Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  “You stole it.”

  For a long moment Medraut said nothing, staring eye to eye with Arthur. He could never please his father for he was useless with sword and spear, was afraid of the horses, especially the stallions; was clumsy, inept. He looked down at his boots. Could not even brave this out, as Archfedd would have done. “Aye,” he whispered, meekly. “I stole it.”

  Arthur stood, turned his attention to his daughter. Her chin was up, defiant, she had done wrong and she knew it, but unlike Medraut she would not hide from punishment. She would grow to be a lioness, Archfedd, like her mother.

  “And you started a fight because of this?” Arthur asked her. What had he told her, warned her two days past about fighting? Two days, for Mithras’s sake! “I am most displeased with you, daughter.”

  “He started fighting, not me!” she countered, hotly, bounding to her feet. “I told him he had no right to use that parchment and he said I was a spoilt brat!”

  “Only because she called me a pagan whore’s bastard!” Furious at her twisting of the truth, Medraut rushed forward, fists swinging. Arthur made a grab for him at the same moment as Ider, Gwenhwyfar restrained Archfedd as the girl prepared to lash out with her feet again.

  “Gods’ blood!” Arthur cursed. “Have I sired a pair of demons?” He waved his hand, dismissive, at Ider. “Take him to Cethrwm. It was his property, he can deal with it. And as for you,” he swung to Archfedd, “you are confined to the Hall for one week.”

  “But Mam was taking me to Lindinis on the morrow!” The answering wail of protest was fraught with disappointment.

  Gwenhwyfar promptly retorted, “I will be taking you nowhere.”

  “He was in the wrong. He ought be punished, not me!” Archfedd, spun around, ran for the inner door, pausing as she fumbled at the latch to cry, “I hate you, hate you both!”

  Arthur stood, looking blandly at Gwenhwyfar, who opened her arms, spread her hands. There was a twinkle of laughter in her eyes as she exclaimed, “And she is barely ten! I dread to think what she will be like in another three years, when her body begins to change.”

  Arthur ambled to the outer door, shooed the last of the curious onlookers away, kicked it shut with his foot. “Oh, I know just what she will be like.” He turned around, grinned at his wife. “Just like you.”

  Gwenhwyfar grinned back. “Oh dear,” she laughed. “We are heading for a rough sea then!”

  November 476

  VIII

  The onset of another winter. Chill, hostile winds; trees bare and dejected against a drained, colourless landscape that lay, ill-willed and sullen, beneath a bored, frowning sky.

  Morgaine sat hunched, her arms clasped around her drawn-up knees, her back pressing against the hard discomfort of the granary wall. She did not feel the bite of the cold that ate into her numbed fingers and feet, did not care that her dress was drab, torn and faded. The building behind her was empty, save for cobwebs, a scattering of mouldered ears of corn, and a few half-starved rats. The steading was broken and shabby; fences, buildings, neglected and untended. One goat, the last, thin and lice-scabbed, grazed for sustenance at the remaining autumn straggle of weeds. The cattle, the hens, the sow had gone long ago. The fields that had once harvested the smile of golden corn and reaped sweet, rich hay had returned to wildness. Even the house-place was half-tumbled, its roof rotten, fallen in at one end, with the door leaning on sagging hinges.

  Morgaine had slept poorly, tossing and quivering as the vivid dreams rode rough through her troubled night. They were coming more frequently, the previously occasional visitation haunting her almost nightly this past week. Mayhap the dreary onset of winter had sent them hustling around her hearth-fire. Or was it the past re-surging spiteful and insistent?

  Her mother came in all the dreams. Morgause. The lurid vehemence of a red sun always behind her, shadowing the sharp features of her face. But Morgaine knew it was her. That arrogant, supercilious stance, that cruel, derisive laugh. And Arthur was there also, behind, a little to the left, standing, sometimes with his hands empty, hanging by his side, occasionally with a sword, jagged and broken. And always, always, blood. Running, savage. Gaping, raw. From head, from hands. Flowing, oozing. Always, the blood.

  Morgaine’s forehead rested forward, touching her knees. She had her eyes open, for she dared not see again the pictures that lay behind them, dare not re-conjure those images that had woken her, two hours past. She lifted her head, stared without seeing, at the leaden sky. Her fault, her mistake, her negligence. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Who had she been to think she knew better? What wisdom did she possess, what science, what knowing? None! She knew nothing, had nothing! Her mother, while she lived in this existence, had almost become the Goddess on Earth. Morgause had known everything that needed to be known. And she was dead. Slaughtered, murdered. That darkened, unseen face, haloed by the corn-gold of hair, blood soiled. Morgause would live, would be Queen, the all powerful, the all-seeing, the all-knowing, had Morgaine, her wretched daughter not disobeyed her.

  That was why the dreams came. Sent from Morgause, from the red darkness of the Otherworld, sent to set right a wrong. Sent to show Morgaine the path she must follow to undo the wickedness she, by disobeying her mother, had set so terribly in motion.

  Twice – twice! She had allowed him life, when death should have brought about his ending. Ah, she had been beguiled by the whisperings of those who worked against the wisdom of the Goddess. Uncaring, she had listened to their mischief, their malice, rather than the words, the command, of her mother. Listened to the silliness of her heart, of the betraying image of love. Love? Hah! What was love? Pain, rejection, contempt, that was love! She had given love, she had given life. And had received nothing save pain and contempt in return.

  She stood, her bones and muscles stiff, her mind and body exhausted for she had sat a long while listening for what she must do. Inside the house-place she collected her cloak, put several items in a coarse-woven drawstring bag, her personal things. A whalebone comb, a handful of ivory and silver hairpins, a bronze mirror. The most useful of her dried and ground herbs. And a wooden box. She could not face the trauma of sleep without the contents of that box, a gift left to her by her friend, old Livia, who had taken the final journey to the Otherworld as the last winter had rolled into spring. A precious gift. The warm, safe, comfort of the poppy.

  She took nothing else. It was not the time of year for travelling, but what use staying here, where the demons of the Dream could so easily find her? Better to move on, go back.

  Set things right, if she could, as they ought have been, as she had been commanded. Eleven years past.

  October 477

  IX

  “Thrust! It’s a spear you are using, not a damned swine-prod!” Gwenhwyfar bellowed her reprimand across the practice ground her hands cupped around her mouth to carry the shouted words further. “Dear gods,” she muttered, as the cast spear arced too flat, fell, bouncing and slithering, along the dew-wet grass several yards ahead of the target. “Useless.” She yanked her own spear from the ground before her, strode, long-legged, impatient, the width of the field, glaring at the boy who stood, head down, embarrassed, fingers fiddling with a leather pouch at his waist.

  “Like this. You throw like this!” Gwenhwyfar came alongside him, weighed the spear in her hand and taking aim by eye, brought her arm back, launched the weapon with strength from her legs, buttocks and shoulders. The spear sailed in its low trajectory – not too high, for the wind was wilful this morning, and struck, with a satisfactory thud just off-centre of the red circle painted in the heart-place of the straw man dangling from an upright post. The shaft quivered, jutted from its target. The one time Medraut had managed to hit the man, his spear had glanced off the sacking, fallen to the grass.

  “The first volley of spears, after the archers have released their arrows,” Gwenhwyfar lectured, curtly beckoning Medraut to walk with her as she strode to retrieve the weapon, “must make their mark. Not tha
t many kill, but enough wound and disable. Enough are rammed into shields to render them useless. The second volley follows quickly, inflicting more of the same. By then, the horses are in full gallop.” She twisted the shaft, tugged the spear loose, pleased it had sunk in deep. Were he real, the man would be dead.

  Medraut had fetched his own spear, was holding it limply. Why did the bloody thing never fly as straight for him? It did not help that he could not see the target clearly from the distance across the practice ground. Closer, he was better – and his sword-fighting was improving. At least, so he thought.

  They returned to the throwing point. And he did try, but his foot twisted as he brought his weight forward. The grass, damp from warm days and cold nights was slippery. It would have been a good throw, almost, for he had put his strength behind the casting, but the aim was off, yards wide. The blade dug into the grass.

  “Well,” Gwenhwyfar announced with an audible sigh, “let us assume your opponent also has a spear. He would have thrown by now. “You,” she added rather pointedly, “would now be dead, unless you had brought your shield up.” She placed her fists on to each hip, stood, legs slightly apart, her blue cloak hanging loosely from her shoulders, lifting gently in the wind. “However,” she added scathingly, “seeing as you made a balls-mess of shield practice yesterday, I am assuming you would have failed that simple defensive move also. It would be kinder to slit your throat now, have a quick end to it. You are never going to make a soldier.” She did not add the rest, the other words that automatically ought to follow. You may be a king’s son, but you will never make a king.

  It was disappointment that made Gwenhwyfar exasperated, disappointment harnessed with regret. Her eldest-born son would have been two and twenty. Would have fathered sons of his own by now… if Llacheu had lived, the menace of Cerdic’s omnipresent shadow would have been nothing more than the annoyance of harvest-flies on a hot summer’s day. If Llacheu had lived. Or Gwydre. Or Amr. Arthur would have had a son to follow him, a son to be proud of. Instead, he had Medraut.

  She had accepted the boy, taken him into her household with barely a murmur, though his presence was daily a reminder of her own loss. And of Arthur’s infidelity. Why had she borne him a son who lived, who thrived? Why her, why not Gwenhwyfar? She tried not to be harsh on him, not to let the dismay taint her voice too openly. “Never mind.” She put her hand briefly to his shoulder before walking away. “With more practice, who knows?” They both knew it would take more than practice. Medraut could not see straight, aim straight. He was clumsy, finger-fumbling, slow with his reaction in evasion and attack. He was, as she had said, useless.

  Medraut took the spear to the armoury, stacked it with the others of its kind in the square, stone-built room, situated to the rear of the blacksmith’s bothy. Spears of all lengths, some heavy, bold-bladed, others more lightweight, the javelins; swords, daggers, a few shields. Leather-lined war caps stacked to one corner; in another, the linked chain of mail tunics. He would have liked, one day, to have worn some of that mailed armour. It seemed unlikely. If he could not throw a spear straight, what hope had he of one day becoming one of the Artoriani? Medraut was not hurt by Gwenhwyfar’s annoyance. How could he be? She was right. Dismally he left the armoury, trailed along a narrow and rutted side-path that skirted behind this cluster of work-place buildings, found himself at the chapel.

  Again, a small construction, erected as with all Christian places, in the form of an equal-sided cross; its wattle walls white-plastered, the reed-thatch of the roof new-repaired in places, golden-patched against weather-darkened brown. As always, save on the coldest days when the wind blew direct inside, the door stood propped open. Medraut entered, breathed deeply of the sweet scent of beeswax candles, fresh-spread herbs and the subtle air of peaceful contentment. A posy of flowers stood in a pottery flagon on the stone altar, their bright colours joyful and pleasing. He sat on the rearmost bench, studying the pictures decorating the inside of the walls. They were probably not as marvellous as the beautiful paintings Arthur’s cousin, Bedwyr, would no doubt be seeing in Rome and Constantinople, but to Medraut they were wondrous. Each section depicted a story about Christ’s time on earth – the feeding of the five thousand, the healing of the sick, the crucifixion, and his favourite, Jesu calming the storm on the Sea of Galilee. Medraut sat facing that scene now. His stomach was churning, the choke of tears burning his throat. His whole body felt battered, bruised and aching, as if he was out in the temper of that storm, buffeted by that wicked wind, threatened by the oppressive mass of thunder clouds and frightened of the great sweep of angry waves that tossed and plundered the tiny, valiant boat. Steadfastly, he stared at the white-clad figure to the left of the scene. The man standing so calmly at the edge of the water, arms outspread, radiating his love and compassion.

  The tears that had threatened to flood down Medraut’s cheeks dried, the heart-thump eased and the pain sauntered away, left his body, left the chapel. Calm. Acceptance. What was to be, had to be.

  Father Cethrwm had painted the pictures, taking many months to complete them to his satisfaction and Medraut had helped. He had mixed the bright tinctures, carefully filled in the areas of colour that Cethrwm had indicated. Part of his soul had entered these scenes, and to come here to look at them, the deep reds, the vivid blues, the golden yellows, rekindled hope and quiet belief in Medraut. There was something for him out there in the future. Something.

  “What are you doing, skulking in here? I hope Father Cethrwm has his things locked away.”

  Archfedd.

  “I have as much right to be here as you. Go away.”

  “No.” Archfedd flounced to the nearest bench intending to be deliberately annoying. Medraut ignored her, even though she sat jangling her bracelets and drumming her heels in a rhythmless beat against the bench leg.

  “You will never be King, you know.”

  She was in her eleventh year, her body already maturing to womanhood, a capable child who knew her own mind. A smaller version of her mother, so Arthur often said. Most things that Archfedd attempted, she excelled at: riding, sword-practice, running. She was not so good with people, not tactful like her mother, not able to keep thoughts to herself, set safe away in her mind. She was a girl loyal to her friends, intent against her enemies. She repeated what she had said, with more animosity. “I said that you will never be King.”

  Aye, he knew he would not. “If you have come to gloat, forget it. I know I’m bastard-born and not much good with weapons. But… ” and a sudden courage came to him. Could it have come from the still peace of the chapel, or through the bitterness of self-disappointment? He only wanted to please, to show his father and Lady Gwenhwyfar he could, given the chance, be of value, be a son worthy of the great Arthur Pendragon. He would please them one day. One day they would be proud of him. He stood, regarded his half-sister addressed her with conviction. “But remember this, Archfedd. I will not always be a boy of eleven years old!”

  He stalked out of the door, pretended he did not hear her answer.

  “And I’ll not always be a girl. One day I will be grown also, Medraut the bastard-born.” She had come to the doorway, stood, one arm raised above her head, leaning on the timber frame, watching him saunter away. Said the one thing she knew would hurt him as surely as a plunged dagger blade. “I’m legitimate born. I will be Queen when my father is gone.”

  X

  The hut was still there, rough, wattle-built, crudely circular, set beside the Yns Witrin road where the track crossed the log-laid causeway. It was low country here, oozing with rivulets of water that overnight could raise the quiet extent of willow-pocked-marshes to a desolate landscape of floodwater.

  A poor quarter of the country, an equally as poor hovel but, for what it was, it had been kept well. The roof adequately thatched, the walls recently replastered with daub made from animal blood and dung mixed with mud. Herbs and medicinal plants grew strong and healthy in a walled garden to one side of the stream,
a tethered goat grazed a little beyond that. Clothing, washed that day, stretched, almost dried, over a few scraggy shrubs of hawthorn. It ought to be fetched in soon, for the autumn warmth of the day was giving ground to the chill of evening. There would be a frost this night.

  Morgaine was not hurrying. Through the months she had wandered across Gaul, taking her own path, her own time, spending a few nights in a peasant’s bothy, several weeks in towns along the way. Earning her keep, never wanting for anything. She had a gift of healing, her remedies and potions eagerly welcomed anywhere and everywhere. And she had herself to offer, should there be the chance of higher payment. Morgaine paused before stepping onto the raised pathway of logs, ran her hand through her hair, pushing it back from her forehead. She was travel-grimed, weary; hoped for a dry bed and a warm supper. She would get it here, at this hut, if the occupier was not busy.

  She was not. She came to the doorway, bucket in hand, intending to bring the goat into the night-shelter of the lean-to bothy at the back of the dwelling, to milk it. Stood instead, head cocked slight to one side, waiting for the woman to approach nearer.

  “Good greeting to you,” she called, “you travel late on the road, ‘tis nearing evening.”

  Morgaine crossed the log way, seated herself on a wooden bench set before the hut, enjoying a chance to rest in the last of the day’s sunshine. “Not so late,” she contradicted. “‘Tis not yet darkening.”

  The girl, for she could not have been more than ten and five years, licked her lips nervously. She welcomed visitors, indeed counted on them, but it was usually men who came to her hut by the causeway, not women. And this woman, with hair dyed as black as a raven’s wing and penetrating deep-blue eyes that seemed darker than they ought be, alarmed her for some unexplained reason.