Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  When he burst into Arthur’s chamber an hour after sunrise, excited and agitated, hope had spurted through those who had seen him running. Ider had found important information, but the haggard, grey look on the Pendragon’s face that was settled there from more than the raging of toothache, stopped the big man short, curbed his hurried enthusiasm.

  “My Lord!” Ider ran to Arthur, dropped to kneel at his feet, his head bowed, tears sliding from beneath his closed eyes. “Forgive me, I should have been with her!”

  Many – near all – the men held a love for Gwenhwyfar. For three of them, more than love. One, Arthur himself. His love went beyond the bounds of life. He had not remained faithful to her bed, had abandoned her during their numerous squabbles and differences, but throughout, she had been within him, as much a part of his being as was the blood that ran in his veins or the thoughts that jangled in his head. How old had she been when first they met? Twelve, nearing ten and three? One summer short of two score years past. A lifetime ago.

  The second, Bedwyr. Bedwyr loved Gwenhwyfar, had loved her with an intimacy that ought not have been between a man and the wife of another. That was a happening the Pendragon had forced aside from memory, although it slithered into awareness occasionally. In the murk of a troubled, sleepless night, the faint hiss of its being taunted him. She had not always remained his, but better it had been for her to turn to Bedwyr, a friend rather than a stranger.

  And then there was Ider. There was no reason to mistrust Ider, for his love was different. Ider’s feelings ran far from the needs of a man, there was no lust, no longing. Gwenhwyfar was his Queen, his sun, moon, his waking and sleeping. Arthur could trust her life to Ider’s keeping.

  Arthur laid his hand on Ider’s bent head; how to offer comfort when his own fear was lurching into the realm of the ridiculous? What thoughts had gone through his mind during the tormented length of night? Rape, murder, accident. Treachery. Worse, the wondering that she might have gone willingly, stolen away to be with someone else. Bedwyr?

  Ider looked up, the pain of worry etched deep, raised slightly by new hope. “Lord,” he said, “I found this.” He gave Arthur a ragged tear of cloth woven with shades of red wool. From a cloak? Like the one Gwenhwyfar wore on days when the drizzle spattered from low-pressed clouds.

  “It was caught on the brambles beyond the copse of willows. There were footprints also, a man’s boot, and scuff marks, as if he had staggered, fallen, while carrying something heavy.”

  “Something. Or someone?” Arthur’s question was sharp, harsh.

  “He circled to the road, keeping to the shadow of the hedge. I found a place where he might have sat waiting, for the grass was flattened, the flowers bent and broken. Two people, one lying, one sitting. And then, beside the road, lying beneath the mile-marker for Yns Witrin, this.” The second item Ider handed to Arthur brought the Pendragon’s breath sharp, the nagging of his-tooth instant forgotten.

  A battered, old gold ring, looped on a plaited strand of Gwenhwyfar’s copper hair.

  Medraut.

  L

  The mule and cart had been easy to steal from the tavern stables. They were all into the business of drinking inside, the noise of talk and laughter muffling the rumbling of wheels on the cobbles. An anxious moment for Medraut when someone called out to him from the doorway, “Keep me a tankard waiting – I’m to take a cask of ale up to the Caer!”

  He tossed back, “Let the mule do the work, I say, I’m damned if I’m going to break my back!” The man guffawed, went inside. No one queried why the cart turned down the lane not up; few were out in the murk of a damp evening. The Caer gates would be shuttered soon, those of the settlement either warming themselves by their own hearth, or hailing the night with drink inside the tavern.

  He needed the cart for Gwenhwyfar. He had carried her some way, but she was heavy, his own feet blistered and sore from ill-fitting boots. What it was to be a king’s son in a king’s Caer, with gold enough to pay for quality boots to be made to fit the size of his feet! Another anxious moment later on, when he heard horses and men’s voices. Of course she would be missed, they would be searching for her. He had to think quickly, act fast. A gate ahead into the mares’ field, urged the stubborn mule through, brought the cart up against the high hedge on the far side, closed the gate. No moon risen yet – God’s truth, a few days only to fullness and then it would be waning. The horses came nearer, men were calling for Gwenhwyfar. Medraut prayed they would not have the dogs with them at night. Recognised his father’s voice. Almost, he summoned the courage to run out, call at Arthur, urge him to listen but they had passed by, the moment was lost. He would need to wait a while, safe in the darkness. The searching, surely, could not last through the night, and Gwenhwyfar was comfortable where he had left her.

  Come sunrise, the hill of Yns Witrin sat dark against the new-bright day. He had travelled through the night, had bullied the mule to trot, had searched around the edge of the lake seeking a way onto the Tor. There were paths beneath the gently rippling surface, he had heard, but where they were, where they lay, only God and Morgaine, he assumed, knew. He found something on the far side where the lane began to slope down into the Christian settlement, an upward path overgrown and shrouded by the profusion of spring. It would serve, although he would need to abandon the cart.

  Gwenhwyfar lay motionless, her eyes closed, skin pale. He regretted the need to have tied her wrists and feet, using the halter ropes, regretted this need to take her in such a shameful way, but he must speak with Arthur, had to come away from the Caer where there would be men to overpower him. The planning had come to him so quickly in those moments after the colt had struggled from the ditch. She had lain, breathing, but unmoving, not answering him, blood trickling from the back of her head. Unconscious. He had lifted her, intending to seek help, had crouched beneath the trees on seeing men in the distance of the next field. How would he prove it had not been himself who had hurt her? Who would believe, at first sighting, this was the result of accident, not his own action? From there, the plan had seeped into his brain. He could take her somewhere, shelter her until she awoke, then she could tell the truth of the thing. There was an old tumbledown goatherd’s shed a mile or two to the north, he had passed several nights there already. It would suit his purpose.

  When she did wake, as evening dipped into the first stars of the night, she was dazed and incoherent, drifting in and out of sleep. She would be missed by now, the alarm raised. Only the one solution, take her to safer ground and summon Arthur to fetch her, then talk with him, make him see that his son Medraut was no traitor. It seemed simple enough, especially once he had the cart and was making way along the road northward.

  The cart he left beside the lane, turned the mule loose with hobbles so it might not stray too far. He carried Gwenhwyfar again, pushing through the tangle of bush and high-grown bramble, disturbing the heady scent of the mayblossom burst in clouds of pollen around him, making him sneeze, his eyes water, nasal passages sting. Gwenhwyfar groaned as he lay her down beside the man-height Stone at the very top of the hill. Her skin was cold, a light tinge disfiguring her lips. He covered her with his own cloak, ragged though it was. The wind was strong up here, he would need move her a little down the slope.

  The Tor of Yns Witrin, where God had not placed His footstep, nor caressed with His smile. Yns Witrin, silent, save for the song of the wind and the mournful cry of the kestrel. The Summer Land lay spread like a patched blanket beneath, the shadow of cloud skimming over the water-shining levels. Was this what it was like to soar in the sky like a bird? To feel the wind lift your hair, buffet around you? To be King over all in your sight! An immense thrill of power unfolded around Medraut, a strength that swelled behind and within him. The air was pure and light, the wind danced and twisted at his feet, scurrying through the grass, rippling it into waves of motion, before hurrying off up the valley leaving behind a half-breathed sigh.

  Up here, Medraut felt both invulnerable
and humble; brave but scared. Wise, while knowing nothing. There was a presence here, on the height of the Tor, a feeling that if you turned around quick enough you would see a movement, lost out the corner of your eye. The swirl of a cloak, the shining sun catching on a sword blade. Nothing tangible, but there all the same. The laugh of a woman, the footstep of a man. The perfume of the Goddess; or the hand of the God?

  Yns Witrin, where he had come into being, where the Goddess, for whatever reason, had breathed the touch of life into the making of a child. A son. Medraut.

  Unexpected, a powerful clutch of grief stabbed into his stomach. He crumpled to his knees, head bent into his hands the sobs shuddering through his body. What a damned fool he had been, what a fool he still was!

  “Oh God,” he cried, lifting his tear-streaked face to the cloud-mottled sky, “I am a lost ship, drifting on an endless sea of despair. Is this my punishment then, for the wrong of my birthing? How do I right that wrong? Lord, hear me! Help me, show how I may prove to my father on Earth I have love for only him, that I would not betray him!”

  Medraut leapt to his feet, his heart lurching in startled fear as a voice behind him, said, scathingly. “I suggest you make a start by untethering me. I am not a goat.”

  LI

  The courier rode into Caer Cadan a while after Arthur had ridden out, heading north. They gave him a fresh horse, sent him on at the gallop, his shouts reaching the ears of the King’s Guard at the same time as they heard the drumming of hooves. Arthur reined Brenin in, the young animal snorting contempt at the exciting pace being interrupted. Ider, riding beside the King, clenched his jaw. What now? Already they had been delayed by the blathering of the tavern-keeper whining about the loss of his mule and cart. That this wretched beggar had stolen it seemed evident, and the identity of him only a guessed conclusion, but one accepted by all within the Caer.

  “My Lord!” The courier brought his lathered horse to a slithering halt, the man as blown as the animal. Brenin tossed his head, side-stepped. “Sir, message from Caer Morfa, from Lord Natanlius.”

  Arthur heeled Brenin in a circle, cursed the animal’s impatience. “He believes the Saxons are making ready to march. He requests the Artoriani, immediately.”

  The stream of profanities from the Pendragon made even Ider, who was no stranger to the crudities of language, raise an eyebrow. Arthur rode Brenin away from the men, dismounted, stood a few yards distant, staring ahead across the swift-shadowed Levels of the Summer Land. The grass lay in its patched carpet of variegated greens, spring-grown, lush, spreading between the small copses and pockets of trees. Willow, ash, alder, the occasional elm. Hollows of water lay in pools and runnels, dazzle-glistening beneath the brilliance of the sun overhead, sailing the vastness of the wide, cloud-shuffling sky. The land of seven rivers; sluggish streams, which carried away the winter flooding. In summer it smelt of silted marsh, drying grass and watermint. A kestrel hovered half a mile ahead.

  The Tor brooded in shadow against the clouding sky. Yns Witrin, where Arthur had once started a life. And where, by all that was sacred and beloved of him, this day he would end that same living!

  He mounted, hauled Brenin around, decision made. “Ider, and you two,” he pointed, “will ride on with me. The rest of you return to the Caer. You,” he ordered his Decurion forward, “issue my command to the officer of the day. The Artoriani are to be ready to ride by noon.”

  Four hours.

  “Courier!”

  “Sir?”

  “Ride on to Aquae Sulis. Give my orders that Bedwyr and his escort are to return immediately.”

  “Aye, my Lord.”

  They rode in silence, Ider, as before beside the Pendragon, the two Artoriani behind, their swords loose in the scabbard, eyes watchful, ears listening. One crossed himself when a hare darted across the road, fled, ears laid along its back as it sped away. A symbol of superstition, the hare, for it was the hare who carried the souls of the dead into the Underworld. The kestrel again, away to the left. When he plummeted downward there came the faint scream of his capture. Not the hare. The soldier was glad, for the death of a hare meant another soul was left to wander, desolate and aimless, lost in the painful world of mortal men.

  They found the cart and the mule, knew then they had come to the right place. Arthur had never doubted it. The message Medraut had left him had been plain.

  The Pendragon rode further along the base of the Tor to where the lake lay, calm and peaceful, crinkled by a few wind-brushed ripples, shadowed by the reflection of the hill. He dismounted, gave the reins to one of the men with the command they were to wait. Ider he beckoned to follow.

  “Let us hope the paths have not altered,” Arthur said grimly as he stepped into the water, a gasp of protest leaving one of the men waiting behind. Arthur glared at him, made another step forward, the water level covering no higher than his ankle. “I advise you to step where I do, Ider, else you are likely to be up to your neck in it.”

  Once, he made a wrong turn, sank to his knee in water, Ider reaching to grab hold of his arm, pull him to safety. Easy enough to follow, the firm path that meandered beneath the surface. Easy, if you knew where to look; the twist of reeds, a scrawny bush, the lighter colour of water against dark. The occasional glimpse of the silted path. Morgaine had shown him how, all those years past.

  At the far side within the cluster of trees, was the skeleton of a dwelling-place, one wall crumbled, the roof fallen in, no door; signs of where boar and other animals had pushed a way in, searching for shelter or food. To the left, a patch where once there might have been a garden.

  Ider said nothing as they began to climb the height of the Tor. That the dwelling had been the place of the Lady needed no confirming. How Arthur had known his way across the mystery of the lake needed no asking. The climb was steep and soon they were breathless, their bodies leaning forward, steps short, boots digging into the slope and deer-grazed grass.

  The wind hit them with the force of a thrown battleaxe. Arthur had expected it, but not Ider, who staggered, slipped, his boot skidding his leg pulling from under him. Arthur made no move to help him regain balance, for he had not seen. His eyes were ahead, narrowed and angry. The Great Stone, darkened from this angle, its shadow stretching like a pointing finger. Beside it, Medraut, sitting, knees bent, head bowed, arms cradling. And before him, Gwenhwyfar, standing, hair and cloak foaming about her. She lifted her head as Arthur appeared over the edge of the Tor, her eyes meeting with his. Her smile, as she saw him so beautiful. His relief and hers washing with the force of a full spring-flood tide.

  LII

  For a moment, the discovery that Gwenhwyfar was well and unharmed was so intense Arthur felt nothing beyond the gladness of thankful relief. He whispered a brief prayer to whatever god had protected her, and acknowledged the presence of the caring Goddess. And then Medraut moved. A small movement, he raised his head, but it was enough to shatter the benign feeling of goodwill. Arthur hurtled forward, roaring, Ider coming a pace behind. Gwenhwyfar screamed for them to stop, Medraut scrambled to his feet, undecided whether to run or face the fury bearing down on him. He opted to run, but it was too late, Arthur was upon him.

  The brawl was swift and furious, the blows mostly coming from Arthur, Medraut swung a few punches but as his father was the stronger, better man, he resorted to ducking and protecting, as well he could, his head and face. Blood was already splashing from his nose. Gwenhwyfar attempted to wrestle Arthur away, clinging to his arm, hauling at him, shrieking for him to stop, but so great was his anger he barely heard, and tossed her aside. With Ider she had more influence; the big man, about to hit out at Medraut, responded to her bawled command to leave it, stand down. Expression a mask of taut passion, his fists clenching, limbs quivering. Difficult to obey but, breathing hard, he backed away.

  Gwenhwyfar yanked his sword from its scabbard, laid it about Arthur using the flat of the blade, beating at his back, his legs.

  “Stop it!” she screame
d. “For my sake, damn you, leave him!”

  Arthur’s fist connected with Medraut’s jaw, sending him spinning. Dazed, the younger man fell, tumbled, rolled a few yards down the slope where he lay, sprawled like a squashed spider, winded and fearful, expecting the barrage of blows to continue. The Pendragon was leaping after him, found himself toppling, Ider’s sword in Gwenhwyfar’s capable hands tripping him. She thrust her body on top of his as he rolled to his back and, dropping the sword, put all her weight into pressing his shoulders into the grass with her hands. “Stop it Arthur!” she commanded. “Do as I say!”

  His nostrils were flaring, breath coming in great, unsteady gasps. Blood trickled from his mouth. Fury spurred, red hot, from his eyes.

  “Aside a headache, I am unharmed. This has been all a mistake.” Gwenhwyfar dug her nails into Arthur’s shoulder, denting the leather of his tunic. “Arthur, listen to me!”