Pendragon's Banner

by Helen Hollick

  “For Hengest,” Cei continued as if he had not ceased talking, “Council could see reason behind the giving of territory. Wrong or right, he had been originally invited here to fight on our side by Vortigern – God rot his mouldering soul.”

  “I did not give,” Arthur interrupted. “I rent Hengest those Cantii lands, rent for a large payment of taxation. He rules under my gaze and is ultimately answerable to me. As Icel shall be when he edges around to seeing reason.”

  “Fah!” Cei swarmed to his feet, toppling his stool backwards. “Reason? It is already reasonable that he still has his head and balls; it is already reasonable that those who follow him are alive, not dangling at the end of ropes!”

  Quietly, Arthur finished the mending of the strap, fixed it back to the bridle. “So I have Icel executed? And then one day, one day very soon, these Anglian settlers will find for themselves another cock-proud young princeling to follow and we will then need to fight them.” He stood, hung the bridle on a nail jutting from the tent pole, faced his cousin and second-in-command with outspread hands.

  “I have shadow-chased this Anglian leader from the Treanta river to the coast, from the Fosse Way down to the forests. If I grant a legitimate holding of land then Icel is beholden to me. And whenever a new cub decides he wants more than a ploughed field to crow over, he will first have to square that wanting with Icel, not with me.”

  Pouting, Cei answered, “Too much is being given to these damn Saex. The Council of Britain do not like it.” His thoughts added, Neither do I.

  Grinning irritatingly friendly, Arthur knew full well those unspoken thoughts. “Ah, but then I am the King; a king is expected to do things that are not liked.” His grin broadened. “A prerequisite of the position. The ability to annoy.”

  Cei grunted. “Oh aye, you have a talent for rubbing people the wrong way. Always have done, even as a child.”

  Arthur laughed to hide the bitter memory of his unpleasant childhood. The difference between being a boy and a man was acute. As a child, thought to be the bastard brat of a serving girl, Arthur had nothing to call his own save a battered gold ring, a dream and a hope of better things to come. Ill-treated, shunned and tormented by all adults except the man who later proved to be his true father, childhood had been miserable and corrupted by fear. He accepted, now he was grown, that Uthr Pendragon had to keep his only son hidden from Vortigern’s ugly malice. Accepted that, but not the cruelties his real mother had deliberately turned her eyes from. Cei’s idle comment hurt. He had tried to please, tried to do right, but still received cuffs and kicks, was still called bastard. Well, it was his turn now to do the kicking, and if men called him a bastard, it was for the other meaning of the word.

  He poured wine for himself and Cei, said nothing more of the subject. Cei had always been the jealous one. Understandably. The one thing that had made life tolerable for Arthur as a child was the interest Uthr had shown in him – he had not known why, then. Why Uthr himself taught a bastard-born to use shield and spear and sword. Why Uthr himself had taught a supposed serving girl’s brat how to ride a horse and plan for battle. Why Uthr had loved a fatherless whore’s cub above the older boy, Cei, his brother’s son. Arthur handed the goblet to his cousin. “I intend to squeeze everything I can from Icel. Gold, leather, grain. Hostages. He will find submission hard.”

  Righting the stool, Cei seated himself again. “What if he does not agree to your demands, eh? He might not.”

  Arthur sat also, pushing his booted feet nearer the fluctuating warmth of the brazier. Two nights until Samhain, the night the dead walked. He would rather be tucked within the warmth of Gwenhwyfar’s bed at Lindum by then. Icel was a proud man, would welcome death; even the threat of the living death of blinding and male mutilation would not daunt him. There would have to be something more, some promise of what Arthur would do if the Anglian did not offer total submission. The Pendragon had once made such a thing clear to Hengest, and then not so long since, to Winta of the Humbrenses.

  “Your people and your family shall pay for defeat. The men will lose their hands and eyes, the women and children will be taken into slavery, used as whores. Until natural death releases them, they will face great misery and suffering. Your settlements will be burnt, and your cattle slaughtered. Not you. You will be taken to a fortress far away. You will be guarded, but you will have light and warmth and the best food; a comfortable bed, even a woman to share that bed. On fine days you will be allowed to ride and hunt, you will be treated as an honoured guest with no privilege spared, save that of your freedom to leave. And while you live in this luxury, you will think of your wife and your children. Of their distress and pain”.

  Winta had seen the sense in not trying his luck against this British lord who meant every word he said, for Winta was not full of greed and wanting as Hengest had been, and was older and wiser than the young coxcomb Icel. He valued too highly all that could be lost were victory not to come his way, and so had not even tried for the winning of it. By joining with the Pendragon his reward had proved great and welcome. Winta was already a wealthy man, and by uniting with the British, trade that was already flourishing would increase – double, treble. Soon he would be able to extend his held land, amicably, with Arthur’s consent and permission, for Winta was wily enough to realise that there was more than one way to obtain a title of king.

  Arthur’s servant came to light the lamps. Soon it would be time for the officers to gather again around the fire, laid in the space beyond this tent, between the sacred place where the standards of the Turmae and the Pendragon’s own banner stood. Time to have Icel brought before them, and watch his eyes as the King declared his final word.

  Reaching for the wine, Arthur refilled his goblet, passed the jug across to Cei. “Icel’s wife and children?” he asked, although he knew the answer.

  “Are held two miles from here.”

  “Have them fetched up after dark has fallen. Bring them in bound and chained.”

  Cei scowled displeasure. “The youngest is a girl child of four summers. Even her?”

  The Pendragon sipped his wine. Four summers, the age of his own son. He shrugged. War was a bloody, distasteful business. “Especially her.”

  He regarded Cei with the expression that was a part of Arthur as much as his long nose and golden torque – one eyebrow raised, the other eye half closed; a look of warning. He would be obeyed.

  “It is you who says I must obtain results. I cannot afford to be squeamish, Cei. Have men who are not of the Christian faith bring them; men who will not balk should I need to order Icel’s family stripped and passed around the tents this night.” He raised one finger, stopped the comment rising on Cei’s lips. “And again, aye, the youngest as well. Icel must bow to me. Or pay the price.”

  November 459

  IV

  Removing her foot from the cradle’s rocker, Gwenhwyfar laid aside her distaff, mindful of the unspun wool. It was cheap, coarse stuff, full of snags; of little use for weaving anything of quality – it would suffice for the coming baby. Beyond the unshuttered windows daylight was fading into a murky evening. Night seemed to fall slowly here above the fenlands, descending ponderous like a flock of uncertain wild geese, circling and circling those vast, empty skies before finally plucking courage to land. She sighed, long and slow, and walked to the window, easing the ache in her back. A boring, dull, landscape spreading beyond the enclosing walls of Lindum. Empty marshland, empty sky. Empty houses and empty-minded people.

  She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Arthur had been gone so long! Moving back to the cradle where her second son slept, she wrapped her arms around herself and rocked it absently with her foot. Gwydre was getting too big for a cradle, would need to move to a bed when the new babe came. Glancing again out of the window she watched a heron flap lazily against the backdrop of blue-grey, rain-spattered sky. The year before, and for years before that, she had accompanied the Artoriani, making herself useful among the wounded,
for wherever there was fighting there would always be the wounded. This year she was here in this town, an unwilling and unwelcome guest.

  Lindum Colonia stood, a defiant bastion of Roman culture, caught between the people of the Humbrenses to the north, and persistent harassing from the Anglians of the south-east. There had been sporadic fighting between British and Saxon in and around this marshy corner of Britain for years – even before Rome had pulled out her Legions to fight her own death struggle. Skirmishes and ambushes, farmsteadings and villas looted and burnt, men slaughtered, women and children taken as slaves. Atrocities committed and suffered on both sides.

  Arthur had been forced to prove himself against these Saex – aye, and the British – that he was, and would remain, supreme. Prove that he was a worthwhile king. Gwenhwyfar stayed with her husband until the sickness and discomfort of this pregnancy became over-much to bear, then, reluctant, Arthur had brought her away from his army to leave her here in Lindum.

  From her second-floor window she could see two of the narrow, cobbled streets and a small part of an intersecting third. Dark, gloomy places at the best of times, sinister at the moment, with the onset of this half-light of evening. There were people down there, angry people, milling around the palace walls, filling those dark, narrow streets with their ugly shouting and malicious presence. A mob hammering on the gates, demanding their grievance be heard. Where in the Bull’s name was Arthur?

  It was against him they jeered, cursing his name and yelling disgusting ways to bring about his end. The mistrust of the previous uneasy days had over spilled into rage and derision, fuelled by fear. For rumours had come, brought by traders from the south, mischief-makers. There had been a battle they said, a great battle, for they had seen the churned battlefield and the mounds of the dead. They knew nothing more, save that Icel was returning to his home-steading, gloating that he now had land to call his own. And what of Arthur, Lindum asked. Where was he? Why had no official word come to confirm or deny the tale? There could only be one reason why; a reason Gwenhwyfar would not, could not contemplate.

  She thought back to the day Arthur had departed, that sun-bright August morning, through the north gate, escorted by his personal guard with their padded tunics white-brilliant beneath their scarlet-red, woollen cloaks. A bustling eastern sea-wind had spilled through the gaping mouth of the tubular, red and gold Dragon causing it to leap and writhe as if it were alive. Gwenhwyfar had watched them leave from the defence wall walkway, watched as her husband rode away, weeks ago, to fight. She sighed. Ah, but it seemed years!

  Word had come ten days past that Icel had summoned his men and the two armies had met. Ten days, with no more word beyond the rumours fanning like wind-whipped fire across dry grass, and the mood in Lindum growing as ugly as those rumours. Arthur had lost, they said, the Pendragon had failed to turn Icel’s army. Yet there had come no confirmation of British failure and death. Where in all the gods’ names was he? Gwenhwyfar again eased the incredible ache in her back, bending her spine to stretch the discomfort. The babe had his legs pressed there, so Enid told her. What did she know about the birthing of babes? She was a child’s nursemaid, and a maiden still!

  The two boys, Gwenhwyfar had carried easily – disregarding those first few weeks of intermittent nausea – but with this pregnancy the sickness had barely stopped. She felt dizzy, her hands and feet were puffed and swollen. She wanted another son, but, by the Goddess of Wisdom, not this constant illness!

  A while since, the shouting of the mob had grown louder, turned to a hideous belling, a keening for the blood of death. It was becoming quite dark now. Walking from lamp to lamp, Gwenhwyfar lit the wicks, lit too, the beeswax candles. She would have light in her room for light chased away the threatening shadows of fear, and tonight was Samhain, the night when the dead returned. She had no reason to fear the dead, her brother, her father, they would be welcome visitors, but if Arthur were indeed slain by Icel…!

  She closed the woodworm-riddled shutters, hiding the night and muffling the noise of the angry town. Her hand flew to her throat as beyond the door a man’s heavy tread approached, iron-trimmed boots scraping on the flagstones, stopping outside. It was not unexpected. They had come for her. She took Gwydre up from his sleep, stood facing the door, a hundred concerns whirling. What of her sons? Would the hate and the fear that Lindum showed for Arthur’s policy of ceding territory to the Saex spill over to her sons? Would the resentment lead to the killing of the Pendragon’s children also? She held the boy over her shoulder, her free hand drawing her dagger. Had they slaughtered Llacheu already? Mithras! Knowing this rising mood, she ought to have had his supper sent up here, not let him go to the kitchens. She had not thought! Had assumed the crowd would be contained beyond the palace walls, assumed the Governor would not give in to their demands, that she was safe.

  The latch began to move upward. Gwenhwyfar took firmer hold of the dagger – kill her they might, but not without their own shed blood! The door opened, creaking on its rusting hinges. A man, stubble-bearded face smeared with dust, clothes grimed and muddied, entered the room, his sword coming into his hand as he stepped across the threshold.

  V

  Her head swam. Gwenhwyfar stumbled to her knees, catching her son tighter to her shoulder, struggling for breath. Someone took the child, who wailed loud protest, then arms were around her, strong, protective arms clad in what had once been a white tunic, his red cloak flung back.

  “Cymraes!” Arthur stroked her hair with agitated concern, cradled his wife to him. “What is wrong? Does the birthing come?”

  Laughing, crying, both at once, Gwenhwyfar shook her head and clung to her husband. She wiped aside scudding tears, looked up with a smile into his anxious dark eyes and laughed at her own foolishness. “I thought they had come to kill me.”

  Arthur grinned astonished amusement. He brought Gwenhwyfar to her feet, set her on the couch and passed Gwydre, wailing louder, back to her. “When you so often defy me to go your own sweet way, then aye, I feel like wringing your pretty neck.” His fingers moved around her throat, lightly touching the soft, unblemished skin. He bent to kiss the throbbing pulse. “But having ridden hard for several hours in a bitter wind, absent all these weeks bringing Icel firm to the leash, then na, I can think of no reason to do away with you.” He held her close a long while, savouring her warmth and the scent of woman and baby, easing her violent trembling. Unusual for Gwenhwyfar to take such fright, but understandable, given her condition.

  A discreet knocking at the door was followed by the raucous bellow of an annoyed child. Llacheu burst in with Enid trotting behind apologising profusely for the intrusion. The boy ran to his father, arms outstretched. Releasing his wife, Arthur turned to scoop his son into his arms, Llacheu instantly hurling questions like shot arrows. “Have you been in battle? Did you kill many Saex? Tell me, Da!”

  “Is this my son? Na, this lad is too tall!” Arthur held the lad high, at arm’s length.

  “I am, Da, I am!”

  “Na. Llacheu was knee-high to a hound when I last saw him. You are almost a man grown!”

  The boy swelled with pride at his father’s attention and teasing. “Mam’s teached me to sword fight.”

  Bending over the cradle to resettle Gwydre, Gwenhwyfar corrected, “Teaching, lad. I have been teaching you to sword fight.”

  The excited boy ignored her. “Shall I show you, Da?” He squirmed out of his father’s arms and ran to fetch his little wooden sword.

  Laughing, Arthur strolled across the room and retrieved his own sword and scabbard that he had dropped in his haste to run to Gwenhwyfar’s aid. He placed it on a table and seated himself on the couch. Stretching his aching thighs and back he watched his son busy burrowing among the childhood clutter sprawled over the floor. Llacheu pulled out his toy from beneath a bundle of wool, sending his mother’s distaff clattering across the floor.

  “Oh Llacheu!” she scolded. “Look what you have done!” Gwydre was passed to En
id as Gwenhwyfar strode across the room to retrieve her spoilt wool, to pick with dismay at the knots and tangles. “It took me ages to work all that!” she wailed.

  Arthur ruffled the boy’s hair. “Were you aware that your mam is more at ease sword fighting than spinning?”

  With wide, innocent eyes the lad answered, “The Governor’s wife said a lady need not know how to use a man’s sword. Mam laughed at her and said even a gutter whore knows how to use such a delight to her advantage.” As he innocently repeated the adult conversation, the boy gave a few ineffectual swipes with his toy. He looked up at his grinning father, said seriously, “I am not sure what Mam meant, but I liked it because it annoyed the horrid woman.”

  Gwenhwyfar’s cheeks had reddened at her son’s repetition of her play on words – lewd words which she had assumed he would not overhear, let alone remember. Arthur roared his delight, briefly hugging his son to him as he winked at Gwenhwyfar. “You’ll discover what your mam meant when you are a man grown and in full use of your own weapon.”

  “Will I have a sword as wondrous as yours one day, Da?” Llacheu parried and thrust with the wooden toy.

  Arthur laughed the louder; Gwenhwyfar, attempting with not much success to keep her stern composure, stepped forward and took the toy from her son, chastising her husband with her eyes to remain quiet.

  “If you mean Caliburn,” she said to Llacheu, “I expect that particular sword will be yours when your da has no further need of it.” She caught Arthur’s eye, burst into laughter herself. Neither made verbal reference to the other meaning, but the mutual thought of pleasurable lovemaking after these months apart sped swift and unspoken between husband and wife.

  Disturbed so roughly from his sleep, Gwydre was still sobbing. Gwenhwyfar asked Enid to take him to his wet-nurse for feeding, and then to see about Llacheu’s bedtime. With their going the chamber fell into hushed quiet. Gwenhwyfar began to tidy Llacheu’s scattered toys, a sewn ball, a carved boat, and told as she worked of the unsettled alarm within the city. “How did you fare, riding in? The shouting seemed most hostile.”