Amlawdd was not as calm as his Supreme Commander. Came rapidly to stand before Cadwy, his hand tight-clasped on his sword pommel. “Aye, your son has heard! Is he to support the bitch who so cleverly gave him this stronghold?” Spittle dripped from Amlawdd’s mouth, so vehement was his accusation. He left no chance for Cadwy to respond, to defend himself from this verbal attack. “Why do you ride again to Durnovaria – do you take your wife to safe quarter? Hah!” He stepped even nearer, his breath smelling of stale wine and bad teeth. “Are you not in the thicket of it all, Cadwy? You plan to join in this thing and oust your own father!” His voice was rising, nostrils flaring. Amlawdd was a large-built man, bull-headed, bull-minded. Although shaken, even alarmed, Cadwy controlled his fear against this threatened intimidation, remained sitting, forced his own hand to stay away from his dagger hilt.
This was false accusation – although he was not entirely certain of what he was being accused. Tactfully, he responded on one issue. “I have been charged to defend Badon against attack. That is my duty; my honour will ensure that duty is complied with. I will fight against any who attack here. If you were to take hostile action, Father,” he glanced away from Amlawdd’s sneering expression to Ambrosius, “then, aye, I would fight you.”
Ambrosius, waving Amlawdd to stand down, choked back a raw grimace. Even as little as one year past he would have bellowed outright laughter at the suggestion of his son fighting. Now he was not so sure. Cadwy had changed since taking Ragnall as wife. No, that was not accurate. Cadwy had changed since being closer in friendship to Gwenhwyfar. And was Gwenhwyfar plotting against Britain’s Supreme Governor? The evidence – however shallow – seemed to suggest so. “I have no intention of marching against Badon. The Saex, though, may do otherwise now they are united. And who knows where Bedwyr may decide to lead his comrades.”
Cadwy frowned. Now he had entirely lost the drift of conversation. “Excuse me,” he questioned, eyebrows deepening, his fingers rubbing at his temple, confused. “The Saex? Bedwyr? I do not understand.”
Impatient, seating himself straddle-legged across a stool Amlawdd snapped. “You said you have heard the rumour! Well, that rumour has come to be true knowledge.”
Cadwy caught his breath, as did Ragnall who came to stand behind her husband, her hands resting taut on his shoulders.
“Aelle of the South Saxons is elected Bretwalda. Supreme over the united Saxons.” For so great and threatening a thing, Ambrosius Aurelianus spoke mild, as if he were issuing a statement of the weather prospect for the afternoon.
Puffing his cheeks, raising his eyebrows, Cadwy placed one hand over Ragnall’s. Thank all the gods that might be listening. It was not of Arthur they spoke!
“I have heard such rumour,” he said. Refrained from adding it was not long since he had warned his father this might happen, that the Saex had had enough, were on the brink of rising. To avoid an unnecessary clash of bitter words he kept his eyes from Amlawdd, whose harsh methods had been one of the direct causes.
Sneering, aware Cadwy refused to catch his gaze, Amlawdd assumed it to be for a different reason. He leant forward, elbow on knee. “And have you also heard of Bedwyr’s treason?”
“Bedwyr?” Cadwy stilled his fingers from rubbing against Ragnall’s hand.
“Do you also collaborate with that bitch-woman and Geraint? Do you plan, with them, to reunite the Artoriani to ride against us?” The venom was deadly, the glare in Amlawdd’s stare and poison on his tongue black with hatred.
Ambrosius cocked one eyebrow. He would prefer Amlawdd to direct his accusations with more tact. Too often he assumed above his authority; acted, spoke, as if he were on some equal level with Ambrosius. Ah well, that is what came of giving patronage to an imbecile.
Puzzled, not rising to Amlawdd’s attempt at angering him, Cadwy stated to his father, again ignoring Amlawdd, “I know nothing of Bedwyr plotting against you, Lady Gwenhwyfar is innocent in this charge.”
The sneer of contempt was triumphant on Amlawdd’s face. He slapped his thigh with his hand, threw back his head. “Why then, has Bedwyr so often been absent from his command, has so often with that bitch-breed, Gwenhwyfar?”
Cadwy irritatingly smiled. “I would suggest he has a personal interest that is not to your liking.”
His lip curling, Amlawdd thrust, “You deny involvement with this conspiracy then?”
Vehemently came the answer. “I do!”
Clearly, Amlawdd did not believe it.
“I would suggest, Father,” Ragnall declared, giving a reassuring squeeze to her husband’s shoulder, “you concentrate on the reality of the Saxon danger and not look for treason where there is none.” Added with a courage that Amlawdd had never before noticed, “Bedwyr has no time for rebellion. He is preoccupied with convincing Lady Gwenhwyfar her place is legally, and permanently, in his bed.” She dipped a reverence at Ambrosius. “I will give instruction that we are to journey together.”
Ambrosius pushed himself to his feet. He was chuckling. “Talk your way around that one, Amlawdd!” He slapped his hand on his shoulder. “Your daughter seems to have more wit than either of us have given her credit for.” He was laughing. Did not believe a word of it, for the rumours that Bedwyr and Gwenhwyfar were involved in something of greater significance than the matter of marriage were too strong.
And if they were not plotting his demise, what else could so determinedly be occupying their attention?
XLI
The argument that erupted less than an hour after arriving at Durnovaria was more explosive than even the fabled eruption of Vesuvius. Amlawdd was ready to pick a fight, Bedwyr in a mood to oblige him. Naturally, Bedwyr hotly denied the accusation of treasonable intent. As naturally, Amlawdd loudly proclaimed he lied.
Ambrosius and Geraint between them managed with some difficulty to keep the two men from each other’s throats. The urgent matter of the Saxons uniting under one leader kept the quarrel reasonably at bay, although the growling and snarling exchanged between the two, from their opposite sides of the table, was more vehement than any Saxon war cry.
“I will be needing commanders whom I can rely on without question,” Ambrosius said pointedly to Bedwyr. “Can I rely on you to be where you are meant to be when the Saex rise against us?”
Angry at the reiteration of the accusation, Bedwyr leapt to his feet, his stool scraping on the timber floor of this, Geraint’s Hall. They were gathered at the top end, where the Lord’s table was permanently sited, before the largest hearth-fire. Below, in the Hall proper, the tasks of daily life were dutifully attended, with more than one surreptitious glance cast at the rise and fall of voices. Several heads turned at Bedwyr’s abrupt movement, glances exchanged. Word had spread quickly that a fight was imminent and more tasks than usual seemed to need urgent tending in the Hall this day.
“I tell you again, Lord Aurelianus, I am no traitor! If you seriously think I am, then, damn it!” Bedwyr slammed the table with his fist. “Have my head now!”
Amlawdd growled something beneath his breath, the words not quite discernible; the meaning plain.
Patient, Ambrosius repeated what he had already said. “I am satisfied you have no intent against me, yet I must argue you leave your place of command over often.” That was due to the lax way Arthur had run things. Letting his higher officers follow their own pursuits; Ambrosius would have none of it. “Desertion, Bedwyr, I could well call it desertion!”
“Ask the men to stone me. See how many would agree to do it!”
“Christ God, you push your luck, boy!” Amlawdd was on his feet also, hands spread flat on the table. Geraint and several of the other gathered officers groaned. “Back you, would they?” Amlawdd jeered. “And you say you do not gather an army to your side!”
It was enough to push Bedwyr over the edge of patient reason. His dagger was out as he leapt across the table, scattering papers and maps, his free hand going for Amlawdd’s throat. The men met, tumbled to the floor, rolling over,
scuffling, breath rasping from exertion and anger. A confusion of dogs jumped up barking and prancing around, two starting their own fight.
It lasted but moments, hands reaching instantly to clamp on both Bedwyr’s and Amlawdd’s tunics, hauling them apart, to stand bent, breathless, glowering, ready to start again if chance allowed.
From their private quarters the women had come, enticed by the sudden clamour of noise, Ragnall with the babe still at her breast, Enid, several of their maids. And Gwenhwyfar, storming into the Hall, her cloak flying behind like the unfurled wings of a swooping bird. She grasped Bedwyr’s dagger, taking it from him flung it aside. “Is this what we are brought to?” she rebuked. Turning to Amlawdd, she removed his weapon in the same manner. “Grown men behaving with no more dignity than dogs! Mithras! What makes that of me? A bitch on heat?” Her eyes flashed between the two of them, the green sparking with the gold flecks of her anger. Beneath, they were grey-bruised, the rims red. She had been weeping. Weeping, it seemed, these past few years with never-ending tears.
What had happened to them all? To her? Why was everything spiralling into this whirl of chaos?
She did not need these two men snarling their endless squabble over who should have her. She needed… What? What did she need? Needed to know, in her own mind, in her own heart, whether Arthur would be coming home.
Amlawdd wanted to preen over her as his wife; Bedwyr wanted her as a woman. Standing, her fists clenched, she made her decision. To do what she wanted. To find Arthur, discover for herself why he had not returned, nor even sought to contact her. Face it outright. If he preferred to stay with this other woman, then… She would face the then when it came.
Decision.
“Neither of you will have further cause to bicker and squabble like infants mewling over a broken toy.” She eased the taut breath, solemnly regarded each man there in turn. Ambrosius Aurelianus, who had so wanted to return Britain to the protective fold of Rome. A few years back, he might have succeeded, but not now. It was too late, they were too far along the rock-strewn path of independence and the Saex were too firm-entrenched. Geraint, a princeling who wanted only to rule his own quiet corner in peace and prosperity but who was, by the very nature of his position, drawn into a wider circle of events. Amlawdd who wanted to satisfy his greed for being the best, who could never admit to falling so far short of his ambition. Cadwy, who was perhaps of them all the only man there who thought with a clear head, who put his duty to country and kindred above the scheming of personal worth.
She looked across at Ider and the lad, Gweir who had come into the Hall as she had, with the onset of disturbance. Two men who would willingly follow her into the Otherworld if she asked it of them. At Enid. At Ragnall. Ragnall, who had an hour past told her of the woman, Morgaine, and Arthur’s son, Medraut.
“I am going to Less Britain.”
Several eyes widened at her announcement. A spark of hope, of relief from Bedwyr, Ider and Geraint. They knew what she next said was veiled truth, a feint to put the opponent off-guard. “Across the sea, I may find the peace, and the answers, I am looking for.”
Her glance met again with Ragnall, with her disfigured, misshapen face. And their smiles met. “If I can find what I seek,” Gwenhwyfar said. “Then, by chance, I can put an end to all this fighting.”
June 472
XLII
The forest was dense, quiet and enfolding, giving the impression that she, Gwenhwyfar, was the last person left alive on this earth aside from the old hermit striding ahead of her. She even had her doubts about him. He was thin – lanky – and tall, far taller than any other man she had known, even Ider, who stood several fingers above six feet. His sun-browned bare arms and legs protruding from beneath the faded grey of his robe were like sticks, bone stretched beneath a taut cover of aged and worn skin; his hair streaked white like a badger’s pelt, gnarled hand clasping a staff, almost as tall as himself. His stride was long; Gwenhwyfar found she had to trot to keep up with him as he threaded a way along the twisting, narrow, but well-trodden path.
Ider had wanted to come with her, but the old man had not allowed it. “No,” he had said, the one word only, a man of little conversation, making one or two simple sounds do for lengthy explanations. He stepped over a fallen trunk with no effort, no scramble or difficulty. Gwenhwyfar had to hitch her gown, scrabble over as best she could, and quickly, for he was striding on, not waiting for her. If he turned a twisting corner, she feared he would be gone, disappear into the darkness beneath these trees. Less Britain was a large, formidable land, these woods greater than the whole of the Summer Land of home. She had no inclination to become lost within the silence of these crowding trees.
“I seek those who are of the Goddess, the women who call themselves the Ladies,” she had said earlier when they had come to this place, to this old, Christian man, living alone in his solitary hermitage. “I have heard that such women live here, in these woods, though they may not be the Ladies I seek.”
Sitting cross-legged, straight-backed outside his door, the Gospel resting open on his lap, he had silently watched her men make camp, observed the cooking of their meal, said nothing, made no acknowledgement. Did not move until the sun began to slide downward into the purple-blue of evening.
Startled, Gwenhwyfar had looked up to see him at the entrance of her tent. “It is to the heresy of the pagan you ask to go, but come, I will show you,” he had said, and she had followed.
The sea-crossing had been uneventful, tedious. They had sailed from Llongborth and had run before a fresh wind across the Channel Straits, then down, around the toe of Less Britain, encountering few other ships, no Saxons, no pirates. Disembarked at the sheltered harbour town of Dariorigum, sought information, were directed back along the coast to here, the old hermit who lived near the Stones. Even the horses had travelled well, aye and Onager! Gwenhwyfar had deliberated over the bringing of him, such a bad-tempered, unpredictable animal, on a long sea-crossing. Arthur had left him behind for that reason, but then, Arthur had transported several hundred horse, they had only their six riding animals and three pack-ponies. Bad-tempered he might be, but he was a bold, strong horse, could go for miles on little feed; his heart rode as high as his temper. And aye, she had brought him for another reason. He was Arthur’s.
“How far do we go?” she called, lengthening her stride to keep up with the hermit. For an old man, he was quick-paced. She expected no answer, received none.
Ahead, the trees were thinning. Through the tree shadow filtered the rich gold of a sunset. The hermit gestured that she should step out ahead of him into what seemed to be the lower end of a clearing. She went forward, stopped, incredulous.
Stones. Row upon row of grey, lichen-mottled Stones. Upright, or toppled over, varying in shape, wide or narrow, some squat, some taller than a man, others small, like a child – rows of them, a hundred, hundred Standing Stones lined in ranks stretching away along the clearing bordered so densely by the sentinel guard of dark forest. A marching army, frozen into these timeless ranks of stone.
These were nothing like the ancient sacred circles and avenues that Gwenhwyfar was familiar with – not even the Great Henge could rouse the breath-held awe that this place generated. Tentative, reverent, she walked forward, her fingers going out to touch the nearest time-weathered monument, but she drew back, reluctant to make contact with its cold surface.
For the constructions in Britain – smaller, much smaller than this great wonder – no one remembered who had erected them or why. Old beyond ancient, holy, mystical, magical places. Nothing else. No reason, no use. They were, that was all, just were. The forgotten. The ended, stretching away into the distance of the past, back to the dawn when time itself was on the verge of being. But they were places of peace, of welcome also. To wander around those circles back home, touching each standing stone with a warm caress of greeting, brought the overwhelming inner feeling of calm.
But these Stones, Gwenhwyfar could not touch.
She felt no fear or dread; there was no leering shadow of evil or malicious intent, she just could not reach out, touch the surface of the nearest Stone. She walked forward a pace, imagined that the Stones were parting before her, making a path, stepping aside, not wanting to be a part of this, her time, her existence. It all seemed very polite, so tolerant and indifferent, as if those spirits that lay here, remembered only by the marking of these Stones, had dutifully accepted her presence, offered her polite courtesy, yet would be relieved were she to go. She was not wanted, but would not be turned away. They were waiting, she was certain, for someone, or something, to come, were prepared to wait until the other end of existence. Until the very ending of time.
As Arthur was waiting. She knew that, she could feel it, so strong was it here amongst the Stones. Waiting… for what? For her? To be freed? To decide? Ah, that she could not yet know.
Impulsive, she curtseyed low and deep to one Stone that seemed larger than some of those others nearby. A trick of light, the fading glow of sunset, the coming of dark… Did it seem the Stone answered her with a slight, shifting movement? She turned. The hermit was waiting at the edge of the trees, not stepping out from their night-darkening protection. He, a Christian man, would not come into the domain of the pagan.
“The Ladies,” he said, in a voice as clear and fresh as spring water, “are beyond these lines of Stones. Follow their march, on the morrow.” He lifted his head a little higher, his blue eyes glittering a Christian challenge. “If you are not afeared.”
Gwenhwyfar walked back to him, her smile indulgent. “The Stones do not mind those who come to do them no harm.”
He snorted light contempt, indicated they were to return along the same path. “May I ask why you seek the heathen, when it is the words of Christ that ought be in your heart?” he said, after they had walked in silence for some many yards.
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