Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  “Be with us,” Cerdic called to the sky, aware they all watched, attentive and expectant. “Woden! Give us courage and endurance to make what we will of this land. Grant us aid to build our homes and plant our crops, let our women bear us sons, give us daughters who will bring us the union of husbands and allies!”

  A cheer soared behind him as the men and women proclaimed their approval and echoed his prayer. They had elected to come with Cerdic, these few, abandoning what remained of their old home along the Elbe to start again. A new life, a new beginning.

  Cynric was proud of his father, excited at this great adventure. The sea-crossing he had not liked for his stomach had heaved as much as the roll of the waves, but now they were ashore and the motion of the craft was leaving his legs, he was again starting to enjoy himself. Although he understood little of what was happening. Someone had fetched the white kid from one of the ships, set it down before Cerdic. Cynric watched, interested. His father had taught him the importance of sacrifice.

  “Woden!” Cerdic cried again, “And Thunor! As this blood spills on this ground before me, then so shall the blood of any who dare oppose me spill!” He lowered the sword and drew its sharpness quickly through the bleating kid’s throat. The red blood streamed, puddling in the dew-sparkling grass, the animal’s legs kicked, its eyes rolled into the blankness of death. He slit the belly open, lifted out the guts and entrails, the steam and stench rising together into the sea-tanged air, the gulls, whirling overhead, crying and swooping, already sensing an unexpected meal. No twisted growths or black evilness there! Cerdic turned to the men, those behind the first row craning and peering to inspect the offal. “The portents are good!” he cried, letting the mess slide through his fingers to lay beside the blood-soaked carcass. Cynric wrinkled his nose, took a half step backwards from the foul-smelling, slimy stuff.

  “Woden!” His father raised his voice, tipped his face up to the spring-blue morning sky, “Woden, be with us!” They cheered, and raised their voices to the skies, setting the waders and shorebirds wheeling and calling in alarm.

  Then they set about bringing one of the ships up from riding the shallows, left it beached, forlorn and desolate, lying on the tall reed-grass, a ship so graceful and beautiful when on the sea, clumsy and inelegant on land. They stripped it of all that would be of use; the oars and sail fashioned into makeshift tents to provide shelter, the wooden benches, the water barrels, ropes; all they left was the hull and the single mast.

  Cerdicesora, they agreed to call the place, this lonely stretch of coastal marshland along the southern coast of Britain. Some, a few, went off to hunt duck and to catch fish, the children sent to gather fuel for the fires. Most of the men set to felling the trees, for the strong barrier of a palisade fence would need to be erected before nightfall. If the British came to drive them away then they would fight, but the women and children, the goats, sheep, cattle and pigs they had brought across the sea would need protection. If the British let them alone, then so be it. They had come in peace to their new home. At least a peace that would last a while and a while. A handful of men, some young, some old, could not yet take on the might of the Pendragon.

  As evening fell, the mead jars were passed around, and Cynric sat beside his father, sharing the pleasure and euphoria. Ja, it had been a good day! Dusk descended with the delicate, twilight shading of a clear-skied spring evening. The stars beginning to murmur their presence, subduing the day into what would be a frosted night.

  It was then that they burnt the ship, the one they had heaved up onto the land. An offering to the gods. Tomorrow, they would clear more trees, begin the permanent building of their settlement, but this day, their first, was the most important, this day of their coming, and it needed something special, something ultimate to mark its ending. They stood in silence as they watched it burn, watched the flames wander at first, then run and twist into leaping, engulfing spasms that roared and cracked and shouted. The screaming and pleading of the four women slaves, brought from their old home for this purpose had ceased with the uprush of fire and dark smoke. With pleasure and pride, Cerdic’s people gave the craft to their gods.

  Never again would they see what was left of the trading settlement on the Elbe river. Many had wandered away soon after Mathild’s passing, those who had resented Cerdic’s coming, disliked his taking of authority; then, for three years in succession the floods had destroyed their homes, washed away the new-sown seeds or sprouting corn. Men had drowned with their families; cattle, goats and sheep were lost to the rapid spew of water that had engulfed the banks-and swamped the low-lying land. The water-bloated bodies and the stink of mud! And then last year, after the floods had receded, the Franks had come raiding for what little was left.

  They could fight, but for what? For sodden timbers? Drowned pastures, shattered keels, and abandoned hopes? Nay, better to try for something worth the taking. And Cerdic could offer that. There was land that ought to be his, land that boasted fertile fields and hoarded riches of gold and precious jewels. Let the Franks overrun the mudflats of the Elbe! Cerdic could offer a better place to the Saxons. Britain.

  They stood in silence and watched as their craft was taken by the gods. With the guidance of Woden’s hand, they would build for themselves new homes, farm new pastures, establish new trade.

  Or die fighting for it, and have for themselves a grave of British earth.

  II

  Winifred was roused from deep sleep by her anxious maidservant, leaning over the bed, shaking at her arm. She carried a lamp, which flickered, highlighting the pale fear on her features, was dressed in undershift, her hair loose and night-tangled.

  “My Lady!” Her voice came trembling, quick. “We are all to die!”

  Impatient, irritated, Winifred shrugged the girl’s arm from her, rose from the bed, flung a cloak across her shoulders. “What is it? What ails you?” She glanced beyond the partially open door. “Jesu’s love, it is still night-dark outside!”

  The girl stammered a few words, not making sense, something about men, pirates, inside the gates. A second time, Winifred glanced out of the door. Her private quarters gave direct view onto a little courtyard beside the abbey of Venta Bulgarium, a building that had taken much gold to construct, much effort to plan and enhance. Worth it all, for Winifred’s Holy Place of Venta was known as the most magnificent in Britain; three storeys high, built of stone and roofed with tiles – this was no wood and thatch hut, but a building of substance, of worth and value.

  “Nonsense, child!” Winifred was about to turn back for her bed, had her hands to the cloak to remove it. The door crashed open, bringing a chill of night air and a blaze of light as two men marched through, carrying flaring torches, which they set into the wall brackets. Broad-chested, fair-haired, leather-armoured Saxon men. And behind them, a third.

  “Hello, Mother.” Cerdic walked in, arrogantly selected the only chair, seated himself. The girl attempted to duck past, to run from the room, but one of the Saxons caught her, held her to him, impervious to her wriggling and kicking, attempted to fasten his mouth over hers.

  “Cerdic!” Winifred’s breathing had quickened with her surprise and a flutter of alarm. Her hand was on the cloak, gathering it tighter. Cerdic? Here? The questions coming into mind with an immediate third. Why?

  He was one and twenty years, not as tall as his father, but wider-built, more deep-chested. Arthur had never carried bulk or any hint of running to fat. Cerdic already had the makings of what would become a flabby belly paunch in later years. He wore his hair – much darker than his companions – in the Saxon way, loose, its slight curl touching the padded tunic that covered the broadness of his shoulders. Above his lip, a moustache descended into a full-bushed beard, the skin behind, wind-weathered, the eyes narrow, crinkled. His clothing was expensive. The tunic, set beneath lavish, iron-ringed, leather armour, was of a rich, verdant green, edged with three rows of gold embroidery. Softened leather bracae, fine-made laced boots. The clasp of
his darker green, woollen cloak, fur-trimmed, winked the merit of its own decoration of rubies and emeralds. A sword dangled from a baldric fastened with a buckle of jewel-crusted gold, and a fine-made warrior’s axe, rested through his belt.

  Winifred’s heartbeat was racing, her throat had dried, constricted. God’s breath, Cerdic, come here! Why? For what reason? She mastered the pounding fear, a technique she had learned so early on in her life. Fear made others despise you, fear was a weakness. Fear was not a permissible emotion, must, at all cost, be controlled. Dear God, Cerdic!

  Dignified, she seated herself on a stool. “There is a story Jesu told about a prodigal son. Have you returned to me, then, or are you come to finish your father?” There, control. Be the first to call the challenge.

  Lazily, Cerdic stretched his legs before him, motioned for the second man to fetch him wine. The oaf, for that was the only description Winifred could find for this Saxon, ambled to a side table, poured wine from the flagon for Cerdic and himself. Ignored the other man, whose hands and attention were full with the handmaid. The delicate blue-glass goblet was absurdly incongruous in his paw-sized hand. Nothing was offered to Winifred.

  “I have come,” Cerdic answered, drawled, sipping at the wine, “to accept the land you intend to give me.” He smiled, a malicious, gloating expression. He had the satisfaction of seeing his mother’s stiff tension, that flicker of anxious uncertainty.

  “What land? I have no land to give you. It is your father’s land you must take for yourself if you wish to become King.” Rising from the stool and walking to the table, she fetched herself wine. Easier to retain impassiveness when your hands were busy. To the Saxon, in an acid tone as she passed, “Let my handmaid alone! Paw at one of your own breed!”

  His hand over the girl’s exposed breast, he leered back at Winifred, showing yellow, gapped teeth, a stink of stale breath wafting from him. The terrified girl was sobbing, her eyes pleading at Winifred to help her as he ripped away the torn remains of her nightshift. Naked, desperate, she tried to struggle free, to cover herself with her hands.

  “Cerdic!” Winifred rebuked. “Do you have no command over your filth?”

  Cerdic pushed an embroidered cushion more comfortably into the small of his back, sipped his wine, held the glass up against the light of the flickering torch, examining the workmanship. He would have some of these fine things for his own. Said, his eye on the goblet, “Oslac. If you need to rut so desperately, I suggest you take the whore outside.”

  Oslac grinned, nodded. Clasped a handful of the girl’s hair, began to haul her from the chamber, her screams rising.

  “Cerdic! I demand you stop this insult!”

  The goblet emptied, Cerdic held it out for a refill. “Sigebert, when you have finished scratching at your crotch, I would appreciate more wine.” Added, “You may have your turn at her when Oslac is finished.” He turned his gaze to his mother: small, skin-crinkled eyes, reminiscent of an ill-tempered boar, narrow and calculating, hideously dangerous. “Unless,” he said, “as she protests so loudly at the use of the little bitch, my mother would offer to take her place?”

  Back straight, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap, Winifred settled herself on a stool, closed her ears to the girl’s shrilling out beyond the door. He was not jesting, Cerdic. And both of them knew it.

  “Your father,” Winifred said disdainfully, “never held a liking for you. I now see why.”

  “Feelings run mutual regarding father and son, Mother.” Cerdic rolled another mouthful of wine around in his mouth, swallowed it slowly, thoughtfully licked his lips, savouring the strong, red taste. The other man, Oslac, returned, adjusting the lacing on his bracae, his grin leeringly expressive as Sigebert hurried outside for his turn at the girl.

  Winifred concentrated on steadying her breathing, willed her facial muscles to relax, her fingers to remain still. She knew enough of hatred to recognise its stench when it squatted, odious, before her. She could not allow her son to see she was afraid – not of him, but of what he might, irrationally, do. There was a difference, subtle, but all the same, a difference. Cerdic was spoilt, conceited and pretentious. As a boy she had endured his rages, his wilful tempers – privately even admired them. He would need anger, determination, guts, to face Arthur, to take Britain for himself. But it was one thing to smile secretly at a little boy’s ragged tantrum, quite another to face one tossed maliciously, intentionally, by a grown man. And she had seen that adult temper. Seen it unleashed, vehemently at Mathild. Winifred’s breath quickened. Why was he here? It was not at her he ought to be setting loose this energy of will, but at Arthur, at the Kingdom. Cerdic’s rightful kingdom… hers.

  “You have, then,” she was mocking him, “found your senses, have come to destroy your father. It is time you showed your manhood!”

  Cerdic rose to his feet, walked around the room. As he passed Oslac he motioned his head at the door in a quick gesture, said something that Winifred did not quite hear. Something about the men of her guard. Oslac – did that loathsome grin never leave his smirking face? – ambled from the chamber.

  “Nay,” Cerdic said, “I do not want anything from my father. It is your lands I have come for.”

  “My lands?” she echoed, incredulous, “Never!” For how many years had she schemed and lied – aye, and murdered – to obtain all that was now hers? Her established settlements, these rich buildings at Venta Bulgarium, her founded churches and holy places? Land given her as divorce settlement by Arthur, land entitled to her by will from her father and her grandsire. Her land, her wealth. Hers!

  She breathed deep, her nostrils flaring for air, steadied her rise of vehement anger. “You could take all of Britain from your father, you could become King – I can help you. “

  Cerdic interrupted her. “I have come to Britain with barely one hundred men, with us are women and children.”

  She hastily stood, crossed the room and took his arm, her nails gripping the padded tunic. “I can get you more men! An army! I have gold to pay them, jewels… “

  “I know you have,” he answered with a leer of greed. “It is that which I have come for.” Angry, stepping away from him, she spat, “You would steal from me? Is your head, then, as empty as your balls!”

  His axe, a lord’s bright-bladed, light-weighted weapon, came somehow into his hands. He brought his arms back and with his full weight behind the blow, brought the blade crashing through the fine-made table, splintering the wood, shattering the delicate glass goblets, a pitcher of wine, a fruit bowl that stood upon it.

  Her hand and arm shielding her face, Winifred cowered into the wall, stifling her scream, fearful of flying debris, lowered the protection as Cerdic turned away, turned his back to her. She darted past him, pulled open the door, shouted for her guards. Her son came behind her, caught her arm, pulled her back into the room callous laughter twisting his face.

  “There are no guards. We cut their throats as we came in. They dared bar my entrance.” He stepped away from her, returned to the chair, sat. The axe he laid across his lap, one hand resting lightly on its wooden shaft.

  “They were English,” she said. “You have butchered your own kind?”

  “As I will butcher anyone who stands in my path.” His eyes flickered to hers, held them. “Anyone,” he repeated.

  From somewhere Winifred found the courage to laugh. There was a stool beside her; though she was trembling, she made herself sit, seem relaxed.

  “Even your father?”

  Cerdic’s eyes held nothing of amusement, ignored her taunting. “You hold land along the south coast, running against the Vectis Water.” Seated in Winifred’s comfortable wicker-backed chair he propped his boots on a low footstool. “I have already made it my first settlement.”

  Winifred was furious, she would not be treated as if she were some pox-riddled gutter girl. How dare this whelp, this churlish pup, do this to her! “After all I have done for you,” she sneered. “You ungrateful dog turd!”r />
  “Hah!” Cerdic sprang to his feet, stood over her. “For me? What have you ever done for me?” He thrust his face forward, she could smell his breath, feel his spittle on her face. “You did nothing for me, Mother. You wanted it all for yourself, everything. For me? Ja, you want me to take my father’s place as King. Why? Because you intend to be the influence behind me, to dangle me on your chain. Do this, Cerdic, do that, Cerdic. Do it my way, Cerdic!” He kicked out at her stool, toppling it, sending her sprawling to the floor. “Your way, always your way! Well, no more. I made that decision when I left you. And now I have made other decisions, and my first is to take what is yours to be mine!”

  Shaken, her body quivering with rage, Winifred scrambled to her feet. “While I live, you will not have my land.”

  Cerdic dropped his gaze to the smooth wood of his axe shaft. It fitted into the palm of his hand so neatly. Snug and comfortable. He looked up, slowly, his heavy-lidded eyes opening wider and as slowly. He said nothing, merely looked at her, lazily blinked, once.

  Abruptly, Winifred closed her mouth, bit back the torrent of abusive words that had been hovering. For a long, silent pause, she regarded him. Cerdic, the son she had borne, tutored, nurtured, loved. Loved? Had she ever loved him – had she ever loved anyone? It was not a word familiar to Winifred, love. Yet she had, in her own, peculiar way, loved Arthur. Even if that love was one honed out of jealousy and envy. Arthur was strong and powerful, he feared nothing and no one – or so he cleverly gave the impression. Between the two, father or son, who would she support if it ever came to a fight? Arthur or Cerdic? If she would be Arthur’s Queen, then it would be the Pendragon without doubt. With her son? As his adviser, mentor, guide… Ah, it was power she wanted, that which she loved.

  A rap at the door, Oslac entered without waiting for permission, two heads held by the hair in his hand, blood dripping from the severed necks. Two of Winifred’s guard, meant to intimidate her, no doubt.