Cuthwin folded his hands across the broadness of his belly, regarded the curl of hearth-smoke wreathing upward. He had thought much of this question on his walk home from this called Council. This was to be a thing for every free-born man to decide for himself, whether to accept Aelle as Bretwalda, overlord; whether to fight when the call came, or not.
Cuthwin stretched. It had been a long walk. The menfolk had not all dared take the easy route downriver by boat – like as not the British commander had already guessed some matter was in hand, best not to draw obvious attention. Cuthwin had drawn the short straw. Had been one of those to walk from the meeting-place at Muchinga aside the Tamesis river. Plenty of time to think.
He was not an old man, but he had done his share of fighting. Four elder sons lost in Vortigern’s wars, two daughters buried beside his first wife. Cuthwin had welcomed the settled life of a farmer, his held land was his own, he owned the best breeding sow this side of the Lea, lived comfortably, ate well. Did he want to put an edge to his Saex sword again? Fit a new shaft to his war spear?
He shifted his gaze, watched his wife speed the shuttle through the warp threads. This farm-steading was, by right of law, hers, for it had passed to her from her father. A farm was no place for a woman with no menfolk; she had accepted Cuthwin as a good man despite his being a Saxon. She was British, as so many of the wives were. Ah no, he had done his share of the fighting.
Opening the leather pouch at his waist, Cuthwin withdrew a small brooch, his sons crowding closer to see the better. “Nay, boys, this is not for you, you are not yet old enough to tie the ribbons of war onto a spear. We must give this to Eadric.”
Solemnly, the brooch was handed across. This was an item of importance, an especial thing, no mere decoration. Eadric settled it into the palm of his hand. Bronze, slightly shorter than the length of his thumb, the edges raised forming a dish shape. In its centre, a mask. Human. Eyes, nose, mouth. Eadric flicked a glance at the older man, questioning with his expression.
“It is from Aelle,” Cuthwin said, his voice lowered as if the walls might hear and spread this secret word. “All who decide to fight with him must wear it when the summons to battle comes.”
“And when might that be? I cannot yet stand on my own feet.”
Grunting, Cuthwin made a vague gesture with his hands. Who knew when a lord king made his final decision? “It will not be for a while. We have not enough swords, not enough spears. And the Masks of Aelle have yet to be spread.” He jingled his waist pouch, he had several to give to those who wanted them, as did other men of the valley. “It is my mind,” Cuthwin added, speaking slowly, thinking as he talked, “that it would be good to have an elder son again, a husband for my daughter.” Avoiding his wife’s eye, continued, “It is also in my mind that we may need to fight the British again before too many more winters pass.” He sighed. “Under the Pendragon, there was no fear of another war. It was good to know crops planted would be crops harvested. This Ambrosius Aurelianus, I think, does not cherish peace as much as his nephew did.”
“He is a Roman seeking the way things once were. Arthur was British, he accepted what was.”
Cuthwin frowned across the dim-lit smoky room at his guest. If his lads had not found him, Eadric would have perished that night from the cold or the beating. Both. He knew little of the Saxon stranger, for Eadric had kept his own council, save that he had no family and had made the journey across the sea for a reason. But then, had not they all at some time done so?
“You speak,” Cuthwin observed, “as if you had known the Pendragon?” Eadric did not answer. Instead, he tossed the little brooch, caught it again and slid it into his own waist-pouch.
“I am thinking,” Eadric said, “it would be good to have a home and a wife. To raise childer and crops.” Gundrada smiled secretly at him, quietly accepting his offer. “I will wear Aelle’s badge when the call comes, I will fight against Ambrosius, although never will I take arms against any loyal to the Pendragon.”
Cuthwin’s brows rose. Ah, he had known Arthur then!
“But before I put an edge to my war-blades, and before I take your daughter to the marriage bed, I have a task to complete. I need to talk in privacy with the Lady Gwenhwyfar.”
The older Saxon whistled, was eager to ask on what matter, and through what circumstances, but held his council. It was not for him to pry into another’s business. “Be that why you were up at the British fortress?”
Eadric nodded. Cuthwin shook his head, bewildered. “Yet they treated you as they did?”
“What they did to me was dishonourable, but it was not of the Lady’s doing. What I need to do is also a matter of honour.” He held his hand out for Gundrada to take, shyly. “When I have discharged my promise, I will return, and we will be wed and raise our children. And hope that perhaps this badge of Aelle’s will stay untouched in my pouch.”
May 472
XXXVI
Bedwyr hated tax collecting. Arthur had too, he remembered, when it came to taking tribute from the poor. A necessary evil he had called it. Mind, obtaining due tithe from the wealthy had often compensated! All that blustering and protestation could be a joy to handle. The majority of settlers and farmers in his jurisdiction of command, up and around Cwm Dolydd, though, were not wealthy. The harvest last year here, as elsewhere, had been frugal and the winter exceedingly wet. Not as many as in some years had died from the cold, but enough had neared starvation. Aye, Bedwyr always hated the spring collection of taxes. How did you take a farmer’s last surviving sow? His only sack of grain?
He rode at the head of his turma of men. They all rode with swords loosened and spears ready. The ox-cart was filling rapidly with payment already collected: grain, barrels of ale, furs and leathers. Christ God, what was he going to do with the girl-child? Selling a child into slavery was commonplace, but Bedwyr had no stomach for it, even if in all probability the child had more chance of surviving under a master than with her malnourished parents. She could not be more than five years of age.
For the fourth time the men had to dismount, manhandle the cart through the mud. The two oxen were militant beasts who saw no reason to work any harder than they needed. Bedwyr cracked a slight smile; one of the men, he noticed, was playing with the lass, tickling her under the chin, making her grubby little face shine with laughter, instead of putting his shoulder to the cart. Bedwyr turned away. If the others did not mind this shirking, why should he notice?
A muddy lane led up through thick, hazel hedging to another steading-place, slightly larger this one. The freeholder had been a favoured mercenary soldier, given high reward. He had a British wife, one daughter of marriageable age, three under-age sons; held four hides of land, which in the Roman was about sixty acres, one fish-pool, ten sow pigs, one boar, four oxen, twenty geese, four beehives and ten goats. Bedwyr knew all this from his official scroll. He was surprised, therefore, when rounding the last bend in the lane, to see a young man leaning on his spade watching the soldiers from the fortress ride in, taking a rest from digging what was obviously a vegetable garden. The man nodded, he was a Saxon, unmistakable from the colour of his hair, manner of dress. The daughter was wed then, the scroll would need be amended.
Cuthwin, the landholder, came from around the back of the dwelling-place. Bedwyr caught a glimpse of three impish lads peering curiously after their father, heads hastily ducking back as the British commander winked at them.
“It’s waiting for you, the tax be by the gate. Grain and furs. The pig’s in the pen over yonder.” Cuthwin spoke gruffly, barely moving his lips, his Latin clipped and uneasy.
“I thank you,” Bedwyr said, gesturing an accompaniment with his hand and talking in the Saxon language. Cuthwin was an honest farmer, for all his curt manners and abrupt ways. Given the situation, who could expect anything less?
“No need to give thanks for starvin’ us,” the Saxon hurled back, crabbily. “You’ll not get a thank you in return.”
Bedwyr surve
yed the farm, neat kept, well stocked even this side of winter. “You do all right for yourself, old sir.” He indicated the younger man, still leaning on his spade, still intently watching him. “With another hand to guide the oxen, you will plough well later this year.”
Cuthwin sniffed loudly, rubbed his bushed beard and regarded Eadric, who without haste set his tool against the low, stone wall and sauntered over to stand beside Bedwyr’s horse. He ran his hand down its neck, appreciating the smooth coat, fine muscle of the crest. “A good horse. One from the Pendragon’s desert bred stock, I’d wager.” He spoke British well, with an accent deeper than most Saxons in this area.
Shrewdly, Bedwyr surveyed him, taking note of his stance, his confidence, hearing the marked difference in speech. “Do I not know you from somewhere?”
Eadric gave the horse a final pat, pulled one of his bay ears through his fingers, and let the animal lick at the salt taste on the palm of his hand. “Mayhap you do. I know you.” He returned Bedwyr’s stare, said lightly, almost offhand. “I helped you drag the Pendragon from that bloodied field of battle.”
Bedwyr gasped, swung down from the saddle, stood looking eye to eye at the man. Slowly he nodded, accepting the statement for fact. “One of Mathild’s men.” Bedwyr loosed his held breath, added, “You are a long way from the Elbe; could you not find a wife nearer home?”
Lifting a slight smile to one corner of his mouth, Eadric shook his head. “I am here at Cuthwin’s farm because of your men, though Gundrada, his daughter, is good reason to stay.”
Frowning, Bedwyr queried the answer. “My men?”
“Aye, my lord. Your men beat me so bad I have not been long from the bed-place.” Eadric indicated his leg, that was bent, slightly misshapen, touched a vivid scar to his temple.
Still, Bedwyr did not understand. “You enjoy riddles, my friend. I cannot fathom this one.”
“No riddle, my Lord. I came up to the fortress just as the winter snows cleared. I needed to speak with the Lady Gwenhwyfar. I was beaten for my trouble.”
At that, Bedwyr formed a wry smile, not quite enough to laugh. “Why would a Saxon from Mathild’s Elbe river wish to speak with my Lady?”
The answer came back swiftly, Eadric’s head high, eyes piercing, sincere. Proud. “That be for me to tell her.” Then he relaxed his expression, a weariness entering his spirit, gazed at Bedwyr’s men sitting on their horses a few yards away, came to a decision. “I will tell you, though, my Lord, for I believe it will be the only sure way my Lady will hear what I have to repeat.” He glanced, pointedly, at the other men, included Cuthwin in his flickering eye. “‘Tis for your ears alone, though, Sir.”
Now Bedwyr was growing curious. He passed the reins to one of the men, put his hand on Eadric’s arm, guided him to the house-place. Inside, Gundrada squeaked with alarm, although her mother barely glanced up from her cooking-pot at the two men. Her nose did wrinkle at the thick mud cloying on their boots as they stamped in over the doorsill, but she made no comment as she would shrilly have done had either Cuthwin or Eadric entered so, alone.
“Get you gone,” Bedwyr ordered, tipping his head to the outside. “I need speak with this man.”
Gundrada hurried away, risking only one quick, frightened glance at Eadric, who smiled encouragement at her. Her mother grumbled. “My stew be nigh on cooked.”
“We’ll see to your stew,” Bedwyr assured her, holding the door wide, ushering her through with an encouraging gesture of his hand.
“You mind you do! If it burns, it’ll be the waste of a fine hare.” She stalked outside, nose tipped high, muttering protest. Bedwyr slammed the door shut, stood with his back leaning against it, arms folded. Tell me, his expression said.
The dwelling-place was larger than most farm-steadings, Cuthwin being of higher status financially. An aisled timber-built structure, with at one end the family place, lower down, the cattle stalls, all empty this time of day and year. Pegs for hanging harness. Three fattened chickens scratched, content, at the straw-scattered, beaten-earth floor.
The living space seemed comfortable, although sparsely furnished with a wooden box-bed to one end and loft space above where the boys slept. Another bed, smaller, lay to one side. An old oaken chest, a sturdy table. Several stools, baskets, pots, flagons, barrels. In one corner, the inevitable loom. Hunkering down on his heels before the hearth-place, Eadric poked more kindling onto the fire, blazing the flames higher.
Bedwyr waited. This was obviously something of importance, there could be no hurrying for great matters.
Finally, Eadric lifted his head. He was nervous, for his tongue licked at his lips, hand rubbed hand. “Since June’s month have I been hiding my tracks, looking over my shoulder.”
Bedwyr made no interruption, let the Saxon speak. June? All but the year around. A long time.
“Those first months I was running from Lady Winifred, ensuring she could not know where I had gone.” Eadric spat into the fire, sending a hiss of steam flaring out.
Bedwyr’s eyebrows rose. Winifred had long claws if her malice was stretching as far as the Elbe! But then it was her son’s place now Leofric the Saxon was gone. Was she making it her own also? “Why?” he asked simply.
Taking a deep breath, Eadric poured the next out: “Because I am certain she was responsible for my Lady Mathild’s death. Because she could not let those of us who served that good lady live to tell others what she knew.”
Pushing himself away from the door, Bedwyr approached the opposite side of the hearth-place, hunkered on his heels as Eadric did. “And that is?”
“Mathild told us, I and several of my comrades – they are cruelly dead now, that bitch’s doing. How my lady knew this thing, I know not, but there was no reason to doubt her.” Squarely, the Saxon regarded the British commander. Bedwyr, an Artoriani officer. Cousin to Arthur, the Pendragon and, so word on the wind chattered, a man who would soon be husband of that same Lord’s widowed wife. “Mathild gave us secret command. If death came to her we were to bring word to Lady Gwenhwyfar. Word of the Pendragon.”
Bedwyr raised one eyebrow higher, his breath, though he realised it not, was tight held. Everything seemed paused, stilled and waiting, waiting for this thing that, with a prickling itch to his scalp, he had feeling was going to be difficult to hear.
“The Pendragon was not buried. She believed he did not die. He lives.” Eadric shrugged. “At least, he did last year, when Mathild was murdered for the knowing of it.”
For a long, long while, Bedwyr sat very still, very quiet. The flames of the hearth-fire crackled, the stew bubbled, began to burn. A hen at the far end of the dwelling-place announced her proud intention to lay. He drew his fingers down his nose, across his clean-shaven chin. Bit at the rough skin around one nail.
“If this be some evil jest… ”
“‘Tis no jest. I carry out a promise to my Lady Mathild. She wished your lady, Gwenhwyfar, to know the truth.”
“Jesu.” Bedwyr breathed. “Jesu Christ.”
XXXVII
Utter stillness. Gwenhwyfar sat unmoving, her ankles crossed, hands folded on her lap. Still, except for the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the occasional blink of her eyelids.
A cuckoo was calling outside from somewhere in the small copse behind the chapel. A bell began to ring, calling the women to prayer. Someone walking quickly, her feet scrunching on the gravel path, her shadow flickering briefly beneath the closed door as she strode past.
Eadric, his woollen cap held tightly between nervous fingers, shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He was looking at the floor, scrutinising the dried rushes. He dared not look up, look at her white, pale, face.
Clearing his throat, Bedwyr moved forward, poured a goblet of wine, offered it to her. Gwenhwyfar took it, held it between her hands. Eadric could see the white there also, stark, against her clenched, tense, knuckles.
The Abbess, a good, kindly woman, bent over Gwenhwyfar, encouraged her to drink. “Take
something, my dear, it will help.”
Shaking her head, Gwenhwyfar offered the cup to her. “No, no I want nothing. Thank you.” She tried a smile. It would not come.
“You are certain,” the Abbess asked, addressing Bedwyr, “that this information is the truth?”
He could only shrug. “I have no reason to doubt it. What this Saxon has told me fits with what I remember.”
Gwenhwyfar stood, smoothing down her gown, her hands travelling over the plainness of her simple-styled dress. She had found quiet here at the abbey, quiet, but not peace. The sisters were kind and caring, doted on young Archfedd, respected Gwenhwyfar’s wish for solitude; fussed her without being obtrusive. In the gentle Abbess, a woman who had a natural gift for understanding the needs of others, she had found a lasting friend.
She could have returned to Durnovaria, stayed, lived within Geraint’s household, but the small community of sisters with their gentle way of life suited her the better, and the abbey to which they were attached was a short distance only from the bustle of that busy town. And the companionship of Enid, should she want it.
Gwenhwyfar tipped her head back slightly, closed her eyes. She felt tired, drained of energy and life. A husk beaten of its kernel, an empty shell. Her body felt heavy, weary. She could feel the pulse-places throbbing, every muscle crying out, for want of rest and sleep. She steadied herself, aware of her fragility, opened her eyes, regarded the Saxon, Eadric.
“I do not doubt that which you have told me to be the truth. For what good reason would your Lady lie?” She managed a weak smile. “And I could never quite believe Arthur was gone.” She wanted to scream, rage, curl into herself and weep. Wanted to be alone, to think. So much to think on! This had turned her world, her life, again on its heels. All this long, long while trying to accept Arthur was dead – finally on the edge of believing it – and now to learn he might not be! To know when last the Lady Mathild had been with him, his body had carried a faint heartbeat of life. That to her later, secret-acquired knowledge, he had survived.
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