fortresses Ambrosius had ordered built at such strategic sites. Unwelcome, unwanted, their occupants found themselves faced with hostility and surliness. Bedwyr’s Command Fort of the Third Ambrosiani, named, as with all the constructions, after its Supreme Commander and the legion manning it, sat on the first spur of high ground to dominate the valley, surveying a commanding view from the east bank up and down river. Striding to the north, the eastern ridge began to rise ponderously up to its maximum height of around three hundred feet. The fortress was, compared to what had once been built by Rome, nothing outstanding. Ditch and rampart with stone-built walls, albeit badly morticed and lain. Within, a tumble of timber buildings: barracks, a small hospital, stabling, commander’s house, headquarters building. The house was built to Roman style, but without the comforts. No hypocaust heating, no private bath-house. Gwenhwyfar did not mind their exclusion, for she had been without the luxury of either for many years at Caer Cadan. A bathhouse was something Arthur had always been planning to have built.

  The men wholeheartedly welcomed her for many were ex-Artoriani. Bedwyr had managed to persuade Ambrosius – how, no one was certain, although he had an acknowledged glib tongue – to keep them together, to retain them as cavalry. These were the men who had not gone with Arthur into Gaul, who felt bruised and heart-sore at being left behind. Those of their comrades who remained were settled into other such patrolling fortresses to the north and south of Bedwyr’s command. For those who would have chance to serve Gwenhwyfar again, a light came back into their lives. She was their Queen, their beloved King’s wife. If anyone was to replace the Pendragon as her husband, then Bedwyr was an acceptable candidate. No one resented her decision to re-marry.

  For her coming, they had ensured the house-place to be clean and tidied, a vase filled with evergreens had been lovingly placed upon the table in the entrance hall, a bowl of nuts and dried fruits set for her in the bedchamber. The braziers were lit. Effort made, trying to make the place home for her. Each man aware that it could never offer the same comfort and atmosphere of Caer Cadan. Gwenhwyfar appreciated their understanding, pledged that she would try to make the place her home, for their sake.

  Archfedd, Gwenhwyfar ha
d left for now with Geraint, for the girl enjoyed being with others of her own age, and Enid was a capable woman. The child would join with them soon, come spring, when the weather was more suited for children to travel. One insistence, however, she had brought her own guard: Ider, Gweir, and the others. How their faces had lit with delight as they rode through the open gates into the fortress that first late afternoon. So many old friends, old comrades. The Artoriani together, almost. Aye, more than a few heads were heavy and sore next morning! Wine and ale and memories had flown fast and free that first night.

  From this high ground, Gwenhwyfar asked, “What is that place?” She pointed to a hazed smudge to the south-west. An officer stepped up beside her, she recognised him as one who had been a good soldier under Arthur.

  “Londinium, Lady.”

  She arched her eyebrows, shielded her eyes from the brightness of the low winter sun. “Surely not?”

  “Aye, ‘tis not as clear today. On occasion you can see as far as the low hill of the Cantii land, and the sun-glimmer shining off the Tamesis itself.” She looked where he had indicated, then across to the lower ridge opposite and the wide spread of land below this hill-height, all covered by a white-woven blanket, blue-shadowed by the roll of hills and white-capped pockets of woodland.

  “I had heard there were still those who made their homes in Londinium.” Gwenhwyfar spoke her thoughts aloud.

  “Those too poor to move have little choice. They scratch a living among the ruins, manage well enough. A few traders call at the decaying wharves, but the Saex seem to leave the place be.” The officer was shading his eyes, looking towards the distant smudge that was the town. “They seem not much to like our once-splendid buildings,” he mused.

  Gwenhwyfar laughed, turned away. She could hear Bedwyr and the men clambering back down the four flights of wooden stairs within the tower. “Very sensible of them,” she stated. “From what I recall of Londinium, there was little worth the effort of liking.” Her opinion was clouded – her time in Londinium, those many years ago, had been shadowed by tragedy and horror.

  The entourage rode on, down the far side of the hill, across cattle-grazed common land crossing brooks, skirting a willow- and alder-guarded lake, looking faery-tinted in its lace-decorated whiteness. Laughed heartily at the wildfowl skidding and sliding, bemused on the frozen ice.

  The first outpost, Ambrosdun Secunda, was the smaller of the two. Built as a stronghold with its sister a few miles further north, long before Rome was anything more than a few shepherd’s huts clustered among the Seven Hills. Hanging to the top end of a valley, it dominated the north-western approach and the undulating, bog-bound trackway that Bedwyr had mentioned. Ambrosius had ordered the ditch and ramparts refortified, a palisade fence built, the trees that had encroached in the interim few hundred years to be cut back. Once again, the place looked impressive, imposing.

  They spent the night there, sharing a feast of venison and roast fowl, exchanging laughter and gossip with the men. Then went on again in the morning, for the short ride to the larger fortress where they were to spend several days.

  Ambrosdun Prima. Squatting on the open ridge, which commanded a view that led the eye southward to where the Tamesis ran, and beyond. North-west to the hazy escarpment of the chalk hills, where the ancient track of the Iceni Way strode, and east, the valley that ran to that side of the Wood Ridge. Left to its own, the wild wood would gradually return, reclaim what man had cleared: oak, beech, hazel, lime, elm and birch. Those trees that had encroached during the years that the fortress was kept only as a useful stockade for penning roaming cattle, were now the timber of the palisade fence, the double gateway with its watchtower and the usual array of inner buildings.

  Again, the welcome was eager, men pleased to be serving Gwenhwyfar; men who had been so proud to be Arthur’s cavalry. More than a few shook their heads in sadness and regret for what had once been and would never be again.

  Bedwyr was busy for most of the day, inspecting the fortress inside and out, hearing cases of military matters, minor squabbles, major needs. Gwenhwyfar settled herself into the commander’s dwelling, a small but adequate house. The evening meal was formal but pleasant. It was snowing again as the first watch of the night came on duty, settling as Bedwyr darted into his bed, wriggling for warmth against Gwenhwyfar, already burrowed into the bed-furs.

  *

  A man managed to struggle to the gates of the Third Ambrosiani a moment before the guard slammed them shut for the night. He was ushered, cold in his feet, hands and bones, weary and stubble-faced, into the guardroom. He insisted the watch officer be summoned. Eventually the guard gave ground, sent word for him to come, although they knew he would be annoyed at having to turn out with the snow falling heavier and colder, at the summons of a mere, ragged, Saxon.

  The Saxon sat before the single brazier, head in hands. He could not believe this. Could not believe the gods were being so cruel. His first question, first demand, as he limped into the fortress, “Where be the Lady Gwenhwyfar?”

  Was this some great jest that Woden was playing upon him? She had gone to the outpost. Again, he had missed her.

  XXXII

  “If you agree to wed me come the spring, will you change your mind to that also?”

  Gwenhwyfar, making no reply to Bedwyr’s impatient question, stirred her oat-porridge with her spoon. Breakfast was growing cold. She ought to eat it, was not hungry.

  A knock at the door. Bedwyr growled for whoever it was to enter. The officer of the watch, come with a flurried blast of cold air and the duty roster, hastily rearranged to accommodate the piled snow carpeting the fortress and blocking the gates. Bedwyr checked the list, nodded agreement. The officer saluted, left. He knew Gwenhwyfar; had served with her dead husband since the days when Arthur was a lad, wet behind the ears and taking orders from Vortigern. Most of the men had been delighted when Arthur had set his first wife, Winifred, aside and taken Gwenhwyfar instead – aye, even the devout Christian men who were not so certain of the ethics behind divorce. God said you should have but one wife, one husband. He shut the door behind him, chewing his lip, thoughtful. Decided he would have a word with young Ider when chance offered. Something was wrong with the Queen: that look of unhappiness went deeper than lingering grief.

  Gwenhwyfar had to make reply to Bedwyr. What? How could she answer? She set down the spoon, raised her eyes to him. “I am sorry.” Looked away, focusing on a careful drawn map of Britain showing the Roman Forts of the Saxon Shore. Incongruously, she wondered how many still survived. Portus Adurni certainly, for it was safe at the edge of Geraint’s territory. Llongborth, they called it now, the place where Rome had built and docked her great warships, where Syagrius had sent the transport ships for Arthur. She closed her eyes. Everything, everything always came back to Arthur! She drew a deep breath, returned her gaze to Bedwyr who sat, both hands clasped around his own, empty, porridge bowl. She could only reply with honesty. “I am… have always been most fond of you, Bedwyr. I receive pleasure in your bed, but…”

  He interrupted, finished, with a sour taste in his mouth, “But you do not love me.”

  “No!” Gwenhwyfar risked a tentative smile. “No, I mean…” She shook her head, spread her hands, “I do love you, in some certain way.” Brought her hands together, toyed with her fingers, her rings. “I would marry you now, this day, if it were not for…” She pulled her ruby ring off her finger, replaced it. And in a rush said what had been scuffling in her mind these long weeks past. “If it were not for the fact I cannot accept Arthur is dead.”

  Vigorously pushing himself from his stool Bedwyr snorted a single bark of derision. He turned away from the table, from her, ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “Christ, Gwenhwyfar!” He turned back to face her. “I was there, remember? I saw him. Blood-covered, ash-faced, limp. Dead.” He rubbed his fingers, for his hands were suddenly very cold. Said, quieter, “I helped drag his body from that bloody place.” Then he lashed out with
his foot, sending the stool tumbling and bumping across the room. A leg broke, the seat cracked as it slammed into the wall. Angry, resentful and bitter. “Sod it, Gwenhwyfar. I saw him! I was there!”

  She bowed her head, laid her hands in her lap. She could not help or stop the tear falling. “But I was not. I can only think of him as alive. I still expect him to come blustering, angry at some imbecile’s stupidity, through the door.” She looked up. “When I lie with you, Bedwyr, I will myself to remember that I am no longer his wife.” She remained looking at him, although she wanted to glance away. “I feel as though I am cheating him, that I am unfaithful.” She raised her hand to stop the words that were about to leave his lips. “Stupid, I know. Stupid.”

  Shaking, her legs seeming as if they could not support her, she rose from the table, steadying her balance by placing her hands flat on its surface. “Until I can accept he is gone, then no, I will not wed.” And again, she said, meaning her words, “But I will, soon, when I am ready. I have promised you. I will not go back on my word, but please, do not force me into more than I can yet give.” She walked to an inner door, let herself quietly out into the privacy of what had been their shared bedchamber.

  Bedwyr stood, looking, feeling blank. He ought to go after her, argue, tell her she was wrong, that she must take for herself a husband. Why was she being so damned stubborn?

  Instead, he slammed out of the door that led to the parade ground, took up a shovel and furiously helped with the digging to clear the main gate.

  Eight days the snow lay, a rising wind drifting each fresh fall into the cleared gaps. Two roofs fell in under the weight, one a barrack’s block, the other a small bothy where the geese were night-housed. All eight birds perished. Ambrosdun Prima ate well that night, at least.