“No,” he said. “I have brought him here for us to heal, you and I, lad.”
The boy’s face lit with a sunburst of pride and pleasure. Arthur would never have had such an expression at that age. His early life had been one of constant blows and taunts. There was no obvious cruelty in Morgaine, he had never seen her strike or rebuke the lad with unnecessary harshness, and yet she was not close to him, not as Gwenhwyfar had been to her sons. Morgaine never fussed the boy, be it at bedtime or when he had fallen, hurt himself. That occasion when he was so ill? Morgaine tended him, administering potions, draughts and cordials, but it had been Arthur who had held the boy close, who had stroked the wet hair from his forehead. Given him the comforting reassurance of love and protection.
Gwenhwyfar had always shown love. In contrast, Morgaine was remote, kept her feelings close guarded. She never questioned, never queried. Some days, Arthur forgot she was there.
“From where did he come? What do you want him for?” she had asked.
Arthur shook the last armful of bedding, frowned. Morgaine, questioning? He shrugged the thought aside, beckoned the boy forward.
He ran, delighted, but Arthur clasped at his shoulder, stopped him short. “Never run up to a horse, lad, they startle easily – especially this one. When he is well he’ll use his teeth and feet and not need an excuse for it. I have fought battles on this horse.”
Medraut’s jaw dropped as wide as his eyes, his esteem for this splendid creature doubling. Onager stood almost six and ten hands measured at the withers, bigger than the few scruffy, ill-bred ponies from the valley. A rich, dark chestnut horse, with a short back, deep chest and fine head. His eyes were bold, set to either side of a wide forehead that sat above a dished, slender face. This was a horse that would surely gallop for hours and never tire, a horse to race the very wind! Medraut loved him, he was superb!
Gathering the boy into his arms Arthur took him closer, let him reach out to touch that high, proud crest, stroke down the neck, pat the shoulder. Patient, Arthur explained what was wrong, what need be done to make him well. Emphasised Medraut was not to go near him unless he, Arthur, was here also. Solemnly, the thumb going back into his mouth, Medraut promised.
The door creaking open attracted their attention, Arthur swung around, the boy in his arms. Morgaine stood, silhouetted against the low, late afternoon sun. They could not see her face for it was in deep shadow, only her voice told that she was displeased.
“I do not want the boy near the horse.”
Arthur made no answer.
“Horses are not to be trusted.”
Setting the boy to his feet, Arthur nudged him in the direction of his mother and the outside. “Run along lad – do you not have chores to attend?”
The boy gone, he said, “What I do, where I go, is of my business, not yours. You are not my keeper, Morgaine.”
Tartly, her fists on her hips, head upright, she responded with the only weapon she had. “Mayhap not, but I am the mother of your son.”
Arthur returned to tending the horse. Taking up a handful of straw he twisted it into a plait, began grooming Onager’s dulled, poor coat. When the light brightened, he assumed Morgaine to be gone, leaving the door wide. He guided the plait of straw across the horse’s shoulders, using firm, even strokes along his back and rump, down his quarters. Aye, Morgaine was that, the mother of his son.
She was also his sister. Uthr, the first Pendragon, had the siring of them both.
Arthur had not known it, then, when he had lain with her at a time when a great fear had clouded all sense, all reason. He had gone to the Lady by the Lake for her healing, his eldest son was ill and it was all he could think of to save him, to go to the pagan woman who lived, then, at Yns Witrin. Would he have lain with her if she had not asked? If she had not given the impression that it was a thing demanded by the Mother, the Goddess of all life? If he had not thought the union might bring some benefit of healing to his most precious boy? Possibly. Probably – but alternatively, he might have discovered her siring first. And then, Morgaine would not have held this weight of shame and guilt over him. Not that she knew. No one else knew; he alone realised who had fathered Morgause’s daughter.
Arthur dropped the straw wisp, laced his fingers into Onager’s long mane, leant his cheek against the warmth of the animal’s coat. Stood there a long while.
Soon, it began to grow dark outside. Night. Morgaine would be putting the boy to bed, preparing supper.
He ought to tell her the reason why he stayed here. Tell her he stayed because there was nowhere else to go. That here there was no one to sneer he was a failure, a lost man with not the guts to pick up his sword again, a cripple in mind and spirit. A man to blame for the massacre of his men.
Morgaine settled Medraut into his bed, an arrangement of furs and blankets set on a wooden platform above one end of the dwelling. Medraut liked his private, upstairs place. When he was older, he intended to ask if the wooden ladder could be hoisted up at night. That would make it even more secretive.
Eagerly enthusiastic about the horse in the byre, he had been chattering happily about the animal, unaware of his mother’s tight-lipped silence. Tucking a blanket around him, her patience finally snapped.
“No more of this! You are to stay away from the creature,” she commanded.
Wildly alarmed, the boy protested. “But I am to help Da make him better! I promised I would!”
Morgaine snatched hold of the boy’s shoulder, her fingernails pinching cruelly into the delicate skin. “If I catch you near that beast, I will whip you!” And added, her face pressing vindictively close to the boy’s, “and I shall whip the horse too!”
Medraut dug his teeth into his lip, held his tears until she had gone with the lamp, leaving him alone under the roof beams in the darkness. He could hear her moving about down below, preparing supper for herself and Da. One solitary tear trickled from beneath his lashes, then another.
He turned his face into the bracken-filled pallet so not even the night spirits would see him weep.
LVIII
Arthur was disappointed that the boy did not come to help with Onager. He had seemed so eager at the outset, but that was children for you. Full of boundless enthusiasm the one moment, off with their friends, fishing or swimming the next. He supposed he had been inclined the same as a boy, except, as a bastard child he had had few friends, and always, had chosen the company of the Pendragon above other things. Although he had not known Uthr to be his father, then.
Medraut was down by the lake, over to where a large cluster of dwellings huddled beneath the shaded slope of trees. The morning had been overcast and the wind chill, but by early afternoon the temperature was picking up. Naturally, the pack of boys had headed for the lure of the water. Arthur could hear their shouted, excited voices floating on the wind, could imagine them romping and splashing at the lake edge. He might walk Onager down there later, lead him along the shore, let him graze the succulent grass that abounded there. He forked a pile of dung from the horse’s bed, rested his shoulders and back against the partition wall. Closed his eyes. He was so tired. Had no energy, no enthusiasm for anything.
Morgaine had nursed a temper, although not one that could ever have matched her mother’s. Morgaine was not as clever as Morgause, nor as subtle or vindictive. Why she should be so upset about the horse, Arthur could not imagine, nor did he care enough to enquire.
Yesterday, she had changed tactics, had brought him a breakfast out to the byre where he was sleeping; fresh-baked wheat bread smeared liberally with honey, a tankard of barley ale. Had she guessed to where he had gone? On several occasions yesterday, he had almost told her. “I went to see my wife and she was more beautiful than ever I remembered.”
She would have gone now, Gwenhwyfar, saddled the horses and be heading home. Disappointed? Angry? He had no way of knowing.
Arthur wiped his hand over his face. The palm was sweaty, the fingers shaking, blurring before his vision. He s
ighed. So tired.
The goats would need milking soon, and the sow’s pen cleaning. He placed an affectionate smack on Onager’s rump, the horse’s ears flicking backwards with the sound. At least the animal was improving, he had eaten a feed mixed with a generous handful of healing, dried nettles, was chewing at hay stacked in the manger. The pus had stopped oozing. Onager had been lucky, a mild dose of the illness it seemed. A few good feeds, a few days of grazing in the summer sun and he would soon recover. What in all the gods’ names was he going to do with a warhorse? Onager would never pull a plough or wagon, Mithras’s love, what had made him bring the horse here?
He could hear Morgaine singing as she worked at her loom, some song he did not recognise. He put the wooden fork with the stable tools that leant against the stack of the woodpile, cursed as it fell, his fingers fumbling to stand it upright. Why were his hands so clumsy? Damn it, why was Morgaine so happy? He could feel this black mood of despair engulfing him, cramping its tentacles around him, feel the darkness seeping deeper and thicker. A great pit opening before him, going down and down. All he had to do was look up, reach out for the light, summon the courage, go after Gwenhwyfar and say he was sorry, beg her forgiveness; but he was too tired. So much easier to step into that hole and drift… . He wanted to sleep, fought against it, for the darkness would surely come, swallow him for ever if he drowsed into sleep.
He had dreamt last night. Dreamt of home, of Caer Cadan and, strangely, of Yns Witrin, the Tor that rose proud above the flat levels of the Summer Land. His Summer Land, the land of the seven rivers, summer-sluggish, that swelled and flooded in spring from the run-off from the surrounding rounded hills. Flat pasture, willow-bordered, spongy beneath your feet even in the hottest, driest summer. In winter, a constant movement of birds, for the Levels swarmed with lapwings, golden plover, redwing, snipe, rook and gull. Hawk and kestrel.
In his dream, a light, golden evening was settling after what must have been a brilliant day. Late summer, for the grass was sun-browned, the lake not as high as it would be in the dazzling green of early spring. A boat, coming across the lake from the Tor, one person paddling, a woman, brown-cloaked, hood pulled forward. Two other women waited on the shore, both with their backs to him, waiting for the boat. He knew who they were, the one dressed as a Christian woman, with her dark gown and white veil, her gold crucifix glinting in the evening sunlight, and the other woman, with her plaid, a rich red cloak. Her tumble of copper hair.
He had tried to call, attract their attention, but they were intent on watching the boat. And then Gwenhwyfar had turned, but she had not seen him, was unaware he was there. His sword was in her hand – and then she and Winifred and the boat that carried Morgaine were gone. Only the sword remained, the blade quivering in the grass as the wind, dancing down from the height of the Tor, whispered past.
Arthur gasped, found he was on his knees, his head bent forward, his vision reeling and spinning, an ache hammering against the side of his skull. Sweat slithered down his spine, from beneath his armpits. He saw the shadow move at the doorway, heard the rush of movement, the dagger scything downward, and he rolled, head ducked, back curved, rolled over and up onto his feet, crouching low, hands spread, his movements slow, clumsy.
There were two of them, two men. Saxons, blond-haired, drooping moustaches, blue, cold eyes. One man with blurred senses against two intent killers.
Arthur’s fingers fumbled at his waist for his dagger, dropped it. He leapt backward as one man came again with his short sword, the Saex, the blade whistling as it sliced the air, missing Arthur’s midriff by the width of a hair. Arthur stumbled, sending the stable tools, a bucket and several other items tumbling and rolling, part of the woodpile crashing as his hand grappled for a hold to steady himself.
He needed a weapon! His hand closed around the stable fork; he jabbed the prongs at the nearest man, swung forward to drive the second backward, but that first man’s sword had an edge like a midwinter’s night. The blade sliced through the wooden shaft, leaving Arthur holding a next to useless stump of stick. He used it haphazardly as a defence, waving it before him to keep the attackers away while he manoeuvred around, closer to the woodpile. He slid the stick into his left hand, felt frantically with his right among the stacked logs. The two men stood, side by side, their grins widening, one shifting his blade, menacing, from hand to hand as they closed in, their breaths strong and foul from an excess of stale wine and strong cheese. Desperate, Arthur side-stepped a pace, his fingers still scrabbling between the crevices of the stacked logs – blood of Mithras, where in all hell was it? Where was his sword?
He heard a woman screaming, a man laughing; ducked and twisted as both men lunged forward. Head-butting one, his fist pounded into the chin of the other. The first doubled over, winded, his arms going around his stomach, sword falling to the earthen floor. The second reeled, but lurched forward, mouth drawn into a snarl that showed a row of blackened, decayed teeth. Arthur again rolled, coming up with the dropped short sword in his hand, driving it upward within the same moment as the man raised his own weapon, and pushed it in, through the Saxon’s abdomen.
No time to take breath, to gloat at the one’s death, for the first man was again on his feet, a log of wood firm in his hand, coming hard at Arthur, enraged at the death of his companion. Arthur had his back to Onager, the horse shifting nervously in his stall, ears back, eyes rolling. Simple to manoeuvre around, reverse the positions. As easy to lunge forward, drive the Saxon back a step. Onager’s hind foot lashed out, trumping against the Saxon’s thigh. The sound of the bone shattering and the scream, ricocheted around the byre.
Shaking his head to clear the muzziness and blurred vision, Arthur ran outside. Three men were coming through the gateway, swords drawn. Another had been searching inside the grain-barn. Saxons, everywhere. Why? What were Saex doing this far into Gaul? No time to think, to reason, the man from the granary was entering the house place, the eyes of the others swivelling in that direction also as Morgaine’s screams were rising against the excited roar of male laughter. Saex-sword raised, Arthur hurtled across the small, square yard. He would rather have had the secure feel of his own cavalry sword in his grasp, with its greater length and stronger bite, but all Arthur had was this bloodied one. He ran, foot-kicked the door wide, sending one man sprawling face forward as it back-slammed, killing another almost within the same instant with a side-thrust of the blade, ripping it double-handed, through his ribs and lungs.
Her skirt pushed up over her head, Morgaine was on the floor a heavy-built Saxon grunting on top of her, another hauling at his shoulder, urging him to hurry, make way. Arthur’s sword slammed between the waiting man’s shoulders, slamming in to the hilt. Blood burst from the dying man’s mouth, choking off the startled death-cry. Two-handed, Arthur attempted to pull the short-bladed sword out, had to leave it, turn, bending low, as a man flew at him from behind. Arms grabbed him, a fist thudded into his abdomen, under his jaw.
Morgaine was still screaming, the man on top of her urgently finishing what he was doing. Arthur toppled forward, dizzying into semi-consciousness.
LIX
Gwenhwyfar did not look back, not once, not even when they passed by the track that trailed southward, following down into the Avallon valley and to the lake where the community of pagan women squatted between the shoulder of the hills and the shore. There was a dwelling-place there, which housed a woman, her son, and a man who had once been so splendid a king. She shut them from her mind. Angry, bitterly disappointment swilling like bile in her mouth.
She rode ahead, her horse picking its way sure-footed, across roots and tangled overgrowth. They would meet the main Via Agrippa some time soon, ride onward through the night, for a full moon and clear skies were expected to light the way.
They ought to have left the same day as he had. No, she refused to think of that, think of him. They ought to have left, but had not, the excuse being that Gweir had not yet returned, but by this mid-morning
she had decided not to wait longer, ordered the men to saddle the horses. They rode slowly, in no great hurry, following the valley up the steep winding track that Gweir had ridden to find…
Gwenhwyfar closed her eyes, let the horse pick his own way along this narrow, faint-marked trail.
“The two Saxons have moved,” Gweir had reported, that afternoon after Arthur had come, and gone. “They have split, one waits among the lower trees, the other has ridden hard in the direction of Antessiodurum. There is mischief in mind, I am sure.”
Mischief indeed, if Gweir were not to return! He would catch up, knew the direction they headed, the quicker way home, straight up the Roman Road to the coast and a ship to take them back to… to what? She had promised herself she would not cry. No more weeping, no more tears.
Gwenhwyfar rode alone, ahead of her men so that they would not witness her broken promise.
LX
The wind had eased a little to the east, was becoming chill again, as it had in the morning. Medraut shivered, decided it was time to return home. He called farewell to the other boys and, scrabbling into his clothes, trotted along the upward-winding track.
He thought it was his friends he could still hear, but when he looked back, they too had gone. Then he heard the screaming clearer, and ran, head down, arms pumping; the voice unmistakably his mother’s.
Slowing, out of breath, legs aching, he rested a hand on the rear wall of the small granary. The screaming had stopped but he could hear laughter and unfamiliar, guttural voices of men. And another sound. He dropped to his belly and squirmed beneath the raised building, wriggling between the stone pillars that supported the wooden floor, an effective means of keeping vermin from the grain. His eyes saw another form of vermin, more vicious than the rats that came creeping stealthily by night, more frightening than the great eagles he occasionally saw sailing on the winds high above the hills. Five men in the yard, big men, loud and brash. One was holding Da, the others, one with a bloodied nose, were hitting him, beating him. Medraut could see Da’s blood dribbling from above his eye, could hear him gasping as fists and feet thudded into his body. What could a boy do? A boy of six years against five grown men? He could run for help, but they lived apart, their dwelling well to the outside of the lake community. And beside, it was mostly women down there. A few had husbands but they were old men, farmers, and they all lived too far away.
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