Shadow of the King

by Helen Hollick

  When the tide was low, she could make her way down the wind of steps cut into the rock walls, the descent perilous for it was seaweed-strewn, barnacled, wet and slippery. She went there rarely, for although she was no person to shy away from difficulty, she found the unsteady way down and the long haul back up again rather pointless. If she were to admit it, Archfedd was afeared of the angry fuss of this sea.

  She had known the coast as a child, while she lived under Geraint’s protection at Durnovaria, but there the sands had been below gentler cliffs, the sea not so high, or alarming – save for on stormy days, and then they had mostly stayed within the safety of the stronghold. Caer Morfa had rested close to the inland sea. She had known the tides there and the rush of wind and rain, but there was the calm flat expanse of sea-marsh, the ripple of rivers and tributaries, the wading birds, the bustle of fishing boats.

  Her two boys enjoyed this wild sea, of course, but they were children. For most of her life she had known naught but the openness of her father’s Summer Land, the quiet of the vast skies, the lulling calls of the curlew and lapwing. Here, it was the harsh, squabbling shriek of the gull.

  It was all steps and stone and seaweed here at Din Dirgel, no sweet grass, only the brittle sea grass or that short-cropped by the constant tremor of a saline wind. No plants save those that could cling, short-rooted, to the cliffs and cracks, could survive in the distinct salt-tang of the air. Even the people of the Caer seemed craggy and sea-dipped. The cliffs were exciting to walk along, but sometimes the wind became over boisterous and once, Constantine was almost blown over. Archfedd never allowed the boys near the edge after that, for he could have fallen, been picked up and tossed like an autumn leaf!

  She was out along the cliffs this day alone, for the boys were with Llawfrodedd inspecting the new-whelped pups. They had been promised one each, Archfedd too, but she did not want one. Mel had been her dog. There would never be another to replace her. It had almost hurt as much to leave the bitch behind at Caer Morfa as it had to leave Natanlius… what had happened to her? Archfedd would not know. She had not wanted to. But then, she had not wanted to know how Natanlius and her son had died, either, yet she had heard. Gossip was never silent, even that of the well-meaning kind.

  The sky was a sulky blue, one that could not quite decide between brightening or souring into the dull grey of threatened rain, and for once the wind was not so rough. A ship had thrashed her way through the tumbling waves a while past, blue-sailed, a brave little craft. Archfedd had wondered where she was going, where she was from. There was not much else for her to do here, in this small, lonely Caer. Llawfrodedd was a good man – as her father and mother had said. He was kind and considerate to her, gave her all she wanted, except company and talk and, she sighed as she walked, something different to do with her days!

  The stronghold was behind her. To her left, the sea. To the right, away a distance, the narrow road that led northward up through the Cornovii land, through her own Dumnonia and joined, not far from Durnovaria, the greater road started by the Romans, used throughout the dominance of the Empire, and had been repaired recently at the order of her father.

  The letter had come two weeks past, sent to her and Llawfrodedd. It was not a summons, but invitation, a semi-formal yet hopeful letter asking for them to come to Council, for her to come. Llawfrodedd had wanted to go, but she said no, it was too far to ride. He was not a man to press the matter, she knew best. They did not go. Now she was regretting it, now the other news had followed in its wake, that her father was ill. Only a fever, the trader had said. Would her mother send word if it were worse? Surely aye, she would, but what if she did not want to worry her – and what if Gwenhwyfar was still angry with her for that petulance over the wedding? Had it been her fault? She had not wanted to remarry, had not wanted to be brought here to this damned desolate, sea-trapped place.

  Riders on the road. Two. Men on ponies, not well-bred horses, not messengers from Caer Cadan then. Traders? Men with another petty petition for Llawfrodedd to ponder over? Archfedd kicked at a rock, stubbed her toe, cursed, using one of her father’s more colourfully explicit oaths. Llawfrodedd would have chastised her for that, with an upraising of his eyebrows, a slowly wagging head, had he heard. He meant well, was kind to her, offered all she needed or wanted. Save for a relief from tedium.

  She considered walking nearer the road, decided against. What would be the point? Dull people bringing daily business to a dull stronghold. She walked to the edge of the cliff, stood, gazing down at the foaming surf. She was four and thirty years of age, a woman grown, nearing mid-age. She had known and loved a man, borne three sons, lost one to the violence of death. What more was there for her? What could there be for her here, for the future, save loneliness and despair in this empty, tide-washed, wind-tortured place?

  “Archfedd?”

  Her eyes snapped open, her body slammed rigid. She knew that voice, who was it? She spun around, covered her mouth with her hands.

  “You! You dare come here?”

  “Can I not dare to visit my own half-sister?” Medraut dismounted from the pony, handed the reins to the other man, a servant, false bravado setting a smile to his face. Beneath his cloak he trembled. Would she hurl abuse at him, turn him away?

  “You have done well for yourself, I see,” Archfedd retorted with a proud toss of her head. “Rings to your fingers, a fine cloak; good boots. A servant. A pity the ponies are such poor, ragged things.”

  Medraut’s courage improved. She was berating him, a good sign. He had expected to be shunned or ignored, sent with a curse on his way. Talking too quickly, betraying his nervousness, he said, “I have been a while in Less Britain, before that I travelled north, up beyond the Wall. And aye, I have done well for myself.”

  The sky was heeling darker, the wind whispering louder, shuddering in from the sea. Brewing a storm.

  “I heard you were a while in Gwynedd.” Archfedd ignored the wind’s pull at her cloak, the damp feel to the back of her neck. She was uncertain whether she ought be welcoming this man even talking to him, but, ah, Medraut, for all his faults, his unfortunate birthing, and for all she disliked in him, he was someone to talk with; someone who had known the people she had known, the places where she had been happy. And after all was said and done, her half-brother.

  “For a while, a few years past, I was in Gwynedd, aye. I left after Maelgwyn murdered for his land, guessing there would come more fighting between kindred.” Medraut shook his head, the sadness and shame of that evil happening clinging to him, though he had not been part of it. His wife had, the witch! “Maelgwyn’s cousin had taken one of my wife’s sisters, a daughter of Caw, in marriage, did you know that?”

  Archfedd nodded. She knew. It was old, dusty news.

  “Did you know also, my wife is now Maelgwyn’s mistress? She, who supposedly gave herself to God?”

  Aye, she knew that also. Poor Medraut, things had never woven into the right patterns for him. “Come,” she found herself saying, “come into the stronghold, you must be in need of warmth and food, a dry bed. Though I warn you, ‘tis a draughty, cold place. The wind finds its way in whatever the time of year.”

  Medraut accepted with beamed pleasure. He had risked coming here, knowing the antagonism that had snapped so vehemently between them. Come with the hope that maturity and the loss of a husband had softened her. Glad he had taken the chance, for it was good to see her again, to be with someone who would be willing to share the laughter of the past and reflect on the sadness of tears.

  “Our father is ill. Had you heard?” They were crossing the narrow way between cliff and stronghold, Archfedd advising him to look straight ahead, not down. “‘Tis a long drop and the swirl of the sea can make your head spin.”

  “Ill? How ill?” Medraut stopped short, alarmed, his hand gripping tighter to the rope rail. All these years had he been gone, the hurting so deep he had fled northward, seeking to lose himself among the obscurity of the high hills beyo
nd the Wall. Then he had ventured into Gwynedd, by sea to Less Britain and a new life of his own, where no one knew him for what he was or what he had done.

  He asked worried, frightened, “Is he dying?”

  “How do I know?” Archfedd tossed, churlish. “I have heard nothing more, this stronghold lies beside an empty shore and has a road that leads nowhere else.”

  “I cannot stay here, then, I must go to him!” Medraut began to retrace his steps, anxiously hurrying, waving and calling for his servant who was about to disappear into the narrow streets of the stronghold’s ragged little settlement.

  “Medraut, no!” Archfedd ran after him, caught the sleeve of his under tunic. “You cannot go, you have just got here!” Her heart was bumping, her mind quivering. Her first visitor, the first person she could relate to, talk with as a friend. He must not go!

  “I took ship to come back to Greater Britain. It was coming for tin from the trading harbours of these shores. I realised I must make my peace with my kindred. I began with you, for you were the nearest, but I must mend old wounds with my father. If he should die before I have chance to…”

  Archfedd threw herself to her knees, clutching at the swirl of Medraut’s cloak. She bowed her head, let the tears sob from her. “And I,” she cried, “I must also make my peace with him!”

  Strange, as they rode together she felt a small, whispered note of regret at leaving the sea behind. So it was not Din Dirgel that had clutched, dark, at her then, losing her in a mist of despair. It was the knowing she was not at peace with the ones she loved that caused her spirit to wander so restless and dissatisfied. “You will come back?” Llawfrodedd had asked, holding her to him before they parted. His regret at her leaving had been genuine, for in his quiet way he had much love for her.

  As Archfedd and Medraut entered into Dumnonia and followed the road which would meet with the Roman Way, she was glad she had not needed to lie to him when she had answered, “Aye, I will be home to you soon.” And had meant it.

  III

  Arthur was aware of rising voices from beyond the door that ought to be firm closed, but was not. He ached. His head, arms, legs, everything, everywhere ached. It would be better if he drifted back into the warmth of sleep, easier, but one voice in particular was persistent, a voice he did not much like. Something was wrong. He tried to think what it might be. Could not. He groaned.

  Someone came near the bed, a man. Arthur opened his eyes, closed them again. Bedwyr.

  “Has Council ended so soon, then?” Arthur asked, his throat husky, his energy drained.

  “Not yet.” Bedwyr had no idea what to say, or do. Cerdic was out there in Arthur’s Hall as bold as life, behaving as if he were some Augustus or a god. Jesu Christ, how many more Saxons had he waiting outside – how in all Hell had he come all this way unchallenged?

  “What is it?” Arthur asked. He was not so ill as not to recognise trouble when he smelt it. And this, whatever it was, reeked of raw, sun-baked sewage.

  Bedwyr took a breath, spread his hands. Told him.

  “I assure you, the Pendragon is well,” Gwenhwyfar said again, feigning patience and calm – it would not do to show the fear and rage coursing through her; bad enough that several of the Council had scattered to the corners of the Hall, were huddling behind the presence of the Artoriani – who waited Gwenhwyfar’s signal. One nod from her and this murdering bastard would be run through. Only the fact that he was Arthur’s son stayed her hand. “He had a mild fever, which has left him tired. He is a strong man, your father.”

  Cerdic picked at a loose thread dangling from the hem of his cloak. A pity. His informer had been wrong then. The last information he ever carried. He shifted his leg – damn fool idea this sitting on the floor. In his own Hall he gave orders from his gold-inlaid chair where the people, his Saxon people, could see him and wonder at his wisdom and power. Of course, he listened to his Council, the Witan, but he did not always heed them.

  They had strongly advised him not to come here, not to march as bold as midsummer daylight into Caer Cadan, but he had disagreed with their advice. He needed to know for himself whether his father was dying, and this was the only way. He heard a noise behind, the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard, and folded his arms, contempt lurid on his face.

  “Is this, then, the hospitality and welcome given at the King’s hearth to the King’s son? I entered here under the green branch of peace and I brought two white doves to symbolise my awareness of your Christian preaching. Yet this is how you respond? By drawing a sword to plunge into my back?” He pinned Gwenhwyfar’s gaze, realised he had never seen her close to before. “They say you were once a beautiful woman,” he remarked.

  “They say,” she retorted stiffly, “you are a deceitful bastard.”

  “Ah no,” Cerdic sneered at her, “that is my father they speak of.”

  “Well, at least you have inherited something from me then.”

  There came an in-drawing of breath, shuffled movement. Arthur entered the Hall from the privacy of his chamber, stood beside the door. He was pale beneath the beard stubble, a few beads of sweat dabbed his forehead and his skin was drawn thin over his cheeks. Perhaps there was too much brightness in his eyes? The fever had not wholly gone, but it was only there for those who knew to look. He wore his purple cloak, his white under-tunic, leather armour.

  Dignified, Gwenhwyfar rose from her seated place, walked to him, head high, proud, and made obedience to him, a deep, submissive reverence. With the Queen so publicly – and unusually – acknowledging the presence of the King, all others in the Hall, by necessity, made formal salute. All others, save Cerdic and his Saxons.

  Arthur held his hand to her, made it seem as if it was he who led her to be seated before the hearth fire, although it was the other way around. His legs were shaking, his strength already sapping: he had not been from his bed for over two weeks.

  “So the dog returns to his vomit,” Arthur said to Cerdic, after he had seated himself. “You are not welcome in my Hall, your presence is not recognised or required. Get you gone before I order my men to throw you to your death from my walls.”

  “Do that,” Cerdic answered, “and my people will ensure all Britain hears how you deal with those who come to you with offers to treat for peace.” Cerdic’s narrow eyes glinted, he knew his father could not argue against that, knew he must be treated with respect and courtesy – at least as an outward sign.

  Arthur had taken his sword from Gwenhwyfar, had placed it across his knees. His hand was touching it, lovingly. He could take it up, use it on the scum sitting opposite him. He had created that life, could take it away. Na, this blade was too worthy to have it blunted on the spilling of such poisoned blood.

  “You came hoping to hear I was close to death. What if I had been? What then, Cerdic?” They were rhetorical questions, for Arthur allowed no answer, he plunged on, making this ordeal pass quickly, for he would not be able to hold himself so straight, keep the quivering from his dry voice, too long. “As you see, I am not. Nor do I have any intention of discussing peace terms with you for I know you to be a cheat and a liar, and aye,” – he held up one finger -”I know this because that is what I also am.” Arthur beckoned his men forward. Gradually, more of the Artoriani had filtered into the Hall, more would be outside, ready, armed, eager to fight. “Decurion.”

  “Sir?”

  “Escort these men from the Caer and from my British land. Immediately.”

  “Sir.”

  Cerdic remained seated a moment, his fingers locked together, an amused smile playing over his mouth. “I have no need for escort,” he said, “I will go, for I see you have not the wisdom to talk of a settlement between us. I will tell my people the Pendragon has no time to listen to those who are not as great as he.”

  Bedwyr, standing a few paces behind Arthur, almost vomited. He had seen more truth in the eyes of a wife caught lying about a lover! Arthur too, it seemed, for he made no answer.
Cerdic made no salute, no form of reverence as he turned to leave. Arthur had not expected any.

  “Cerdic,” Arthur called as the Saxons reached the open door. “If you wish to see me dead, I suggest it must be at the doing of your own hand.”

  “Oh it will be so, Pendragon. I assure you. Soon, very soon, it will be so.”

  Cerdic rode from Caer Cadan well satisfied. He had established for himself two things. One, his father was old and would not have the strength to fight as once he had. Second, he had proven to his son Cynric that Cerdic of the West Saxons was no coward, no scurry-away. And a third thing. It was time to fight his father again.

  June 500

  IV

  They could not believe they had missed their father by a day. Caer Cadan was deserted but for women, children and a small guard. The Artoriani had gone, all of them, with Gwenhwyfar and their King the Pendragon. Gone, to meet with Cerdic at the borders of Arthur’s land and his own.

  Archfedd sat her horse in the stable courtyard behind the King’s chamber; she had never seen the place so empty. Eerie, not having the men of the Artoriani around, as if she had ridden into an abandoned settlement populated by the spirits of the past. There was the horse trough, there, the manure pile, the dung drying for use as fuel in the fires. Old Onager’s stable – Brenin’s now; the one for her mother’s grey. Over there, the kennels where Mel had been whelped and weaned. The hitching ring where, as a child, she had tied her pony, Briallen, groomed her, pampered her. The door to the chamber – the family room, her home – was firm closed. Never had it been shut during the hours of daylight. Oh, occasionally, aye, when the wind blew so strong it whirled the hearth smoke into all the corners and into eyes and nose, or when the snow lay deep and drifting; a few times when her father and mother wanted the privacy due to husband and wife. But even if the door was shut-to, it was never closed, never loudly proclaiming, There is no one here. The courtyard was different too, clean, tidy, no piles of horse dung, no wisps of stable bedding, no buckets of corn waiting to be fed to horses banging, impatient for it at stable doors. No wise-eyed heads looking out, ears pricked, inquisitive.