Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  Stood speechless, enraged, on the far side of the threshold.

  XLI

  The numbing agony had taken Medraut across the Hall and through that door, but he stood inside, the impetus gone, disbelief sweeping intention aside. My God! He thought, I was right. Caninus, Amlawdd… we are right.

  Before him, Bedwyr romping with Gwenhwyfar on the bed; laughing together, arms around each other. Before his father, he had been disgraced; yet all the while he had spoken right, she was the whore he had said her to be. The surge of passionate rage set loose in a great roar. He had no weapon, needed none. He leapt the distance between door and bed, his hands going around Bedwyr’s throat, feet kicking, teeth biting. Startled, Bedwyr attempted to push the assailant off, rolled from the bed, across the floor, in a flurry of desperate manoeuvres. Gwenhwyfar screamed, her reaction – Amlawdd had sent men in to murder both her and Bedwyr – justified as men pushed in through the door, snarling and fighting each other, some with blades drawn. She fumbled for the dagger beneath her pillow, leapt for the one tumbling furiously with Bedwyr, was dragged from him to be flung across the room, her back slamming into the timber wall, her head crunching on the support beam.

  Amlawdd truly believed at that moment the gods were on his side and he had a chance of making Caninus King. He clawed his way deeper into the press of fighting, bellowing as he made passage with boot, knee, elbow and dagger. “Traitor!” he roared, “Whore!” and for good measure, added the cry, “Murder!”

  Women were screaming, clawing their way to the sides of the Hall, away from the danger. Blood was spilling onto the timbers of the floor, benches were turned over, a torch was knocked from its sconce, the flames exploring the edge of a torn tapestry.

  Bedwyr was grappling with Medraut, was the one on top now. He had hold of his hair, was thumping his head to the floor, felt the hot scythe of pain swarm across his shoulder, down his arm, saw the blood gush in a stream of red. Jesu Christ, he thought, desperately attempting to stem the flow with one hand, keep Medraut away from his throat with the other. Jesu! Medraut is with them!

  XLII

  Amlawdd struck out with his sword laying it about him, left and right, his men cheering and shouting, the fight exhilarating. He heard Caninus squeal, glanced to his left to see him kneeling, clutching at blood soaking from his thigh. It ought be over soon, for his men were armed and defence of the Caer well under strength, and the surprise unguessed. He parried a sword, hissed as the blade came too close to his face. Ought be over… yet too many of Arthur’s men also had daggers and swords. Five and ten minutes, slightly longer. Still the fighting, Amlawdd’s men bunching together, grouping tighter, several back to back, the free use of weapons hampered by a neighbour’s arm.

  Gradually, with slow dawning, certain things began to register. The few burning tapestries had been torn from their hangings, the smell of damp smoke and wettened oak permeating over the stink of sweat and blood. The Hall was crowded with men. Arthur’s men. The fighting was fading, one or two swords jabbing here and there, a grunt as a man lunged forward with foot or fist. Flaring nostrils, breath rasping. The glisten of sweat. Too many men. Artoriani.

  Amlawdd lowered his sword, glowered as an officer of Arthur’s elite force took the weapon from him. Someone was sobbing, gasping against the pain, curled on the floor. Contemptuous, Amlawdd spat at Caninus. One by one, his men were disarmed, herded together, surrounded by Artoriani.

  “Did you think, Amlawdd, that we would trust you?” Bedwyr emerged from the chamber, holding a rough linen pad tight against his bleeding shoulder, his face grey, eyes blazing. Behind him, Gwenhwyfar, a cloak flung around her shoulders, a wine stain down the front panels of her undershift. At her side, Ider, breathing hard, blood on his sword. She leant heavily on his arm, her fingers pressed to the back of her head.

  Thank God for Ider and his men who had burst into her room from the courtyard; for Arthur’s foresight…and for the wisdom of his men.

  Gathering her strength and dignity, she lightly pushed Ider’s support aside, walked towards Amlawdd. Taking a dagger from one of the Artoriani, she held the blade to his throat.

  “Did you also think we would be such fools? That we would allow the Caer to fall to half strength?” She indicated the crowd of Artoriani in the Hall, all of them full-armed, full-dressed in war gear. “That we were not close watching as each of your men picked a blade from out of a barrel? The Artoriani rode but the few miles, circled around, crept back through the gates while you swilled your wine and filled your belly with flatulence.” She pressed the dagger tip into his skin. “Were my husband here,” she said, her voice level, menacing, “he would have you executed, here and now. But he is not.”

  “Na!” Amlawdd writhed in the grasp of the two men holding him. “If he were, you would not be bedding with Bedwyr!”

  She stared at him, long and cold and hard. “I am the Lady of Caer Cadan while he is gone.” Added, “Therefore I must do it.” Fast, she brought the blade round, slashed it through Amlawdd’s throat, cutting through flesh and sinew. His eyes widened in disbelief as he gasped for air. She has killed me, he thought, gods she has...

  No more thoughts, not in this world.

  Caninus vomited.

  Immediate, Gwenhwyfar turned to Medraut. Like Amlawdd, he was held between two men, his head hanging, body slumped. She stepped up to him, grasped his hair, lifted his head, the bloodied blade going to his throat also. “Your father brought you here, raised you. He could have left you to the mercy of the whore who was your mother, but he did not. And this is how you repay him?”

  Medraut could not meet her eyes. The shame in him felt as heavy as the lead mined from within the White Hills. Kill me, he thought. End it for me, end this misery. Knew she would not, for whatever else he was, he was also Arthur’s son.

  May 488

  XLIII

  Natanlius held the babe close, the child’s tiny hand clamped around his own index finger. He was beautiful, perfect. Another son, a brother to Constantine, who was himself two months away from the year old. It was good for brothers to be born and grow together, as he had with his. He missed them for they had been a close family; it was hard to be alone, the only brother to survive.

  He smiled down at Archfedd, who looked exhausted. At least he had her with him now, and two sons. Together they countered the loss of brothers.

  “Is he not a fine boy?” she asked.

  Handing the child carefully back to her, Natanlius bent forward, kissed her forehead. “Of course, but then he has a fine mother.”

  The women were bustling about the room, clearing away the remains of the disruption that always seemed to accompany birthing. Bowls, linen, unguents and oils. The last of them bobbed a curtsey, left the room. Archfedd cradled her sleeping son. He was warm and content in this new-come world, his small face, tiny lips, closed eyes. The soft down of fair, curled hair.

  “Father will be proud,” she said. “Two grandsons to follow his name, to hold Britain when they are grown.”

  “Let us hope there is a Britain to be held,” her husband replied gravely.

  They had heard the news, a week past, that Amlawdd had attempted to overthrow the Pendragon, had failed. The poor fool, they all said, could he not see he had walked into Arthur’s baited trap?

  To Archfedd’s anger, of the three leading traitors only Amlawdd had paid for it with his life. That pathetic whimpering stoat, Caninus, her father had allowed go free – had even given him Amlawdd’s stronghold! The Pendragon’s rage had been as boiling as a winter-churned sea, they had heard. Amlawdd’s men had waited, miserable and in fear, held in chains, given no food, little water, until the King had returned, riding home hard and fast from Powys. Most of them he had ordered hung. Their heads, so Archfedd was pleased to hear, adorned the gate towers of Caer Cadan, a stark reminder of what would befall those who went against their King. Of the third, Medraut, there was no word save he had fled.

  “Have you sent my father word of t
he child?” she asked, her green eyes glancing suddenly up at him. Natanlius seated himself on the side of the bed, tucked the shawl the tighter around his son’s small, dimpled chin, took her hand.

  “Of course. I sent a courier on my fastest horse.” Teasing, added, “Expect your mother here by dawn!”

  “Fool!” Archfedd answered, lifting her head so he might kiss her again, knowing not even her mother, for whatever reason, could ride so far so fast.

  She was much like Gwenhwyfar, Archfedd. The same flashing eyes and unruly hair, though its copper shading had darkened as she grew older, was not so curled. Her face had shadows of her father in the features, though, in the shape of the chin, slant of the eyes, the higher cheekbones. Her temper, too, was his. Nor was she the capable woman her mother was. Oh, Archfedd knew how to use sword or spear or dagger as efficiently as any man – yet she did not possess the cunning Gwenhwyfar had for a fight. Facing an opponent and coming away alive was more than being able to slash and parry with a blade. You needed to think quick, watch, wait, strike at the right moment, move fast. Move hard. Archfedd did not care for fighting; she was, perhaps, more the woman than Gwenhwyfar when it came to the things of the household. Sewing, weaving, the overseeing and preparing or preserving of foods; brewing ale, pressing wine. For Gwenhwyfar, her delight was a sword in her hand, or a horse beneath her, riding beside her lord husband. For Archfedd, her happiness lay in her sons and her home.

  “If my father cannot visit us soon,” she said, “we must take our sons to him, at Caer Cadan, so he may see for himself how handsome and strong they are.” The smile dropped from her face, a look of hardness taking its place. “He must declare Constantine his heir,” she stated. “You as Regent, until he is grown.”

  Indulgent, Natanlius patted her hand as he got up from the bed. She ought to rest, restore her strength. Her labour had not been long for this, the second child, but birthing was always a difficult business. He tucked the bed-furs around her, told her to sleep, let himself from the room.

  Outside, he elected to tour the rampart walkways. Saxon ships had been seen again recently, coming close to shore. One of his men swore there were signs that one might have moored.

  He was a strong-hearted man, Natanlius, happen a little on the quiet, serious, side; the amusement of a jest chortling in his mind rather than coming out as a guffaw. His feet to be stretched towards a warm fire, a bowl of venison stew between his hands – his idea of contentment. He enjoyed watching his wife at her loom, or playing with their first-born, took pride in her prettiness, her love. Would dread the day should he ever need do anything to hurt her. Took as much pride in his stronghold. And there he found the difficulty. Caer Morfa was his to protect and cherish so he might pass it on to his sons, as his father had. He understood and accepted that Arthur, the Pendragon, might need one day soon to proclaim the eldest, Constantine, as his heir, but liked it not. Too much sadness had already befallen the male seed of Arthur. He did not want its black shadow to reach out and touch the daughter or her sons also.

  As it would. Neither of those two living sons, Archfedd’s poisonous half-brothers, would allow children declared as heirs to grow into manhood. Medraut – who had turned traitor and fled Caer Cadan to who knew where – was bastard-born, but had the right to become King. And Cerdic. Ah, Cerdic would allow no one to stand in his way once he came full into his strength. Many believed, after all these years of peace, that there would not come a war between father and son. Cerdic wanted them to believe that, wanted them to pass year upon year looking to the horizon and seeing nothing save the smile of ripening corn and cattle, grazing fat. For when you looked long enough and saw the same thing again and again, eventually you stopped looking.

  And failed to see the storm until it lashed, wicked, at your door.

  October 488

  XLIV

  Twice, Medraut almost turned back. Only the presence of other travellers on the road kept him pressing onward. An old Roman road – the Saxons called them streets – running south, direct for the open mouth of the gates into Cerdicesora. A busy town by the outward look of the place, with a bustle of people coming and going, ox-wagons, donkey-carts, men and women on foot. Bales, bundles and barrels. A lively chatter of conversation, in a variety of tongues; an aroma of scents, pleasant and odious. Medraut’s mule plodded patient at his side, the saddlebags weighted with its cargo of silverware – not fine stuff, but good enough to sell. An inspired idea, it had seemed at the outset, this disguise as a silver-trader, for merchants were welcome anywhere within Saxon or British habitation, and he had purchased a few finer pieces to make his plausibility the more creditable. It had cost him the last of his gold, those few pieces that Gwenhwyfar had given him, along with a warm cloak and a bundle of food. Three days he had sat, chained in that cell, wretched in his deep misery. What a damned, idiot fool he had been! And then she had come, with Ider and two more of her guard, had him unchained and ordered him thrown from the Caer.

  “I ought have you dead, as Amlawdd is dead,” she had said, her voice indifferent, with no care or feeling, as if she were addressing a stranger, not the boy she had raised from childhood. “Your father would see you hanged when he returns.”

  “Then why not have an end to me now?” Medraut had asked, not understanding this seeming benevolence.

  And there was so much grief in her voice as she had answered, that Medraut had almost wept for shame: “Because,” she had said, “already your father has lost three sons to the darkness of death, another to the maliciousness of hatred and treachery. I would not have him be responsible for the loss of the fifth, and last, of his sons.”

  He knew then, as he walked down the cobbled lane from the Caer, with no knowing of where he was to go, he ought take his own life. Open his veins with his dagger, drown himself in the river, obtain poison; but he could not, he had not the courage even for that.

  But was this exile the better choice? This living death? As he ambled through the busy streets of Cerdicesora, he again wondered, as he had so many times these past months.

  Cerdicesora. A wealthy settlement if first impressions were aught to go by. The market stalls well laden, the children clothed, fed; the women bonny. The two taverns he passed were full, ale flowing plentiful from amphorae and jugs, the smell of hot pies and stews enticing. He would stop soon, fill his belly, quench his thirst, but first he need find Stefan, in the street of the silversmiths.

  Stefan had been recommended to him as a buyer and as a useful contact, for Stefan was silversmith to the ealdorman, Cerdic. Medraut asked directions, found him in the street of the silversmiths, over to the east of the town.

  “These pieces look familiar crafted,” Stefan remarked, his myopic eyes squinting suspiciously at the Wealas man, the foreigner, sitting opposite him on the far side of his smith’s bench. “They are, I think, not from your hands?”

  “Oh I could not work as fine as that!” Medraut admitted with an amiable smile. “I bought them off a man who cannot make the journey to Cerdicesora this season.”

  The old silversmith nodded, again held the piece in his hand close for inspection. He allowed no expression onto his face, set the buckle down, picked up the next item, an exquisite silver ring emblazoned with the device of a griffin. He scratched at the nape of his neck, rubbed his nose, sniffed a few times. Coughed. “If you bought these pieces,” the old man said, “you’d be wanting to make a profit.”

  Medraut was leaning on his elbow, chin cupped between his fingers and thumb, waiting patient and quiet throughout. He removed his hand in a brief gesture of agreement.

  The smith set the ring down, pushed the collection of pieces across the bench, shaking his head. “I will not pay more than they are worth. Sorry, lad.”

  Slowly, Medraut straightened his back, laced his fingers, as if considering. He moved the pile back towards the smith. “I ask for no higher payment. All I want for profit is something in kind.”

  Stefan pursed his lips. There was some good
silver amongst the things before him. The three plate dishes in particular would fetch a nice amount, mayhap from Lord Cerdic himself. “And what kind of a something would that be then?” He asked.

  For the third time Medraut almost abandoned his plan. This was madness coming here, what in the name of God was he doing? Get up, go home! Hah, he had no home! He had nothing, save the clothes he stood in and the stained name of a traitor. His wife, that first dawn after the treachery of Caer Cadan, had taken her belongings – aye, and his – and fled north, back to the hills around Caer Rhuthun, had entombed herself in a women’s holy house rather than be linked to the stench of the name Medraut. His father refused to think of him as son, and Archfedd, his half-sister, had refused to see him. He had gone to her to explain, to set his case, to try to tell someone he had been so grievously mistaken, that he was a fool and ashamed. But Archfedd had ordered him tossed beyond the gates of Caer Morfa as if he were a begging peasant. He had nothing and no one. The apology he so wanted to give to his father and Gwenhwyfar must hang unuttered, unpenanced. There was only this one thing left him.

  “I wish to be admitted into the Ealdorman’s Hall. To speak personally with Lord Cerdic.”

  The smith laughed, a wheezing, old man’s chuckle, which crackled in his lungs. “And you want me to see it so?” He shook his head, his eyes wrinkling with mirth. “You Wealas people are all fools! I have long known it!”

  Close to losing his nerve, Medraut fought the instinct to bundle his wares and bolt for the door at the front of this dark little smith’s bothy.

  Stefan was sucking at a loose tooth. “How do I know you are not harbouring plans to murder him?” He snapped, his amiability vanishing. “I would not have blood on my hands because of you!”