No moon. When would the moon return? Soon. Full moon. His mind was slurring, tiring with the cold, numb ache of his limbs. There was something he had heard about the moon. Something Cerdic had said. And Medraut snapped his eyes open, alert, awake. To march at the waning moon. Cerdic intended to march into Arthur’s lands, to fight within the month.
The next thought tumbled after the first. Did Arthur know? Was the Pendragon aware of the number of men Cerdic had beneath his banner now? Of the strength, the determination of those who called themselves Cerdicingas, the People of Cerdic?
And then the sound registered. The familiarity of it jerked his senses, shouted at his shattered will to survive. He lifted his head, saw, not too far away the shore resting darker than the pale gleam of the sea, the wide expanse of night sky. Recognised the sound of the sea caressing the reeds. For a moment, as he attempted to propel himself forward, he found himself in a new danger for the energy of the tide swept him back, then hurled him forward, the waves strong, reluctant to release him from their snare. He had to make land, had to get himself from this current, else he would be swept out into nothingness. With one hand he paddled forward, determined, persistent. His feet touched on the muddied ooze of sand, scraped shingle. He had made it.
Arthur must already know of Cerdic’s movements. But what if he did not?
XLVIII
Good intentions remain good while in the sublime regions of the mind. In practice they seldom work out, as Medraut discovered. He sat in the lee of Caer Cadan’s lowest rampart huddled against the pre-dawn chill. Many days it had taken him to walk from the coast to the Summer Land; hard days, where on occasion he went without food or shelter. His feet were sore and bleeding, his chin in need of a shave, a bath would be welcome, dry clothes. The idea was to wait for the gates to open at dawn, enter the Caer and demand to be taken to Arthur. The Pendragon would be delighted at receiving the news Medraut brought, so much so, there would follow instant forgiveness and embracing, smiles and a few tears. Ah, the stuff of harpers’ tales! The problem was, tales were seldom true.
Waiting, with a ragged cloak gathered around his shivering body, he realised the joy of an errant son returning to a forgiving father would not occur. The cloak, he had removed from a Saxon fisherman’s hut. It stank of fish. Now he was actually here, he realised more probably, Arthur would have him run through with a sword before exchange of a single word.
What he needed was to meet quietly with a friendly face, someone who would intervene between himself and his father. Someone like Gwenhwyfar.
The sky was paling over to the east, the darkness easing into grey and colourless pink. He could not wait by the ramparts for he would be found, moved on or arrested. Would that be an idea? It would get him into the Caer – aye, and beaten, thrown into a cell. Na, he would wait for Gwenhwyfar, down by the tavern walls where the beggars tended to collect, where she would occasionally come as Lady of the Caer, to scatter bread or give discarded clothing. Hoped he would not need wait over long, for the swelling crescent of the new moon was drifting against the ocean of the sky.
“… And that beggar has been seen again, hanging around the young horses he was, yester-eve. Would you like him moved on?”
Examining a tooth in the hand-held bronze mirror, Arthur murmured a brief acknowledgement to the end of the officer’s report. The usual stuff, the daily roster for drill and training, for duties. The lists of illness, injury, a recommendation for promotion. The tooth was becoming more painful, the gum sore, swelling. It would need to come out, for there was obviously poison building beneath its rotten enamel. Not yet, the pain was bearable for a while longer. Arthur knew nothing worse than facing the tortures of the tooth-puller.
This beggar. He was becoming somewhat of a nuisance, hanging around the gates, scuttling into shadows when anyone approached, huddled and bent, his hood pulled over his face. Of course, the Caer had its share of the poor who clung to the ragged muddle of wattle sheds behind the tavern at the base of the lane. Men and women – more than a few children – who came hoping to receive the benevolence of their King. Arthur did not ignore them, but neither did he encourage their presence. What was left from the meal at Gathering was sent down for them, along with the occasional ragged cloak or worn pair of boots. Hand-outs, charity. It was for the lord of a stronghold to take care of the infirm, the ill, the ragged and the unwanted. But to a degree only.
“What was he doing by the horses?” Arthur asked, irritated. He had more important things to tend this day without the need to be bothered by a stinking peasant. Were Bedwyr here, he would pass the matter over to him, but he was still away from the Caer, over at Aquae Sulis enjoying, it seemed from his infrequent letters, the hospitality of the local women rather than paying mind to matters of business.
“He was looking at them, Sir, nothing more, ran off when my men approached.”
Arthur rubbed at the ache in his jaw. There were several petitions he should respond to this morning and he would need to seek advice about the increase of import tax. Always an unpopular decision. He should be at Aquae Sulis himself, discussing these issues, but he could not leave the strategic advantage of Caer Cadan and his men. Not while these rumours of Cerdic were running at a gallop. “Have this beggar brought in for questioning. Ensure he gives answers.”
The officer saluted, withdrew from the chamber.
Gwenhwyfar glanced up from finishing her letter to Archfedd. She would like her daughter to move back to the Caer for Natanlius’s stronghold of Caer Morfa was too vulnerable, too close to Cerdic’s land, but Archfedd was as strong-minded as her mother. Gwenhwyfar would never leave her husband or his men when the tide of danger began washing against the shield-wall; neither would Archfedd.
“I will check the yearlings this morning,” she said, rolling the parchment and dripping hot wax to seal it. “The bay with the white legs may be promising, and the lame grey ought to be brought up again for examination.”
Arthur absently nodded. Gwenhwyfar had taken full responsibility for the horses this season, for his thigh was aching more than it had in the past. Old wounds, old scars, the reminder of a long past and an increasing age. He was four and fifty, with hair more grey than brown, and all the aches and groans that went with someone of more than half a century of age. It was no small achievement, but when the east wind blew and the pain roared up from his leg, he wondered if the acclaim was worth it. With this damn tooth adding to his misery, he found himself asking that question more frequently. Had he a son to remove some of the burden from him… Llacheu, Amr, Gwydre, aye, or even Medraut. He had shown a talent for administration, a liking for the tedious, everyday bureaucracy that went hand in glove with kingship. Ah, no use regretting what was not to be, that was as senseless as trying to catch a rainbow.
The letter marked with the imprint of her ring, Gwenhwyfar ambled to the inner doorway, propped open at this busy hour of the morning, called for the courier awaiting her order. Arthur had several similar parchments for Natanlius, already in the lad’s leather bag. The man saluted smartly, jogged from the Hall to his horse, ready saddled. Arthur’s couriers were the best; reliable, innovative men, who handled the responsibility of delivering the King’s word with all the faith and expediency entrusted them. A light rain drizzled outside, though the grey skies were lifting; there would be sun by late afternoon. Gwenhwyfar tossed her thicker woollen cloak around her shoulders. She would be dry beneath its adequate protection. Her boots and bracae were old, comfortable friends; pointless dressing well when she intended traipsing around muddied fields, checking horses for signs of lameness, cuts and harm.
She crossed to Arthur, engrossed in the first of the pile of legal petitions, his hand cupping the pain of his jaw, placed a light kiss on the crown of his head. “Get that seen to,” she advised. “It will only become worse if you do not.”
“My tooth, my business. Go check your horses, woman!”
Gwenhwyfar smiled, kissed him a second time and walked with a l
ight, jaunty step from the chamber. She would not ride down to the fields, for despite the rain it was pleasantly warm. The air was fresh, heady with the smells of late spring, the mayblossom in full spate, frothing white along the hedgerows that formed boundaries to the horse and cattle fields. From the height of the Caer the land looked magnificent, even below the colourless grey of spring rain.
Lower down, she walked along the puddled, muddied lane, two head-collars and ropes draped over her shoulder. The hedges were alive with fledglings, blackbird, thrush, sparrow, the peep-peeping of their demand for attention from tireless parents an orchestra of sound. Gwenhwyfar smiled at the sight of an ambitious young robin attempting to make a meal of a worm three times his own length. Men were working at the hedge a few yards further along, repairing a place where a mare had pushed through. They saluted, greeted her. She walked on, let herself through a gate, crossed diagonally over the expanse of spring-grown grass to the group of yearling colts gathered at the far side. Nine of them, brought into the smaller, easier-watched field for a variety of reasons. One lame, one with a deep cut to his knee, another not putting on the condition he ought. The others, fillies and colts, ran loose in the meadows further out, running free to develop muscle and sinew, strong bone, healthy coat, bold eye and sound wind.
She made soothing noises as she approached, eyeing the overall appearance of the nine – no, eight. Gwenhwyfar ceased walking, counted the fidgeting group again. Definitely eight. The dun with that bruising kick to his stifle was missing. Their field was not large, no more than five acres, well-hedged with hazel and hawthorn, the occasional taller tree dotted in between – the hole was in the next field, not this. To the eastern corner ran a drainage dyke, one of several that criss-crossed much of the farmed areas of the Summer Land. A copse of alder and willow had grown up in this moist corner, provided shade from the heat, shelter from wind and rain. He could be hidden beneath the trees, though he was a well-grown colt, already standing above thirteen hands.
Two of the colts had ventured near her, curious. She petted them, ran her hand along neck, shoulder and rump, inspecting their healing damage with touch and sight. One was almost mended, the other might need a week or two more. At least the cooler weather had not yet brought out the flies. The laying of eggs in open wounds caused such problems come the summer months.
She inspected a third colt then made her way to the small copse, aware as she neared no colt dawdled beneath the droop of spring-garlanded branches. She ducked beneath the nearest willow, parting the sweep of new-budded leaves, hurried forward, breath quickening as she found him, trapped, lying on his back, stuck in the ditch.
He must have floundered there a while, for the ground was churned and his coat muddied and drenched from his struggles to rise. Sweat lay dark along his neck and flank, his ears back, eyes rolling, frightened.
“Hush now, good lad, steady, my brave boy.” Gwenhwyfar dropped into the slop of the ditch beside him, the black mud deep beneath the channel of water slurping around her boots. She would need to push him over, roll him, so he lay more on his side than his back. He might then be able to get his legs under, heave himself up. Shifting the weight of a horse was no easy matter. Getting behind him, she tried to push his quarters, but she had not the strength nor the solidity of a firm footing, for her feet were slipping. Twice she fell down on her knees. She would need help, need to run back to the lane, summon the men.
Gwenhwyfar gasped, startled, alarmed, as a man, ragged, in need of a wash, a shave, jumped into the ditch beside her. His hood had been pulled forward but had flopped back as he leapt down, his features familiar.
“I’ll push at his shoulder, you take your end… ready? One, two, heave!” he instructed.
Three times they pushed, their whole weight and strength behind the need to get the colt onto his feet. The fourth time it worked. The colt lurched, thrust at the right moment and was suddenly, with much splashing of water and dripping of mud, up, heaving out the ditch, standing winded, head down, shivering. The man had leapt aside, Gwenhwyfar, her boot stuck in the ooze of mud was not so fortunate. The colt caught her as he leapt, his hind leg thrashing for a foothold, slamming into her belly, knocking her aside, winded. She fell backward, her head slamming against an overhanging branch, lay there in the black mess of oozing water, dazed, semi-conscious.
She was aware of being lifted. Aware of the sweep of trees around her face as he took her further beneath the trees, carried her through another, small gateway, his pace a loping run, his head ducked low, bent over her.
She tried to talk to him but the breath had been knocked from her. Tried to tell him that surely he knew he was running the wrong way, did he not remember the Caer was behind them? She could not have made sense, for he did not hear or did not understand. Vaguely, she remembered the officer this morning making his report to Arthur. Something about a beggar hanging around the horses?
Was this him? Did they think him a beggar? And why was he carrying her so fast and so far from the Caer?
XLIX
“Then where in the Bull’s name is she?” Arthur was bellowing at the officer of the evening watch. He realised it was unfair to reprimand the man, but life could be a whoreson sometimes and fairness rarely came into the reckoning. Aside, his jaw thundered with a pain that screeched louder than ever any battle-wound had. Without Gwenhwyfar here to soothe his temper, this man could take the brunt. The officer stared ahead, standing smart at attention. With the gates of the Caer about to close for the night, and the Gathering in the Hall already delayed, the situation was beyond serious. Gwenhwyfar was not within the Caer; nor, it seemed, was she anywhere within close proximity.
Arthur had not been unduly worried in the beginning, when her handmaid had come to report she could not find the Queen. “She is with the young horses,” he had said with a hint of irritation. Gods, was he expected to follow every move his wife made?
And later, Ider had come to him with the same concern, received the same answer. “With your pardon, Sir, she is not.” Ider had served long enough, and was loyal enough, to contradict his King. Aside, his guts told him something was wrong. Very wrong. He had informed the Pendragon of the muddied and fretful colt the men had found later in the morning. He had been in the ditch, they thought. But no sign of Gwenhwyfar.
“Have you searched the ditch?”
Ider had. It was his first thought, that she might have fallen, injured herself.
Another mild search. Nothing. Arthur kicked out at the leg of his desk, swore. Where had she gone? She should have informed him, not just ridden off. Then a thought. Damn her, she had not taken it into her head to ride to Archfedd, had she? Mithras, if she were to go near that swarming nest of Cerdic’s… dangerous enough having Archfedd and her children remaining over close! “What horse is missing?” he asked the officer, his words slurring slightly as his tooth grumbled. If she had taken her grey, she could be miles ahead by now, for he was fast, covered the ground well.
“None, Lord.” Anticipating the next question, the officer added, “Her grey is safe stabled.”
Again, Arthur swore, more colourful. In his stomach, he knew something was amiss. A thought. One that had, several times, already lurched into mind. He shoved it firmly back into the recess of impossibility, too abhorrent to contemplate. But it came again. Cerdic had her.
By full dark the dogs were restless, Arthur had not eaten and, ignoring the hot throb along his jaw, had ordered his own stallion saddled, joined the men in searching the surrounding area, calling her name, holding burning torches and lanterns high, peering beneath hedgerows, along ditches, beside the rivers. A feeble gesture really, for it was too dark to search thoroughly. They would need to resume at first light.
Few within the Caer slept. Ider paced the palisade walkway, staring out into the hollows of the sleeping Summer Land, starting at the crack of every unfamiliar sound; hoping, each time it would be her. Always disappointed.
Arthur made himself go to his bed. He r
emoved his boots, bracae, tunic, drank three goblets of wine straight down. He lay beneath the bed-fur, the dogs stretched out beside him for warmth and comfort. He might have dozed, but he did not sleep. The medical orderly had given him something for the tooth, with the additional advice, unheeded, that it needed to be removed. All the things that could have happened to her paraded through his mind. He had never held much belief for a god, Christian or otherwise, there never seemed to be a free moment to think about a religion, or a deity. He blasphemed in the name of Mithras and the Bull, occasionally even used Jehovah as witness to his oaths. Soldiering was his religion; the truth, battle; the learning, military tactics. But he found himself praying this night. Quiet, in half-breathed words, softening on a whispered breath through half-parted lips. “Oh, God of all men, let her be not harmed.”
Dawn, sunrise. The hours of night passed slow and achingly hesitant. The Caer faced the new day hushed, dismal. Women standing around in bunched groups, their usual burbling chatter muted and subdued, their children held protective, the youngest resting on hips or clutched in their arms. The men tended their duties with an automation of familiarity. All combined with many solicitous glances towards Hall and King’s chamber, alert for news.
Ider strode down from the Caer as dawn freshened into a mildly sunny day, determined to search for some clue, some showing of where she had been, what she had done. Where she had gone. Ider would die for Gwenhwyfar. The intense ache in his heart that she might be suffering was unbearable. She was in trouble, maybe lying injured, or worse, and he could not find her, was unable to help her… his worry heightened by the misery of remorse. Yesterday had been a rest day, a rare bonus. He had taken his wife to Lindinis, a treat for her also, to wander around the busy market, finger the cloth, inspect the pottery and pewter, smell the exotic wonder of spices and the intrigue of a multitude of herbs. The pleasurable enjoyment of the day had been shattered on returning home. It was his fault, he felt, although Arthur had attempted to persuade him otherwise. If he had been here, if he had watched over her! Nonsense, his wife had said, Gwenhwyfar had her own mind, would she have expected a bodyguard to go down into the field with her to inspect the yearlings? She knew she was comforting closed ears, for Ider had a separate love for his Lady, one a wife would never overcome. Ider was a good man, a kind father and a faithful husband in all other respects, from him, she had a fine home, well furnished, warm and dry. Two tapestries on the wall, three good cloaks and several gowns to wear. A set of silver spoons and two bowls made from the old red Roman ware – precious items, those bowls, for once such pottery graced every Roman table; now there was little of it left. She had given him, in return, a home and three boys, grown strong into manhood. They were Artoriani now, serving in Bronze Turma. With them, two beautiful daughters, wed also to Artoriani men. She was content. Her only regret that when a wild wind blew, Ider took so much of its weight on his own shoulders.
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