Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  The river had fallen behind, only trees and outcrops of rock surrounded them as the path lurched into a steeper incline. Natanlius pulled the girl up, did not let go of her hand as they emerged from the shade into a level, grassy clearing. They had found the river again, only here, it ran slower, widening into a tranquil shallow pool, before dropping abruptly over a rocky edge into the white foam of a forty-foot or so waterfall.

  Archfedd went to see it closer, taking Natanlius with her, clinging to his strength as she peeped cautiously over, down into the cascading torrent. Immediately below, another pool, hissing and boiling with the spray, rock-edged, no doubt deep.

  “Come away,” Natanlius urged her. “‘Tis dangerous so close to a fall.” Archfedd needed no second asking.

  Mel had disappeared again, they could hear her barking joyfully somewhere ahead chasing squirrels or birds. Fool dog would not know what to do with one were she to catch it! Archfedd called to her, knowing she would not come until her own interest brought her back.

  The climb up, although enjoyable, had been hard work and Archfedd felt the uncomfortable trickle of sweat down her back; a hot enough day without the effort of exercise. The pool appeared to be only a few feet deep, the stones and rocks shining beneath the dance of surface sunlight, the clear water so cool and inviting. In a moment, she had her boots off, her skirt hitched high about her thighs, was stepping in, enjoying the delicious coldness that stung her legs, tickled her toes. “Come in!” she teased Natanlius. “Strip your bracae and tunic and come in!”

  Natanlius was tempted. But to kiss a pretty girl beneath the shade of the trees was one thing, to strip naked and romp in the water with her… Ah no, not when that girl happened to be the King’s daughter! Instead, he removed only his sword belt and sprawled on the grass to watch her. Plucking a blade of grass he chewed at its sweetness, trying not to look over-closely at those long, inviting legs.

  The mountain rivers were cold, too fast-flowing for the sun to warm their passing, too cold to stand paddling for overlong. Archfedd scrambled from the water, flung herself full-length beside Natanlius, lay with her eyes closed enjoying the heat of the sun falling full on her face. A shadow dropped across her and then the touch of his mouth against hers, the feel of his hands on her body, her breasts.

  “Do you think,” Natanlius whispered, “the sixth son of a noble lord would stand chance of asking a king’s daughter to become his wife?”

  “That would depend on what manner of a man this sixth son was,” Archfedd answered with a shy giggle as she guided his hand up under her skirt, along the length of her damp legs, “and on whether the King’s daughter liked him enough.” She pulled him nearer, closer, her senses pulsing as she became aware of his want for her.

  The dog had trotted into the clearing, plunged into the water to drink and found a stick bobbing there. She enjoyed the game of chasing sticks. Dripping water from her coat and mouth, she took it to her mistress, and with an enthusiastic bark dropped it onto the man who lay atop of her.

  Suppressing an oath, Natanlius rolled from Archfedd. Twice now, the dog had stopped him from taking his manhood over far! He did not know whether to praise the animal or curse it. Archfedd, however, was irritated. His presence had aroused her; she had never known the close intimacy of a man. Oh, the occasional light kiss, aye, the feel of a hand around her waist, beneath her breast, but not this closer, more exciting, urgent thing. She liked Natanlius, wanted him to be her first man, her man; her husband. As her father had, no doubt, intended.

  Annoyed at the bitch she took hold the stick and tossed it away, forgetting the fool dog would chase it. Mel went after it, racing over the short, sun-browned grass to where it had disappeared among the greenery of bushes… only they were not bushes but the tops of trees, trees that had their roots forty feet below where the river had gouged a ravine from its race over that waterfall.

  Screaming, Archfedd thrust Natanlius from her, ran to where a moment before her dog had been.

  The man did not think, acted only with instinct; he plunged over the edge where the dog had fallen, almost falling himself, grasping branches to steady his descent, grabbing at slender trunks, bracing himself with his feet that tangled in bracken and bramble, jarred against rock. Slithered, slid and tumbled. He was down, a little bruised, but in one piece.

  Archfedd had run to where the trees gave way to bare rock, to where she had first looked down onto the cascade of water, knelt there, watching for Natanlius, eye searching for her dog. Natanlius appeared from the tangle of trees and bracken; she cupped her hands around her mouth, called desperately. “Can you see her! Is she there?”

  He did not hear, the noise of the water was deafening. He made his way carefully over the wet, slippery rocks, knelt at the edge of the foaming, white-bubbling pool. Damn silly dog could be anywhere, engulfed under the hurl of the water, submerged in the pool, swept downstream… he saw something dark bobbing among the turmoil of water – a lump of bark. Then something else! There she was, trying to swim against the current, trying to keep her head above the frantic swirl of water! He called her, urging her to him. The dog heard, for she struck out towards him but the strength of the plunging river swept her aside.

  Again and again, she tried to come to him. Natanlius looked around for a branch, something to reach out to hook her with. He dared not go in himself. Who knew how deep it was? He could be swept away, carried, tossed and bludgeoned down to the lake. He lay down, stretched out as far as he could above the foaming noise, reached out his hand – and a surge of water lifted the dog forward. He had her ear! He hauled, grasped her ruff with his other hand, dragged and pulled her – rolled on his back, lay gasping and panting. The dog crouched beside him, shivering, cold and frightened. Vomited water over his arm.

  Opening his eyes, Natanlius surveyed where he had plunged down, his passing marked by torn branches, battered ferns, a few dislodged rocks. How in all Hades was he to get up again? Grasping the dog by her collar he set her at the sheer wall, pushing her rump before him, encouraging her to scrabble for a foothold, found a handhold for himself, then a low branch, and heaved. Clutching hold of anything firm that held his weight, breathing hard, he worked his way upward, thrusting the dog before him – and hands clasped at her, took her, came again to grasp his hand, pull him up that last yard, and he lay panting, winded, more than a few scratches on his face and hands.

  Archfedd was crying. She rubbed at his hands, his back, not knowing what to do for him, how to thank him. Feebly, he pointed at the dog. “I’m in one piece, see to the dog,” he gasped.

  I wonder sometimes, he thought, whether women are worth all the trouble they cause.

  Then Archfedd was beside him again, her arms going around him, her head burrowing into his shoulder. He put his hand on her hair, held her close, until her trembling eased.

  Aye, he answered his own thought, happen they are.

  August 486

  XXIV

  Caer Cadan, the King’s stronghold, was subdued without the presence of Arthur and the others – Medraut even missed Archfedd. At least her criticisms were offset by laughter and a love of life. Cywyllog’s continuous censuring was melancholic, her character dismal. Even during the celebration of their wedding, she had barely smiled.

  Why in the name of God had he wed her? What had possessed him? What foolish idiocy had driven him to want her for his own? Na, that was not wholly true. He had not pursued her. It had just happened, last winter it had been, during the time of the Nativity Festival. As often before, Lord Geraint’s widow and her family had come as guests – with her, Aurelius Caninus.

  Caninus, grandson to Ambrosius Aurelianus, inheritor of all that noble man’s estate, and kin to Arthur below Medraut and the whoreson Cerdic, his heir – though not named as such by Arthur. He had none of the honour of his father, Cadwy, or the gentleness of his mother, Ragnall. That good woman who had, with her daughter, passed into God’s Kingdom from the ravages of fever barely three months after Ba
don. Caninus was a lad new into manhood, and overproud of it, he had an arrogant charm that drew the maids like dull-painted moths to the brilliance of the flame. Young smiles did not see behind the handsome mask of confident, carefree boastfulness. A girl could so easily be flattered at exaggerated compliment and expansive attention. He danced, he talked. Performed, Medraut thought, like a dressed actor playing a well-rehearsed part of the bachelor lover. A vain coxcomb, with, as Medraut knew, a vile streak of cruelty. Watching him prance and exhibit before the ladies, even Arthur had become exasperated by his swaggering. To the maids, however, he brought a merriment of honeyed words and blatant adulation. More than one was lured into the tumble of the stored hay while Caninus resided at Caer Cadan.

  One declining. Cywyllog.

  When Ambrosius died there had been difficulty over deciding where the students of his school ought to go. Many opted to remain within the monastery of Ambrosium, but the younger ones, it was thought, would be better to go to Brother Illtud at his new-founded school of Llan Fawr Illtud. The boys Gildas and Maelgwyn went there, along with Davydd and Sampson. Caninus went into Geraint’s household and Medraut returned with his father to Caer Cadan – along with several of the noble-born young women who would take position as handmaids to the Queen.

  Cywyllog was too sensible to listen to Caninus’s ridiculous flattery, too practical to be taken in by his boasted prowess. And beside, she too knew of his malicious streak – she wore the scar still, pale above her left temple, where a stone meant for a litter of pups had cut deep.

  Was Medraut impressed by this? Was it her stoic contempt that first drew him to, as he thought, admire her? It must have been, for by the first budding of early spring he had sought permission from his father to wed her. Arthur had queried his choice, suggesting, although not outright, the girl was dour. And now, these few months later? There was no passion, no warmth, and as for love… Why had Cywyllog accepted him? The answer had come plain on the night of their wedding. Vengeance.

  She could not stab at Arthur, hurt him or his pride and manhood, but she could hurt his son. Oh, there was enough to legitimise the marriage – Medraut could not complain that she did not fulfil her duties, did not neglect him for any need he might have, be it for a full belly of food or cleaned boots; a new-woven cloak or the intimacies demanded by marriage. She was clever, Cywyllog. Too late, Medraut had discovered that.

  He would have liked to have ridden north to Gwynedd with his father, but someone had to stay, someone need oversee the daily training of the war horses, listen to the complaints of the common people, make judgements, punish the wrongdoers; take on the temporary responsibilities of a king. Medraut was not a king, but he was the King’s son, and deliberately Arthur had placed the burden on his shoulders. In private, the Pendragon did not think the lad would have the stamina or stomach to see the duty through. For that reason, he left others, trusted, wiser men, to keep unobtrusive eye on him and the daily workings of Caer Cadan, but like it or not, Medraut was his heir – unless he chose Caninus. No, that was not an option Arthur would be tempted to consider; nor would he consider Cerdic.

  Unexpected to them both, father and son, Medraut managed well, for he had a good ear for listening, a knack for making sensible decision – save the fool decision to wed with Cywyllog. Happen he had not inherited a talent for the intricacies of battle and war, but the gift of the ability of organisation and administration did not go unnoticed by all within the Caer, nor by his father, who was impressed by the sending of regular written, accurate reports and accounts.

  Two events happened on the same day at Caer Cadan. News reached them that Archfedd had wed with Natanlius, and Bedwyr had arrived home from his years of journeying abroad. Both filled the Caer with an air of celebration and joy, and Medraut ordered a feast to be prepared for that evening’s Gather.

  He had barely met Bedwyr, and then as a child when first he had come to Britain. He remembered the tall, deep-voiced man only vaguely, for he had disappeared soon after the victory of Badon. Medraut had been too young to wonder why, but he had heard enough in the intervening years to understand the reason. Hard it must be for a man who had loved a woman, expected to take her as wife, then to see her happy with another. Aye, even if that other was her husband.

  He found Bedwyr an easy man to befriend, was disappointed to learn he intended to ride on, north, to join with the Pendragon.

  “I have been too long absent,” Bedwyr explained, sharing a congenial flagon of wine with Medraut in the privacy of what was Arthur’s own chamber – Medraut’s, while his father was away. “I doubt the ladies – nor the King – will forgive me, were I to languish here waiting for their return.”

  Talk of the women reminded Medraut of his half-sister’s marriage. Bedwyr was pleased at the news, although he expressed astonishment at how the years had passed him by. “She was a child when I left!” he declared. He asked after Natanlius, probing as to his background, his family; seemed eager to meet with him.

  The marriage delighted Medraut. A husband might quieten that quick temper of hers. Too much to hope Arthur would grant them a stronghold somewhere far distant from Caer Cadan! Ah, to be free of Archfedd’s barbed sarcasm. Raising his goblet of wine, he proposed long health and happiness to the couple, enthusiastically echoed by Bedwyr.

  Was it then that Medraut had his idea? Or later, when they prized open the sealing wax from a third flagon of Arthur’s best wine?

  “I can take a few days to be gone from here – the Caer will run smooth without me. Why do I not ride part the way with you? I have a fancy to purchase some especial bridal gift for my sister -what do you suggest?”

  And so they had talked, and decided. Medraut would leave with Bedwyr in two days. They would ride north-west into the White Hills, Bedwyr going on, northward to Gwynedd, Medraut to the place where the silver was extracted from the mined lead and cast into bowls and plates, spoons and goblets. He would purchase his half-sister something beautiful and expensive for her new life as wife to Natanlius.

  Happen it would impress her enough to ease the taint of mistrust that had been between them both through all these years.

  XXV

  With an escort of four men, Medraut and Bedwyr rode from the Caer soon after dawn, when the clouds were gathering to the west, boasting rain. It would be welcome, for the sun had blazed too hot, too long.

  A steady jogged pace, the two men easy in their conversation, talking as if they had known each other many years, not but a few days. Crickets chirruped among the heat-dried grass of the Summer Land; a lark sang; further on, another. The steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves, the creak of leather, jingle of harness. He ought not think such thoughts, but oh, how joyous it was to be riding away from his wife for three, happen four days!

  Yns Witrin to their left, the dark cone of the Tor rising to meet the louring sky. His mother had come from there, so his father had told him. Where was the place of his own birthing, Medraut wondered? Beside the lake that even in the hottest summer lay at the foot of that pagan, mystical hill – or away up there on the summit, where the eye .of the Goddess could have watched over his mother’s labour? Had his mother sat, gasping through the birth pains with her back pressed against the great Stone, the sacred symbol of oath and eternity. He could see it clearly, bright, illuminated, as the early sunlight struck against its granite surface. He asked Bedwyr if he knew how tall it was. The older man confessed he had never climbed the Tor to find out.

  “Ask your father,” he suggested. “He has been up there.”

  Medraut had heard it was the height of a man, difficult to judge from this distance. One day, he must go up there. He had never liked to, though, for Ambrosius and the monks had instilled into the boys the evilness of the old ways, the pagan places and heathen gods. That was all an anomaly to Medraut. If the non-Christian way was so bad, why was Arthur a good king? Why did people follow him, love him? The Pendragon was no Christian. But then, there were not over-many within the Church
who held a fondness for him. His mother must have. The questions came marching in again. Easy to think, to puzzle as you rode, to let the mind wander and sieve through the many possible answers.

  Where was she, his mother? Alive, dead? Did he care? Not really. He barely remembered her. Gwenhwyfar had been more of a mother than his natural one – even though she had an inclination towards indifference. Gwenhwyfar had no love for him, why should she? At least she had, from the first, shown him kindness, had seen he wore warm clothes, had a full belly. Nursed him through illnesses. Did he remember Morgaine for that? He could not even recall her face.

  The road was a good one, well maintained -that was something they could no longer lay at Arthur’s feet – the main roadways were all repaired. Holes filled, drainage ditches redug, and not just here in the King’s own land, elsewhere also. Roads constructed with the strength of Rome running to north, south and west. East, ah, that was Saex territory. Let them see to their own arrangements, Arthur said.

  Medraut parted amicably from Bedwyr, who turned to join the road that would meet eventually with the eastern bank of the Hafren river, and the north. The White Hills loomed grey and cloud-covered, an undulating cluster of hills cut by the rift of the Great Gorge and pocked by natural caves and man-dug mines. A lure for Rome when first she made decision to claim Britain for herself. Corn, fine hunting dogs. Tin and lead, all these plentiful in Britain. From these mines came the lead to line the great bath at Aquae Sulis, to bring water along the aqueducts into towns and fortresses. Lead and its precious extraction, silver. Lead for making pewter and coffins.

  The mines within the White Hills were still operable although not so busy and economical as they were during the height of Rome. Nearby, a cluster of settlements where the craftsmen gathered, and it was to here Medraut was headed, where he passed two contented days selecting the stuff he wanted to purchase, and watching, fascinated, as the silversmith created his beautiful ware. For himself, he purchased a silver ring, detailed with the figure of a running stag. He wore it on the second finger of his right hand. On the smallest finger sat a battered gold ring that had once been his father’s.