Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  Arthur acknowledged the acclaimed greetings from the small crowd, promised, “We go to fight the Saex! Keep yourselves safe until I ride this way again.”

  They were jog-trotting now, to make up time, for already the day was sliding rapidly nearer dusk and darkness. They would press on as long as they could. Arthur rode beside Gwenhwyfar again. She wore male apparel, bracae, padded under-tunic with a leather, bronze-studded over-tunic. Her hair, bound into a single braid, thick as her wrist, bobbed and bounced against her back as they trotted, hands light on the reins, riding easy, natural.

  “I have been told of you and Bedwyr.”

  Her gaze remained ahead looking through the gap between her horse’s ears. What to answer? Petty? Spiteful? As I discovered Morgaine for myself. And Mathild, and… how many others?

  The way it was. The only way, the fact of it. “I was told you were dead. I mourned, I grieved, but I could not remain alone and at the mercy of filth such as Amlawdd.” She turned her head, regarded him, her green, tawny-flecked eyes honest, hiding nothing from him. The meaning was there, plain, in her expression, in those eyes. Where was my choice? A woman cannot remain alone and unprotected.

  They rode on a while in silence, Arthur mulling over her answer, wanting to ask more intimate questions. How often did you sleep with him? Did you enjoy being with him? Is he better than I am? At last he said. “Do you regret losing him?”

  She softened, the smile touching her cheeks, eyes, her whole face. She stretched out her hand for his. “If that was so, would I have ridden to Gaul? Would I have spent that long while searching for you?”

  Arthur withdrew his hand, curled the fingers around the reins. Feeling the pressure, Onager laid back his ears, raised his head, his tail swished twice. Arthur had to say it. Had to know if what Winifred implied had substance. “Your intention may have been to ensure my end.”

  A lucky guess, intuition, a knowing of how Winifred wove lies and deceptions, made Gwenhwyfar say, “Na, if I had wanted you dead, I would have succeeded.” She held his gaze. Added, after a significant pause, “I am not Winifred.”

  He took her hand again, reprimanded Onager’s sullen temper. Arthur’s heel clamped into his side, daring the animal to kick.

  Behind, Bedwyr had observed the exchange although the conversation he could not hear. He sighed. It had been so difficult. Losing her, so close to winning her, so close! His heart, pulled in two equal directions, one for the love he had for Gwenhwyfar, the other for his cousin, Arthur the King. Ah, but Bedwyr had always been philosophical. Gwenhwyfar would never choose the lesser of the two, the boy if she could have the man. She had not wanted him, not for who or what he was, anyway. He had been a means, a useful tool, someone to buffer her against bastards such as Amlawdd, someone to be there in her misery and darkness. He could accept that.

  He would never admit Gwenhwyfar had been, always would be, his only deep, especial love. But then, who needed that when there was sure to be a succulent, fair-haired whore waiting for him, somewhere, sometime. Soon he hoped, for he knew he lied to himself.

  LXXIV

  Over-confidence! Arthur was grinning like a moon-mad boy, jubilation spreading through the men as word passed along the column. Gweir, returned from scouting ahead, sat his horse with a matched expression. He could not have brought better news to his weary and apprehensive companions.

  “So,” Arthur declared, “Vicus is straddled with the drunk and the whoring, is it? Hah!” His bark of delight rippled through the overhanging canopy of winter-bare trees as he twisted in the saddle to speak direct to his men, their pleasure at this unexpected turn of events as evident as his. “A fine rearguard that bastard pair Aelle and Aesc have left us to deal with! Mithras, I was hoping for a real fight!” They took up his laughter, heeled their horses forward as he signalled to ride on, Gweir bringing his dun alongside Onager – at a respectful distance.

  He was a good scout, Gweir. He claimed the ability to move fast and undetected came from his deprived years of childhood. Too often, he would laugh, he had to fend for himself out in those wild lands up beyond the Wall. Keeping your head down from grey wolves or Saex wolves – the one was much like the other. Clinging to the camouflaging trees that encroached beside the old road, Gweir, to his surprise but relief, had found no Saxon outposts, no set watch or guard. Could not believe his fortune when, crawling on knees and belly through the untended, uncut tangle of low shrub and grasses, he reached the small town of Vicus. He had heard the singing, the occasional woman’s scream, much laughter and merrymaking. Needed only to see the huddle of guards at the gate, swilling wine from a passed-around wineskin, to be sure. He had waited, all the same, watching from his safe place of hiding, seen them slump, drunk, fall sodden to the world, against the outer wall, leaving the gate way open, unguarded. No one had come to reprimand them, to replace them, haul them away. Easy to conclude there was no one sober enough.

  Will such laxness be maintained, Arthur wondered, mulling over the lad’s report. A chance worth the taking, some things needed quick decisions, others, detailed planning. Arthur -and several of the men with him – knew Vicus well, knew its street layout and gateways. The defendable places, the insecure. A half-hour’s ride, less, if they pushed the horses on at a pace faster than the jog-trot so far employed. They were warm, the animals, neck and flanks showing more sweat than he would have liked, but then, this was winter. Even Onager, and those like him with the Desert breeding, had thicker, denser coats. Their breathing was easy, however, energy unsapped.

  Arthur’s stomach was churning at the anticipation of a fight, mixed emotions of plunging fear and the rising excitement. He glanced at Gwenhwyfar who lifted her head, gestured her thought by touching the sword at her hip.

  “Cut off the rear, and it will be an easy gallop up to Badon.” She almost purred at the prospect.

  As her husband, Arthur ought to suggest she fall back, seek safety with the boys and spare horses. He ought to have insisted she never left Durnovaria, but then, Arthur never had been a man for doing as others thought he ought to. He nodded at her. Aye, his thoughts exactly. “You will fight with us?” Only a slight hesitancy, a slight doubting as he asked it.

  “Would you prefer,” she answered, cat-eyed, blank expression, “that I had stayed to keep Winifred company at Durnovaria. Joined with her in her fast?”

  He replied with a matching, teasing, solemnity. “If I could ensure an end to the Saxon uprising by letting nothing but sips of water past my lips for the next few days, I would have stayed with her myself!”

  Gwenhwyfar laughed merrily. “What? You? Fast?” The gurgle increased. “Has that shield you carry gone to your head?”

  Grimacing, Arthur looked over his shoulder, tipped the oval shield to an angle, wrinkling his nostrils in disgust at the design painted on its toughened leather skin. The Chi Rho. All shields were painted so, Ambrosius’s first task on learning the Pendragon was no more, to replace the Red Dragon with the symbol of God. Arthur had no other shield, had accepted this one with no time to have it altered.

  “With the Dragon on my banner and this Christian symbol on my shield, I assume I am covered from both directions.” He raised his hand, gave the signal to move out.

  LXXV

  That feeling of being alive but facing death, the sensation of the heart pumping, sweat glistening. The pull of aching muscles, the bite of a blade into thigh or arm. God’s love, but it was wonderful!

  It was over all too soon and on reflection, when Arthur, breathing hard, squatted his backside onto the winter-damp steps of Vicus’s shabby, timber-built Basilica, nothing more than a slaughter by the experienced of the unsuspecting and drunk. Most of them, the Saxons, had been old men, the unfit, the wounded, those left behind to keep the road open for a safe retreat, should – Woden prevent it – Aelle need to withdraw. The inactive waiting, poor command and that element of over-confidence contributing to this, a minor, easily accomplished victory. Aelle had obviously not expected the Britis
h to come this far eastward. Most certainly did not expect the Pendragon.

  Arthur marvelled that he had so easily forgotten the exhilaration of the enjoined fight. That surge of elated power created by a warhorse in full gallop, mane flying, ears back. The sheer pleasure of feeling so alive while death danced so close. Na, he had not forgotten; perhaps had thrust it away to the furthest depth of his mind because he had not wanted to remember? Some things were best forgot, and even though his men were jubilant, excited, proud of this success, he still asked whether he was suited to lead them. He had failed once, he could fail again. The next battle he led those good, proud, unquestioning men into could so well be their last.

  Gwenhwyfar sauntered along the main Via Prima, wiping her sword with a torn shred of a Saxon’s cloak. Her face was grimed with sweat and dirt, spotted with blood specks. She positioned herself next to her husband, finished wiping blood off the blade. Flushed, eyes bright-sparkling, her hair, never controlled at the best of times, bursting in exuberant wisps from its restricting braid. “That was good,” she said, as if she were speaking of nothing simpler than an afternoon stroll.

  “Mm,” Arthur answered.

  She sheathed the sword, propped her elbows on her knees, rested her chin on the knuckles. “Only “Mm”?” she queried, slipping a sidelong glance.

  The men were clearing up, helping their wounded, reverently lifting their few dead – three only, incredibly only three! Occasionally, one would glance up, see Arthur watching and raise an arm or hand in victorious salute. Ah! It was so good to be riding under the banner of the Dragon again! Riding with Arthur, the Pendragon. The Saxons, they were tossing into a pile beyond the gateway, no time or want to bury them. Arthur had given orders for their burning, come dark when the smoke would not be seen climbing into the sky. The Saex wounded were finished quickly and dispassionately by a knife to the throat. Men of the Artoriani disliked torture where it was not necessary, had not the resource of enough men to leave guard over any suitable for slavery.

  “The gods alone know how I managed to ride through that gate,” Arthur confessed to his wife, staring ahead, embarrassed to say aloud the truth, though he knew she understood it. “Once into the charge, there was no choice, but… ” he cast a swift, guilty squint at her expression, which remained impassive. “But by the bull, before that I was trembling like a rain-sodden cur in a thunderstorm!”

  The tactics had been to ride quietly as near as possible to Vicus, under the sheltering cover of dense trees; then spring into a gallop, burst through those still-unclosed, unguarded, gates and create havoc. The plan worked as if it had been no more than a predictable child’s game using toy pieces. And only three British dead!

  Arthur held his fingers of his right hand out before him. Steady, controlled. “I almost dropped my sword twice, and Mithras alone knows where the first spear I cast ended up. Certainly not in its target!” He was beginning to relax, the tightness in his body easing, leaving him. A hint of laughter gathering behind the recounting, not yet ready to come out, but there, hovering, waiting its moment.

  Sensing it, Gwenhwyfar uttered a swift, silent, thank you. She, perhaps alone above anyone, had realised and understood the great fear that had clawed mercilessly at Arthur’s gut. To fight, to face battle, took courage and endurance. Arthur had plenty and more of both, but he had also seen the horror of defeat and failure – as on occasion they all had, but he had gone away after it, taken by a woman who wanted nothing of death and fighting. He had not even had his sword to touch or to cherish, to remind him of other, better endings. It was best not to allow that tick of doubt to rise, to grow, like yeast in bread. For a nerve broken was a nerve difficult – occasionally impossible – to mend.

  They all had fear, any man, be he British, Saxon or Roman, felt the spectre of trepidation while waiting for battle to begin; all knew the dread that sank into the stomach like a weighted stone. Knew how it would vanish like mist under a rising sun when the bloodlust began to flow, when the battlecry was bayed and taken up; when the thing was entered. Arthur’s fear, not so much of death, but of failure, would be harder to conquer, and this small skirmish was nothing to prove that it had been exorcised. To rebuild self-pride and confidence took more than the slaying of a few unwary drunkards, more than just remounting a horse and sitting there while it stood, cropping grass. The hurdle need be faced and jumped again. And again. The dawn of his coming through was there, though, the darkness not quite as black, as cloying and smothering.

  “So what now?” she asked. She had not talked with him about the fear. It was something for him alone to face and to conquer. Instead, she was here, beside him, with him. Her horse had galloped next to Onager, her sword slashing beside his as, dismounted inside the gate, they had advanced through the mud-slurried, dejected streets of Vicus. She covering his left, he, her right. Aye, the rest of the Artoriani had been there also, but what mattered was that she was there, her presence, with her loyalty and love. There.

  “Now?” he repeated, pushing himself to his feet. Gods, but he ached! “Now we feed the horses and ourselves and come dusk, we ride like souls fleeing hell along the road to Badon.” He took Gwenhwyfar’s hand, hauled her to her feet, caught a brief flare of her nostrils, a grimace. Instant concerned, alarmed, he raked his eyes over her, searching for a wound, an injury.

  “I’m well,” she reassured, patting her palm onto his chest. “You, however,” she leaned back from him, appraising as he had, “you are filthy and you stink!”

  The light came into Arthur’s face as brilliantly as the summer sun casts its magnificence into the new-born day. His head tossed back, the barked guffaw drawing attention from several of his men. He clamped his hands to Gwenhwyfar’s shoulders, and smacked a resounding, firm, loving kiss to her lips.

  “So, my dear Cymraes, do you!”

  LXXVI

  Three or so hours it took them to ride from Vicus along the Via Ermin to Badon. A ride completed in near silence and beneath the shrouding mantle of midnight darkness. No moon would rise, no soft glow of star could penetrate the thick mass of rain-building cloud that pressed close over the earth, like a lid above a box. They rode the fifteen miles at the walk, any metal item that could clatter or jangle muffled: weapons, buckles, harness. Hooves were bound with rags, leather slips secured around the muzzles of war-dogs and horses to ensure no bark or whinny could betray their presence. The wind came from the west, blew in their faces, scudding their cloaks behind them like wings spread from a soaring bird. The eagle king, come to claim his land.

  Of course, one of the Saex could have made it away, one among the English might have not been so inebriated as the others. Or it was always possible a messenger had been sent back from Aelle and the army ahead laying arrogant siege to the British fortress. Anything could have alerted the Saex to the Artoriani. Even instinct, the gut feeling that a good leader has: the knack of knowing. As Arthur knew Aelle was ignorant of his coming.

  Leaving the easier route of the road, they dismounted, led the horses and cut across country, boots squelching in the many pocketed muddied hollows, cursing silently as they thrust a way through tangled thorn and unyielding scrub, slowing the pace more, and taking care. So much care. They could have taken the smaller, narrower and easier to travel road that would run, straight as an arrow up to the fortress. But that way was often watched and they would be vulnerable on foot; easily seen, mounted.

  They began to climb, the flickering, smoke-shifting, pale glow of many camp-fires leading them on; the Saxons, half of one mile ahead, strung out in scattered copses of tents clustered around tended hearth-fires. Some would be sleeping, others nursing weapons, talking quietly to ward away the tedium of a long, quiet, night-watch. Ha! Well, things would not be so quiet or monotonous soon enough!

  So Gweir and the two others sent ahead with him had reported. They had watched since dusk, secreted against the browns and greens of earth and grass, observed the Saxons taunting the British entombed behind the high rampa
rt walls, held their breath as a foray to try again at the secured gates was beaten down. But at even their safe distance, Gweir could see the British were suffering, their defence edged with a lack of resilience that was rapidly crumbling towards the inevitable. Would Ambrosius be tempted to surrender soon? It depended on how many men he had already lost, how many could continue. And it would depend on Arthur bringing up the Artoriani without sign or sound.

  Gweir sent a boy back, riding on one of the swift Desert breeds that ate the ground beneath the hooves as hungrily as a starving beggar devoured fresh-baked bread. The English were unaware they had been observed, were unaware of the Pendragon’s closeness. One group, set to keep eye to where the steep slope fell into the flat spread of land, were unknowing that Gweir and his companions were close enough to hear their muttered conversation, smell their wine-tainted breath, even. They, the three Englishmen, watched the sky now, their blank eyes staring up at the blackness, waiting for a sunrise they would never see.

  One hour before dawn, when men drowsed at their most languid and when senses drifted with the slow turn of the night, the litter of hearth-fires with their bundled accompanying sleepers had died to glowing embers, the muttered conversations, muted laughter shrinking as more men rolled into their cloaks or sought the shelter of rough-pitched hide tents. One hour before dawn.

  Ambrosius stood, awake, unwell, unable to find the comfort of sleep, staring into the blackness of that night. The land curved darker beneath a lighter sky. It fell away steeply on this side from the well-protected watchtower, while on the other side of the fortress the dips and undulations rolled from the high ground, vulnerable, down to meet the spread of woods and pastures. He knew how many Saex were dreaming of battle-glory around the red glows of so many fires. Knew where Aelle and Aesc had erected their swaggering tents among the encircling army. They even had whores down there, those heathen Englishwomen among the men, so sure were they of their position, of the outcome. Ambrosius turned his head to the south. Bedwyr would not have come, not even to Badon. But Geraint, why had he not come? Again, as he had done so often these past many hours, Ambrosius asked his God why help had not arrived.