Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  Yet she was there, out in the sunlight the next day. That same woman, with the black hair, pale skin. There for him when he came to pay for her again. He could not have known she had found, quite by accident, that by taking a lungfull of air and swimming fast beneath the surface, she would come up into another cave, another black, empty space, that she could only feel, not see. Only a sense of vast emptiness told her she stood at the edge of another cavern. She dared not move from out of the water here, for fear she would be swallowed up into the hollow of nothingness. Only occasionally did she go there, to prove she was more powerful than the god of the dark. For when she went, she would always come back; he could never hold her, take her for his own into his Underworld realm.

  She never allowed anyone else to follow her into her private world, but that one man had proven useful, for he had spread word among the many who used the Lead Road: word of a Goddess from the Lake of the Underworld.

  Most days, more than one man would come. Occasionally, they came in small groups, twos or threes. Usually, she would oblige them with what they wanted; always, if they were not of British blood.

  For the Saex came along the Lead Road. Saxon traders, to buy the lead, cart it on lumbering ox-wagons back to the coast and their waiting ships. British lead to use or to trade for high profit. The difficulty of the journey made much more rewarding by a visit to the Lady. Who had more than her body to sell.

  In secret, Amlawdd sent weapons to Morgaine’s caves: swords, shields, daggers and spears. Quietly they were pushed in among the pigs of lead, hidden, transported, safe. And the Saxons paid well for this extra, illegal trade.

  Especially Cerdic.

  It was Morgaine’s greatest thrill when he came himself, dressed moderately as an overseer, or a rich buyer. To entertain Cerdic in the way she knew best! To tell him all that Amlawdd, deliberately – and others unintentionally – passed to her listening ears. To tell him of Arthur. To know she was undoing the mistake of the past, that she was stirring the potion that would one day put an end, as her mother had wished, to the Pendragon.

  And doing it by using his own son. Her nephew.

  July 478

  XVI

  Gildas was five years old, a quiet, serious little boy. He loved listening to the stories of Jesu and adored the man Ambrosius Aurelianus, who had brought him to this wonderful place of Ambrosium. His other home, the stronghold of Caer Rhuthun, he had hated for its dark gloom and stench of drenching blood covering everything that could be seen or touched. His sister, Cywyllog, was happier here also; she would often sing to him, take him for walks along by the river or through the cool shading of the woods. Never had she done so in Gwynedd. There had always been a clutching of fear and danger there, never much happiness or laughter. Gildas was too young to understand why. Caw, his father, had been a man with strong discipline for obedience to his will. No one had said ‘no’ to Caw, save for his eldest son, Hueil – and the Pendragon. Caw: a man who had put his own purpose before the needs of others; who sought his own pleasure, protected by the belief that he followed the will of God. It had been easy for Hueil to take Alclud from him, to make himself Lord in his father’s place. As easy to rally the north to his voice. Not so easy to defeat Arthur.

  Gildas did not understand any of his family history either. All he knew was that Arthur had killed his brother. Through the law of family rights of blood-tie, the Pendragon and all his kindred were to be mistrusted and regarded as an enemy. That was the difficulty: Ambrosius Aurelianus was kin to the Pendragon, but he was a good and holy man, to be loved and respected. Medraut was Arthur’s son. Gildas liked him too. Medraut was in his twelfth year, almost man-grown, yet he had time for the younger boys, enjoyed playing with them, reading the scriptures to them, telling stories, patching up scraped knees and cut elbows with soothing salves and honeyed words.

  Cywyllog said Arthur had murdered Hueil. It was true, Gildas knew, for the blood, to his mind, was still there on that stone in the courtyard at Rhuthun. Medraut, though, had told him another version of that same story.

  “After the battle, which was terrible and bloody and where many men from both armies died terrible deaths,” Medraut had said, using the sing-song voice of the story-teller, “Hueil fled, riding his horse without mercy, for Arthur’s son, his last remaining son, had been killed.”

  “But you are his son,” Gildas had queried.

  “This was another son. I was not born then and my mother is not Queen Gwenhwyfar. Hueil rode to Rhuthun where lived his father, a Christian man who would surely forgive him and take him, as the eldest son, into the sanctuary of protection.”

  “My father loved all his sons.”

  “Stop interrupting! He took Hueil into his stronghold, but only until a court of law could be arranged to try him, legally, against the accusation of treason. That was the Roman way, the established way of law and justice.”

  “Ambrosius’s way?”

  “But not the Pendragon’s. Arthur, my father, followed hard on Hueil’s heels and demanded he be given over for execution as a traitor and murderer. Caw and Ambrosius and others argued for things to be done in the correct way, and in the end Arthur agreed. What men were there – and there were many, for Arthur had chieftains and nobles in his army – formed a court. Hueil was summoned to state his case before them. He came out from where he had taken shelter in your father’s chapel. As King and the highest of judges, save for Christ Jesu and God the Father, Arthur stood by the sacred stone, one hand, his left, placed upon it. Hueil came up to him giving the impression of humble repentance. He made to kneel before Arthur, but instead leapt forward, a dagger in his hand! He plunged it at the Pendragon, striking for the throat! Arthur was a soldier, a man swift with weapons and fighting. He struggled, his fingers found the hilt of his sword, he broke free, knocked Hueil aside. Hueil stumbled, fell across the stone. Arthur raised his sword – and struck Hueil’s head from his neck. The blood ran thick across the sacred stone and all agreed, save for Caw and the kindred of Hueil who mourned his passing, that justice had been done.”

  Gildas had asked Ambrosius whether this telling was more true than the one his sister told. It was, Ambrosius had said. Medraut’s version was the more accurate.

  It was a puzzling thing for a boy of five years to fathom. Why had his sister lied to him?

  He was wandering through the complex of alleyways that snaked between various essential buildings of the monastery, the rear of Ambrosius’s bathhouse, the stables, cow-byre, pig-pens and kennels where the hunting hounds were kept. Ambrosius would not allow them in his living quarters for his house, he said, was for God’s servants not flea-ridden creatures.

  The door to the kennels was shut. Unusual for midday but one of the bitches had whelped yesterday, happen that was why. A yelp, anguished, pitiful, and laughter, malicious, wicked. Then a scream. Gildas recognised it, the tone, the pitch. His sister!

  He pulled at the heavy door, panting hard as it refused to give. Ran along the narrow walkway around the back where he knew there to be a window. Climbed to a barrel, peered through, sobbing as the sounds inside increased. A group of boys, six of them, the eldest two almost four and ten years of age, with the youngest, Maelgwyn, his own age, and Caninus, eight. Now there was a boy to hate! They were all throwing stones, had a basket full of them, aiming at the bitch and her new pups – and at Cywyllog who was cowering over the litter trying desperately to protect them with her own body.

  Gildas gasped, shrieked. There was a pause inside, then a stone whistled through the window opening, caught Gildas on the forehead. He tumbled backward, fell, scrambled up, his arm hurting, his head aching. He must get help!

  It was the hottest hour of the day, the heat had been unbearable this past week. Everyone was inside resting until the midday sun eased. He ran, calling for help, rounded a corner, was in the main courtyard – and there was Medraut, squatting in the shadows of Ambrosius’s carefully tended line of ornamental trees, reading.

  Med
raut looked up at the boy’s frightened shout, leapt to his feet, the scroll falling, abandoned; ran, concerned, for blood trickled from a cut to the lad’s head. “You are hurt! What has happened?”

  Gildas explained, his words tumbling almost nonsensically but Medraut understood. It needed only three words. Caninus. Stones. Pups. “Fetch others, an adult,” he ordered. “Brother Illtud is in the scriptorium.”

  Medraut ran. He never knew what made him take up the broken hunting spear that had been carelessly left lying against the kennel wall. He saw it, took it up. Taller, stronger than Gildas, he had the kennel door open, was inside his eyes for a moment blinded by the darkness contrasting with the bright sun outside.

  The bitch was bleeding. Two of her pups lay dead, their small, delicate heads smashed. Cywyllog was sobbing, blood soaking her tunic, her arm hanging limp. And Medraut was so angry. So very, very, angry.

  Everything he had been taught came to him. He heard Gwenhwyfar’s voice in his head. “Calm and controlled when you face an enemy. Keep your feet light, your body balanced. Go for disabling if you cannot kill.”

  The spear’s blade was loose, but he had no need of it, used the shaft instead as a staff, lunging forward to strike at the nearest boy’s legs, catching three of them, one after the other, not expecting his intention. He continued with the momentum, brought his weapon up, laid it hard to the left, across the shoulders of another, swung it immediately right catching Caninus across the jaw. The boy screamed, fell back, blood pouring from his mouth. The others fled.

  A few moments only, a mere handful of heartbeats. Medraut was breathing hard, was shaking. His first battle, his first fight.

  Men were crowding in, Brother Illtud, Brother Paulus. Their anger as great as Medraut’s at the senseless, wicked cruelty.

  Gildas’s head throbbed through most of that night, his puzzlement over family loyalty even more compounded. “Medraut,” his sister said from her bed in the infirmary, when Gildas went to see her before supper, “may be the son of the Pendragon, but he has courage in his blood.”

  Did that mean it was all right for Gildas to like him now? Or were his sister’s injuries affecting her reasoning? One thing for certain, Gildas would never speak a good word for Caninus and those other boys as long as he lived!

  And with his jaw broken, it was doubtful Caninus would, through future years, think with any fondness of Medraut.

  XVII

  Arthur was appalled at Ambrosius’s condition. Regretted not coming earlier. He had not always agreed with his uncle – more often than not outright opposed him. Most of the time they did not even like each other, although there had been the odd occasion when mutual need had brought them together to ride the one path. And he had been ill on and off for so long they had all become accustomed to his need occasionally to take to his bed and to the thin, sallow face, the tired eyes, the discreet, painful cough. But not this! Ambrosius was nothing more than a living skeleton. Sitting rigid, self-conscious on a stool beside the bed, Arthur could count every bone in his uncle’s limp, gnarled hand. He was not old, Ambrosius – Mithras, not much older than he himself! A handful of years older – eight, nine? Death in battle was one thing, but this, this wasting away, this slow, painful death-in-life! Arthur put his hand over his eyes brought the fingers down over his nose, mouth, chin. Christ God, would it not be kinder to finish the man, swiftly, with a blade across the throat?

  “I have not long, it will soon be ended.”

  Arthur physically jumped, his facial skin blushing red. Bull’s blood, how had Ambrosius read his thoughts! He searched for something to say. “You have suffered a long while, Uncle.”

  “As Christ suffered. I cannot ask to be less than my Lord.”

  There was nothing Arthur could answer. He did not believe, did not have enough knowing of the right words even to pretend.

  Ambrosius coughed, a dribble of blood-tainted spittle trickled from his mouth, a slave bent forward to wipe it away tenderly, tears in his eyes. “Marcus has been a good body-slave,” Ambrosius said, his voice rasping. “I have written his manumission release on my death.” Marcus turned away not caring to show his grief. Ambrosius summoned energy. It was so tiring to talk, but talk he must. He must tell this to Arthur.

  “I asked for you to come. You must arrange for Medraut. He is condemned to the fires of hell if you do not.”

  “Medraut? What has he done? I understood he is in everyone’s favour since the episode with the pups.”

  That had been two weeks since, but word of it was still buzzing around Ambrosium, monastery and settlement, one of the first things told to Arthur on his arrival early this morning. To his credit, Medraut found the matter highly embarrassing and had, on his father’s questioning, shrugged the incident aside as nothing of much importance. For all that, Arthur had ruffled the lad’s hair, muttered something about being proud of him.

  “Not that, that is of no consequence.” Ambrosius closed his eyes, had to take several painful breaths. Arthur knew full well what he was referring to, damn it! “Though, my grandson’s part in it was not to my liking.”

  “What do you intend to do with Caninus?”

  Ambrosius’s eyes snapped open, his withered fingers sought Arthur’s hand. “You take him. His mother, God rest her departed soul, spoiled him over much. Take him to Caer Cadan. Whip some discipline into him, he is not for the peaceful life of a monastic order. He will be better placed as a soldier.”

  Arthur laughed wryly. “Exchange your lad for mine, eh?”

  Urgently, Ambrosius’s fingers picked at the bed linen, had an intensity about his eyes. “Aye! ‘Tis the only way to save him!”

  Assuming he spoke of Caninus Arthur agreed to the request. “I will not have him at Caer Cadan, though. He can go to Geraint, he has a better talent than I with boys. He will knock some sort of shape into him.”

  Agitated, Ambrosius attempted to sit up his hand reaching for Arthur. “Ensure Medraut makes his vows to God. Keep him under God’s hand, ‘tis the only way to salvation for him!”

  Recoiling from the touch, Arthur retrieved his hand, wiped away the clammy feel of death on his tunic. Bluntly, he answered, “I need Medraut. He is my son, he must follow me as King.”

  “He is God-cursed!”

  Then the Pendragon understood what this was all about: Medraut’s birthing. He sighed. “Your God, Ambrosius, not mine.”

  The retort snapped back, clear, forceful. “His! Medraut is of the Christian faith!”

  “Not if your God has rejected him for something that is not his fault.” The thought remained in Arthur’s mind, he could not taunt a dying man with deliberate irreverence. Said instead, “It is for Medraut to choose, not for me to order.”

  Curling his hand into a clumsy fist, Ambrosius thumped the bed-covering. “He does not know of the sin that covers him! How can he make choice?”

  “Then, if he does not know, how can he suffer? To sin, you must be aware of the offence.” Arthur could not quite believe this. Here he was, sitting beside a dying man, discussing the Christian religion!

  “Promise me you will tell him, you will let him make his choice!” The appeal in Ambrosius’s eyes was brutal in its demanding. Arthur chewed his lip, his fingers toying with the buckle of his belt. It was hot in this room, with the shutters closed, hot and stifling. He would need to go soon, he had always disliked being enclosed within walls. He nodded.

  “Promise me, Arthur! Avow it!”

  Arthur shrugged, grunted.

  “On your life, and his, Pendragon! Swear it!”

  Arthur spread his hands, stood, scraping the stool backward as he came to his feet. “When the right time presents itself, I will tell him.” It was a lie, but lies never bothered Arthur.

  Closing his eyes Ambrosius nodded, content. There was something else he meant to tell his nephew. Something important? Later. He was so tired, so dreadfully tired. He would tell him later when next he woke. What was it about? Ah, yes. Later then.

 
; Before the day ended, Ambrosius Aurelianus died. He had not woken again, had not told Arthur of Amlawdd and Cerdic.

  May 482

  XVIII

  Cerdic stood at the edge of the wharf, legs apart, fists on hips, his smile generous and welcoming. The two ships eased alongside, both with sails furled, splendid in full regalia of shields hung at prow and stern, along the rails, each one exhibiting bright-painted motifs of eagles, boars, coloured patterns or magnificent creatures. Men stood behind, oars uplifted like line-planted wooden forests, and as the leading vessel bumped alongside a great impressive roar left the lips of the two crews. Ropes were tossed, fastened in a flurry of activity, the second ship manoeuvred, moored behind her sister. One man, standing much as Cerdic, fists nestled on hips, balancing with the sway of the boat, leapt from the deck of the first onto the wharf, his arms outstretched, pleasure immense. Cerdic strode to meet him. They embraced, clapped each other on the shoulder. From the second craft came two more men, all three with similar features, same-coloured hair, but these two were younger, sons of the first. Cerdic embraced them also, the pleasure at their coming genuine. Port, with his sons Maegla and Bieda, come from the Saxon lands to join with his kinsman-by-marriage.

  “Cerdic! Husband to the daughter of my mother’s sister!”

  “Port! Noble warrior, Cousin!” More embracing, more enthusiastic back-slapping.

  Bieda, the younger son by one year, noticed the boy hanging shyly behind Cerdic. Guessed him to be Cynric. “A fine lad!” he announced, gestured with an exaggerated sweep of the hand for him to step forward. “Come boy, show yourself.”