Arthur hastened to his feet, jerked his line from the water, landing a fat perch. Llacheu, having grown bored with freeing debris, darted forward to catch the wriggling fish.
“Learn where and when to fish, son.” Arthur winked at the lad. “The trick is to dangle the right bait.” He watched with approval as the boy brought a stone down on the fish’s head, neatly killing it.
Llacheu nodded, understanding his father was giving him a lesson in more than fishing.
Re-baiting the line, Arthur eyed Amr squatting close to the water’s edge. To his mind he would rather face the agony of a slow death in the world than the alive-death of confinement within a Holy order. “Come away from the water, lad, it runs over-swift. Llacheu, keep a weather eye on your youngest brother, eh?”
The eldest boy sighed. Loving his two brothers dearly, he would not see harm come to either of them, but the burden of responsibility fell as a heavy weight on his shoulders at times. Amr yelled a protest as Llacheu, a little too roughly, dragged him away from danger. The pig-squealing disapproval changing abruptly to a chuckle of pleasure on finding himself dumped near an ooze of thick, virgin mud. He jumped into it, slipped, lost his balance and sat down heavily.
Llacheu laughed, his second brother Gwydre, and their da joining in. Amr flung back his head and screeched a thin, high, wail of displeasure, his pride wounded and bottom uncomfortable.
“Mithras! Look at the state of the boy!” Arthur said, laughing. “We’ll need to clean him up before heading back to camp. Your mam will flay my hide if she sees him like this.” Making an effort to suppress his amusement, Arthur crossed to the child and lifted him, whirling him around until the boy’s tears became chuckles of pleasure, then set him down on his feet higher up the bank.
“I’ll catch one more fish for our supper, then we will go.”
A kingfisher plopped into the water on the far bank. Arthur watched fascinated as the bright-coloured bird flashed down, re-emerging with a writhing silver fish in its beak. Rainbow-coloured water trailed behind as it fought with sodden wings for flight, the extended rays from sinking sunlight changing each cascading droplet to a shower of glistening jewels. The line pulled. Arthur sat at attention, began to ease the thing in.
“I have something big!” he shouted, standing now, struggling to hold the jerking rod in his hands.
Llacheu danced beside his father, yelling with delight. Gwydre joined them, the excitement contagious.
“Pull it in!”
“It’s a pike!”
“A river monster!”
Arthur braced his legs, fighting to land the huge fish thrashing for its freedom in the churning water, he loosened the line a moment, began winding it in slowly, give and take, gently, gently… suddenly the line broke. Arthur overbalanced and toppled backwards, falling into soft mud where he lay winded, arms and legs spread. His two sons rocked with laughter.
“Now you are as mucky as Amr!”
“You’ll have to wash as well!”
Up-river, a cry. A splash. The laughter ceased abruptly.
“It was a monster.” Gwydre whispered, fearful, clutching at his brother’s arm “He’s angry with you, Da, for catching him.”
Arthur was on his feet walking along the bank, frowning, then movement, panic. Whirling to Llacheu he pushed the boy fiercely in the direction of camp, shouting, “Run boy, get help. You’re brother’s fallen in the river!” As he spoke, he was pulling off his sword belt, his boots, flinging them aside.
Amr was clutching wildly at a branch of the half-submerged tree. White-faced, eyes terrified, mouth open in a long, soundless, scream.
Arthur plunged into the water, the coldness hitting his stomach, taking his breath. He caught hold of the trunk as the current grasped his legs, trying to pull them from under him. With added rainfall the fast flowing river was a torrent of swirling eddies and undercurrents, strong enough to sweep away a man. Not daring to let go his tenuous hold, Arthur eased himself forward, forcing himself to move cautiously, fighting the clamour of racing fear for his son.
He reached the end of the trunk, fought his way through the tangle of branches, unaware that he was talking, calling reassurance, encouraging Amr to hang on, hold on, Da was coming. But whether it was the branch snapping, the river’s persistent drag or the boy’s lack of strength – happen all three – Amr’s hold gave way.
Arthur shouted something, he knew not what, as the boy was taken by the flow and disappeared beneath the surface. Arthur plunged, struggled to keep his footing and went down himself. Black, choking water engulfed him. He struggled, thrusting with his legs and arms towards the light. He broke the surface gasping for air, coughing and spitting water from his mouth.
A few yards down-river he saw the boy. A frightened face, a chubby hand reaching frantically for his father.
Arthur struck out, driving his arms through resisting water, trying and trying again to swim across the current but the river lifted his body and surged away with it, taking him too far downstream. Again and again Arthur attempted desperately to reach the boy, but the river swept him aside. He saw Amr disappear, saw for one last time the small hand clutching helplessly at life. He tried to turn, tried to swim up against the flow, found himself going under, down and down. His limbs ached, breath rattled in his chest, hammering drums pounded between his ears. Easier to give in. Easier to cease fighting, to let the river have him.
Somehow, he clawed his way to the surface, death gurgling in his lungs. He was distantly aware of shouting, of a rope whistling through the air, landing an arm’s length beyond him. Arthur snatched it, his hands clutching gratefully, fiercely, his body falling limp as men on the bank hauled in the line.
On the bank, numbed and shivering, Arthur crouched on hands and knees, vomiting. Someone was speaking. Cei.
“You did all you could Arthur.”
“Na,” he coughed. “Na, not enough.”
Others, white-faced and stunned crowded close and silent, words inadequate. Arthur clutched at Cei, hauled himself upright. His legs were trembling; body and hands shaking violently. “Mithras, God, Cei. My son.”
“Let me through! Let me by!” Gwenhwyfar struggled through the knot of gathered men. Close behind her, panting, eyes wide with fear, Llacheu.
“Where is my son?” she was screaming. Her hair fell loose from its binding pins, billowed about her frightened face. Her glazed eyes darted, questioning. Men fell back, tight of throat, as she approached Arthur.
“What have you done with my son?” Her fists pounded his chest, the words breaking into a shrill cry as she shouted, “Where is Amr?” Her hands clutched at his tunic, the material ripping beneath the gold buckle fastening. Arthur took the blows, not feeling them, not noticing them, feeling only a blank emptiness.
“I could not reach him,” he said, his own voice quavering. “The river took him from me.”
Gwenhwyfar stared at her husband, her hands falling still by her side. “Why are you standing here?” she asked tonelessly. “Why are you not searching for him?”
She dodged suddenly around Arthur. Scrabbling along the bank, heedless of brambles tearing at her skirts and thick mud sucking at her boots. She scanned the sweep of river, frantically calling her son’s name.
Her foot slipped. She tried to steady herself but the ground was treacherous and she slid with a cry into the water. Instantly, hands were on her, trying to haul her to safety but she turned on the helpers, snarling defiance, pushing them away. Clinging to reeds and low branches she struggled forward, half swimming, half wading; her breath sobbing. Arthur dropped into the water beside her, the end of the rope knotted secure around his waist. He reached his arms to Gwenhwyfar, pulling her to him.
“We are searching, Cymraes, we will find him. Cei has already sent men downstream, but it is growing dark, there is little we can do until morning.”
“My son is in the river!” she screamed. “We must find him!” Distraught, her fingers plucked at Arthur’s restraining ha
nds, trying to break away from him. She kicked out, but her wet skirts were wrapped around her legs, her footing gave way and she tumbled backwards dragging Arthur with her. As water swirled over their heads the rope tightened, saving them both from being swept away. Arthur staggered, gained firm ground. Anxious men on the bank hauled at the rope, willing hands gripping them, bringing them to safety. Blindly, Gwenhwyfar hit out, catching Arthur’s face. One of her rings scoring a deep line across his cheek.
“Amr!” she cried, struggling to be free of Arthur’s hold. “Amr, where are you?”
“Mithras, Gwen, he is gone. He’s dead.” As the words stumbled from his lips, Arthur shook and shook her.
“No,” she gasped, “no!”
“I saw him go under. He is dead.”
Gwenhwyfar fell silent, utterly silent. The sun had set. The rose pink sky was now a darkening blue; one or two brighter stars were twinkling faintly.
Arthur’s hands relaxed, released their harsh grip. “He went under, Cymraes. Did not come up again.”
Gwenhwyfar wrenched herself from him and stumbled a few paces away, to stand, staring, at the blackening water.
With a dismissive wave of his hand, Arthur sent the men away, asking Cei to take Llacheu and Gwydre. Both boys were ashen-faced. Gwydre had his fist stuffed in his mouth. Arthur knew he ought to say something to them, some words of comfort. But what? He had no idea what to say.
He stepped behind Gwenhwyfar, took her in his arms bringing her around to face him, meaning to hold her, to give what little comfort he could to her. She stiffened.
“Let go of me,” she hissed, tearing herself from him, whirling away.
He stood, arms held low, spread wide, palms uppermost. Bewilderment and pain creased his face.
She seated herself on a fallen log, sat with her arms clenched around herself, rocking her body gently backwards and forwards. Sat staring silently at the rush of the river.
Arthur was shivering. The cold of the water and aftermath of reaction trembling through his body. There came a soft step at his side.
Cei placed a blanket around his cousin’s shoulders, gave another into his hand and nodded towards the hunched figure of Gwenhwyfar.
“You are both sodden, Arthur, come up to the fire. The men have stacked it well, they have a good blaze.”
Arthur’s numbed fingers curled around the corners of his blanket, holding the thing tight to him. He handed the second back to Cei. “She will have nothing to do with me. See if you can persuade her to come away.” He began to trudge wearily up the short incline through the trees, his body aching, jarring with bruises and fatigue. Within a few moments Cei, empty handed, joined him, matching his pace to Arthur’s.
“She will not come. I have wrapped her up as well as I can. Happen Enid can talk sense into her.”
XXI
At first light men stirred, began the morning routine with hushed, despondent whispers. Many forwent breakfast, their stomachs not up to facing food. These were battle-hardened men, but death in the heat of battle was one thing, the cruel taking of an innocent child another entirely. They searched, poking and prying into submerged overgrowth, tearing away tangled branches and roots; tugging at clogged debris. The river had dropped during the night, the floodwaters dispersing as quickly as they had risen. Much of the bank lay sodden and flattened, a stink of mud and rotting vegetation.
Llacheu had not slept. He had gone to bed chilled and grieving, not knowing where his mother was, nor Enid. Nessa was useless for she could not stop her sobbing and aside, she had Gwydre to care for. He had tried to see his father but the sentry had turned the boy away saying, kindly meant, “Your father needs be alone lad, go to bed.”
Come morning he had wanted to help search the river, but had not been allowed, and so he sat cross-legged before his father’s tent waiting for them to come back, the thoughts in his heard turning deeper and darker with each passing hour. When they finally returned they were carrying Amr, wrapped in a soldier’s red cloak. Llacheu stumbled to his feet, watched his father lay the dead boy carefully on the ground before the banners and standards of the Artoriani.
Llacheu had seen Gwenhwyfar cry before. She would cry over many things; the wonder of a newborn lamb or foal, a beautiful view, a sad tale told around the night fire. She was like that, responsive to emotion, and Llacheu loved her for it because he shared those sensitive feelings, understood the way a lump could rise in the throat and tears come unbidden to the eyes. At these times he often slid his hand in hers, shared the heart-pleasure that brought the tears. She cried also after arguments with Arthur. This was a different cry, one Llacheu hated. Her tears would come at night when she thought the boys were asleep. Llacheu would ache to go to her when he heard those tears of misery, but dared not. She did not want him to know she cried, so he would not know. It was a hard pretence for him to keep.
The shock came when he saw his father cry.
Frightened, he watched Arthur weep, longing to speak to his da, to ask for answers to confused questions. When he finally gathered the courage to approach he was too late. Llacheu whispered “Da?” but his father did not hear, for he was turning away, going down the slope between the trees towards the river, to fetch Gwenhwyfar.
She had sat there all night among the damp and rising mist, the morning dew and swell of sunrise and bird song, refusing to move. Enid, snuffling her choked tears, had wrapped the blanket around her mistress, kindled a fire and kept vigil with her. Now, seeing Arthur approach, Enid scuttled away, a fresh flood of grief exploding from her.
Arthur stood for some while watching his wife’s unnatural stillness. These months had been wretched, for her and for him, their almost constant arguing coming from a frustration that gritted in both their stomachs. He approached and squatted at her side, took her chilled fingers in his hand. Her face was still, a statue’s cold impersonal face. Running his tongue over dry lips, Arthur swallowed, found he was rubbing her icy fingers with his own, found he did not want to say aloud the words that were within him. They were too final, too much of admitting truth. He swallowed again, forced himself to speak. “We have found him.”
Her eyes flickered once to him then back again to the river, no other movement. The water flowed, birds sang, a breeze ruffled through the trees. One of the red-and-white cattle lowed from somewhere behind.
“It looks so peaceful,” she said, “this river. It slips tranquilly past on its journey from mountain to sea, winding a path between the trees, through fields and farms. It goes on for ever, in and out of seasons, heat and cold, night and day. A pleasant place to be, by a river.” Her eyes, haunted, met with his. “A fox came in the night to drink. He looked at me for a long while. Others were watching too, the spirit people and faerie folk. I felt their eyes on me. Staring.” She stood, the blanket slithering unnoticed to the ground. “I know not what they wanted. They just watched. They never said anything.”
Arthur had known Gwenhwyfar from when she was a leggy girl with tousled hair and darting eyes, turning from child to woman. He had loved her then. Loved her now. He had shared her life, joys and sadness, yet she was still a mystery to him. There was a surface knowing, solid and recognisable, dependable – yet how much lay hidden, submerged below? He so wanted to comfort her, to share their grief together, but he knew not how. Knew not what to say or do, for he was hurting as much. The pain was so intense, so hard-bound that he thought if he spoke he would break, shatter into a thousand pieces, and scream until there was no breath left in him to scream again. Without speaking, he took her hand and led her up the rise of ground, through the green weep of willow trees to where they had made their camp.
Llacheu hung back, not knowing what to expect in his mother. Tears certainly, puffed eyes, red, sore cheeks. But her iron remoteness as she drew level with the group standing bare-headed around the bundle laid on the ground was unexpected. She knelt, an anguished sound escaping her lips as she reached forward and lifted back the covering. “I thought you would fin
d him alive. I thought you would bring me back my son!”
The tears broke as she lifted the dead boy, cradling his cold, water-blown body to her breast, her hands stroking his matted hair. They watched her a while, then Arthur knelt opposite her, laid his hand over hers. “We must bury him, Cymraes.”
“I will not put him in the dark. He hates being alone in the dark.”
Arthur’s fingers made to touch the boy’s cheek, but like a whiplash her hand struck out, thrusting him aside, her voice a hiss. “Do not touch him!”
Arthur jerked his hand back. The hatred that swelled in her dark green eyes hit him like an axe blow.
“He was in your care,” she snarled. “You let him fall in the river, you let him drown.”
The accusation was too much for Llacheu. He darted forward, grasping his mother’s arm, a sob breaking as he cried, “No, Mam, it was not Da’s fault. I was supposed to be watching Amr. I forgot about him when Da caught the fish. It was all my fault!”
She did not intend to be callous, but grief can gust like a great wind, ruthlessly sweeping aside all in its path. Gwenhwyfar tossed Llacheu’s hand off her arm, casting him from her and he fell forward onto his knee, biting his lip to stem the cry of pain as a stone cut into the flesh.
Arthur bounded forward, gathered the boy to him. “Take your anger out on me, woman, not your son!” he shouted.
“Amr is my son. My son is dead.”
Patience receding within his own turmoil, Arthur spat back, “He was my son also! And you have two other sons – and a husband.”
“A husband!” She looked up, hysterical laughter choking in her throat. “A husband? Where? I had one once, long ago, but he has gone. He spends his time chasing shadows and childhood dreams! He is too busy keeping a royal torque around his neck to notice his family, to see that the love we had is turning black and sour.”
Setting Llacheu aside, Arthur hauled Gwenhwyfar to her feet. “I will not argue with you, Gwen,” he said, resolute. “Not here, not now, not before the men.”
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