Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  Gwenhwyfar was restless. She needed to be alone, needed to think. Damn this snow penning her in, and damn Bedwyr for being so hurt. She would become his wife, soon. After she had had time to think! The few personal belongings brought with her, clothing, jewellery, unguents and oils, combs, pins, the paraphernalia every woman carried, packed, waiting and ready for her to leave. Each morning, Ider tramped through the gateway as soon as the men had it cleared and walked a few yards from the fortress. Each morning, he reported back to his lady that the track was impassable. Gwenhwyfar waited, snared in an awkward situation, regretting the need to go, yet not regretting a friendship that had flourished into something more intimate. Would yet blossom into something permanent.

  Bedwyr had not set aside hope. All she needed was time. Time to heal, time to accept what was done, face what was to be. He could wait – but not without her with him!

  “Where are you intending to go?” he had asked her.

  She had shrugged, uncertain herself.

  “To Gwynedd? To your brothers?”

  Shaking her head, she replied no. “Enniaun, my eldest brother was never a dreamer, his feet are firm set in this world. He would never see the sense of my delaying an offer of marriage.” She had laughed at herself, her absurd predicament. Half in jest, added, “I may decide on entering a convent for a while. One founded by Winifred happen?” He had not responded with any shared amusement. Both knew a holy house was her only option if the likes of Amlawdd were to be kept at bay.

  The snow cleared as if a magician had swept his hand over the land, commanding the whiteness to be gone. The wind had turned, bringing for a few consecutive days a milder clemency. It would freeze again within the week, turning the tracks into rock, thick-icing the rivers and streams, numbing fingers and toes to the bone, and daubing trees and bushes with garlands of hoar-frost. But allowing enough time for Gwenhwyfar and her guard to saddle the horses and start south.

  Bedwyr would have left with them, but he opted to stay one more day, preferring to say his farewell here, where there were fewer men to witness his sorrow at her going. If only he knew when she would be back, would be his without doubt. When? A month? Two? More?

  There was some commotion at the gate. Ider grunted at his men to close firmer around their Lady as they rode out through the tunnel beneath the watchtower. They caught a glimpse of a man struggling to free himself from the harsh grip of pinning arms. He tried to shout something as Gwenhwyfar rode by, but a soldier’s fist caught him square in the mouth, splitting his lip, knocking out two teeth.

  Struggling, the man begged to be released, pleading his need to speak with the Lady. The watch officer saw Gwenhwyfar and her guard set safe on the track. Aye, the weather would hold for a day or two. He turned to the Saxon, kicked him in the groin. “Why would the Lady Pendragon have wish to speak with scum like you?” For good measure, kicked him again, ordered, “Take him to the punishment cell. See what mischief he had in mind.”

  Not until evening, after the trumpets for the setting of the first watch had sounded, did anyone think to inform Bedwyr that a Saxon lay battered and beaten in the stinking, stone-built hovel that served for a place of punishment.

  The commander was in no mood to bother with the problems of local settlers – already, even before the serving of the evening meal, he was deep into his drink. “Throw him out. Let him tell his sorrows to the wolves.”

  Fortunate that the night was milder than any other recent night. Fortunate too, that several of the boys from the settlements in the valley had chosen this full-mooned night to creep up through the woods and out onto the cleared, cattle-grazed land to see what the British were up to in their wooden-built soldiers’ fort. It was a game for them, seeing who had the nerve to wriggle the nearest. The watch knew they were there, knew them to be youngsters about their innocent games, occasionally would shout they had been seen, usually ignored them, providing there were but only a few of them and they stayed well out from the first ditch.

  This night, the watch guard spat over the palisade fence, mouthed an obscenity. The boys had found the Saxon, one of their own kind, were carrying, dragging, him back to his own world. The guard had little care whether the whoreson survived. One less Saex in the world would be of no consequence.

  March 472

  XXXIII

  “I intend to extend my territory.”

  Aesc’s hand, pouring his guest a tankard of the new-fermented, strongest brew of ale, never faltered. “Anderida be not enough for you, then?” he queried with a mild chuckle, after settling himself in his own chair, with his own filled tankard.

  Aelle, chieftain of the South Saxons narrowed his eyes, lifted his chin slightly and formed a half-smile. “Would the Isle of Tanatus have been enough for Hengest, your father?”

  Conceding the point by saluting with his tankard, Aesc of Kent pondered the implications of this news. Asked detail. When? How? Receiving for answer a mere, mild shrug.

  For the necessity of male talk, they were in Aesc’s private chamber, cleared of children and wife. She had gone with her nose pointed in the air, sniffing disdain, the children had scurried off happily enough. Aelle was a broad man, gruff-voiced, stern-faced, children were not at ease in his powerful presence. Indeed, were it to be admitted, few men, save his own three sons, relaxed comfortably in the same room.

  He took time to answer more fully, enjoying the strong drink, helping himself to dried meat and hunks of fresh-baked barley-bread. He intended to pursue his plans, whatever the outcome of this visit to the Cantii lands. He would go further north from here, seek out the Saxon leaders of the eastern settlers; on his return, those along the South Ridge. If necessary, he would go for what he wanted alone, but how much better it would be, how much more effective, more permanent, if they were to unite and be one. “I have made no plans as yet.” He flapped his hand, idly. “Mere ideas, an eagerness, if you like; to set thoughts on a more advanced step.”

  “Ambrosius,” Aesc mused, stretching his feet to the warmth of his hearth-fire, “is determined on his security. His string of bristling fortresses seem reasonably strong.”

  Aelle formed his fingers into a derisive gesture. “Anything can seem strong in the drowse of a summer heat. It is when the winds come that the firmness of walls and the solidity of a roof matter most.” He shook his head, slow, meaningful, emphasising his figurative point. “Nay my friend, I assure you Ambrosius Aurelianus’s playthings are about as secure as castles made in the sand.”

  The Kentish man, Aesc, grinned. “We but have to wait for the tide to turn.”

  “Ah no,” Aelle corrected, taking a deep, satisfying draught of his ale. “The tide has turned already. We but wait for it to come in.”

  April 472

  XXXIV

  Ambrosius Aurelianus had, as so often occurred during the colder months of winter, been unwell. The flux had eased, and the stomach pains, but intermittent fever and weakness had lingered for many weeks. His skin was a mixed tincture of ash-grey and liverish-yellow, clinging gaunt over hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Although he was only forty and five years, his hair was turning a premature grey, and was receding from the crown of his head in a monk-like tonsure. He was constantly cold.

  Cadwy, his son, was ambling around, picking at a bowl of fruit, touching a gold crucifix, admiring a tapestry. He had flung off his cloak, loosened the fastenings of his tunic, for the room was hot and smoke-stuffed with so many braziers kept constantly stoked. His father wore two cloaks yet still he chafed at his fingers to bring warmth into them. A slave brought in a tankard, solemnly handed it to Ambrosius, who reached for it, took a reluctant mouthful. Cadwy watched his father drink, wipe residue from his mouth.

  “Without this foul stuff, the stomach cramps return and I will be spending the night shivering in that ice-hole of a latrine.” Ambrosius grimaced, took a breath and gulped the rest down, the slave scurrying forward to take the empty tankard. Sliding deeper into his chair, Ambrosius laid his head against i
ts high back a moment, closed his eyes. For all the disguising of spices and sweet honey, the drug tasted bitter. “What I would give,” he sighed, “for a glass of fine wine.” He drew in his breath as if savouring the aroma of an imported luxury wine, opened his eyes, sat up straight. “However, my physician would never allow me to drink it – even if I could get hold of some. What brings you here, boy? Stop fiddling with my things and spit it out!”

  Nervously clearing his throat, Cadwy limped to a stool, seated himself, laying his crutch on the floor behind. “Ought you not be abed, Father? You look tired.”

  “I am perfectly all right!” Ambrosius snapped, “I have enough fussing from my physician without your unwanted additions.” He was damned if he would spend all day and night pandering to the weaknesses of his body. He shuffled himself into a more upright position. So much to do! Orders to send, letters to read, to write. Judgements to be made, petitions to scrutinise. Three senior officers needed appointing and one of the recent-built fortresses had burnt down – an accident, with the fire started in the blacksmith’s bothy, so he understood. Did he rebuild or abandon? Then Amlawdd sent at least five letters a month demanding the rebuttal of marriage by Gwenhwyfar be settled in court. Ambrosius had glanced through the latest, sent just before Cadwy had entered, had tossed it aside. When was the fool man going to understand he had been rejected and there was nothing illegal about Gwenhwyfar’s decision? He ought to send word that Amlawdd was to sort with Bedwyr privately, which of them had the Lady in whatever fashion he thought fit. That one of them would probably end up dead was suddenly of no consequence. God’s truth, was he surrounded by fools? Abed? The good Christ, when would he have chance to linger abed!

  Gruff, Ambrosius asked, “What is it you want?”

  A drink! Cadwy thought. Something very strong and very fortifying. Said, “I have come because I have grave concerns.”

  “Personal or public?”

  “Public. I would not bring personal matters to you!” Damn the man, did he think it was easy sitting here, having to be polite, having to breathe shallow to staunch the threatening rise of nausea? Gods, his father stank! A combination of sitting so long in this warm fug, the cling of administered drugs and the putrid aroma of illness. “I come about Amlawdd.”

  Ambrosius’s eyes narrowed, he successfully concealed a groan. What had the imbecile done now? It had seemed a good idea at the time, to promote the man as a personal friend, given his wealth and number of men. “What about him?”

  Why did he feel this insecurity, this nervousness? Again and again, Cadwy repeated to himself, I am a man grown, I have a wife, a child. He ought not fear this man sitting hunched, so obviously ill. Ought not. So why in all hell’s name did the sweat trickle down his back? Why were his palms sticky, his voice in need of constant clearing? Love of God! Could a son never shake off a father’s disapproval?

  Leaning forward, palms flat on his thighs, Cadwy lunged into his reason for coming. Ambrosius would probably not listen, but he had to try. Ragnall had asked it of him, and for her he would do anything. Even face his father in his lair.

  “Amlawdd collects the taxes from those within his jurisdiction.”

  Ambrosius shrugged. Someone had to do it, and Amlawdd was good at the evil job, being too thick of heart to bend before bleating sorrows and hard-luck cases. Few refused Amlawdd’s blank-eyed stubbornness and determination, Ambrosius chuckled to himself, save of course for the Lady Gwenhwyfar! This brought on a coughing fit, a slave rushed forward with a draught of water, held it to his master’s lips. Cadwy had to wait for his father to collect his breath again.

  “He is causing misery and destitution.”

  “An unfortunate necessity. His is the Overlord of his land. It is his right.”

  “No! ‘Tis not a necessity, not at this time of year!” Cadwy smacked his fist onto his knee, angry. “The last winter was harsh for so many. Nor was the harvest as good as expected, people are near to starving, Father. Amlawdd has not the slightest feeling of concern or justice. He rides in, takes what is demanded and leaves.”

  Ambrosius was rubbing his hands, he was so cold, so damned cold.

  Was he listening? “Father, the poorer people are desperate. Amlawdd takes what little they have left – even their children if they cannot pay! Twice now have I heard he takes the children to sell into slavery.”

  Ambrosius merely shrugged. “Then they ought to have set aside the legal requirement. Any free-born British man has the right to attend the Justice Courts to contest his taxable dues.”

  Cadwy shot to his feet, hammered the air with his fist. “British-born, but not Saex! You have taken away what few legal rights they had. You are beating them into submission by pushing them into the ranks of the poor and slaves!”

  Coming to his feet also, matching his son’s anger, Ambrosius bellowed, “The Saex? If they do not like the way things are, then they can pack their possessions and go back to where they were born!”

  “Most along the South Ridge were born there,” Cadwy retaliated, his nerve rising with the anger. “My stronghold oversees many a Saex farm-steading. Most of them are second or third generation-born settlers. The farmland around my holding is all they have ever known.”

  Turning away, clutching his cloak tighter around his shoulders, Ambrosius mumbled a callous remark. Cadwy heard. He stumbled forward, forgetting the need for his crutch in his great rise of rage.

  “Gwenhwyfar granted me Lord Pendragon’s stronghold at Badon because she trusted my judgement. I am no Saex-lover. Call me that if you are so wrongly bigoted, but I regard myself as a just and fair lord. Condoning the burning and destruction of innocent people’s steadings because they happen to be of Saex descent is not just. Arthur would never have done it!”

  “Arthur? Arthur had no initiative when it came to raising taxes, that is why his economy was always so poorly managed. He taxed the wealthy to provide for their protection. Well, I say be rid of the reason for the protection!”

  “So you will not admonish Amlawdd, for his excessive zeal?”

  “Not where the Saex are concerned. No.”

  Retrieving his crutch and placing it beneath his arm, Cadwy made his way to the door. “There is unrest coming, Sir, even in my own land where I give care for my tenants.” He looked direct at the man before him, at the sunken face, the thin body. “The Saex will not go back to their boats, Father. They cannot, for there is nowhere for them to go. Arthur made peace with them because he knew we could never fight all of them, not if they united their strength.” He turned, had the door open. “I trust you will not be giving them a reason to join hands on the same spear.”

  XXXV

  Eadric lay quietly on his straw pallet that was placed in the corner shadows, watching the hearth-smoke curl up to the roof-hole, and the family cluster around Cuthwin, their father, helping to remove his cloak and boots, offering him ale and hot broth. The three boys were particularly noisy, asking questions, dancing around, getting under foot, excited by their father’s return. Gundrada brought the broth, placed the bowl in her father’s hands; it would warm them more thoroughly than anything else. Shyly, she smiled at Eadric as she noticed him watching her, silently poured a second helping, brought it to him. He laughed to himself as he thanked her, saw her face redden. She was a shy little thing, as timid as a young doe. As pretty.

  The boys were demanding to know all of their father’s visit. Gundrada wished to know also, but knew better than to ask. He would tell them in his own time, when he was warm and settled.

  The eldest of the three lads persisted, “Did you speak with Aelle of the South Saxons, Father?”

  Cuthwin laughed, ruffled the boy’s thick crop of fair hair. “That I did not.” The disappointment this announcement brought was as heavy as an iron pot. “I did see him though, and hear him!” The excitement increased, rose in volume. Gundrada’s mother had to speak sharply to her brood, sent them scuttling to bring in more wood for the fire and to bring the evening milk
from the goats. Cuthwin winked at Eadric, settled himself, legs stretched to its heat, before the fire.

  “And how are your hurts? Almost healed?”

  Eadric nodded assent, said gallantly; “With your daughter’s fair hands doing the healing who could expect aught else?”

  Cuthwin mopped the last of the broth with a chunk of bread, handed the empty bowl to the girl who was again blushing. “A good girl, my daughter, she will make some man a fine wife.”

  Making no answer, Eadric shuffled to make himself more comfortable, for that he had already decided upon. Had he not found plenty of time to think upon it, these past few weeks? He shuffled again, easing the ache of his broken ankle, the throb of cracked ribs. They had done a thorough job, those soldiers up at the fortress.

  Other matters seemed to take precedence for a while; settling the stock animals outside, penning the geese and chickens, feeding the sow and the cattle. The preparing and serving of the evening meal – despite his broth, Cuthwin ate like a starved horse – the lighting of the lamps, and Eadric’s bandages to be tended. He had only the two now, covering the torn, inflamed area of his arm and the ones binding the splint to his leg.

  “So,” Cuthwin made a beginning when his boys were seated by his feet. His wife, as always were she not cooking or cleaning or scolding, was busy at her loom. Gundrada sat near Eadric where she could watch him discreetly through her lashes while she spun wool. “Aelle is intending to raise a great host. To unite all the English under one banner against the British.”

  Eadric released a low whistle. “That is some proud ambition!” he murmured.

  “Will you go with him, Father? Will you fight the bastard Ambrosius?”

  “Hush child!” the lad’s mother admonished sharply. “Such language is for grown-up folk, not childer.”