Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  If he had a sword he could… a sword! Da’s sword! He knew where his mother had hidden it for he had peeped over the edge of his sleeping platform, watched as she had put it there, beneath the mattress of her own bed. He knew how to get inside the house-place too, without being seen. The gnarled old walnut tree behind reached past the window opening that gave more ventilation than light. It was small, but then, so was he. It was a route he used often if he needed to sneak something out without his mother knowing; food usually, a chunk of bread or wedge of cheese.

  It was dark inside, with the door partially shut and no lamps lit, but Medraut knew his way around, and his eyes became quickly adjusted to the dim light.

  Morgaine lay huddled, curled, on the floor, arms wrapped around herself, sobbing. Her skirts dishevelled. Blood and some other stuff trickling down her thighs.

  “Get up, Mam, Da needs help!” Medraut shook her, pulling frantically at her arm, her shoulder, but she shook him off, curling deeper into herself, her sobs jerking louder. “Mam! Please!”

  Desperate, Medraut ran to her bed, tugged aside the mattress and dragged out the scabbard. It was heavier than he had anticipated, he needed both hands to pull the blade from its sheath, both hands to carry it back to the window and irreverently shove it through.

  They were still hitting his father, those horrid men. What could he do? He could barely lift the weapon, could never use it – and then he thought of Onager.

  The boy had ridden occasionally on the backs of ponies, once on a bigger horse used to pull a wagon into Avallon. It was not the same as riding a warhorse, but how different could it be? He managed to get the horse’s bridle on by balancing on a stool and coaxing the animal’s head down. The saddle he abandoned, for he was unsure how all the straps went; it would take too much time to think it all out. He found some rope, wound it around the hilt of the sword and looped it around his shoulder, climbed atop a barrel and with held breath, clambered onto Onager’s back. He had done well, the horse had only nipped him twice!

  The byre doors stood open. Beyond, he could hear the men jeering, hear their shouted words, though they spoke in a language he did not understand. He knew how to make horses move. He took up the reins in one hand, steadied the dangling sword with the other and brought both his heels back in a mighty kick.

  Onager plunged, head down, back arched, squealing. Medraut let go both reins and sword, clutched frantically at the horse’s mane, managed to stay aboard through several of those enormous bucks. Onager careered forward, they were well beyond the door now, near the pile of muck and dung rotting for use on the fields, another buck and… but at least it was soft! The Saxons had scattered, convinced this was some fire-breathing creature of the gods. Dizzy, Arthur managed to dodge the animal’s crazed path, ran, breath gasping in his throat for Medraut who sat in the muck, holding the naked sword as high as he could manage. Arthur took it, swung around as, gathering their senses, two of the men came at him.

  It had been a long time since he had held this sword in the grip of his hand. A long time since he had swung it, used its strength and beauty to destroy and maim, but the time fell away as simply as dew beneath the scorching sun; it was as if it had never been from his grasp, never been from his side.

  And there was another man, with another sword, coming from the gateway, yelling and hacking at the Saxons. A few moments only, and the five men lay dead, and Gweir stood leaning upon his sword, grinning at Arthur.

  It is good,” he said, “to fight again with the Pendragon.”

  LXI

  The man in the byre talked easily, helped along by the subtle persuasion of Gweir’s boot coming into contact, none too gently, with his shattered thigh. He was, he then willingly told them, one of a group of men who had followed the Lady Gwenhwyfar across Gaul, men who had been paid to ensure the Pendragon was undeniably dead; paid to retrieve his head.

  “Do we finish him?” Gweir asked when nothing more of interest was forthcoming.

  Arthur was seated on a pile of old mildewing sacking and straw. His brain reeled and his vision seemed as if he were walking through a heavy, moorland mist. What in ever the gods’ names was wrong with him? It was not the beating, for this dizziness and disorientation had been bothering him before then, since yesterday. Two vivid bruises were welling on his cheek and beneath his eye, more would be on his body. He would tend them later, no hurry now. He stood, feeling the room sway, held his hand out to the boy, who sat wide-eyed, open-mouthed, inside the doorway. Growled at Gweir, “Aye, do it.” To the boy, in a kinder tone he teased. “Come with me, lad. Since you let him loose, you can help me catch Onager. Unless he’s found a patch of sweet grass he’s likely to be half way to Rome by now.”

  The boy’s face dropped, and the thumb went back to his mouth. Arthur ruffled his hair, swung him up into his arms. “You did well, lad, I’m proud of you. But for you I would be dead!” Amazing, the sudden difference of expression, from dismay of doing wrong, to elation.

  A brief, high-pitched gurgle came from within the byre. Medraut attempted to turn his head to look but Arthur distracted him, carried him away with long strides. Gweir emerged, bent to wipe the blade of his dagger on grass tufting beside the sow’s pen.

  Morgaine was standing in the yard, her face blotched and puffed by tears, the skin beneath ash-white. She had one hand stuffed into her mouth, fear raged in her eyes, hair straggled across her face. It needed re-dying, for the brilliant red it had been these past weeks was fading, the paleness of her own natural colour streaking through the artificial pretence. How many colours had Morgaine used? Red, black. A rich, dark brown? Never fair, as she had been as a child, never spun gold like her mother. The thick, black kohl she used to line and darken her eyes had run in streaks down her cheeks making her appear haggard, and twice her two and twenty years. As Arthur and the boy emerged into the evening light, she pointed with trembling fingers, at the men sprawled in various postures of death. “He is not here,” she quavered. “The one I spoke with, he is not here.”

  Arthur dipped his head over his shoulder. “There is another, in there.” He did not understand, but did not question. Added, not without a tint of cruelty, “His throat is cut.”

  Onager had not moved from beside the muckheap, as Arthur had known. He would not move without a rider while the reins hung loose, every warhorse of the Artoriani was trained so, such entrenched discipline could save an unhorsed rider’s life in battle. Arthur tossed the boy onto the horse’s back, picked up the reins. “Hold his mane – and keep your heels still!” Smiling at the boy’s delight, Arthur returned the animal to the safe confine of his stall.

  Inside, addressing Morgaine, he said dispassionately, “That your man?” She stood beside the bloodied, twisted body, chewing her thumbnail as her son would have done, too numbed to answer.

  Slipping the bridle from Onager’s head and lifting the boy down, Arthur glanced at her, caught from the corner of his eye a spark of red on the dead man’s left hand. A ring. Curious, he handed the bridle to the boy, walked forward, hunkered beside the body his narrowing eyes never leaving the ring. Gweir had come up behind Arthur as he lifted his head to ask of Morgaine, in a quiet, dark voice, “How did this Saex bastard come by my ring?”

  Morgaine was too dizzy-witted not to answer. Nothing like her mother! Morgause would have been laughing or sneering at the incompetent failure of the dead. Rape would be a meaningless thing for the woman who had entertained more men in her bed, for her own gain, than any tavern whore. Morgause would have held her tongue. Even through the pain of torture she would not have answered Arthur – answered any man. Morgaine though, had fear on her face, and guilt. Emotions unknown to her mother. “He was not supposed to kill you, only her. I thought he understood that.”

  Arthur squatted, very still, very quiet. His eyes were focused on the ring; his ring, his dragon ring. The last time he had worn it was on the morning of the last battle. And again, in his tortured mind, he saw that day. Saw his men, his brot
hers, his friends, hacked down and dying. Saw and felt the deep, raw, pain of his failure.

  Gweir stepped across the body, removed the ring, held it on the open palm of his hand. The Pendragon’s ring. Reverently, he handed it to Arthur, who took it, slid it onto his left hand where it nestled comfortable, familiar, as if it had never been removed.

  “Ambrosius,” Gweir began in desperation. He faltered. Would the Pendragon heed him? He had turned away from his lady wife, why would he listen to a man who was once a slave boy? In a rush of speech, he ploughed on. “Ambrosius is making the biggest balls-up Britain has been saddled with. War’s brewing – if it hasn’t already boiled over.” He bit his lip, swallowed, looked at Arthur and pleaded, “We need you, my Lord. Britain needs you.”

  The Pendragon was staring at Morgaine his expression hard, jaw clamped, eyes narrowed. If he heard or listened to Gweir, he made no sign, save that he irritably gestured for him to leave the byre. “Take the boy with you,” he snapped.

  Head bowed, disappointed, Gweir obeyed.

  “You gave my ring to this Saxon?” His gaze had not left Morgaine. His brain was sluggish, reluctant to function, comprehend, but a few things were beginning to make sense. At the beginning how many times had he almost gone from here? Two or Three? And on how many occasions had something happened to stop him? The sow farrowed over-early and that house-place fire, both during those months when he was first recovered, when he had talked of going home. Coincidence? And those stomach cramps and the dysentery that had seized him… His head was muzzy. It all meant something. He was trying to think. He shook his head, it was as if he had drunk too much barley-brewed wine and was drugged from its numbing effect… and he saw it all.

  “You bitch!” The dark hatred that came into the shadow of his eyes was intense. Not like her mother? What a simple fool he had been! Na, she was not as confident or competent as Morgause, but Morgaine had her own talent, her own art. Was she not a healer? Did she not know the properties of herbs and roots and plants? Aye, she knew them well enough to be able to cure a sickness as well as plan an illness. The bread, so thickly smeared with sweet honey. The stew, so strong with flavourings? Drugged!

  “God’s breath!” Arthur snarled, his disgust reeling. “Even your own son? He was ill, so very ill. You poisoned your own son, so I might stay?”

  His hand came over his mouth, fingers pinching the nostrils to stem the rise of repugnance and nausea. Stunned, he repeated, “You bitch.”

  Morgaine flinched at that stark loathing, but held her head high, defiant. “I wanted to keep you here. I knew of no other way.” She clasped her hands, twisting the fingers through and through each other. “You do not love me enough to stay for me alone.”

  Abruptly, Arthur was on his feet. “Love you?” he bellowed. “How could I love you? You are as corrupt and tainted as ever your witch mother was. You disgust me!” The outrage was swelling with the full force of realising who she was and what she had done. “Was it her idea,” he sneered, “for you to get with child by me? Was it her way of destroying the memory of our father?”

  Morgaine had stuffed her fingers in her mouth, her eyes stared wide in horror. Her breath was quickening, sickness rising to her throat. “I do not know my father!”

  With loathing thick on his voice, Arthur told her. “You are Uthr’s daughter, as I am his son. Did she not tell you?” He took the bridle down from its peg, buckled it again onto the horse, fetched the saddle, led Onager from the byre.

  Gweir was dragging one of the bodies by the legs, taking it to the fields for burial, Medraut sat hunkered before the house-place door, alarm and confusion plain on his young, anxious face. “Bring my cloak from the house, boy, and your own,” Arthur commanded him. Obedient, Medraut scrabbled to his feet, ducked inside the dwelling.

  Morgaine had followed Arthur outside, weeping silent tears.

  “The boy comes with me.” Arthur said. “I will not leave him to the mercy of your evil. Gweir, leave that scum for the ravens to clear.” The young man nodded, dropped the dead man’s legs.

  Morgaine did not know what to do, what to say. All she had wanted was to keep Arthur with her. She was not like her mother, oh she was not! She had not understood everything that had happened for it was all tumbling too quickly, too much, too fast. The Saxons, this British man -who was he? Arthur… Uthr. Uthr was my father? Arthur was going out of the gate, leading Onager. Was leaving.

  She grasped the one thing that made sense to her, shoved all else aside to the back of her mind where she need not, yet, think upon them, those cruel things Arthur had said. Thought only of the thing she had planned.

  “It is pointless going after her. She will be dead,” Morgaine announced boldly. “These Saxons would have attacked her first, realised you were not with her and come to find you. Finish you.” She tipped her head, daring Arthur to contradict her.

  Arthur glanced at Gweir, who was shaking his head, spreading his hands. “I followed the dead one in the byre from the woods, stayed with him as he met with his companions, then trailed them here.” He caught his breath, gasped fearfully. “Jesu!” he yelped. “They split into two groups – I naturally followed those coming here… Jesu!” he repeated, “Gwenhwyfar!”

  But Arthur was already a step before him, he dropped Onager’s reins, was running from the yard, through the open gateway, yelling. “Where is your horse, Gweir?”

  “Just around the bend of the track.”

  “What road was my wife to follow?”

  Gweir answered as they ran, explained the trail Ider had expected to take. The horse was as Gweir had left him, the dun, a native pony of Britain crossed with the blood of the desert breed. Not as tall as Onager, but as brave-hearted, almost as fast.

  “Bring Onager and the boy,” Arthur ordered. “Follow as fast as the horse can manage!” He was in the saddle, heeling into a gallop.

  Morgaine was left alone with the pain riding high, billowing outward, engulfing her. He was gone. Arthur was gone! How was she to bear it? And Uthr was her father. Her mother had demanded she lay with her own brother?

  Gweir too had gone, he had put the boy up into Onager’s saddle and leading the horse, set out to walk where Arthur was going. Morgaine was alone with only the dead for company. The dead, those who had come to murder Arthur. And she had brought them here. A Saex sword, short-bladed, stained with blood, lay on the mud of the small, rutted yard, its blade glinting in the late afternoon sunlight. She went to it, picked it up.

  Old Livia, coming up to discover the cause of the noise that had drifted down the quiet valley, found her, new blood draining from her open wrists. As well that Livia was also a healer. And one with more sense and skill than Morgaine.

  LXII

  The going along the first, upward-winding, rutted track was slow, Arthur having to keep the dun to a frustrating trot in many places. At the road he could push faster. Already Arthur’s back was aching, his thighs sore. It had been a long while since he had ridden such a horse.

  There were few travelling the road, especially at this late part of the day. With the overrule of Rome gone and the ever-present threat of thieves and barbarian raiders, traffic had dwindled. Once, the Legions would have marched up this road led by the Caesars themselves. Couriers, with their urgent-carried messages; trundling ox-drawn wagons laden with army supplies or weighted with goods of trade, cloth, wine, pottery. Civilian carriages, the lighter, two-wheeled type and the heavy, family four-wheelers. The fast, extravagant chariots. Arthur put the dun into a canter, knowing he was corn-fed and fit, capable of keeping the pace for several miles.

  Evening was approaching, enveloping dark spreading rapidly from the east, eating the last of daylight. They, she, could be anywhere! Had she joined this road yet. Could some delay have kept her behind? Would she still be in those woods? Would the Saxons, following, be hurrying or dallying somewhere, waiting for their companions? All these thoughts, fears and worries bursting through Arthur’s mind as he rode. Gweir was cert
ain they would not have delayed longer than this morning. Even riding at a sedate pace, she would have come up, out of the woodland, have reached this road…

  More dark than light. Ahead, a glimmer of yellow, voices, laughter. A tavern, a stopping place! Arthur slowed, the dun was dripping sweat, breathing hard, but keen to go on, loath to walk when a more exciting pace was offered. He danced through the gateway, head snaking, nostrils blowing. Several men were about, tending horses, unloading a heavy ox-wagon. Their heads came up together at the clatter of Arthur’s sudden, wild appearance, the innkeeper himself coming down the steps, wiping his hands on his apron.

  “Hail friend! You travel with some urgency!”

  The dun was fidgeting, refusing to stand still, pawing the cobbles, swinging round.

  “Does a woman, a British woman and her escort stay here the night?”

  Fool question, she would not stop this early onto the road.

  The keeper shook his head, and then offered the finest words Arthur had heard in many a while. “No, but she rode by, happen an hour past.”

  “And Saxons? Have any fair-haired Saex passed this way?”