Cynric halted. He was a tall young man, agile, long fingers, strong arms. A man with the nobility of the stag about him. Handsome, with his dark eyes and mother’s flaxen hair, his firm jaw, long nose and quick, humorous wit. He was much liked for his fair judgement. He stood with his shoulders back, head high. Did not turn.
“Did you hear me, boy?”
“I heard you.” Cynric slowly turned around, faced his father, regarded him a long, silent moment. “I heard you. You are not yet a king to command me, and even if you were, I would not obey, for you are not worthy to give command or to be King.”
The gateway at Caer Morfa. It had come so unexpected, startling, the opening of those gates. None of the Saxons swarming before it had remotely considered they would be thrust open and the British would – so insanely – come out to fight. The scrabble of those first few moments had been little short of panic, the Saxons ready to flee for the safety of their ships, believing, in that mad whirl of yelling and shouting and sword-brought death that the Wild Hunt was escaped and coming for them. Indeed, had that not been the Huntsman himself out in the front? An oak of a man, as tall as a tree, as broad, as strong? Dressed in red cloak, white tunic, the uniform of the Artoriani – his roaring voice, his sword whirling pounding death on all who had the misfortune to be in his crazed path. When they gathered their wits and tried to cut him down, he fought on. Though they hacked and sawed at his blood-spewing body, still he stood there, defying death, fought on, refusing to let go of life and sword until the riders – two women – had gone through, had reached the first line of trees and were away to the road, to safety. Ider, someone said his name to be. Cynric would have had him buried with honour, but the Saxons, his father’s bastard friends, Stuf and Wihtgar, had ordered him dismembered and his body fat used in the burning of the Hall at Caer Morfa.
Cynric gazed down the length of the Mead Hall at the overweight figure of his father and knew him for what he was; a man who had never known love, who had not experienced pity, and who would never understand the word compassion. A man who was, stripped of regalia, nothing.
All the British had fought well, sacrificing their lives for those two women and the children who had been with them. Cynric had caught a glimpse of one of the boys. He had pushed forward, grappling with one of the riders whose horse had fallen, a spear through its chest. The woman had been there, urging her grey horse on, her mouth open, the war cry of the Artoriani shrieking from her lips. Cynric had finished the man, leapt up, trying to make a grab for her horse’s reins – and he had seen the boy clinging to her beneath the fold of her cloak. He had hesitated. Gwenhwyfar. She could have been no one else, and that must have been one of Arthur’s own grandchilder. Her sword was raised, Cynric had stood, transfixed, unable to move for that one, so very brief moment when all else, the rage of fighting, the noise, the blood, the stink, had faded into the mists that swirled outside of time and life. She could have struck him, used the sword to end him, but she had not. They had fleetingly gazed into each other’s thoughts, into each other’s soul. Why had she deflected that sword stroke? Mayhap Cynric would never know, not until he entered the next world and the gods saw fit to tell him. And he? He had stepped aside, brought the flat of his blade down on the grey’s rump, urging it away faster.
With what followed, he had been glad he had done so. He would not have wanted that sorry ending for the Lady Gwenhwyfar and her kindred. His kindred.
“You bring dishonour to me, boy!” Cerdic rasped. “I ought to have you whipped for your insolence.”
Cynric was looking at his boots. They had blood on them, the spent life of men. He was a Saxon Lord, and he had honour and courage. He would fight for a land of his own, fight the British, but he would not fight with dishonor or with the blood of murder on his sword and shield.
It was they, his father’s friends, who had butchered the lord of Caer Morfa. Not Cynric. Cynric had tried to stop it, but had been thrust aside and ignored.
Natanlius had not been as fortunate as the tall man. He had not been killed, but captured. Wihtgar had ordered him gelded and while the man still lived, his intestines drawn from him. They used them as rope to fasten him to the broken door-timbers of his own Hall. Then they took the dismembered bodies of his officers and men, and piled them before the doorway around him, adding bracken and hay and anything that would burn, poured oil over it all, and fired it with the women, children and wounded huddled inside the building.
Natanlius had not cried out once during his slow death, but the tears had poured from his eyes. At his feet they had placed one body for him to see, to watch, as it burnt.
Cynric lifted his head, looked with loathing at the man he called ‘father’. If Cerdic ever had doubt as to how much his son despised him he was made clear of it now.
“I have no need to bring you dishonour,” Cynric said, “you bring it to yourself. I asked for some reward from you, as is my due for fighting beneath your banner. I therefore ask for the destroyed stronghold of Caer Morfa as my own.”
The hostility was thick, it could be severed with a dagger. Cerdic realized that his son was leaving him, taking a hearth-place for his own. The fear stabbed through him; if his son left, then others might follow, for Cynric was much liked, held much favour, most especially from the younger men. He could not permit him to go – least, not while this anger rested between them. Cerdic was not fool enough to miss that necessity, had learnt something of value from his mother.
“It is yours, as a sign that our disagreement is passed and we are again friends, as kindred such as we ought to be.” It stuck in Cerdic’s throat to be so pleasant, the smile he forced onto his cheeks was hard and without warmth. The atmosphere in the Hall, however, eased, the men visibly relaxed. A few hands moved away from hovering near daggers and sword hilts. Cerdic’s one fear: had passion overspilt between father and son, on what side would those men have drawn their blades and fought?
Cynric acknowledged the giving with a nod of his head. Caer Morfa was his. He raised his chin slightly, defiance glinting in his eyes. “I intend to bury what remains of the dead with honour, and I shall give the area a new name,” he announced.
Settling back into his chair, showing outward sign that he was content, relaxed, Cerdic gestured with his hand. So be it.
“From this day, the day when so many brave men died, when so much honour was lost by the spilling of bloody murder, the British place of Caer Morfa will bear the title Natan Leag. The Forest of Natanlius. I grant this to make peace with the dead and with those who might, otherwise, breed hatred in their hearts, for I feel that hatred as much as they.” Cynric ignored the infusion of red rapidly colouring his father’s enraged face. He saluted, a mocking acknowledgement of obedience, swivelled on his heel and left the hall. His last words echoing along the dark length of that huge place.
“And if you were not my father I would challenge you for the butchery you brought about this day. My grandsire may be British-born not Saxon, but it seems to me that to be British is to fight and die with honour. Do not ask me to fight with you against Arthur again, Cerdic, for I will not. I intend to make my peace with him and to give my loyalty to the British, to those of honour.”
How long such an intention would – or even could – last, only the Gods knew, but honour meant much to Cynric; an oath taken was an oath kept. The shame of Caer Morfa ensured that he would keep his word, and honouring the dead brought an uneasy peace between Saxon and British. For a while and a while there would be no more fighting, merely an uneasy truce. For Cynric and those who followed him, the dishonor was too great to bloody swords again.
It was a child they had lain there before Natalnius. His own son. They had found him, strapped to a soldier’s belly, beyond the gates among the dead. A babe, no more than a few weeks into life. Cynric had wept at the shame of that wicked burning; would not have grieved so openly had the babe at least been dead.
Part Four
The Final Thread
May
500
I
A group of men stood, close together, talking low-voiced beside the blaze of the hearth-fire. Occasionally, one would cast a furtive glance at the woman who sat in the King’s place. Gwenhwyfar was aware of their hostile appraisal, guessed their thoughts as if they were being spoken aloud. What did they see when they watched her from beneath those half-closed, wary eyes? Confidence, an appearance of ease, that there was nothing wrong? Or did they see the copper hair, now silvered grey, her wrinkled skin, her stiffened fingers that found it difficult to hold, let alone use, a sword? Did they realise, if she seemed so old, what age was her husband, their King?
It was they who had called this Council, the lords, the elders, men of the Church. Justly, she supposed, for Arthur was ill and for a man nearing his five and sixtieth summer, their concern could be expected. Did they not think she shared their worries? They did not listen to the breath rattling in his throat, they did not watch the strength daily sapping from him in the sweat of his fever.
There were not as many lords as there ought to be. How many had not come? Dyfed was not here, nor Powys, Rheged, Builth or Brycheniog. None from the north. Gwynedd? Hah, Gwynedd! Gwenhwyfar clenched her jaw against the vomit that rose. Thank all the gods she was the last of Cunedda’s children to have life! How her brothers, she closed her eyes, her dear father, would have wept to see Gwynedd as she now was! Would Council, Arthur, expect Gwynedd’s loyalty? What, allow a murderer, a cheat and a liar to sit at the Council hearth? Maelgwyn, her – God preserve her – her kindred. Maelgwyn, who had taken a sword to his own uncle, Owain, had murdered him for the prize of Gwynedd. Prince Maelgwyn? Scum, dog’s dirt.
A side door into the Hall opened. Bedwyr stepped in, his expression and step jaunty, his hair tossed, wind-tousled. “My,” he joked, “the wind’s stronger than an evening after onions for supper!”
A few men politely chuckled.
Bedwyr strode to Gwenhwyfar, saluted, made his obedience. She made a light gesture of implied question with her eyebrow. Imperceptibly, Bedwyr shook his head. She had hoped Archfedd would come, but she was new wed to Llawfrodedd, Lord of Cornovii, a good man, but not wholly to Archfedd’s liking. Between them, with Archfedd’s land of Dumnonia, given her by her father for her eldest-born, Constantine, they had much to rule, much to see to. Though for all that she had gained in land and wealth, Archfedd still had to forgive them for advising her into this marriage. She did not want Llawfrodedd, for all he seemed kind and generous, nor for the alliance this marriage brought her father. He was ten and five years her senior, and with a serious view of his responsibilities. His first wife, Archfedd declared unkindly to her parents, most probably died of boredom. Natanlius is my husband, she had added, on that wedding night, two months past. The memory of his love will not fade merely because I must go to another’s bed. He knows it is against my will.
Archfedd had always been stubborn. Too much like her mother, Arthur often complained.
Indicating Bedwyr was to lead her to the hearth, Gwenhwyfar took his hand, rose from her chair. Would she have gone through with marriage to another, to Bedwyr? Who knew? Certainly not she. Happen, it was only the Three, the goddesses who wove the fate of men and women, who had seen the future rippling in the pattern of life. There was a difference, though, between herself and Archfedd. She had not had two living sons to follow after Arthur. Archfedd did. And one of them might become Pendragon one day. For that, Archfedd needed the alliance of a husband who would fight for those sons. Archfedd knew that. It was the reason she had agreed to wed with Llawfrodedd. But, even for that reason, she could not forgive her father for making her do it.
Gwenhwyfar hid her disappointment. Give nothing away in your expression, hold your planning close to your chest. Arthur had instructed her on what to do, say, at this Council, but she wished it was he who was now approaching the hearth, calling the men to order. As she sat, making herself comfortable on the cushions spread for them she allowed a slight smile to slip onto her lips. And such an interesting, enjoyable chest ought have things held close. My body, preferably. He might be ill, but he could still tease her!
Bedwyr sat beside her, at her right hand. To her disgust, Caninus seated himself, uninvited, to her left. Almost in his thirtieth year, a man with young sons of his own, but another like Maelgwyn, out for his own gain with blood on his hands and deceit in his mind. Oh, he had come to Council, for even after the treachery of the past he considered himself next after Arthur. Well, he would need to pursue another thought on that! Constantine of Dumnonia might yet be only ten and three years of age, but Arthur had been barely a year older when his father had been killed in battle. The grandson would be proclaimed the next Pendragon, not Caninus.
They sat in a circle as Arthur had introduced the tradition so many years past. Circular, so that each might see the others’ expressions, read the others’ thoughts. They began with the trivial things, the levies for the rate of taxation, the granting of rights for three settlements, a change to a minor law. The matter-of-fact everyday items that Council was responsible for. All the while their minds on the door to the rear of the Hall, the closed door, where, behind, lay the King. Never before had Arthur missed a calling of Council through illness. Anger, belligerence, aye, then he had stayed away; but never would he have admitted the frailty of the body, the creeping hindrances of age to so important a group of men. They were here, these lords, to gain what they could for themselves, to discover how ill Arthur was. How soon it would be before he died. She would need to say something, show them that soon he would be well, on his feet, as strong as ever he had been.
The Bishop of Aquae Sulis cleared his throat. “It grieves us that the Lord Pendragon cannot be with us. How is the King’s health?” He asked it politely, with a grave smile. “We trust he will not be incapacitated long?”
“It is a fever, nothing more. A few days to regain his strength,” Gwenhwyfar spread her hands. “It is difficult for me to persuade him to rest, you know how the Pendragon loathes to lie abed when there are things to be done.”
They nodded, agreeing, sympathetic, offering their hopes for a fleeting return to health. Most of them lying, most, secretly delighted he might soon be gone. Too many in this Council wanted the royal torque for their own decoration.
A man came quietly into the Hall, whispered to Gwenhwyfar. She gasped, half-rose to her feet.
Bedwyr put his hand to her arm. “What is it?” he hissed. Concern raced through the circle of Council, all sharing the same, unspoken thought… the King? Only Bedwyr realising the gatekeeper would not be bringing word of Arthur.
“At the gate, asking permission to enter… ” Gwenhwyfar put her hand to her mouth. My God, she thought, surely he would not come here!
Bedwyr stood, questioned the gatekeeper, sent him scurrying back to his post. He saluted Council, a hasty politeness, almost ran to the privacy of Arthur’s chamber. His thoughts echoing Gwenhwyfar’s. My God!
With the wind scurrying so playfully outside, only one of the two great oaken doors stood open. They would be shut at night, after the evening Gathering had assembled. During the daylight hours the Hall stood open to all, as was the custom of welcome, from King downward to lord and landholder.
Sounds outside, disturbed, flurrying sounds, nothing definite, nothing particular, just a momentum of intense unease and anxious disquiet. Shadows fell at the door, stabbing across the timber flooring, the light blocked by the presence of men. They walked through, the one at their head dressed splendidly, jewels decorating his hands, arms, throat, a ruby dangling from his left earlobe. Gold and silver ornamenting buckles, cloak and tunic. He made much of carrying his naked sword before him, setting it, with opulent display beside the threshold. That he probably bristled daggers within his boot and beneath his tunic, no one would dare challenge.
Cerdic came into the Hall flanked by ten of his men, swaggered its length, halted before the hearth-fire. He ignored the British Councillors, all of whom had scrabbled,
open-mouthed, to their feet. He regarded Gwenhwyfar, blinked at her several times.
“It has reached my ears that my father is dying.”
Gwenhwyfar rose elegantly, not needing the steadying hand offered by a slave. For Council, she had robed herself as befitted the Queen – gown of silver-threaded silk, purple cloak, amethysts and diamonds sparking from ears, arms and fingers. Before her seated place, Arthur’s sword, unsheathed. She lifted it as she stood, held it, blade downward, her hand light on the pommel, ready to swing it upward should need arise.
“Then your ears hear wrong. He has a mild fever. Nothing more.”
Cerdic shrugged. Men died of fever. Especially old men. He indicated one of his hearth-guard was to clear a space for him in the Council circle. The Saxon stepped forward, shuffled two bishops aside. Cerdic sat, patting cushions comfortable, flapped his hand for the others to reseat themselves. “Is this not Council?” he said. “Do we not sit thus, we British?”
No one moved.
Cerdic sniffed loudly, cleared his throat. His men had arranged themselves, semicircular behind him, shielding his back from those who were pressing through the door, watching, twittering quietly; awaiting some order of what to do.
“I am the acknowledged son of Arthur the Pendragon.” Cerdic pulled a small roll of parchment from his waist pouch. “This,” he said, unrolling it and passing it for all to see, “was signed by him and given to my mother, stating that fact. As his acknowledged son, am I not entitled to sit in Council. Is it not my right, as his only legitimate son and heir?”
II
The Caer at Din Dirgel was a place true to its name, a secretive stronghold that had for constant companion the restless buffeting of the sea. It was never silent here for the waves beat with relentless force against the rocks, pounding, clamouring, roaring a right to be let in against the shore. The stronghold was built out among a promontory of the cliffs, with only a narrow way to its gatehouse. Archfedd’s grandsire, Uthr Pendragon, had held it for his own, once, long ago. Her father had been conceived here, in this lofty, wind-riddled chamber that was now hers and her husband’s. It was a place where the wind howled and the mist curled; where waves battered and the sea moaned.
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