“Mm?” Engrossed, he had not heard her enter their chamber. Beyond the open door someone was chopping wood, and a hunting party had returned with all the clatter and shouting that usually accompanied a successful expedition. It was good to have Caer Cadan busy and prospering again. He caressed her cheek as a greeting. “A letter arrived from Gaul.” He chuckled wickedly. “Sidonius Apollinaris. Will the old goat never cease his writing?”
Gwenhwyfar settled herself, snuggling beside her husband as he shifted to make room for her. It was more comfortable to sit on the bed than endure the hard seat of a chair or stool. His thigh had been throbbing these past few days, the rain and the damp disagreed so abominably with the ache of old wounds. He was one year over forty and on some days, when the broken bones and wounding scars of the past loudly reminded him of their existence, felt twice that.
“Apparently,” Arthur said with a chortle of amusement, “our intrepid cousin, Bedwyr, has been making himself useful during his travels abroad. He persuaded Euric to let Sidonius out of imprisonment. Hah!” He laughed outright. “I imagine shutting the old man away for over a year was the only thing Euric could think of to stop so many of these damned letters!”
They laughed together, Arthur drawing her nearer with his arm affectionately around her. She was eight and thirty, silver streaks were becoming pronounced in her hair, crow’s-foot lines appearing around her eyes. But to him, she would always be beautiful, even when she was old, toothless and stooping, she would be Venus.
“Does he include news of Bedwyr?” She peered again at the letter, scanning the neat, accurate writing for information, took it to read closer. Arthur watched her, noted the anxious dip of her eyebrows, the way her tooth chewed at her lip as she quickly read. She had wept quiet tears for several days when Bedwyr had left, almost two years ago now. He went, he had said, because he found it difficult to sit still in one place, saying he wished to travel along the great rivers, to reach, eventually, the centre of the Eastern Empire, Constantinople. Arthur wondered whether it had been an excuse. He knew Bedwyr had almost married Gwenhwyfar – there had been more than platonic formality between them, but Arthur had never pursued the detail. Had she enjoyed sleeping with him? Arthur almost asked, but let the rise of curiosity slip away. The truth did not always need knowing.
“There’s nothing beyond passing mention of gratitude to him, and to say Bedwyr then moved on towards Rome.” The disappointment clouding her expression was obvious.
“Do you miss him?” Arthur asked quietly, the lurch of his heartbeat booming in his chest. He wanted to leap up, shake her, make her say no or make her confess she had loved Bedwyr, lain with him, wanted him… and what would he do then? Hate her? Punish her? She had thought herself a widow, it was not adultery to be with another man when your husband was dead. And if there was punishment, ought it not be levelled at himself?
Gwenhwyfar’s restless shrug, however, was indifferent. “I suppose so. Bedwyr was…” she paused. What was he? A good companion? A good friend? Reliable? A pleasing lover? All of those things? But all she said was, “Bedwyr was here when I needed someone.”
Arthur drew his finger lightly down the sun-tanned gold of her arm. Here, when I was not. Jealousy, he thought, is an irrational, uncontrollable emotion. The silence hung uneasy for a moment. Gwenhwyfar had not responded to his touch, had even moved slightly away from him, her attention deliberately secured on the letter.
She sat upright, reading intently, Bedwyr set aside for other, intriguing news. “Odovacer has overthrown Orestes after demanding a right to land, has taken Rome!”
“It would have been wiser to have granted the army’s request,” Arthur answered laconically. Added, matter-of-factly, “When an elected leader asks for something, it usually means there is an intention of taking it, one way or another.”
As Cerdic would one day, sooner or later, try to take more land. The thought struck them both, but it neither voiced it and the moment passed. Instead, Gwenhwyfar asked, “And the boy? What has happened to him? Does Sidonius say? He is so young.” It was always the innocents who were hurt in a rebellion. The children. The sons.
The man Orestes had, for some time, been in supreme command of the army of Rome – what was left of it – and strategically, had placed his young son on the throne as Emperor of the West. Ten months past, that had been. Emperors lived such short, interrupted lives.
Not this one, he had Fortuna guarding him, it seemed. “Na,” Arthur reassured her. “Read on. He is in exile, enjoying the hot sun and blue sea of the Bay of Neapolis. I doubt there will be any support to reinstate him, and he will be no threat to a man like Odovacer, his replacement.”
“Orestes dead then?” Gwenhwyfar read quickly, ran her finger under the passage describing his lurid murder, grimaced at the excessive detail, hoped this was another of Sidonius’s many colourfully exaggerated flourishes. The previous paragraph describing the destruction, burning and killing brought about by the rebellion made her doubt it. “Did you ever meet him?” she asked, looking up from the writing, and letting the scroll roll up on itself. “Odovacer?”
Arthur took the letter from her, dropped it to the floor and lay back, taking Gwenhwyfar with him, tucking her between his embracing arms. Her hair, new-washed, smelt deliciously of herbs. “I never had the fortune of that pleasure.” He spoke wryly, but his hold had tightened around her. The memories of Gaul remained grim even after this while. He rested his cheek against her head, closed his eyes. Gaul. Pictures sauntered into his mind; dark, never-ending woods, sun-dappled roads, wide, shallow and lazy rivers. That battle. That final, destructive, haunting battle.
Mathild. She had known Odovacer. He frowned, could not remember the exact knowing. He had not thought of Mathild for some while. A year, two? Longer? Was it Sidonius’s letter that brought back this unexpected recollection? She had been with him many times while he sat reading just such a communication. Sat next to him on the creaking bed in his tent, combing her hair or easing the tense ache in his shoulders with her deft fingers.
The detail surfaced. “Mathild’s mother was wife to one of Odovacer’s generals. Her family were butchered when their Saxon village was raided.” She had then been taken into slavery and Odovacer disappeared to serve under a variety of rising generals, working his way since then, steadily, to the top of the pile.
“Any woman who had known this man, Odovacer, must have had her wits about her. He sounds dangerous,” Gwenhwyfar observed.
Arthur took her face between his hands, his thumb brushing the softness of her cheek. “She was as fiery as you, Mathild. You would have liked her.”
Gwenhwyfar disagreed. “Not while she was sharing your bed. I would have sooner cut her throat.” A teasing smile lifted Arthur’s lips, his eyes sparkling. As he would have cut Bedwyr’s had anything persisted between him and Gwenhwyfar. She delicately touched her lips against his own, silencing any further word, reminding him of the unspoken pax that rested between them.
Mathild. Arthur had told her, on that long, slow journey home from Gaul, of Mathild. The jealousy, the rise of heart-burning ill-will had compressed her lips then, but sense and practically had eased away the hostility through the passing of months. Arthur was a man who enjoyed his women. Mathild, at least, had seemed to be a woman of worth, not some lice-bitten, pox-ridden, gutter-slut. And who was Gwenhwyfar to chide? Had she not also betrayed their exchanged marriage vows? Occasionally, especially when Arthur was gone on some visit to a distant stronghold, or meeting of Council, she lay at night remembering Bedwyr’s hot caress, the different touch of his exploring hand, the feel of his breath, his mouth on hers. Remembering, but not wanting. It was Arthur she wanted, Arthur she loved. The rest had no more significance than the fantasy arousal of a passing dream.
“It would seem to me,” she said after a while, “we all have a darkness shut into our souls, one we will need to explain when we stand in the sunlight of the next world.” She moved slightly, kissed his mouth again, mo
re possessive, decisive.
Arthur ran his hand along her back, down across her buttocks, pulling her, insistent, nearer. Teasing, he announced, “I think events have arisen that make me need someone in my bed. Shall I make do with you, or send out for the tavern whore?”
The look Gwenhwyfar gave him was supercilious. She disentangled herself from his hold, rose gracefully from the bed and ambled to the doorway. Lingered, watching the men lifting the deer carcasses from the pack-ponies.
“Will he last long, do you think, Odovacer? The first man without Roman blood to wear the purple of an Emperor since Augustus Octavian. Surely he will be dead before the year is out?” She spoke with her back to Arthur.
“He is a man to be reckoned with, uses his head as well as his balls. But I agree, there’ll be Romans ruling again in Rome before the winter.”
With deliberation, Gwenhwyfar closed the door, slid the bolt home with a firm thrust, turned, leant against the wood her eyes narrowed, seductive. “You would not rather have Mathild, or someone like her, here?”
Stretching out, folding his hands behind his head, crossing his boots at the ankles Arthur pursed his lips, considering. Would you rather have Bedwyr? He thrust the irrational jealous thought aside, knowing it to be the mischief of mind-tricks. “Na,” he said. “Her hips were too bony for my liking. If I must purchase my meat, I expect something substantial to chew on.”
Ponderously, Gwenhwyfar unpinned her hair. Unrestricted, the copper, silver-streaked mane tumbled free, cascaded over her shoulders, across her breasts, down past her waist and hips. Slowly, unhurried, she walked back to the bed, her fingers releasing the lacing of her gown, let it slide to the floor about her feet; unfastened the under-tunic, her breastband. Stood naked, sensuous, one step away from Arthur.
She was as slim as she had been in her youth, the faint marks against her belly and thighs the only signs of her childbearing. The skin of her arms, neck and face was golden, tanned from the hours out in wind, air and sun; her legs long, slender.
“If you found me in a slave market,” she enquired, “would you purchase me for the price of a ring?”
His stomach knotting with wanting, Arthur held his hand out to her. She took it. “If anyone ever owned you,” he answered, his voice husky, “he would be a fool to sell you.”
“Oh.” She knelt on the bed, leant over him, her natural perfume, her body, her nearness, rousing him to that last, full attention. “You intend to keep me, then?”
Arthur drew her down, brought her body close, moulding together with his. “I am not a fool.”
VII
Something thudded against the outer door with a loud, penetrating thump, followed by what sounded like the hounds of Hades let loose after a wild she-cat. Within the chamber the dogs leapt wildly at the inside of the closed door, barking furiously.
“What in the name of the Bull is going on?” Arthur sprang from the bed, found his bracae in the hastily discarded heap of clothing tumbled on the floor. Pulling them on, hopped to the door, flung it wide.
Two children fell through, locked together, snarling, hurling abuse, tangling with the excited dogs. Fists punching, feet kicking. Arthur leapt back as a sandalled foot caught him on the shin. He cursed loudly, shouted at the dogs to lie down, be quiet, bent in attempt to grab hold of the two twisting children, cursed again as human teeth sunk into his hand. “Mithras’s blood!” he yelled, yanking furiously at the tunic in his other hand. “Stop this! Break it up, I say! Now!”
Breathing hard, snarling, eyes enraged, the two children came apart. The boy Medraut, and Archfedd, blood trickling from her left nostril. Both of them would sport bruises to face and body by next morning.
Enticed by the noise, several people were gathering around the door, a few of the Artoriani, women, some more children, curious onlookers. Ider was pushing his way sternly through, clearing a path none too gently, the commotion at the private entrance to his King’s chamber alarming him. He reached the threshold, stood, arms folded, grim-faced, watched Arthur shaking the two children as if they were pups caught raiding the meat-store, relieved it was false alarm, not some brutal murder attempt.
“What in all the gods’ names is going on?” Arthur was bellowing. “How dare you brawl in the vicinity of my chamber!” With each angry word he shook both of them, realised something wet was staining his left hand, pulled away. “Bull’s blood, Medraut, you have ink all down you!” He released Archfedd, intending to inspect the state of the boy more closely. The girl flew past him and began laying into the lad again with her feet and fists, beating at his chest, kicking at his legs. Medraut cried out, tried to dodge behind Arthur.
The roar of rage from both the Pendragon and Ider, who lurched forward to help separate them, could have been loud enough to raise a war-standard. Ider grasped the boy, dragged him away, Arthur grappled with the girl, his daughter, trundled her like a beer barrel a few paces into the room. She struggled, arms whirling, hair flying. Gods! For a ten-year-old, she possessed the strength of a grown man! Her fist accidentally caught Arthur’s chin, knocking his head upward, sending his brain reeling.
“Enough!” he roared, furious, pinning her arms to her side. Lifting her forcibly off the floor he strode across the room, flung her onto the bed. “Calm yourself this instant, or I’ll take my belt to you here and now!”
Gwenhwyfar had risen and tugged a shift over her body, her hair falling loose and tousled, her eyes soft with contentment. They had slept, Arthur and she, curled together for more than an hour. Shameless! Love-making during an afternoon – as well they were married, else tongues would be wagging! This outrageous interruption had spoiled their tranquillity, destroyed the lazy pleasure.
Roughly, she took hold of her daughter, steered her to a stool, sternly pointed for her to sit, and sit still. Archfedd’s eyes were glowering hot coals, her jaws clamped into anger. Her hair was red, like her mother’s although darker, perhaps not as curled. Most of it had escaped its braiding, for it tumbled, untidy, dishevelled; her tunic was torn at the shoulder. She sat, reluctant, crunched into her ball of tight fury.
Arthur dealt with the boy. “So?” he demanded curtly. “What is this about?”
Medraut was shaking, his fists clenched as rigid as Archfedd’s, his jaw as set, though tears were rapidly welling in his eyes. Ider had him clamped firmly with vice-like hands grasping his shoulders, and his voice trembled as he tried to answer his father, a mixture of outrage, fright and agitation. “She tore it,” he stammered, “my parchment. She ripped it into pieces.” He was breathing hard, clearly upset. “I was almost finished!”
Ider released the lad but stood ready to clutch hold should renewed fighting between the two whelps seem imminent. Arthur hunkered to his heels. At ten, he had been a tall lad. Medraut was still short, skinny, somehow managed to convey the image of a poor-kept peasant’s boy, though he was well fed, well clothed. Educated. Arthur rubbed his stubbled chin with his hand. Would these two offspring of his not even try to become friends? Or at the very least, agree to differ! Five times in two weeks; bickering, squabbling. A blackened eye, a scraped shin.
“Parchment is expensive stuff. From where did you get it?”
“He stole it from Father Cethrwm’s chamber!”
Arthur scowled at Archfedd, “I am speaking to the lad, not to you. Keep silent.”
“Stealing is a grave accusation, Archfedd!” Gwenhwyfar rapped at the same instant. “You must have proof before you claim such things.”
“I have proof!” Archfedd bounced to her feet, her face tipped up to her mother’s, her passion intense. “I saw him take it!” She flung her arm at the boy, pointing, accusing. She did not think of him as her brother, for she despised him. Thought him a coward, a liar; a mewling little runt. It was a mistake, on her father’s part, to have brought him home from Gaul. He was not of Pendragon blood, she was certain. Some beguiling whore had wrongly convinced her father he was. “I was in the chapel and… ”
“Be silen
t, girl!” Arthur commanded. Biting her lip, Archfedd sat, her hands clasped in her lap. Would no one ever listen to her?
“Boy? Did you steal it?”
Medraut stared direct at his father. All he had wanted to do was write out a psalm he had learnt last week, to keep it for himself, to be able to re-read it whenever he fancied. He liked the psalms; he liked writing; but he never had the courage to tell his father. Was never able to say he hated weapon-training, sword practice, the daily drill of javelin throwing. He could never hit a target; always ended on the floor or with multiple bruises. Oh, Archfedd was good with weapons – the little show-off! But could she read as well as he? Could she form her letters as beautifully? All right, so she could ride a frisky horse without falling off – so what? He preferred being in the quiet sanctuary of Father Cethrwm’s chapel, reading the expensive books kept there. Reading the Bible. That pleased the Father. He had said only last week he, Medraut, would have made a fine scholar, had he not been born as a king’s son. Well, he did not want to be a king’s son! He wanted to go to Ambrosius’s School of Learning. He wanted to become a priest.
“Father Cethrwm would not mind me having it. He says my writing is better than hers.” Medraut sneered over Arthur’s shoulder at Archfedd, realised, too late, he had made an error. His father’s expression had darkened, his eyes narrowed. Medraut was wary of his father, he knew his anger, his strength, had seen it used against others, had felt the lash of Arthur’s belt across his back. So had Archfedd, but Medraut conveniently forgot that.
Unable to take a step backwards, Medraut pushed his body harder against Ider, standing behind him.
“Answer the question, boy!” Arthur’s admonishment snapped out, as fierce as a wolf’s bite.
Defiant, attempting to hide the fact his heart was pounding and he desperately needed to visit the latrine, Medraut lifted his chin. “I borrowed it.”
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