Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  Medraut’s expression was a mixture of horror and embarrassment. He stood pressing his back against the far wall. Morgaine, Arthur recognised immediately. She was hunched at the end of the tumbled bed, a fur loosely covering her nakedness, her hair unbound, uncombed. Her head had jolted up as Arthur had roughly entered, her eyes widening in fear, a gasp escaping her lips. She made no other sound, but the trembling was visible.

  Arthur shifted the grip of his weapon, stepped forward across the four paces of the room, brought the sword-point, with deliberate leisure, into the hollow of the Saxon’s throat. Except for the flicker of fear in the eyes and the slow, uncomfortable swallow, the man did not move. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, birth-naked. Wickedly, Arthur brought the sword lower to point at the private parts, a sneered smile coming to his mouth at the Saxon’s hastily stifled, indrawn breath.

  “Father, I… ” Medraut had to say something, had to explain.

  “Do not beg, boy. Not of me.”

  Medraut hesitated, the viciousness in that retort was acid sharp. He knew his father’s potential for anger – had witnessed it often enough, but could not place why he was so enraged over this. Was it so unreasonable for him to be here? Aye, he had a wife – but then, so did his father. Could that be it? Arthur did not want others to know he was visiting a… Medraut could not bring himself to think of that word about his mother. No, no that could not be it. Why bring Gweir if that was so? Unless… was the anger for the same reason as his own?

  That last time Medraut had come here, unsuspecting, tricked by the men… What if his father had stumbled on the knowing about Morgaine just this moment, as unsuspecting? What if his father had not known the woman here to be Morgaine? Expected to find a healing woman, as he, Medraut, had? To come in innocence to find her here. Could his father be shocked and enraged for that reason?

  “I… Father…“ he blurted, trying to ease the pain he was certain was also coursing through his father. “It – this – is not what you think!”

  Arthur did not take his attention from the Saxon, said to his son, “I would like to believe the pair of you had lured this turd here for my benefit, but knowing this bitch as I do, I doubt it.”

  “Medraut,” the Saxon said, hiding his fear by pretending arrogance, “could not lure a starving hawk to the bait. He is too incompetent even to clean his own arse.”

  “Well, you would know all about arse-wiping, wouldn’t you, Cerdic?”

  Medraut gasped, lurched forward, skin draining pale. Bile was rising in his throat. Cerdic? Had his father said the name, Cerdic?

  Arthur flicked his gaze, briefly, to Morgaine. Her head had dropped forward, tears were splashing, matting the fur. “And you? You thought this would never be discovered?”

  “Took you many years,” Cerdic chuckled. “I think we had a good sailing!”

  Arthur jabbed with the sword, Cerdic winced, edged backward.

  For how long then has my mother been here? Medraut was thinking. For how long has she been a whore to this Saxon? This Saxon, my own half-brother? He fell to his knees, vomited profusely. No one paid him heed.

  “Who else is in this?” Arthur snarled. “Someone must be bringing the trade in? Who supplies the weaponry? The arrows, the swords, the spears?” Bull’s blood, they had been such blind fools! For all these years they had known of a Whore of the Hills – there was even a lewd song circulating about her – but no one had known her to be Morgaine, Medraut’s mother, the Pendragon’s… what? What had she been? What she was now? And why should they know? She did not use the name, Morgaine. None other, save himself and Gweir – ah, and Medraut, and presumably, Cerdic – knew her for who she truly was. God’s blood! Under the scent of their noses she had been the means of that dreadful trade, a whore’s house where none would suspect the visits of men, British or Saxon, where none would question a wagon waiting outside.

  “Gweir,” Arthur ordered, “search outside, if it is not already loaded, there will be weaponry somewhere.” Gweir nodded, made to leave, paused as Arthur added, “While you are out there, make an end of the scum secured to that tree.” To Cerdic, “You should choose a more competent guard. Yours were asleep.”

  There was only the one scream. The drover. The other two at least had the honour to die silently.

  “They made me do it.” Morgaine lifted her tear-swollen face at the sound. “They forced me, I had no choice. I came to Britain because I wanted to see you, to see my son.” She shrieked as Arthur lurched forward, grabbed her by the hair and dragged her from the bed. “Who?” he bellowed, “Who forced you? Certainly not Cerdic, he might have visited you here, but he could not have set this little treachery into motion! Who?” She was on the floor, he was shaking her, kicking her. The memory of all those dead at Llongborth – all those British men slaughtered by weaponry provided by a traitor, a British traitor. Enraged, he had no mercy for her.

  Medraut stumbled to his feet, lurched against his father, attempting to stop him. Cerdic seized the opportunity to run. Like he had always maintained, Arthur was a fool. Had the position been reversed, he would have not hesitated, Arthur would be dead, instantly run through. Kill first then think about the situation. That was Cerdic’s policy.

  As Medraut frantically hauled at the Pendragon’s arm, Cerdic edged for the door. One, two, three paces. Four – and he was outside, running for the sheer terror of survival. He saw the horse, Medraut’s, scrabbled into the saddle, heeled it into a gallop, ducked as a thrown dagger whistled past his shoulder, yelled for the lazy brute of an animal to move faster. Gweir, running from behind the bothy tried to launch himself forward, to grab at the bridle, but the horse swerved, was into the trees, away.

  Swearing, Gweir turned to Arthur who cursed more vehemently and more explicitly. “Shall I run for the horses? Do we track him?”

  “To what point? There will be a craft waiting for him somewhere downriver. He’ll be away, out to sea.” With the first person he should meet, dead, either for his clothes or for sniggering at a naked man riding a horse. “I hope your balls get chafed, you dog turd!” Arthur bellowed into the trees, to where the horse had disappeared. He swung around as a flurry of movement swept from the doorway. Morgaine! Mithras, he needed her, needed her to talk!

  Hurtling after her, he shouted for Gweir to head her off, but Morgaine had always been slender, quick on her feet, and she had only the few yards to go. Desperately, she threw herself into the cave, ran into the darkness, splashing into the torrent of the river. It was high, running swollen from the rains, coming up almost to her thighs, the current strong. The first cave too, was wetter than usual, water running down the rock walls, dripping into puddles, small pools. Thrusting her body into half-swim, half-run, she followed the watercourse. She had no light, but needed to go further in, hide herself. She ducked under the water, again tried to swim, but had to claw her way to the surface, grasp at an overhang of rock to gasp for breath.

  Sobbing, she realised this day, this one time when she desperately needed it, her route of safety could not help her. The water was too high, too strong a current. Swallowing tears and river, bruised from a battering against rocks and boulders and fighting for breath, she hauled herself out. The ground was drier here, the air warmer. These inner caves were almost a constant temperature, warm for such heavy darkness. She felt along the walls, fumbled for a niche between the rock that she could press herself into. This was a cave she knew, but not so well as to be able to move freely about without light. She pressed her nakedness against the solidity of the rock, was surprised to feel it wet in places, trickling water, forced herself to be still. To hide. It would be the only way to remain alive, for Arthur if he found her, she knew, would have her killed.

  XXXI

  Arthur stood one pace inside the darkness, groaned. He could not go in there. Knew he would have to. Gweir fetched light, two lamps and a bundle of tallow candles from the bothy. They took a lamp each, sheltered the flame with their hands and stepped out into the darkn
ess. The feeble glow was a pathetic glimmer, overpowered by the immensity of the surrounding nothingness, the strident awe of complete blackness. Arthur raised his to head height, attempting to widen the pool, choked down fear as menacing shadows leapt and danced, exaggerated the cracks and crannies into ominous chasms. Where in Mithras’s name was the ceiling? The walls trickled with moisture. Ferns and mosses grew on the rocks, on the walls the light sparked colour, seeming to make everything move as it swayed, making shadows flicker. Icicles of rock, thrusting from the floor, dangling from above. Did the floor heave?

  “My lord?” Gweir had served the Pendragon long enough to know this fear of confined spaces. “Sir, I will go in. You wait here.”

  “Sod off.” Determined, Arthur strode ahead, holding the lamp as high as he dared against the drip of water. A maze of tunnels, gape-mouthed, or low, narrow and menacing. He followed the river, stepping cautiously over tumbles of rock, runnels of water, his boot crunching once on a scatter of bones. He dipped the lamp downward, closing his mind to the sudden sway of rearing shadow and darkness, shuddered. There was nothing to show they were human, could well have been the remains of a wolf’s or bear’s dinner. But there again… he swallowed hard, ignored the heavy hammering of his heartbeat, tried to shove the fear from his mind. The walls were pressing inward, the ceiling squeezing downward. There must be a ceiling somewhere, just beyond the reach of light.

  No sunlight came here, no sweet birdsong or hiss of rain. The ferns and mosses that adorned the first entrance cave could not grow here, nothing here, only rock and blackness. No sound beyond the eerie, monotonous drip of water. No point in calling out. Morgaine would not answer. He did though, just to break that oppressive silence. Was rewarded by a battering of his own voice, hurling and bouncing from one wall to another, around and around, echoing, repeating. Mocking.

  There were shelves and pockets lodged among the rock, darker spaces beyond… other caves, other paths. She could be anywhere.

  They stayed with the run of the river, to guide them back, as much as to go forward, searched for what, in the stark confine of this darkness, seemed an hour or more, but was less than a score of minutes. Arthur was shaking and sweating, his breathing rasping.

  “We would be better to set a guard outside,” Gweir suggested, anxious, for Arthur’s breathing was becoming as uneasy in this underground world. “We will not find her in here, and she must come out, eventually.” Practical, he added, “She may have already ducked behind us.”

  Gods! Arthur had not thought of that. “Could she seal the entrance?” he gasped, “Shut us in?” Never to see daylight again, to die in here confined, in the evil of blackness...

  Gweir assured him not.

  This was ridiculous! Arthur lifted his lamp high, swung it in a circle, illuminating the path, narrow here, wetter than other places with water seeping along the walls, puddling at their feet, running into the flow of the river. Gweir was not afraid, so why was he? He forced several deep, calming breaths. He would have to conquer this thing, damn it! Would have to! He banged his hand, hard, against an overhang of rock, ran the palm against the surface, wrinkling his nose at the cold feel beneath his hot skin. Screamed as the solidity began to give way, to topple forward.

  Gweir, without the cramped restriction of fear, acted faster than his lord. Dropping his lamp, he pitched forward, hauled at Arthur, hurling him away, downward, into the river. The wall ahead crumpled with an enraged roar, a sound louder than anything Gweir had ever heard. Louder than the clash of battle, louder than the howl of a winter-raged wind or the crash of overhead thunder. Rocks fell and rolled, hitting against his legs, his shoulders. Rocks that shouted and bellowed as they fell in their might of anger, water gushing into the holes and crannies left behind.

  And then there was silence, a dreadful stillness, where only the water dripped, and the river drifted.

  XXXII

  Medraut had waited outside the cave, too distraught to follow his father, attempt to find his mother. It was unseemly for a man to weep. God’s mercy, but how Cywyllog would lash him for this weakness were she to know! At this moment he cared not one grain for what she would think; he sat, knees bent beneath him on the rain-sodden grass, weeping like an abandoned child. He had ached for so long over the decision whether to come here again. Or did he forget the woman who had birthed him? Set behind him the knowing she lived as a whore to the traders of the lead mines. A whore to British and Saex, freeman and slave. His mother. Morgaine.

  All these months had the anguish wrestled in his mind, his conscience. Why now? Why had he made his mind to come now? He could have come on the morrow, or the day before, but no, it had been this day. What cursed devil had brought him here, this day!

  And why had he come? To talk? To see her? To confirm what she was, to hope he had been wrong?

  Jesu, what a naive fool he had been!

  He covered his face with his hands, unable to believe what he had witnessed, unable to accept the shrieking horror of it all. His mother, his own damned, God-cursed mother, a fornicating whore. He had walked into that bothy – light of the Cross, how could he have been such a fool – so sure he had been wrong, that she would welcome him. He had just lifted the latch and walked in!

  They had been coupling, she astride him, her head back in a leer of pleasure as the man beneath had grunted and heaved.

  Medraut had stood there, inside the doorway, frozen, horrified, watching the ugly pleasure of it. And when they had noticed him? She had leant back, exposing her nakedness and they had laughed. Mocking, shaming.

  His stomach heaved and again he was violently sick on the grass. Cerdic. The man had been Cerdic. The Saxon. Mother of God, his own half-brother! He groaned, shut his eyes, trying to stop the images slamming in his head. His mother and Cerdic!

  He plunged to his feet as he heard the grumble, then the great, monstrous roar of noise from within the cave, and with it a sound like the clash of a smith’s hammer on metal, a frightening, eerie sound. Terrified, he stood, immobile, convinced some dreadful creature would emerge, teeth bared, slavering, dripping blood. Nothing. Cautious, he crept to the entrance, peeped in, soft-voiced called. “Father? Gweir? Are you there?” Gained courage, tried again, louder, ran inside a few yards, genuflecting for protection, realised he would be useless without light. Ran to the bothy, searched, sobbing again when he realised Gweir had taken everything.

  He returned to the cave, stood at the entrance shouting. No answering call, no muffled cry. No responding reassurance that they were unharmed, on their way out. Nothing, only his own voice coming back to him.

  What could he do? Fetch help? From where?

  The road! The miner’s road! Fool, why had he not thought of that before now!

  By chance he found the tethered horses, recognised Onager, took Gweir’s dun, not trusting that brute of a chestnut – he might be an old animal now, but he could still pack a kick like a mule. The dun was a good horse, sure-footed, agile. Medraut mounted, headed him for the track, pushing him as fast as he dared on the rutted, muddied, slippery ground. Smoke! A campfire!

  His breath was sobbing in his chest as he came upon Arthur’s men, the escort. Words tumbled in a confusion of anguish, he had to repeat himself to make them listen, make them understand.

  All day to search, to fetch up men from the mines, men experienced with the underground, used to the dank and the dark. All that day, most the night. Dark mattered not inside those caves where the lord of blackness ruled.

  They brought Arthur out two hours before dawn. They had found him, sodden, cold, shivering and mumbling, his soul straying between the conscious world and the merciful haven of a release into another. He was injured and ill with a fever, but he was alive.

  Medraut had spoken of a woman. Of her, they found no sign. But from that day, the Whore of the Hills was never again in her bothy by the cave.

  Gweir, they left to lie where he was. A covering of rock and debris as good as earth and mud.

&n
bsp; The blackness of one lonely grave as good as another.

  October 487

  XXXIII

  Cerdic knew they mocked him, the British – ja, and the English. No easy thing to hide the embarrassment of riding for your very life, birth-clad through the woods, to meet, of all damned people, Amlawdd! That he had been going up to Morgaine for himself was obvious – almost, at that instantly suppressed snigger of amusement, Cerdic had been tempted not to warn him of who else was up there at the bothy by the caves. Then they had heard the noise, a boom louder than ever any roar of thunder could be, followed by a sound that resembled the mighty clash of musicians’ cymbals, a great whoosh of air from where the caves were. Amlawdd had stopped his laughter then, had offered Cerdic his own cloak, and together they had made their way through the woods south, to where Cerdic’s craft was moored.

  Autumn was settling in now, firing the marshes into the reds and golds of her fine, warm colours. The days were shortening, the nights coming with a nip of frost that bit at your cheeks and fingers. If Cerdic had never unduly cared to take Britain for his own before, he did now. For his father to find him with that woman, to have seen the expression of contempt and loathing on Arthur’s face, and to hear the laughter afterward. He could hear it now, the sniggering, the pointing fingers, the lewd comments.

  He stood at the quayside at Cerdicesora surveying the bob of trading boats and longships, waiting for his men to ready his craft, a beautiful ship, one of the best. His wealth was steadily mounting with the trade coming into his harbour and his prestige was rising along with it – most had now forgotten the shambles that had been the battle at Llongborth – until that damned stupid episode with Morgaine had reminded them. Curse Amlawdd for not keeping his tongue from wagging, for spreading it to all who cared to listen!

  Those who had whispered against him after Llongborth were quick to revise the old tales of the fool, Cerdic of the West Saxons. “He ran from Llongborth,” they mocked, “but at least there, he had his balls tucked in his bracae!”