Aesc growled something inaudible and Aelle knew he had him, had his alliance again. Quickly, he moved on. “I have learnt that the British remain at the place they call Badon. ‘Tis a fortress guarding the Ridge Way – ja, as you rightly say, you know this.”
Aesc had grunted his indignation at being told what even a babe in arms ought know. Protested, “I know more of the British defences than do you South Saxons! My father, Hengest rode with a British king, remember? My sister married him. My niece, Winifred, married another!”
Calming, talking easily, low-voiced, unhurried, Aelle skirted the rebuke, continued. He must make certain Aesc would march with them come the morrow. He must! “Forgive me, I do not tell you what you know, merely sort my own thoughts aloud so we may compare our strategies.” Tactfully, neatly done. “Badon is a fortress formidable on the north side, easier to take from the more gentle sloping south. We need to swing around, secure the British, then attack.” Added, almost as an afterthought, “Ambrosius is again ill, I hear.” His excitement and enthusiasm increased as if urging an already running horse into a flat gallop. “We could take them so easily, Aesc! From the south, we could take them as if they were poisoned rats sealed in a nest-hole!”
The Canti conceded. What Aelle said was the truth. “Do we have the time to lay siege?”
“Ja! We do!”
“What of Geraint? What if he comes riding hard from the south?”
“Is that now likely? All this while and he has not made a move. ‘Tis obvious he has sided with Bedwyr. They are waiting for us to finish Ambrosius, then… ”
Impatient, curt, Aesc interrupted. “Then we will need start a new fight! I knew singing the praises of a short sharp war was a mead-soaked exaggeration.”
The other man chuckled a gust of amusement. “Since when, friend, did a warrior not exaggerate the course of battle?”
The sour retort, “Since he discovered his hair was becoming thinned and grizzled. His back and bum ached from lying on damp, hard ground, and the delights of a wife’s teats, the warmth of her bed and the knowing he could savour the same enjoyment the next night uninterrupted, began appealing to him more than the possibility of having his balls hacked off by some raw British recruit!”
Aelle roared amusement. “You are right! Of course, you are so right!”
Shoving the empty mead-jug from him, Aesc swivelled to full face his Bretwalda. Asked one, earnest, sober, question. “So, Ambrosius is ill. Geraint will not aid him. What, then, my Overlord, do we do if the other rumour proves to be truth?” He belched, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “What if Arthur truly is returned?
LXX
Arthur gripped the top lip of the palisade fencing, the knuckles of both hands whitening under the tension of that anxious grasp. Below, slaves were lighting the torches and braziers. The cobbled courtyard of Geraint’s inner, private sanctuary of royal dwellings leapt with the dance of illuminated shadow, the uneasy proximity of a winter’s evening recoiling, while beyond the wooden palisade, the darkening sky pressed closer, leaning its cold breath up against the outer walls of Durnovaria. There were no stars. No moon. January had been a dull-weathered month, encased in louring grey cloud that refused to scud or billow into anything more than an omnipresent weight. If snow or frost touched a more northerly part of Britain, it had not dared to ride here to this milder, more southerly, climate.
Durnovaria, the town beyond the royal enclosure, rustled into the casual stroll of a typical evening routine. Shops and bothies were closing, taverns filling with those seeking warmth, food and drink after a day’s laborious toil; streets emptying of daytime traffic, mothers calling their young children in from play, husbands returning home. Doors and window shutters bolted, the chill of night closed firmly out. The day ended so soon after it had begun this time of year.
A wind was stirring, becoming attentive to the banner flying from the roof of the northern guard tower and scuffing at Arthur’s cloak. It smelt different. Here in Britain, the wind carried a heady scent of damp soil and mouldering autumn leaves, mixing with the saline tang of the sea and sheep-grazed upland grasses. Always, the tantalising promise of distant summer and optimistic hope.
Three days had he been back. Three long, never-ending days of heart-racing, unnerved panic. He had come up here onto the rampart walkway to escape the loud press of people in Geraint’s Hall, their swell of excited talk and heated debate: They had been feasting, the men, Geraint’s loyal, warrior-class followers, and his own Artoriani. A handful more than three hundred men, where once he could have boasted three times that number. They were men who had remained loyal to his memory, his name, men who had ridden with Bedwyr rather than go against all they had previously fought for. Men who, whatever way you cared to look at it, had deserted Ambrosius and their country, leaving both to God’s mercy and their fate. By Arthur’s law, and the law of soldiering laid down by Rome, and even before that, by the law of tribal honour, one in every ten of those men ought be stoned or clubbed to death. Desertion was the greatest sin for any fighting man, from the humblest shield-bearer to King himself. Arthur’s fingers gripped tighter. Aye, to King himself. Desertion. A deliberate leaving, a conscious thought not to return. One man in ten? Happen, he ought be the first.
They were celebrating down in the Hall, unaware of his torment, this torrent of crazed, mixed emotions. They rejoiced at his homecoming, their saving, as they saw it. They were swilling beer, draining wine and devouring pork, venison, beef and fowl as if the morrow was to bring a judgement from the gods and the world would end for all time. As well it might, considering the news brought in not one hour since.
Arthur closed his eyes, lifted his hot face to the cold caress of the night wind. Too many were in that Hall. The stench of human bodies, male sweat, wine-sopped breath and passed wind mingling with the pleasanter aromas of roasting meats, hearth-smoke, honey-sweetened mead, the apple perfume of cider, and the odour of fresh-fermented beer. He had never felt comfortable in confined spaces, never settled at ease within the enclosure of walls. God’s truth! They wanted him to fight, to lead them! He swallowed, forcing down that hard lump of gathering fear.
What had he expected for Mithras’s sake? To come home unnoticed? To ride up to Caer Cadan, pull off his boots and sit quietly before his hearth for the rest of his days? He had hoped, perhaps, for a few cheerfully called greetings, a few slaps on the shoulder. One or two might have expressed a notion he would take up where he had left off, a suggestion he would quickly have parried. A few, a foolish handful, may even have wanted to fight with him again. He had not expected so many to be so eagerly waiting for him. And more would come, Bedwyr had informed him, when they knew he was once again their King; more, many more would come.
King! How could he dare take up that privilege again? Had he not abandoned that right when he remained in Gaul? And why would men want to fight beneath him now? Now he had so irresponsibly slaughtered his own, had so horribly shown that he could fail?
Horses were coming up through the town from the outer gates, passing through the gateway below and to Arthur’s left. Too dark to see the riders muffled in thick winter cloaks, Arthur too deep in his own fearful thoughts to attempt an identification. Probably more fool men come to give thanks for his return, men who had heard the news that was spreading as rapidly and widely as ripples on a calm pond.
Give thanks! Did the imbeciles not see? Did they not understand? Even if the Saxon army was marching for the Ridge Way fortresses, what could he do about it? Lead the British? He was no longer a leader, did not have the credibility to expect men to follow him. Fight with them? Hah! He was too damned scared ever to fight again.
Sounds in the town had been subtly altering, daytime folk giving way to prowling night-users, young, adventurous men seeking the taverns or a whore. Both. Cut-purses and thieves seeking the bleary-eyed and wine-sodden. Arthur was cold, the chill in the strengthening wind biting at his hands, face and body, but he stood looking out into the dar
kness, hands clutching that rampart palisade.
The new-arrived horses had been led away, he had heard the distinctive clatter of their shod hooves going in the direction of the stables. From the Hall, the talk and laughter had faltered, then risen again as the newcomers, whoever they were, obtained momentary attention. He ought to go down, see who they were, greet them. Why? Who would they be? Misguided men hoping to follow the Dragon Banner? More men blindly not seeing that to follow Arthur meant to meet a certain end? As those others had met death at the marshes near Vicus Dolensis.
One quarter of an hour passed, creeping to the half. Foot-treads on the wooden stairway, two voices, female, met by the barked challenge of the night watch. Gwenhwyfar’s polite, identifying answer followed by belligerent anger as she spoke to the one accompanying her. A woman’s retort, stubborn and haughty. Arthur’s breath quickened. He did not turn around.
“So!” The second woman was behind him, standing close, he could smell her perfume, her natural female odour heightened by artificial elegance. “So,” she announced again, “it is you. You are not worm-meat as we all believed.”
“As they believed. I understand you knew different some while since, Winifred.” He turned, slowly and with deliberate indifference. Gwenhwyfar casually manoeuvred herself to be beside him, should he need her support. In whatever form. She alone understood the disquiet that was rocking his self-belief. She had always understood Arthur, not needing to hear the words or discuss the cause. Her own belief had been shaken, almost destroyed when he had not returned to her, but that was behind her, set aside, for she now understood why. Without someone to stretch a hand into the darkness, the pit of despair was a fearful place. And he had been there alone, with no one, nothing, to comfort him or offer hope.
Winifred feigned amusement at his caustic accusation. “I? How could I know you were not dead? The discovery of it came as a great shock, I can assure you.”
“I wager it did!” Arthur offered his arm to his wife, Gwenhwyfar thread her own through it. Her perfume was more subtle than Winifred’s, more natural. “How,” Arthur added cynically, “I have no idea, but someone with your name attempted to ensure that belief remained.”
Winifred laid her palm on his upper arm, leant forward, ignoring Gwenhwyfar’s strident glower, placed a light, mildly affectionate, kiss to his cheek. “Nonsense! I am pleased, na, relieved, to have you so wonderfully alive!”
Arthur laughed outright, some of his old confidence and trust in his own judgement returning like the welcome embrace of a good friend.
“You paid handsomely to have us killed.” Gwenhwyfar did not echo her husband’s lighthearted acceptance of attempted murder. “Put your gold to better use another time, Winifred,” she suggested.
Prepared and waiting for them, Ider and her guard had made short work of those hired scum in Gaul; a swift skirmish, puddles of blood on the road three miles from Antessiodurum and, left behind, a shallow, unmarked grave. Killers dealt with dispassionately, brutally. Hired mercenaries who would murder no more.
At least Winifred had the grace to appear genuinely affronted by the accusation. She did not make enough protest for proof of it, however, as any innocent would have instantly demanded. Instead, indignant, she quivered, “I have ridden with all speed to give you greeting, Arthur.” Huffily, she folded her hands regally into the drape of her cloak. “And this is the welcome I receive!” She tossed her head, Arthur noting how her hair was as sleekly golden as he remembered. He smiled, scornful, to himself. Morgaine had coloured her hair so often with roots and powders; it had never before occurred to him that so many women pandered so brutally to their appearance. He glanced at Gwenhwyfar, at her copper-gold torrent of mane, bound relatively disciplined into two braids. The light was poor here, the only glow emanating from the stairwell, but even with so little to see by he noticed the lighter streaks, the subtle, shadowed differences, the silvered-grey strands nestling comfortable among that tumble of curls. He was glad she had no care of showing her increased age, that Gwenhwyfar had no concern for concealing the truth. Suddenly, he loved her so much. Felt a deep longing, an overwhelming need, to have her always with him. Gwenhwyfar thought of more important things than the necessity to colour her hair, to paint her eyes and lips or to lighten her skin with chalk and ground lead, to fool others into believing she was something she was not.
He moved his arm around her waist. “It grows cold up here, we ought return into Geraint’s hospitality.”
Winifred blocked his path. “There is much uncertain talk down there. It is not right that you spend time up here, musing, while Ambrosius is in urgent need. When do you ride to his aid? Soon, the morrow, I trust?”
Arthur stared at her. Breath of all the gods! Not her also! His heart was racing again, his throat running dry, hoofbeats pounding in his brain.
“My uncle has done well for himself so far,” he heard himself say. Even Gwenhwyfar looked up, startled, at that. “I have been home but three days.”
“Aye!” Winifred actually stamped her foot, a child’s tempered reaction, “Three wasted days! My uncle is apparently swarming up the Cuneito Valley.” Tartly she glared at Gwenhwyfar. “Are you not concerned it may be your fortress, Badon, to fall in their path first? Do you not care that Cadwy and Ragnall and their childer would most certainly have perished?” She paused for effect, enjoying the satisfaction of bluntness.
For Arthur, the ground seemed to rise and fall, the torchlight dim and blur. A rush of blood swooping through his brain; his vision, senses, darkening and screaming. The word no! swelled in his throat, pushing and heaving to break out. Sweat glistened on his face, trickled, uncomfortable, down his back. If his legs had not felt so heavy, had not been weighted by lead, he would have run, would have bolted down those stairs, raced for the safety of the private chamber allotted him, slammed and barred the door. He could not lead those men, Mithras help him, he could not! He met Winifred’s intense gaze, his answer coming, surely, from some other man’s mouth. “I ride on the morrow, as soon as may be, with any who should care to join me.” He was shaking, his hands and legs almost uncontrollable.
“Thank you,” Winifred said, with direct sincerity. “It is a relief to hear you say it.”
Gwenhwyfar snorted. What nonsense was this! What obscene game was Winifred pursuing now?
Arthur patted her hand, the shaking was easing, the control returning. He indicated for Winifred to go ahead of them, said to Gwenhwyfar, loud enough for his first wife to hear plainly, “She speaks truth, Cymraes, she is genuinely relieved I am returned to become King again, for she almost made another of her mistakes.” He was openly grinning again as Winifred spun around to glower at his deliberate sarcasm.
Gwenhwyfar’s query as to what he meant was made with her eyes, her expression. His answering squeeze was reassuring. He explained as he walked her past Winifred, began descending the stairs down to the bright friendliness of the torchlit courtyard. “She miscalculated, did not reckon on those Saxons already here making plans for the taking of land she has marked for Cerdic.”
Gathering her skirts, Winifred swept past them both, head carried high, feet quick-tapping as she walked, proud, offended, for the sanctuary of hospitality within Geraint’s noisy Hall.
“Cerdic,” Arthur continued, raising his voice so she might hear, “ought to have challenged Ambrosius, but for his own cowardly reasons did not. He may well decide to try again when next time I am believed dead.” He chuckled, louder, “Unfortunately, unless I stop his mother’s uncle and Aelle of the South Saxons now, there will be nothing for him to try for when I am gone. Will there, Winifred? With me dead, all hope for Cerdic would be lost.” His laugh echoed around the square of the courtyard, several guards and men seeking the latrine turning to look speculatively at him.
Winifred, entering the Hall, repeated Arthur’s announcement. Men were coming to their feet, anxious, excited, begging to collect weapons, leaving to see to their horses. Bedwyr was standing alongside Ger
aint, grinning. Earlier, someone had brought in the Dragon Banner, had laid it across the table before the lord of this Hall. He lifted it, as Arthur entered yodelled the war cry of the Artoriani. “Pendragon!” he roared, “Pen-dragon!”
The men wanted to ride, wanted Arthur to be their King again. They took up the shout, lifting it to the rafters and beyond, through the smoke hole, through the thatch. The shout, “Pen-dragon, Pen-dragon!” raced upward to the grey cloud, pierced its cold blanket and thrust on, outward. Even mighty Jupiter and congenial Saturn must have heard the acclaim that night in Geraint’s Hall!
Arthur ambled into their midst, enduring the slaps to his shoulders, the grasping and shaking of his hand, the great, vigorous burst of cheers and jubilation. Blood of the White Bull, he thought, I am committed to fight because I could not admit to the bitch who was once my wife that with this fear I could piss myself with enough water to put out a fire the size of Nero’s burning Rome. He reached the raised dais, Geraint’s table, took from Bedwyr the white banner decorated with the leaping red dragon. His banner, the Dragon that Gwenhwyfar had made for him and his Artoriani. Must I preserve my kingdom from Saxons, so my own whelped Saex-breed may one day take it from me?
Geraint knelt before him, unsheathed sword in his hand, given in offering of homage. “To you, Lord, I give my sword and shield, my heart and soul. To you, Lord, I give my life, to command as you will.”
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